Apieinthestorm



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    The first time they’d done this, in Ilya’s bed, Shane had been mystified at Rozanov’s insistence that he not enter the nest without Shane’s permission. Now, Shane feels something akin to smugness flexing its claws in his chest. A primal satisfaction at the rightness that he is the one with the power - at present, if not for much longer - alpha just outside the nest and at his mercy.

    Like Shane will only yield for someone who has earned it. He can draw out Ilya’s suffering just a little longer, make him earn it.

    Shane rakes his gaze over the delicious chest and bicep muscles bunching above the edge of the nest. “Waiting for something, Rozanov?”

    “Are you going to let me into your nest, omega?” His pronunciation of the endearment is more Russian than English, accent thickening around the syllables.

    “Depends. You gonna give me your knot?”

    “Hm, does not sound like begging yet to me.”

    Some months after Shane recovers from rejection sickness in Ilya's bed, they share their heat/rut together at the cottage, both clinging to the delusion it's still casual.

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    24 Jan 2026

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    "'Sacrificial'? What are you sacrificing?"

    Dean's black eyes glittered in the fluorescent lights. Sam's head was pounding from blood loss, his wrist ached where the knife went in and and he was freezing, wearing just his robe in the dungeon. He sighed.

    "A quart of blood and most of my dignity."

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    15 Jun 2022

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    “I wanted to say—I don’t want to see you at ten o’clock on Tuesday—”

    “Yes, actually, you were quite clear—”

    “—but I’d like to see you at eight o’clock tomorrow evening.”

    Malfoy’s face was abruptly carefully, professionally blank.

    “What?” he said eventually.

    “For dinner,” Harry clarified. “Somewhere that isn’t the bloody Leaky Cauldron. If you’re free.”

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    15 Jun 2022

    Bookmarker's Notes

    Hot. Really, mind fucky hot.

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    The room floods with white light.
    Harry is on his feet so fast that the chair topples and clatters to the floor, his wand in his hand and a spell on his lips.
    “They’re outside,” a voice speaks from the luminescent mist, magic barely enough to carry the sound; it’s stripped to a featureless monotone, far away like an echo. “I can’t hold them off much longer. I need help, Potter."
    Harry stares as the mist dissolves, its dazzling brightness leaving floating spots of colour on his retinas. Eyes watering, wand still clenched in his hand, he says:
    “Fuck.”

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    24 Apr 2022

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    Sometimes, only sometimes, when Sherlock is very far away and absolutely guaranteed not to return for at least three hours, John sits on the sofa and lets the tea make itself.

    In which John is (reluctantly) a wizard, Mycroft is (apparently) omniscient, and Sherlock is (surprisingly) oblivious.

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    04 Jul 2021