#the den of so-called iniquity

[theserpens]

Drarry Fic Rec: Set Three

Say No to This by @fluxweeed 12,734 words, E

Harry is working late. Draco doesn't know where else to go.

Clear As Mud by scoradh 9,816 words, M

Set post-war and post-Harry’s-conscience…

The Den of So-Called Iniquity by Snegurochka 4,045 words, NC 17

Potter is watching you, as usual, his fingers tight around his glass. You know what will happen if you swallow that potion in such close proximity to Potter – the same thing that has happened every time you've done it so far.

Through His Teeth by @dictacontrion 2,820 words, M

"C’mon then, Potter. Don’t tell me there’s nothing you’ve ever wanted to do to this body.”

What I Do to You by @gracerene 9,114 words, E

These days, apathy fogs Harry's mind. Malfoy's the only one who makes Harry feel anything at all. Harry doesn't really care that the feelings aren't good ones. He deserves it.

This set are all my favorite toxic dynamics, self-destructive romances ft. post-war broken boys, beautifully twisted love(hate)-making and mutually painful relationships. Most of them are all about sex, trauma and the fragile solace of destruction.

'Say No to This', 'Clear As Mud' and 'The Den of So-Called Iniquity' include a fucked-up Draco and morally-grey Harry. And 'Through His Teeth' and 'What I Do to You' feature basically same, just the other way around.

'Say No to This' is actually one of my personal favorite drarry fics, the tired yet so completely charged energy between the two of them is one of the sexiest things I have ever read. 'Clear As Mud' is old but gold, showing a different yet still fitting development for familiar characters. 'The Den of So-Called Iniquity' is low, hot and tragic.

I adore Draco and his very Slytherin mainpulation in 'Through His Teeth', the story is a interesting take on both Draco and Harry and their mindset directly after the war. 'What I Do to You' is sexy but heart-wrenching and I am still wishing for sequel to mend me.

#drarry #harry potter #draco malfoy #fic rec #rec list #drarry fic rec #drarry angst #drarry smut #reading #fic reccomendations #draco x harry #say no to this #clear as mud #the den of so-called iniquity #through his teeth #what i do to you #art by #egon schiele #two men

[sweet-s0rr0w]

Light some candles, run a bath, and get yourself in the mood for some top quality smut, as I present... a follow up to last year's collaborative Drarry sex scene reclist! This is an all new selection of some absolutely scorching favourite smutty scenes and fics picked by an (almost) all new cast of Drarry writers, artists, reccers and fans!!!! A huge thank you to my fabulous contributors @babooshkart, @caroll-in, @citrusses, @crazybutgood, @danpuff-ao3, @emmalovesdilemmas, @epitomereally, @geesenoises, @getawayfox, @ghaniblue, @kbrick, @lettersbyelise, @makeitp1nk, maesterchill, @moonflower-rose, @mxlfoydraco, oknowkiss, @rockingrobin69, @sitp-recs, @softlystarstruck, sorrybutblog, tackytigerfic, wolfpants and @xanthippe74 (and me!)

Please mind the tags and practice DLDR as unsurprisingly these fics feature a wide variety of kinks and some are dub/non-con. Don’t forget to leave kudos!

All Drarry unless a poly ship specified!

Under 10k

🪢505 (my hands between your thighs) by @veelawings (E, 429)

🧠A Ghost of Blissful Feelings by @alpha-exodus (E, 6.2k)

💪Arms and Elbows by @sorrybutblog (E, 2.9k)

➰️Blush by @cheekytorah (E, 2.6k)

🍸Born Slippy by @dracoladon (E, 8.1k)

👠Cinderella's Return by @toxik-angel (E, 7.1k, sequel to Draco's Cinderella Moment)

❄Chrysalis by @piarelei (E, 3.6k)

🧃The Den of So-Called Iniquity by snegurochka (E, 4k)

🌳Discipline Is the Key to Success by @drarryruinedme7 (E, 7.4k, D/H/Neville)

🧼Don't Think Twice by firethesound (E, 8.5k)

🎂Draco at Nineteen by birdsofshore (E, 5.1k)

🍷Good Enough to Eat by @p1013 (M, 2.8k)

⌛The Great British Wank-Off by p1013 (E, 6.3k)

👊Knuckles by@shealwaysreads (E, 3.5k)

💒The Last Star Falling by @tackytigerfic (M, 1.4k)

🍎Love has left a printed trace by @maesterchill (M, 1.1k, sequel to The Odd Couple)

📏Matched Set by astolat (E, 5.8k)

🧹of course i cum fast, i've got a snitch to catch by@swoontodeath (E, 7.6k)

🥃One of Those Nights by @l0vegl0wsinthedark (E, 7.7k)

🍒The Recondite Art of Dating Draco Malfoy by @cibeewastaken (E, 3.7k)

🌲Room To Spare by @bixgirl1 (E, 5.2k)

🏅sending my love all over you by @cavendishbutterfly (E, 4.9k)

🎁Too Busy Being Yours To Fall by @6balls (E, 7k)

🐈‍⬛️Unbuttoned by eidheann (E, 6.1k)

10-20k

🐺A Perfect Fit by nothing_left_sacred (E, 18k)

🔥Come Up for Air by @shiftylinguini (E, 13k)

🍆Endowment by @dictacontrion (E, 11k)

🧥Haute Allure by @lol-zeitgeistic (E, 12k)

✨Merlin's Kitchen by @writcraft (E, 12k)

🍻Party of Two by fireflavored (E, 14k)

🤫Unpin That Spangled Breastplate by tackytigerfic (E, 18k)

✉️Yours Truly by @skeptiquex (M, 15k)

20-50k

💦Come For Me by Frayach (E, 25k)

🥭Eager for the Sky by oknowkiss (M, 35k) chapter 5

🚦For a Given Value of Normal by chickenlivesinpumpkin (E, 23k)

⛷️Historians by @oknowkiss (E, 30k)

🐍In The Company Of Serpents by @corvuscrowned (E, 25k)

🧪Keep your hands on me by @tenthousandyearsx (E, 21k)

🕺let me see you stripped (down to the bone) by lqtraintracks (E, 24k)

🖋Let's Go Outside by cryptonym (E, 24k)

🐢Lusimeles by spqr (E, 23k)

🎩Romp and Circumstance by @wolfpants (E, 35k) chapter 3, chapter 7

🍫Save My Wonders by sdk (E, 21k)

🍑The Shape of Desire is Your Name by dracoismytrashson (E, 45k) chapter 5

🪙Touch Me Fall by @lqtraintracks (E, 23k) the first sex scene, against the window

🕵‍♂️The Unspeakable by @the-sinking-ship (E, 24k)

50k+

🐉Chasing Dragons by the-sinking-ship (E, 99k) chapter 7

🧚‍♂️Every Me and Every You by bixgirl1 (E, 69k) chapter 4

🩺Foundations by saras_girl (E, 236k, sequel to Reparations) chapter 3, chapter 7

✨️Freedom to be by @quicksilvermaid (E, 170k) chapter 18

🐦Kept in Cages by sweet_s0rr0w (E, 77k) chapter 11

📜tissue of silver by fearlessdiva (E, 76k) the alley scene in chapter 38

#drarry #draco/harry/neville #ss recs #more smut #i didn't pick my own #i promise #some fabulous fics and scenes here #sexy fics are comfort fics

[dairy-farmer]

Meta Prostitute Au? Oh~?

Imagine this, Bruce and Dick break up a Meta slavery ring. Save the day! But realize? Oh shit! One of these guys is ABSURDLY High Risk for re-capture, because of his power. What is it?

"Fantasy Shape". He "goes to sleep", his power reads your mind, and shape-shifts him into whoever you find most attractive. Plays out sexy scenarios until it can sense you are satisfied.

People would BURN COUNTRIES to get their hands on this kid.

Bruce looks at Dick. Who looks at Bruce. And? Agreed. Kid was never here, they are taking him and putting him up in a nice apartment somewhere. The kid is like "cool. Free house. No wrinkly creeps."

Time passes.

Kid is now a twenty something. Dick is Nightwing. Jason back alive but estranged as hell. Damian barely settling in.

Kid would like That Gucci Shit. Has a VERY profitable ability. Time to become a sugar baby! Batman says "are you TRYING to get murder kidnapped?"

Now Twink counters with "then pay me" and transforms. Is, by the very nature of his powers, COMPLETELY unaware of WHO he turns into. He's not gonna remember ANYTHING. Just wake up, probably sore, and hopefully about to get paid.

Which is why he's completely unaware~

That he turns into Tim Drake with a puss.

Perhaps even early in his Robin career. Maybe in the Sexy Costume version. Maybe both. Maybe he looks like the Robin Bruce JUST saw, but with a pretty pink slit a handful little tits. Blinking up at him with those big, trusting, needy eyes. Oh he feels so STRANGE, Bruce~ won't you help him?

It's like a gut punch.

He can't. He... he doesn't. W-Would NEVER...!

But there it is. Proof of what he wants. Teary eyed and needy. Begging him to come closer. To "help" him.

Bruce knows for a fact Tim is cis-gendered. Has... has, perhaps, had thoughts he shouldn't. Lingered on reports and video feed of those rare few incidents, when for whatever reason, Tim was made... softer.

He shouldn't.

But... some desperately justifying part of his brain hisses, if he DOESNT? The Twink will try and find someone else to pay him. Get in over his head and probably die. We're basicly saving his life!

His resolve crumbles.

And somehow? He even SMELLS like Tim. The fantasy flawless. Teasing pretty little tits. Being so gentle, at first, with that virgin little hole. Hearing his Robin whimper and cry out in pleasure as he fucks him. Teases his little pink clit and stuffs him deep and full. Dragging him up and down like a toy to be filled with seed.

Everything he denied himself.

He doesn't have too anymore, does he?

Twink gets his Prada and Bruce gets an outlet. Which makes Duck suspicious. Because Bruce is NEVER this calm and reasonable. They fight about it on the roof. Bruce desperately glad Dick didn't actually SEE, what Twink turned into. But ultimately? Dick has to agree. Better this then unnecessary risks.

He talks to Twink.

Who would pass up Nightwing? Even if you couldn't remember it?

Nightwing will never admit to ANYONE what happens. Tim with a puss. His perfect "girl", huh? Arms held out to him, loving smile in place. Waiting for a kiss. Dick is going to hell. He cant bring himself to care.

It's so good he could cry.

But two for two acting fishy? Jason snoops. Working boy, huh? Tries to interview him. Twink panics at the sight of a Crime Lord. Tim + Puss+ Jason's shirt + He forgives you. Come get some.

....OH. So THATS why they come here.

Jason... should... should say no... he thinks, even as he's getting naked. He gets sounds out of Not-Tim that put porn to shame. Were the puss not temporary and shape-shifting, Twink would ABSOLUTELY be pregnant. He gets breakfast.

And frankly, Twink has the morality of a prison shank. When Damian tracks him down? Well? Pay him and he'll show you, bat-brat. WHY Batman visits this "den of iniquity". Seething, Damian does.

Turns out he? Really, REALLY wants Sexy CEO Tim with a Puss to admit he's a better Robin but then pin him to the floor and ride him. Call him pet names. Just milk him DRY with his sexy, sexy, CEO femdom puss.

Damian stumbles home vaguely shell-shocked and Reflecting On Some Stuff that he learned today.

And Tim? Has been having the time of his life, getting off it, since day one. Because he was stalking Batman. As usual. It's his go-to comfort activity. And he is starting to seriously consider getting a magic user to give him some sort of gender swap medallion or something. You know... for Vauge Bat Reasons.

Oh look! Nearly time for Bruce's weekly "extra patrol route". Better get the lube and get comfy~ Tim's got a show to enjoy.

-🐼🐼🐼

good for tim 😍😍😍!!!

#answered asks #asks #anonymous

[kickingitwithkirk]

Winchester's Folly

Summary: When Dean gets into trouble John decides to hide the truth for his family

Word Count: 888

*Dark! Fic-don't continue if you are disturbed by the subject matter

Warnings: A/B/O, non/con elements , dub/con elements, enslavement, pandemic, non/con drug use, collaring/leashing, forced mating, forced breeding, BDSM elements, show-level violence

*Additional warnings to be added

*Square filled: @spnabobingo - Alpha Challenging Alpha

A/N: * UPDATED 3/24

A/N II: Still working on reigning myself in, keeping each part reader-friendly length, and have no clue how many parts this will end up being.

A/N III: a few notes about designations in A/O sub-genders for this story.

Alphas-Dominant (head of the pack/family) Subordinate (obey Dominant) Breeders (rare & highly coveted by the government. Can challenge Dominant for pack/family leadership)

Omegas -Domestic (mostly wiped out by plague, few natural born left) Feral (government-supplied breeders sold commonly called O's) House O’s (3rd generation+ Feral/Dominant breed. Used as servants/sex workers) Pack (rare & highly coveted by the government)

*Divider by @firefly-graphics

*No Beta-all mistakes are mine

GIF by antiquerss

Part II

“Dean's preference of type doesn’t matter, but I want one under eighteen.” 

Sam’s head snapped up in shock. That wasn’t the plan; John was specific that O should be older than Dean and preowned, making them cheaper to repurchase. “Dad, why are you wanting…?” John cut him off with a low growl, provoking Sam’s inner wolf to reciprocate, neither noticing Helms studying their interaction with interest.

Alpha Winchester can’t wholly control this beauty like the other one. The boss will be pleased to learn about these developments. 

“A House O would normally do on paper,” Helms interrupts, “But I know this judge, they will not be satisfied with that alone.”  Both Winchesters have matching, confused expressions, and he continues before John can ask what that means.

 “The judge will require that I follow the statutes in Hibbins and your pack's unusual dynamics: three virile, unmated Alphas with no permanent abode, residing whatever. House O’s have a breed down to need stability, so a Pack Omega would be ideal even if they're as scarce as Phoenix and need the right connections, but there's your social standing.” That remark made Sam snort. It wasn’t the first time someone had mentioned their social standing, not so slyly code for a dirt-poor pack. 

“I have a few in the preferred age range we could negotiate over, but I suspect you won’t allow your Subordinate to breed them. The judge probably will consider that a deal breaker. The best option is an altered pre-owned Feral. And fortunate for you, I’ve recently acquired a selection from a fire sale. This way, gentlemen.” 

Dean's wolf whines, watching his pack move farther into the building. At the same time, he can only stand there, as ordered, and observe these unfortunate creatures bartered over as the livestock society considers them. His Alpha knew it would eat at his ingrained, perpetual guilt and is part of the repentance he has to endure because, once vexed, John Winchester never forgave or forgot.

Sam's inner wolf was getting more unquiet the longer they were in this den of iniquity. He knew the only reason John wanted him near was an additional jab at Dean to emphasize his failures. Fuck, he hated their Alpha using Dean's guilt against himself whenever displeased. Sam couldn’t see Dean from where they were, getting pissed that John was now only focusing on a couple of O’s that’d caught his interest.

Sam instinctually knew she was all wrong and, without realizing it, started vocalizing his displeasure. “What’s your problem now?” John barked at him. “They’re undoubtedly your type, sir,” Sam replied with his usual bluntness that made John's jaw clench, grudgingly reflecting on his youngest observation.

As the Dominant Alpha of his pack, John ultimately decided how they functioned, including mating. He cringed internally, remembering the drinking confession inadvertently made to Sam shortly after he presented.

It was a typical night when John was around.

Sam was sitting at the kitchen table finishing up some calculus homework. At the same time, John, sprawled on a couch, hovering between drunk and passed-out drunk, started talking about his mother.

Mary used to say three-year-old Dean was a handful, and now about to whelp again; it was too much for an Alpha herself to handle not having the instincts. She insisted John procure a House O to wet nurse the new pup because after extending the nursing of Dean, she wasn’t willing to do that again. John told her they couldn’t afford one, and Mary retorted if they had one, they could hatefuck their anger out on the O instead of John leaving. 

Sams revolted learning that the mother he never knew, one his brother practically worshiped, had wanted to purchase a House O to raise her litter and use them as a fuckslave to keep her mate happy and at home. When John started drunkenly lauding the pleasurable attributes of an Omegas natural slick pussy versus female Alphas, Sam grabbed Dean's CD player, pumped up the volume, and pretended to be working until John eventually passed out.

Shoving the books into his backpack, Sam retreated to their shared bedroom and retrieved the cobbled-together black-market laptop Dean secretly got him. Firing it up, he began researching the history of Omegas, the Hibbins Procurement Act, eventually going down the rabbit hole, finding blogs about how the effort to repopulate Omegas became perverted over the decades and obscure provisions secretly added during extension reviews that the government schools omitted felt his meager dinner about to reappear and bolted for the toilet.

Dean came rolling later, finding the laptop open on the bed, and immediately started worrying. His brother never left it out when their dad was around, followed the scent of sickness to find Sam lying on the bath floor, looking like he’d picked up an illness. Dean cleans him up, then tucks Sam into bed, diligently watching over him the rest of the night.

Surveying the area for hidden trouble, Sam catches an irresistible scent. His inner wolf hurls itself frantically against its cage of skin and bone, growling home home home in his mind. Flicking an eye towards his Alpha, whom Helms had distracted by another O. Without a second thought, Sam follows the wolf’s instincts, slowly backs towards the door left ajar, and slips through unnoticed.

Part III

SPN TAGS: @donnaintx @lyarr24  @flamencodiva    @lassie-bird @nancymcl   @spnbaby-67   @leigh70

Sam/Jared: @idreamofplaid

Dean/Jensen: @thoughts-and-funnies @stoneyggirl2 @beabutterfly987 @smoothdogsgirl

WF: @slamminmine @ladysparkles78 @deans-spinster-witch @ilovetaquitosmmmm

#winchester's folly 3/24 update #dean x reader x sam #winchester's folly #dean winchester #sam winchester #john winchester #dystopia #dean x reader #sam x reader #supernatural #spn au #a/b/o #abo dynamics #alpha dean winchester #alpha sam winchester

[hypatia-s]

Main family’s compound security *sucks* - do you agree?

So. I usually forgive plot holes, I’m not nitpicky. I usually handwave continuity things away, or illogical things, or whatever. I’m here for the pretty boys in overdramatic situations. Reality can go out of the window.

And yet. 

And yet.

In Kinnporsche, the main family’s compound is rumoured to be this highly secure place, the pinacle of security for a family that call themselves paranoid; with multiple protocols, high tech, lots of guards on every little corner. They have their own bodyguard twunk factory, guys. 

And yet, security *sucks*. 

So much. So incredibly much. Glaring sirens in my brain. It actually pulled me out of the story sometimes, my brain like: wtf is this person doing here. Apparently, one can swing by at any time and there is no one at the door, or anything at all. Free pass, everyone. 

Ken goes to the minor family house on a semi regular basis. For a place with strict in/out protocols, no one seems suspicious. No cameras detecting his presence in a hallways at times he shouldn’t be there. Nothing. Nope. Nada. 

Vegas goes to visit Porsche at the swimming pool. Much has been talked about the absolute unhinged behaviour that both display (re: Porsche grabs the champagne glass from the flat bottom; Vegas takes off his boots and then goes, pants legs and all, into the *water*). But no, what worries me is the following series of events: 

1. the dangerous, psychotic, murderous cousin of the family just swings by, late at night, and uninvited. No one detects him. No one stops him. 

2. Goes by the pantry, steals a champagne bottle. No one detects him. No one stops hims.

3. Goes to the place where they keep all the nice glasses, plates, spoons, forks and *knives*. Grabs a couple of delicate glasses. No one detects him. No one stops him.

4. Walks around the entire compound looking for Porsche. Presumably passes by the bodyguard sleeping quarters. Finally goes into the training swimming pool. No one detects him. No one stops him.

5. Finally sees Porsche, a bodyguard, someone that is supposed to ensure security. Porsche, instead of doing something logical, like “wtf are you doing here, I’m informing Chan”, proceeds to drink champagne instead. Porsche doesn’t even remark on the pants on the water thing. Both are crazy and enable each other in their unhinged behaviour. 

6. 100% sure Vegas leaves the champagne bottle right there, for the cleaning staff. No one reports it to anyone when they clean the pool the following morning. He leaves also a trail of water that reeks of chlorine in his way out. No one hears the splorch splorsch splorch as he leaves. No one detects him. No one stops him. 

7. No one checks the cameras, either, apparently. 

Pete comes back from his “holidays” in Vegas’ den of iniquity. A man, who is supposed to be dead, is clad in dirty, bloody clothing, and looks like several garbage trucks ran him over, goes inside the compound unseen and unstopped. Passes by the entrance unseen and unstopped. Goes into the family garden unseen and unstopped. The garden, where, I may add, the two oldest sons of the family are currently standing. The bodyguards reaction upon seeing him is to cry from happiness. 

Also, i’m not in the mafia. But if my head bodyguard with access to highly sensitive info disappears for weeks when he’s going to the enemy’s lair, comes back with clear signs of torture , and tells me a bold lie like he’s gone to see his grandma, I would not be taking him out for drinks, I would be extracting what kind of info he gave our enemies.

Look, I’m sure there are more examples, but these literally made me go: these people really need a security consultant. 

Opinions, please?

#kinnporsche #kinnporche the series #vegaspete #kinn theerapanyakul #porsche pachara #vegas kornwit theerapanyakun #vegas theerapanyakul #pete phongsakorn

[loki-variant-number-24601]

Listen, mortals!

Greetings! I have come to save your poor mortal souls from your own foolishness, and I have decided that this den of iniquity is the place to start.

Details about me (I am rather a captivating subject):

I am a Loki variant whose personal deviation from the timeline was killing Thor during a sparring practice. Oops :)

I haven't decided on a name for myself yet, so if you are bold enough to address me by something other than "Your Highness," you may use "Loki".

I've decided that this pronouns concept of yours is interesting. You may refer to me by they/them pronouns.

I'm still young by Asgardian terms, so please do not sully my presence with your gross mortal sexual activities.

You may come to me with pledges of allegiance, humble requests for favors, or simple questions about being a god. I'll try my best.

I am well-acquainted with the ones you call "The Avengers" and help them on their silly little missions when I'm bored.

Queer folk are always welcome to pop in for a cup of cider and a hug.

Other variants may also join me for rousing discussions of how we plan to take over the Nine Realms.

#loki laufeychild #loki odinchild #loki #loki variant #god of mischief #god of tricksters #kneel

[ethereal-inquisitor]

Chapter 1: The Beginning of the Fever

a/n: No smut here, just story. Sex pollen galore (slight dubcon but reader loves them before the tumble). I'm bad at tags, please let me know if I miss something.

“AHHH!” you shriek as you fall into the pit.

Rocks and debris fell all around you, and you felt his panic along with yours as you tumbled in the air, hoping that whatever you hit wouldn’t kill you.

Thunk.

A puff of pink dust exploded around you as you hit whatever it was that cushioned you, and it was almost pretty as the powder glittered and swirled in the air. Coughing some of it out of your lungs, you checked to make sure everything was still intact.

“Lass!” you heard from above, and you coughed again when you inhaled more of the dust.

“I’m here! I’m alright! I’m…sitting on some kind of flower?” And you were. It was huge, the middle big enough to be an actual bed. The petals were pale pink, most of them gone now, but the ones that were still there were beautiful and almost rose-like.

“A flower? What in Durin’s name kind of flower would….” You heard Balin from above, and then suddenly his voice became a little more panicked. “Get off the flower, lass! Now!”

Oh, gods. You didn’t like the sound of that, but you rolled off the large floral bed and onto the ground quickly. Waving your hands to clear the dust, you looked around at the cavern to see if there was a way out. Now that you were really looking, this place actually looked almost like a sitting area. There were chairs, sofas, and tables all set around the flower almost like they were watching it, and while everything was in terrible disrepair, your mind raced with all kinds of reasons that there would need to be this many seats around a flower the size of a bed.

Heat zipped through you at your naughty thoughts, and you quickly tamped down your hormones. You had been on the road with these dwarves for far too long. What you wouldn’t give for someone to throw you down and…

What is wrong with you?!

Sunlight caught your attention, and you saw a staircase not too far from where you were. “Hey!” you call up, clearing your throat. “There’s a staircase! I think I can find my way up!” Whether they heard you or not was irrelevant because you immediately ran to the stone steps and began climbing up.

There were so many stairs. After about five minutes of climbing, you had to pause and take a break. Your skin was boiling, and everything you were wearing felt too tight.

“Healer!” you heard Thorin a little higher up, and you figured they must have found the way down. “Do not move. You could bring the spores up with you.”

Spores?

“I need fresh air, Thorin!” you whined, suddenly horrified at the high-pitched, nearly sexual sound, that escaped your mouth with those words.

“Lass, listen. I suspect you have fallen into a…er…den of iniquity, of sorts,” Balin called from above. “They were popular a couple of hundred years ago when they found those flowers you fell on. They are an incredibly potent aphrodisiac, and our ancestors used to use them for…fun…” Balin’s voice was strained, as if even talking about this made him ridiculously embarrassed.

“Wh-what?!” you nearly shrieked, waves of heat flowing over you as you imagined people writhing on that flower bed, bodies straining against each other while they sought their own release. Groaning, you pressed up against the wall and sank down to the step, trying to hold on to your sanity.

“Listen, lass, there is another problem. These flowers are for dwarven metabolism. Humans are effected a little more seriously, and without a partner it’s almost certain that the spores will..”

“Will what, Balin?” you said breathlessly, contemplating taking your pants off on the stairs right there.

“They might cause your body to overheat and your heart to give out.”

“So you’re telling me I’m going to die?” You brought your hand up to gently stroke over your breast, letting your head fall back against the wall.

“Without a partner, yes. But…if you had a partner with the proper stamina, you would be fine after about twenty-four hours.”

You couldn’t even bring yourself to respond to that, letting out a little whine at the thought of someone coming down those stairs to help you relieve this agony.

“Would you be willing for a partner to come down there with you?” Balin’s voice was strained, and he obviously wanted to be anywhere other than where he was.

Another whine, though Balin took that as a yes. “Head back down the stairs, then, lass, and try to find the bath. Dunk yourself in the water if you can, to wash off as much of that stuff as possible. Are ye’ certain?” Once again, Balin checking to make sure you would be alright.

“Please,” you begged, barely able to get to your feet to follow his directions. You heard a resounding groan above you, and it sounded like heaven to your ears. You knew who would be coming down those stairs, and you stumbled back into the cavern to look for the bath Balin thought might be there.

The sound of water brought your attention to the far back corner, where a good portion of it was taken over by a deep pool, steaming with warmth. You immediately started stripping, and as each layer of your clothing was removed, you felt a tad bit more in control. Not completely, but it was better than nothing. Once you were completely naked, you sank into the water and groaned, letting the warmth sink into your bones.

Even the sensation of water against your skin started overloading your brain, and you whined as you brought up your hands to gently pinch your nipples. Your mind was in a haze, and all you could think about was finding the closest man and letting him sink deep into you. You were nothing but a bundle of nerves and want.

Footsteps echoed behind you, and you didn’t even have the energy to turn around. You knew who was there, and you listened as you heard their clothing and weapons drop to the ground behind you.

The water swirled around you, and you clenched around nothing as you heard the groan behind you. Whimpering as his warm hands gripped your shoulder, he turned you to face him.

Who do you choose?

Thorin Dwalin Fili Kili Bofur

#this is just the beginning #hold on to your pants #the hobbit #pick a dwarf #any dwarf

[pseudowho]

I read your see through trousers comment and nearly choked on my own laughter as I do whenever I see your reblogs 🤦🏻‍♀️ I'm new here, do you have a name you go by for your followers and mutuals? If not, I'll just keep calling you a fellow nanami wife

I've always got such a bad case of the self-laughies, so I never know if I'm actually funny 😅😂 or just unhinged.

I really WANT to share my name, but don't want to run the risk of being identified on my sordid little den of iniquity 🥲🥲

So call me Haitch. I'm new here too, I only started this about a month ago!

#jjk #She thinks shes funny #she doesnt even go here #My babies need Childline #My husband needs a new wife #kento nanami #jjk nanami #kento nanami x you #jujustu kaisen #nanami fluff #kento nanami x y/n #jjk fluff #nanami kento smut #kento nanami x reader

[modernamericangirl]

Coming in slightly late but complete: here’s my contribution to the delightful Cobert challenge created by @avoverud! 

My prompt was “saying ‘I love you’ as a goodbye.” 

I’m sorry that this is probably a bit long to read on tumblr; I’ll try to post on FF or A03 as well! 

I.

Robert stood in the corner of the library nursing a glass of whiskey as he took in the scene. Harold and his friends were crowded round a card table lodging boisterous insults at one another; the smoke from their cigars curled slowly upwards before settling above them like a heavy raincloud. They were all drunk, horribly so, on illicit booze carted up by the caseload from the basement of Harold’s townhouse off East 58th street.

Robert shifted on his feet and pressed a thumb against his own glass, watching as a fingerprint appeared in the condensation. He considered that he might be rather drunk as well—a thought he quickly doused with the anesthetic burn of alcohol, taking the last sip from his now-empty glass. A footman materialized seemingly out of thin air with a decanter to refill the vessel. Yes, down with prohibition, he muttered to the waiting servant.

Had it been only three weeks since he arrived at that grimy New York port? He looked up to better calculate the time passed and was distracted by the mahogany-paneled ceiling. The dancing light from the immense marble fireplace reflected against the surface, and it made him dizzy. Yes—no—yes. It had been three weeks since he’d arrived. A month since last he was home.

The slap of a hand against the card table was enough to startle him to attention, and he listened as the raucous group of Americans pointed cigars and fingers into one another’s faces, laughing as they lodged claims of card counting and other tricks at their opponents. Robert watched his brother-in-law wave them back into their seats and gesture for the footman with the decanter in one fluid motion. With their glasses refilled, the game was allowed to continue in this den of iniquity.

Really, he’d hardly seen Harold save a few dinners and this week at the trial. His trip had been spent almost entirely at Martha’s immense Italianate home a few blocks away. Martha insisted he stay with her—calling Harold’s looming trial a witch hunt and an impossible blemish on the family name in equal measure—and had paraded him around at any number of tea parties, lunches, and social events. He poured tea and coffee and politely answered question after question about the estate, the peerage, and even the after-effects of the war, as grey-haired women drenched in floral perfume and decked out in glittering diamonds and rubies smiled at him and complimented his charming accent. Very often, they asked after Cora. The questions would come as they talked of crowded ballrooms from lifetimes ago. They would claim a daughter or a niece had been such close friends with the beautiful Cora Levinson. They were the only questions that didn’t seem to set his teeth on edge, really, for he could smile genuinely, and he could tell them what he imagined Cora would want him to share: stories about the girls, about their grandchildren, about the London season. And they cooed with praise for his wife. She’d pulled it all off so seamlessly. And indeed, she had.

He downed the last of his drink now and rubbed a hand against his aching chest. Oh, he missed her—perhaps tonight even more than yesterday if that were possible. He trudged to an empty leather chair and waved, his arm loose and inaccurate, for the bloody footman with the whiskey. The man did not materialize this time, but his inelegant movement did have the unwitting effect of alerting his brother-in-law to his discontent.

Harold, who sat only a few feet away at the edge of the table, grinned at him with a fat cigar stuck between his teeth. Smoke wafted all around him and Robert, surrounded by the gleaming, dark wood of the library, was reminded of the opening passage of Dante’s Inferno.

“My champion!” Harold’s voice rang out; his friends clapped in loud, maddening unison. “Come and sit by me.”

Harold gestured with his own half-full tumbler to a seat already occupied by one of his adoring sycophants. The man moved immediately, though it took Robert longer than it should have to unsteadily reach the table. Immediately, he was drawn into Harold’s embrace, and the shorter man’s attempt to put an arm around his shoulder was enough to make him chuckle.  

“Have I told you all what a stand-up guy he is?” Harold grinned.

Robert shook his head, ready to protest, but he continued.

“—no, no. He is. You are.”

Harold was quite drunk. His eyes were glassy, and he peered at Robert with a curious expression.

“All the way from England for this bullshit. Stand-up guy, my brother-in-law.” With his free hand, for the cigar had been dropped onto a gold dish beside him, he picked up his glass and clinked it rather aggressively against Robert’s.  

“I was happy to help.”

Robert was surprised by the low tone of his own voice. He blinked once, twice, and then a third time; the men across the table had doubled in his vision, and he watched with passive interest as they seemed to float back and forth.

“Sure, sure.” Harold clapped him on the back and nodded at the footman.

Again, their glasses were filled. “You’re a real sport.”

Robert felt, certainly not for the first time that evening, a twinge of annoyance. It was late, far later than they ever stayed up these days, and he wondered if there might be some way to make an unnoticed escape back to Martha’s. But the room only seemed to grow louder in protest, someone turning on a record player, and Harold was still saying something, for he heard his name again in the brash tone of the man’s voice.

“—no, of course it wasn’t necessary,” he said to the dark-haired man nearest to them. Robert couldn’t for the life of him remember the chap’s name, though he was fairly certain he was a man of business. No—no. An architect. “—Mother insisted. But I think Robert’s had more of a positive effect on her tea parties than on today’s proceedings.”

Robert coughed at that and cleared his throat in what he hoped was a gesture of clear displeasure.  

“You know what I mean, Robert.” Harold smiled and wrenched the decanter from the servant just behind them. He poured two fingers of whiskey into their glasses.

“Or—”

He spoke slowly now, turning his attention from the task back to Robert, “maybe you don’t. My brother-in-law doesn’t have much of a head for business,” he explained to the men surrounding them. They’d all dropped their cards onto the table sometime during the exchange, having picked up on the frisson of tension between the brothers-in-law, and assessed the rather drunk aristocrat before them.

“Perhaps not.”

Robert spoke the words into his upturned glass. He swallowed slowly, very slowly, and the burn did little to calm his temper. “Though I do have rather a head for avoiding charges of bribery and conspiracy.”  

Harold’s face was impassive. If he was offended, his frozen half-smile and unblinking eyes did not reveal that fact. In some way, the blue, staring eyes reminded him of Cora—Cora when she was unhappy with him but would not say so. And the similarity chilled him. Harold continued to stare, letting silence fall over the table, and took a sip from his glass.

“You’re right,” Harold said finally. He nodded sagely at his own words. “Best to keep out of the fray. Right, gentlemen?” The men, wearing uneasy smiles, nodded in passive agreement.

“Carter!” Harold shouted for his butler and slapped a hand against Robert’s back. “Champagne. We need champagne! We’re celebrating, after all.”

“Here, here!” Glasses clinked together and claps sounded out. The men returned to their cards. But Harold’s hand remained pressed against Robert’s back, and he leaned in to speak quietly to him.

“Apologies,” he said, offering him another smile. “It’s been a long day for me.”

Robert nodded and rubbed a hand over his own tired eyes. “As I said, I was happy to help.”

Harold chuckled, though the sound lacked any mirth. “I appreciate your selflessness.”

“You’re family.” Robert answered politely.

“True. And it only cost us what—a million and a half? Two? Father never said exactly.”

The men at the table did not hear their exchange; indeed, their voices were nearly drowned out by the sound of corks popping. But it was enough to rouse him. And, oh, he hated him then—hated all of them, really. Harold was a spoilt, immature little man with an endless parade of dull, drunken friends to follow behind.

  Robert stood, clenched his swollen fingers into a fist, and wondered through the haze of drink how he could explain to Cora a physical fight with her own brother. It would make him feel better, he thought, to knock the man right onto the ground. But, no. That would not do. He could not hit him—not when Harold was still sitting and smiling up at him. What reason would he give her, in any case? After all, Harold was only telling the truth. The shameful, long-buried truth that somehow conspired to, even now, make him flush with embarrassment and regret. He said nothing but watched as Harold laughed loudly at his anger, the mirth from earlier miraculously returned to his countenance.

“Only joking,” Harold replied through peals of laughter. “Lighten up.”

But before Robert could respond, the door to the main hall opened and flooded the room with artificial light, revealing a gaggle of women in short, glamorous beaded dresses with bleach-blonde hair and lips painted red.

“Now it’s a party,” he heard Harold shout, and the room nearly vibrated with the hoots and hollers of vulgar cheers and greetings.

Robert knew he was far too drunk to stay for anything of this sort. And he objected to the way they were all drawn like moths to the light of the open door—to women who looked, in his bleary estimation, to be younger than Rose. It was, he thought seriously, ungentlemanly for these men to behave in such a fashion. And so, he escaped almost instantly, finding his freedom via the back-left corner of the library. He’d noticed a door carved out of the mahogany wall there earlier and had just enough sense left in him to recall it now. Finding it unlocked, Robert spilled into Harold’s office entirely unnoticed.

He could hear peals of laughter as he turned the latch behind him and poked around the room. They only seemed to grow louder once he sat at Harold’s desk and listened more intently to the sounds of the party.

He supposed he could wait them out.

He yawned.

He stretched his legs, and his muscles groaned in protest.

Minutes passed, but his heart still thundered as he turned the words over in his mind.

Harold thought him a fool. That much was clear. Perhaps he was a fool for coming here. But he owed her that much. Not in the way Harold had implied. But he owed her nevertheless: owed her for the way her hand slipped into his own at night, for her palm pressed against his forehead whenever he felt unwell, for every little sacrifice she made for their family without complaint, and for the very love they shared so freely even now, so many years gone. There was never a decision to be made; of course she needn’t have asked him to go. He would have captained the blasted boat himself to get here in time.  

But, oh, he missed her. He’d thought of her constantly. He thought of her asleep in their bed, her hair smelling of lavender and her skin pale in the early-morning light. He thought of her smiling at him from across the dinner table, her face aglow in candlelight. He thought of her voice and her laughter and thought perhaps most often of all of what she’d whispered into his ear in the great hall just before he’d gone.

Out of boredom or curiosity, Robert began to rifle through the compartments of Harold’s desk. He found an untouched flask of what was, upon further inspection, gin, and thick files filled with marked-up numerical reports. The mountains of paperwork were mostly unintelligible to him, and he began to consider if Harold’s assessment of his business acumen was not altogether incorrect.

Opening up another drawer, he found a packet of cigarettes, some wadded up cash, and, tucked between the pages of an address book that he flipped through, a yellowed family photograph dated December 1886 on the back in pencil. Even in the dim firelight he saw immediately a young Cora, standing taller than her brother, between her parents. He recognized the impassive half-smile as the one she often wore in the early months of their marriage. She looked impossibly young, yet somehow still herself, and it unsettled him to realize that he had not known this version of his wife. They had lived nearly all their lives together and yet there had been some time in the long-distant past when they had existed wholly without one another.

Robert considered pocketing the photograph but thought better of the potential theft when his eye cast over what he had been in pursuit of: a stack of unused writing sheets and envelopes. Snatching up a fountain pen from its stand atop the desk, he blinked down at the page before him, willing his vision to correct itself, and set pen to paper.

Darling, my dear

Cora, my darling Cora

Cora, if I could put to page what you mean

My darlling Cora, I have thought of nothing but your words to me

Cora, my darling, you must allow me to tell you how ardently I

He paused midway through this last attempt. No—that wasn’t right. It was Byron, wasn’t it? Or perhaps Shelley. No, he shook his head, cursing aloud. It was Austen, of course. Cora’s favorite. Ignoring a splash of ink on his palm, he reached for another sheet and tried once more, settling on a familiar turn of phrase.

My dearest one…

The scratch of the metal nib drowned out the raucous proceedings in the library, and before long he had a number of pages complete—and envelops addressed, too. But as he signed the final version, noting he still saw his name printed in double vision, he wondered if perhaps he might be better off reviewing the draft come morning. And so, he pocketed what he thought was his best work and clumsily gathered up the rest to dispose of once he returned to Martha’s, smoothing out the other papers he’d rifled through on the desk as well.

Engrossed as he had been in his task, Robert hoped for one blessed moment that the party had rounded to a close. But as he stood from the creaking leather chair, distant strains of decadent laughter and merriment sounded out once more. There was, he knew then, no clean escape route out of the townhouse. Taking Harold’s flask as a consolation prize, he exited the office from the alternate door across the room and flagged down the first servant he crossed paths with in the dark, marbled hallway to ask for a bed to be made up for him there instead.

II.

When Robert awoke the next morning to a deafening thump, thump, thump, he was stunned to realize the Americans were still somehow celebrating Harold’s serendipitous legal victory. He was even more stunned to realize a moment later that the sound was in fact emanating from his own head, which felt heavier than a block of ice and pulsed violently in protest when he moved himself to a seated position.

He hadn’t a clue of the time, though bright morning light was streaming clearly through the open curtains. The servants must have been through, too; emerging from beneath the heavy bedclothes in only his pants, he found his suit from the night before hanging and freshly pressed and another suit, somehow ferried over from his things at Martha’s, hanging beside it.

Robert dressed himself, moving slower than molasses without Barrow’s assistance, and cursed every sip of alcohol he’d taken the night before as he trudged downstairs and readied himself to face the Levinsons for yet another day.

Impossibly, Harold looked no worse for wear when Robert came upon him at the breakfast table, his face half-covered by the morning newspaper. An enormous plate of food lay on the table before him, and he held a cup suspended in mid-air as a footman refreshed his coffee.

“You’re up earlier than I expected,” he commented once Robert took the seat opposite.

“Quite.”

Harold offered him half the newspaper, but Robert shook his head—even that movement conspiring to make him wince in pain. A footman appeared with another plate of breakfast food, or what he assumed was breakfast to an American, and he looked up at the ceiling to avoid the smell. Moments passed before his stomach felt sure enough to hazard a bite.

He chewed slowly on a piece of bacon as Harold finally set the newspaper down in front of him.

“I apologize for what I said last night,” he said abruptly.

Robert hesitated. He remembered snippets of dialogue; he remembered briefly wanting to punch Harold right in the middle of the library among all his idiot friends. But he remembered little of what they’d said to one another.

“There’s no need,” he answered finally, swallowing the bacon and saying a silent prayer it stayed down.

Harold cleared his throat. “No, there is. It was unkind. What I said about the money.”

Ah. The money. Cora’s dowry. It remained in many ways the albatross around his neck—even now, even years after it was lost. He had come to realize, years into their marriage, that the shame would likely never leave him. Not completely.

“Maybe so. But you did not say anything that was untrue.”

Harold looked at him strangely, then. He folded the newspaper and set it onto the table beside him.

“You know, I never understood why my parents did what they did. Or, why Cora did what she did. In a way, I always thought she’d come back—”

Robert frowned, but Harold, who had been looking down at his plate, looked up with a faint smile.

“—I think I understand it a bit more now.”

“I—don’t follow.”

Harold chuckled. Without further comment, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a few folded pieces of paper, and passed them across the table.

“I’m glad you came, Robert. Really. Thank you for everything.” He stood, nodded once, and exited the breakfast room in a few quick steps, leaving Robert to unfold the small bundle on his own.

Momentarily confused, his eyes scanned a series of smudged, crinkled pages before recollections of the night before settled heavily upon him.

My darlling Cora, I have thought of nothing but your words to me upon our farewell goodbye and I must, must tell you how desperately, no, madly, I love you  

He balled up the page quicker than he would have otherwise thought possible given his dulled reflexes and shoved the offending pages into his trouser pocket. Good god–hadn’t he stuffed those into his jacket? Or thrown them into the wastepaper bin? He thought hazily back over the events of the previous night and could now only recall stealing upstairs with Harold’s gleaming silver flask full of gin. Red cheeked, he pushed around the food on his plate and thought miserably about the four more days standing between him and the ship leaving the New York harbor.

He pushed a hand into his pocket once more and felt the sharp corners of his ill-begotten letter. Hadn’t he done his familial duty? Perhaps he might now be granted an early reprieve. He would do nearly anything, he considered, to return home to Cora.

III.

Robert stretched lazily and felt himself sink deeper into the soft bedsheets. The bedroom was blessedly warm and quiet, and he felt perfectly happy as he awoke in the sun-drenched room. Cora grinned at him as she crossed the foot of the bed, having extracted herself from his arms to gather up her rumpled nightclothes from the floor and to ring for breakfast.

“You look very content,” she smiled, pulling the nightdress over her head before slipping back beneath the sheets. She rolled to her side and pressed a smooth hand to the rough skin of his cheek.

“I am rather.” He reached up to grasp her hand and kissed her palm.

He’d been home for nearly a week now and had mostly found his way back into long-held routines. The house was together again after the bazaar, and he’d returned to a number of ongoing projects across the estate with Mary and Tom. He had not yet, however, returned to the breakfast table—electing instead to steal bits of toast and tea from Cora’s tray as he listened to her chatter on about all manner of things. Seeing her in the afternoon for a walk or for tea in the library was not yet enough. He had returned from America a man starved, and each moment spent with her now seemed to restore him to fuller health.

He shuffled just a bit closer and leaned in to kiss her, delighting in the way she hummed against his mouth.

“Darling—”

“Hm?”

He opened his eyes again and kissed the edge of her chin before returning to her lips.

“I’ve already rung for Baxter,” she murmured, halfheartedly pushing him back to his side of the bed.

“Tell her—”

He paused, then, and reached a hand below the sheets to find the edge of her nightgown. “Tell her we’ve changed our minds; we don’t need breakfast.”

He kissed her once more, his hand finding the smooth skin at her hip then, and felt his stomach flip as she smiled and laughed unguardedly into the small space between them.

“I do need breakfast after last night,” she said, applying a firmer hand to his shoulder to push him backward into the pillows. He frowned in mock consternation.

“Fine.” Cora laughed again at the dramatic sigh he emitted and reached far into the tangled bedclothes, nearly down to their feet, to produce his discarded pajamas from the night before.

“Put these on before you scandalize Baxter,” she teased.

He’d only just wrestled the still-buttoned top over his head when the woman in question knocked once, twice, and a third time at the solid wood door. Cora waited just a pause before calling her in.

Robert smiled politely at the lady’s maid, who seemed to somehow be moving even faster and more efficiently this morning, if that were possible, and he noted in silent thanks that there appeared to be two servings of toast on the tray and an extra teacup.

Almost immediately after settling the tray on Cora’s lap, the woman bobbed her head once, offering the briefest Milord, Milady, before stepping backward and looking at the door. But before Baxter could perform her hasty retreat, Cora noticed a large bundle of post brought up and arranged inelegantly on the corner of the tray.

“What’s all this?”

There was a long pause before the lady’s maid responded.

“I—I think it’s all from America,” she said simply.

Frowning, Cora waved the woman off—the woman who seemed altogether too happy to pace quickly back out of the room—and reached for the stack to investigate further.

“If Harold’s done something else,” she muttered.

“What on earth else could he do?” Robert chuckled, grabbing for a piece of toast. “Become a pirate and smuggle treasure on the open seas?”

His laughter faltered, though, just as he bit into a piece of bread slathered with raspberry jam and settled his gaze on the all too familiar handwriting, and the all too familiar return address, scratched across the envelope—across, he realized with a lurch, each envelope that Cora had fanned out across her lap.

“Darling,” Cora laughed. “Did you send me—” He watched her count. “—five letters before you left?”

Dropping the toast onto his lap, Robert reached with great speed to snatch up the offending post only to have Cora slap away his hand.

“They’re addressed to me,” she grinned. “And be careful; you’ll have me spill my tea.”

They were, unfortunately, all addressed to her. Though his accuracy had been found rather wanting. The letters ranged in address from Cora, Countess of Grantham to Cora Crawley to simply Cora, with the rest of their address to follow.

Cora used the edge of her butter knife to slice open the first letter and Robert felt the tips of his ears begin to burn. Reading over her shoulder, he could see plainly enough his own handwriting looping across the first page.

Cora, my darling, you must allow me to tell you how ardently . . . . I admire and love you

The rest of the page was blank, save a Robert xxx at the very bottom.

“Robert,” she laughed lightly again and looked at him with a raised brow. “Is that Austen?”

“Well.” He looked up at the canopy and exhaled slowly. “You know we’d all had a bit to drink at your brother’s that last night.”

“Yes, you mentioned that.”

“I think a servant may have mistaken some…errant jottings…for post I intended to send.”

Her brow remained raised. “Why, pray tell, would they do that?”  

“I may have left them addressed in my breast pocket,” he said slowly, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck.

“I see. And all the rest?” She nodded down at the remaining mail.

“Much the same, I’d imagine.”

“Perhaps I should open them just to be sure.”

“Cora—”

He pleaded for their return as she opened the second one with altogether too much glee. And then the third. And then the fourth. She laughed and grinned in equal measure as she read aloud bits of nonsensical dialogue. Until she reached the last one. When he chanced another look, he saw writing that did indeed look more familiar, for it was the one letter he did intend to send.

My dearest one…

She was quiet as she read through the few pages, the lettering much neater and precise. He could recall now, far beyond the haze of drink from that night, most of what he’d written. He sipped awkwardly from his teacup and stared out the window until he felt her slip her hand into his own.

“I want so very much for you to know,” she read aloud, her voice sounding strangely high to him, “that I think of you in each moment, with my every breath. And your words to me that day are what I take to bed each night and wake up to every morning.”

Cora placed the letter carefully down onto the blanket between them and looked up at him, her eyes bright. She made to laugh, as she often did when faced with strong emotion, but found her throat tight and settled for a lopsided grin instead.

“Heavens. That’s strong talk for an Englishman.”

“As I said,” he explained gruffly, “your brother and his friends had gotten me quite drunk.”

She grinned down at their clasped hands and squeezed lightly. “It’s very sweet. Thank you.”  

“Anyway. You started it.”

“Did I?” She looked confused, genuinely so, and he exhaled sharply.

“You most certainly did. In the great hall? As we were saying our goodbyes?”

He could see realization dawn on her, and could see, too, the moment she settled for a look of false confusion once again.

“I can hardly remember anything before the bazaar.”

Robert watched her carefully. She had turned her attention back to the breakfast tray and was poking carefully around the delicate bone china. He knew that she remembered just as well as he did their conversation that morning. The way everyone had filtered out of the house, leaving them alone just for a moment of privacy. The way they’d stood so close to one another, closer than they might have otherwise, and the way she’d looked up at him and told him to kiss her. And then after, as they’d walked toward the front door hand-in-hand, she’d tugged on his sleeve just before they reached the vestibule and their waiting family. She’d stopped short, holding them there for the briefest of moments, and leaned up to whisper in his ear, “I do love you so very, very much.”

He'd had to bite back a silly grin as he spoke to that Blake fellow and to Evelyn Napier. He’d hardly been able to look back at her as he said his farewells to the girls and to Mama. And he remembered thinking as the car pulled down the drive that it might not be too late to snatch up all the cases and barricade himself back inside the house. Oh, how he’d hated to leave her then.

But now, with weeks and two passages across the raging seas between them, he could see how she blushed down into her morning tea to recall that sudden burst of outward expression. Leaning over to kiss her cheek, he considered then that he did not need or want for anything at all.

“It’s alright,” he murmured into her hair.

She turned to look up at him and found him grinning madly.

“We’ll call it even,” he explained, grabbing the pile of blackmail-worthy letters.

Cora’s laughter joined his own and she shook her head in surrender. “Fine.”

They did not speak again for some minutes until Cora, breathless, pressed a hand to his chest. It was, he knew, getting rather late into the day. It was time to gather himself up, ring for Bates, and lurch into the myriad tasks ahead of him. They could return to this subject later in the evening. But as he moved backward slightly, in the direction of his own nightstand, Cora hooked a finger on his half-open pajama shirt and smiled wickedly.

“Go and put this over there,” she said, gesturing at the breakfast tray. “And come back to bed.”

“Really?”

She nodded indulgently. “Perhaps I can inspire another impassioned missive.”

He laughed and shook his head, crawling across the bed to cover her body with his own.

“My darling, you must allow me to tell you how ardently I should like nothing more.”

#Cobert #drabbles #Cora Crawley #Robert Crawley #Downton Abbey

[rushingheadlong]

I’ve been sitting on this post for a couple months now but since it’s Pride I figured, fuck it, if there’s ever going to be a time to call this out it’s now.

There’s a lot of covert homophobia in this fandom but one thing I’ve seen start to cross the line into overt homophobia is how some people talk about Freddie’s experiences going out to his clubs (aka gay clubs).

Up front I want to acknowledge that, yes, Freddie absolutely had bad experiences while out at clubs and I have no interest in trying to argue that everyone he associated with from c. 1977-1985 was a saint. But that’s the thing right there: Any issues Freddie had when he went out were with the people that he was with, NOT the places where he went.

I’ve seen too many posts and comments that heavily imply, if not outright state, that Freddie’s problem was that he was going out clubbing at all, and that if he had just stayed away from clubs he would have been happier and better off for it. That Freddie going out to clubs was one of the worst decisions he made, and that it isn’t something the fandom should be “celebrating” in any way.

The problem with that is that Freddie wasn’t going to random clubs. He was going to gay clubs, at a time when those clubs were the safest and easiest way for him to interact with the queer community. Saying that Freddie’s problem was that he was going to these clubs at all, rather than critiquing the people he was with or the actions he took there, is to say that you don’t think Freddie was capable of interacting with his own community.

Are you starting to see how this line of discussion can very quickly become very homophobic?  

Even if people do bring up Freddie going to gay clubs, there’s often an unspoken pressure to leave it just at that and to ignore the sexual aspect of things. But you cannot separate the sex from the clubs. The overwhelming majority of the clubs that Freddie frequented were specifically Leather clubs, often with dress codes and membership requirements. Many of these places had sex rooms, dungeons, and/or live kink performances, and we have recorded accounts of Freddie taking men from these clubs back to his hotel.

I’m not saying that this fandom needs to start having explicit discussions of Freddie’s sex life at every turn, but going to the opposite extreme and ignoring the very real ways in which we know that Freddie expressed his sexuality is just homophobic. Sanitizing Freddie’s reasons for going to clubs and his experiences once there isn’t protecting his legacy, it’s actively erasing his queerness and his sexuality.

I also want to point out that this isn’t a matter of geography. The Leather clubs in Munich, like the Ochsengarten, were the same type of establishment as places like The Anvil and The Mineshaft in NYC. You can’t celebrate Freddie and his New York Daughters going out on the town and then turn around and criticize the places he was going in Munich. And none of that is even touching on the fact that the moment you become critical of all gay bars you become critical of everyone who went to those places... which includes basically all of the most important people in Freddie’s life.

Even David Minns at his most critical of Freddie only talks about who he was with and not where he was spending his time. Because the fact of the matter is that gay clubs provided safe places for queer people of all stripes to explore themselves and their sexualities at a time when doing so publicly literally would have resulted in you being arrested.

Gay clubs aren’t dens of sin and iniquity any more than straight clubs are. Implying otherwise, and especially implying that Freddie was wrong for going to these places, will always, ALWAYS be a blatant act of homophobia.

#long post // #text #freddie #ramblings #I literally typed up the first draft of this post in mid-December so if you think this is about you it's probably not #but also if you think this is about you maybe take a hard look at how you've been talking about these things yeah?

[sitp-recs]

Hidden Gems by Snegurochka

Another rare pair champion, Snegurochka might not be active anymore but her amazing and varied catalogue keeps on giving. I always find her writing gripping, sexy and fresh with a perfect amount of heart wrenching angst and unapologetic dirtyhot sex, my fave! If you’re a smut fan like me, believe me when I say this author should definitely be on your radar. Her main ship is Remus/Severus but her extensive collection of rare pairs include het couples, lots of cross gen and some niche ships I had never considered before. I especially recommend her work if you’re into Remus, Sirius, Teddy, Charlie or Bill (I mean, who isn’t??? 🔥) pls go ahead for delicious permutations between them including age gap and incest goodness. I also really enjoy her occasional het content, thanks to it Harry/Pansy got a special spot in my heart. Here’s just a small sample of her amazing talent, but I’m sure you’ll go to her AO3 for more :)

Drarry

The Den of So-Called Iniquity (2010, E, 4k) - it’s about the yearning!! Fuck buddies, drug use, mutual pining, second person POV, open ending

Potter is watching you, as usual, his fingers tight around his glass. You know what will happen if you swallow that potion in such close proximity to Potter – the same thing that has happened every time you've done it so far.

The Placebo Sequence (2011, E, 7k) - psycho!Harry! Dark and sexy, ambiguous narrative, open ending. Cw: infidelity (Hinny)

Harry Potter has only ever had two goals in life: to defeat Voldemort and to bring his followers to justice. One, he's done. The other is in progress. It should be simple, except there's one former Death Eater who doesn't meet the right criteria.

(Ninth Rehearsal for) The Main Event (2010, E, 9k) - scorching hot BDSM with sub!Harry, bondage and consent issues. Masterfully written!

The first invitation Draco received to exact revenge on Harry Potter was a thrill. The second, he'd only considered to be an unexpected bonus. By the third, the chance for a repeat performance of Potter on his knees, bound and gasping, was one that Draco couldn't turn down. This is the ninth time.

Interoffice Communication (2011, E, 10k) - deliciously funny and hot af, love this concept, development and characterization. A+!

Draco has convinced the Auror department to test his new messaging charm for secure communications. Harry really would have preferred that he not find out through messages like, 'Yeah, tonight you're going to beg me for it,' that the system wasn't as secure as they thought.

Humbug (A Christmas Tale) (2012, E, 29k) - a Christmas classic, I reread this one all the time! Fwb to lovers, perfect levels of angst, sinfully hot smut 🔥

Draco has been taking his casual relationship with Harry for granted. Visits from four key ghosts the night before Christmas just might shake up his priorities in life.

Rare pairs

Getting Hard (2010, E, 3k) - one of my favorite Harry/Scorpius PWPs, hot af and a really sexy take on age gap established relationships 🔥

Scorpius always preferred to do it now, now, and then maybe again in twenty minutes, but Harry took forever. Slowly, though, Scorpius is beginning to see the appeal of being patient.

Fade In (Let Me) (2011, E, 7.6k) - the only Hermione/Harry/Pansy fic I’ve ever read, this is so hot and complicated I can’t resist!

Until the night Hermione walked in on them together, Harry and Pansy didn't know what they were missing.

Drawn Down to Life (2010, E, 9k) - very emotional and well written Draco/Snape short, feels everywhere!

The first time they kiss, Draco is twenty-six years old, and Severus looks the same as the day he died.

The Werewolf Handbook, Page 147 (2009, E, 20k) - Teddy/Bill slooow burn with lots of UST and fun werewolf lore plus, some family drama and heartbreaking Charlie/Remus (past). A perfect Snegurochka fic, scorching hot and complicated - my kind of cross gen!

Everyone knows that when a person with any werewolf blood reaches 21, untamed sexual urges will manifest themselves and require an outlet. It's a fact. No question about it. The Werewolf Handbook says so, right there on page 147.

The Sketchbook (2009, E, 30k) - breathtaking Sirius/Teddy with past Sirius/Remus and past unrequited Sirius/Harry 🥺 gorgeous, melancholic, heart wrenching.

Sketching portraits of Sirius Black had been Teddy's way of avoiding life in the present for years. He never expected one of them would come to life, but then, he might have known that interacting with any kind of magical parchment invented by a Marauder would only open up one epic can of worms.

#hidden gems #day 31

[murderballadeer]

okay wait a second tho bc i had an argument with my friend abt whether the lyric in house of the rising sun is “it’s been the ruin of many poor girls, and me, oh, lord, i’m one” or “it’s been the ruin of many poor boys, and me, oh lord, i’m one” and like obv the answer is it’s both bc yknow folk music and all that BUT i’m curious as to what the implication is if it’s “many poor boys” bc what i had always been told abt that song is that the house of the rising sun is a brothel and the speaker is a woman who has been corrupted by an alcoholic gambler (my husband he’s a gambler he goes from town to town the only time he’s satisfied is when he drinks his liquor down) and has been forced to resort to sex work to support him and herself but it’s very victorian morality abt the whole thing so she’s warning other girls to stay away (tell my little sister never do as i have done and shun the house in new orleans they call the rising sun)... if the lyric is “many poor boys” then is the house of the rising sun just like a den of iniquity where the speaker has been lured? obv there are male sex workers but in context i feel like that narrative fits less well so is it just a “good innocent boy corrupted by the evils of urban life” story at that point?? i’m genuinely curious bc the versions of the song i grew up with, even the ones performed by men, used “many poor girls” and my dad who’s a Folk Music Guy always maintained that the narrative is about a woman resorting to sex work to survive

#if anyone has any links to versions that say many poor boys prior to like the 60s that would be interesting to see #soapbox

[destieltaggedfic]

5.03 Variations - Part 1

Most episodes have Codas and what-ifs and of course one of the big ones is Free to Be You and Me and the whole Den of Iniquity thing.

Running Down a Dream - chucks_prophet   Ao3

Set S5.  While reliving their greatest hits in heaven, Sam and Dean turn up in Dean’s motel room after he and Cas got kicked out of the brothel.

Word Count: 1k                                 Non-Graphic Sex

Fresh as the Bright Blue Sky by Sue_Snell   Ao3

Set S5.  Determined to relieve Cas of his ‘problem’ Dean finds a prostitute who is ok with Dean being there so that Cas doesn’t do anything embarrassing this time.  With Cas being a bit nervous, Dean offers to go first so Cas can see what he should be doing, they both seem more focused on each other though.

Word Count: 7k                                 Graphic Sexual Acts

the one thing in the galaxy god didn't have his eyes on – Prufrock   Ao3

Set S5.  After they survive the showdown with Raphael, Dean decides to teach Cas to drive.

Word Count: 2k                                 No Sex

Fond Farewell – KaRaEa   Ao3

Set S5.  When he realises that Cas isn’t into Chastity, Dean calls the whole thing off.  But when Cas indicates he is instead attracted to Dean, well that’s something he can work with.  Even if he knows the memory is going to hurt once Cas is dead.

Word Count: 6k                                 Graphic Sexual Acts

My First Fall – BadassCompany   Ao3

Set S5.  They didn’t die, but Dean is still concerned that he could have died without doing something he really wanted to.  So he pulls the car into a quiet spot and kisses Cas.

Word Count: 2k                                 Graphic Sexual Acts

#destiel #fic recs #5.03 variations #free to be you and me #episode variation

[christ-our-glory]

Animals in this life and the next

Proverbs 12:10 A righteous man has regard for the life of his animal, But even the compassion of the wicked is cruel.

Both humans and animals have the breath of life in them, and although animals aren't created in His image as we are (Genesis 1:27)—and therefore have no souls, hence making humans infinitely more important than animals—we must remember they still have the breath of life in them (Genesis 7:15).

When it comes to the physical body, Ecclesiastes 3:19 is a perfect illustration of the life and death commonly shared among humans and animals, for it tells us: "For the fate of the sons of men and the fate of beasts is the same. As one dies so dies the other; indeed, they all have the same breath and there is no advantage for man over beast, for all is vanity." Death, which was introduced into the world after Adam's disobedience (Romans 5:12), is common to man and beast alike.

Interesting to note that Adam was surrounded by animals before Eve ever came along, and yet God says “It is not good for the man to be alone; I will make him a helper suitable for him” (Genesis 2:18). All those animals weren’t of any help to him, nor did they keep him from being alone. No animal can ever replace a human being.

In Adam’s day, there was no enmity between man and beast, and a time will come when all the enmity between all living beings will be gone too. As Isaiah 11:6-8 tells us: “the wolf will dwell with the lamb, And the leopard will lie down with the young goat, And the calf and the young lion and the fatling together… Also the cow and the bear will graze, Their young will lie down together, And the lion will eat straw like the ox. The nursing child will play by the hole of the cobra, And the weaned child will put his hand on the viper’s den.”

Another interesting point to note is how the so-called "compassion" of the ungodly is actually cruel. The compassion of the ungodly is often used as a means to exploit. As noted by 18th-century theologian, Adam Clarke: “The wicked, influenced by Satan, can show no other disposition than what is in their master. If they appear at any time merciful, it is a cloak which they use to cover purposes of cruelty. To accomplish its end, iniquity will assume any garb, speak mercifully, extol benevolence, sometimes even give to the poor!"

Let the righteous person be righteous in all their dealings, rather than use their apparent righteousness as a means to gain favor or exploit—which is cruel.

We must care for the well-being of animals, who have been made by God as we have, and not mistreat them. It’s not wrong to eat them, as God Himself allowed for the consumption of their meat after the Great Flood (Genesis 9:3), but we must not be cruel to them, even as we take their lives — a point further reinforced by the Jerusalem council (Acts 15).

Ultimately, we just don’t know what kind of animals are present there but I bet there will be many familiar faces, along with some that are very different from what we have here.

#animals #Adam Clarke #exploitation #righteousness #compassion #cruelty #animal cruelty #merciful #Bible study #Bible notes #theology #benevolence #enmity #Adam and Eve #Garden of Eden #church #Christianity #faith #religion #Imago Dei

[bottomdeanbigbang]

Coming soon...

Title: The Milk Run

Author: CatDetective

Artist: Alexiescherryslurpie

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rated: Explicit

Length: 20,000+

Tags: Case Fic, BDSM, Undercover as a Couple, Gentle Dom Castiel, Repressed Dean.

Warnings: Dean experiences sub-drop, no explicit homophobia but Dean is processing past homophobia he's been exposed to.

Summary:

While Sam is laid up in the bunker with a broken leg, he sends Dean and Cas out on a case Dean's pretty sure he could do blindfolded and with both hands tied behind his back. Little does he know those might be actual requirements...

Excerpt under the cut...

"“What the hell, Sam?” Dean asks, flinging his duffel bag down onto the bed, hand clenching down almost dangerously tight on his cell. At least he has a little post-check in privacy to storm around and make an ass of himself without worrying about what Cas would think, since Heaven’s softest touch is out there being waylaid by… Dean’s not actually sure what Miss Unnecessary Cleavage’s problem even is, just one more thing he’s feeling pissy about now.

“Yeah, I was wondering when I’d get this call.” Sam says, like he isn’t upending Dean’s life. At least he’s not laughing– or, he’s not laughing out loud, right this second. Maybe he got it all out of his system already. “You got the updates on the case, I take it?”

“A bondage club, man? With Cas? How did you think that one was gonna go? I’m supposed to walk in there with an angel in a gimp suit so we can lure out the ghost of William Friedkin’s Cruising?”

“I was definitely not picturing Cas in a ‘gimp suit’. Look… we don’t know who the ghost is, all we know–”

“All we know is, it’s haunting a bondage club and it only attacks men. Not one man who’s alone, not a man who’s with a woman, men, as in, men doing bondage things together. So either this is some dead gay sadist who’s forgotten how to respect a safeword, or some dead homophobe with extra hang-ups. Either way, I do not appreciate this!”

“Just see what you can find out by actually talking to people. I’m sending you info on the witnesses.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean hangs up, collapsing back onto the motel room’s one bed next to his upended duffel. He’d wanted two, even if Cas wasn’t planning on sleeping, but why should any part of this job go the way he wants it to?

Cas… how’s he going to explain any of this to Cas? The guy thinks the babysitter and the pizza man were a reliable source of information on human sexuality, and he isn’t exactly… cozy, with most sex stuff. Last time Dean took him to a ‘den of iniquity’... well, actually, it had briefly been a really good time, but not the way he’d planned, and this isn’t the same as that had been, this is– well, it’s different because they’re working.

And because…

It just is."

#bottom dean big bang #bottom!dean #BDBB2022 #destiel fic #destiel art #promo fic

[jinkieswouldyoulookatthis]

It is so very typically Dean to not even ask if angels have sex, to not ask if Castiel is attracted to women, instead just jumping right into deciding that they do, that Cas is, and that he needs to take his angel friend to a brothel to get his cherry popped!?! WTF, Dean? And poor Cas, obviously only interested in Dean as far as humans go, and so uncomfortable in that den of iniquity. And the girl, just trying to earn her paycheck and she gets her daddy issues called out like that by the super awkward 40 year old virgin?! Like, it's so ridiculous, yet still weirdly in character.

Like, look at him, Dean! You terrified the weird, asexual, neuro-divergent angel! All he wants is to stand uncomfortably close to you when he isn't out looking for God, is that too much to ask?

#spn 5x03 #castiel #oh misha