#drunkentea

[jackidy]

Call me - 2p N,Irelandcest ?

Leave a “Call Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble about one character asking for another [be it at the brink of death/in a battlefield/knocking on the front door wounded, feel free to specify.]

Inspired by this song, I think it fits them rather well ahhh. 

He’s outside again.

He knows he is. 

Fingers run through short fur as he made a vage attempt to calm himself down, to relax despite the fact it felt like the other was boring a whole into his back, Marlow seeming to sense this and whining a little.

Patrick knows he shuldn’t sit this close to the window, looking out of the corner of his eye and in haling sharply as he sees him. He hates being right, he hates knowing how the other thinks, apologising to the puppy as his grip in the fur gets a little too tight.

Maybe he hadn’t seen him, maybe it had been someone else stood outside. It wasn’t like the apartment block was always bustling with people coming and going. It was just someone looking for their keys. 

He jumps as the buzzer goes off, forgetting how to breath as he hears his voice filter through the speaker.

“Patrick, won’t you let me in, Patrick?”

Patrick soothes the puppy as it moves restlessly, as if sensing the danger and yet Marlow doesn’t bark of growl, simply moving between his master and the door to the flat as if the doppleganger would appear there.

“I know you’re in there, I’ve been watching all day…”

He trembles at the chuckle, not understanding how the other could find amusement from this. He can’t move again, he can’t move back in with Arthur. Cities have more eyes than the English countryside, maybe someone would phone the police again.

“You looked really pretty today, smiling and laughing as you played with that mutt of yours, in that old green jacket that’s not yours, nose all pink from the cold~”

His stomach churns at whispered words, the clothing he’d been wearing no lnger seeming clean and the urge, no, need to tear off his skin in a bid to feel less violated as he started to talk about the other in ways that made his very skin crawl.

“Why so quiet, my love? You know I like it when you talk back, when you beg and…" A Shiver runs down Patrick’s spine as a pleased little sigh escapes Garret’s lips, making it sound like he’s in the flat with him. "And when you’re screaming in fear.”

There’s nothing but silence then, just hearing a few breaths down the tannoy and it’s like he’s in the room with him. He can smell the aftershave, picture the black tailored suit with the red shirt and black tie, feel the leather gloves slowly clamp around his throat, the ghost of a kiss just bellow his ear as he whispers “I’ll be back tomorrow, my queen.”

Only the beeping of the system fills the apartment, slowly fading off into the ever encompasing silence of the flat. 

[jackidy]

Break Me Northern Ireland/Northern Ireland (2P/1P) Maybe?

Leave a “Break Me” in my ask, and I will write an angsty drabble.

-Happy and excited screeching- OwO !!!!!!!

had to think about this one but ahhh! AHHHH!!!!

sad/confused garret is my favourite garret more so when teamed up with stockholm syndrome pat uwu

It wasn’t the first time this had happened, the chill of the red heads skin making him shiver and he half wondered why he wasn’t wearing his gloves. He hardly ever took the damn things off so he doesn’t understand why this seems so much different.

He doesn’t want to give Patrick back. Patrick was his and his alone. His other half. His other self. Not Niall, not his sister. She found someone else, she didn’t need him anymore bar to achieve an empire. 

Garret ignores the urge to turn and return home with the mock corpse, a nation stuck in limbo, so cut off from his own world and existence he was unble to live or die.

He could live with that though, Patrick wouldn’t die, he’d stay with him forever and nothing would change that. 

It doesn’t take an idiot to know hw wasn’t welcomed here, chosing the Englishman’s home out of necessity rather than choice. Garret wanted someone to find him when he came back, if he came back. Nobody needed to wake up alone in a cold empty flat. 

Nobody is upstairs, nobody is in his pets room, a strange sense of relief and disappointment in him. He had to give him back now, there was no excuse not to. 

Placing him gently on the bed, he just pauses, watching as the colour slowly started seeping back into his skin and hair. It’s an odd sign of affection, a strange act on his behalf as he leans down and kisses the other gently.

"I’ll come back for you, my queen, and when I do nobody will be able to take you away from me."

He leaves then, quickly before he can come to, barely out of the door when he hears Patrick’s strangled gasp as his body kicked back to life. He could go back, he could go back and take Patrick back with him, he wouldn’t have to leave him….

"Garret?"

He freezes as he hears the question, hears the panicking in the room behind him, the crash as unused legs tried to move again and the whines of pain.

No, he had to go on, he had to continue. He ignores the screams of his name, the thuds of Patrick walking into things and falling down the stairs, the crying, the shouts of how he’d behave and be a good boy and that final scream of how he loved him out of the front door that he’d left wide open.

It’s not until he’s back home does he realise he’s crying and he doesn’t even understand why. Children and the weak cried, pets cried when you hurt them, the elderly cried when you killed their families.

He’d been comprimised. Patrick had comprimised him and made him human.

[twilishark]

For your sexual head cannons : OzNz

under cut because these babbus are kinky shits uwu. Doing THIS WITH FEM WES BECAUSE YOOOOOOO

what was their first kiss like: A bit sloppy really, James took Wes by surprise and someones James's nose was broken.

where were they their first time having sex: It was probably colony days SO AT ARTHURS PROBABLY.

who’s louder: Depends on whose topping at the time, usually James tho. 

who wakes up first: James because WES STEALS ALL THE COVERS AND HE SOMETIMES GETS COLD.

who performs/receives oral more often: JAMES LIKES TO PLEASE HIS LADY OKAY, SHES LESS OF A GRUMPY SHIT WITH HIM WHEN HE DOES. 

who tries new things more often: Wes. She just brings things into the bedroom and James acts like a baby and pretends he hates every minute of it because he doesn't want to admit ITS THE BEST SEX HE'S EVER HAD LIKE COME ON.

if they had to choose a third+ person to include who would they include: Awande (South Africa) if it's a woman or Pat (N.Ire) if it's a dude uwu

[aphsecretsantaarchive]

Title: Windburn

Recipient: drunkentea

Rating: PGish

Pairing: Netherlands/Iceland

Warnings: None

Other: Also available here: http://roesslyng.dreamwidth.org/37762.html

--

The sun was up, but it didn't do a damn thing for the weather; even with a bright sky, the air was fucking cold. Winter had come, and with it, the canals in Amsterdam had completely frozen over. Netherlands closed his eyes for a moment to take in the smell of the crisp, fresh air. Not afternoon just yet, though it was getting there, and Keizersgracht was busy. From where he sat with his ass planted on the edge of a frozen-in boat, he could hear his people around him, their voices ringing amid sharp sound of skates cutting into ice. There was something almost poetic about the feeling of his people gliding along the arteries of his city. Something right. That thought might be something to write down later. Get it into lines if he could. But there were other things that needed his attention for the time being. "Go ahead," Netherlands said. He opened his eyes and looked to the nation beside him. "Gonna' be a minute." "Um. Okay," Iceland replied. He finished tying the knot on his skates, then straightened and reached for his gloves. "It isn't like I was going to stand here and wait for you." "Right." Netherlands snorted as he adjusted his scarf, then bent to tie his laces. But what he thought was: bullshit. He knew Iceland would have waited for him if he hadn't said anything. Probably wouldn't have complained about it either. Iceland slid off of the edge of the boat, glided for two strokes, then stopped. He bit his lip and looked like he was thinking, tugging at the cuffs of his gloves - handmade, nice, good quality - as if he wanted to say something but wasn't sure about it. Netherlands let his hands still as he waited for him to come out with it. Let's hear it, he thought. He waited a second. Nothing. Fine, then. "What?" That was enough to push it out of him. "You'll have to catch me." Iceland huffed it out, and then in a second he was gone, heading off down the length of the canal. Netherlands watched him go, then grinned and went back to tying his skates. So that was how he was going to play it? Fine. He'd catch him. It was damn strange how much their relationship had changed over the years. They had last skated together over a hundred years ago. Longer than that. Too long to count. And it hadn't been them skating together, either. There was no "them". Denmark had come for a visit and dragged Iceland with him. Netherlands remembered that part, even if Iceland himself barely registered in his memories of that winter. The kid had been quiet, withdrawn; it was Denmark who'd had all of Netherlands' attention. The guy wouldn't stop going on about his losses, wouldn't stop flapping his yap about how Norway wasn't answering his letters, and finally Netherlands decided he'd had enough. "Shut up," he told him. "We're going skating." Netherlands tried to remember that day as he glided down the canal in the direction that Iceland had taken. It had been a day like this one. Might even have been the same canal. He tried to remember what Iceland had been like. Smaller, even quieter than he was now, a sulking shadow trailing after Denmark and trying not to look like he was listening in on their conversations. He'd stayed that way until Denmark turned and swept him up and with a laugh spun him around then passed him on to Netherlands, who mussed at his hair then shoved him back to his brother. A lot had changed since then. It wasn't long before he finally caught sight of Iceland. There he was, going along slowly in his knitted hat and gloves, jacket open at the throat even though it was cold as fuck out. Time and independence could do a lot for a nation, and it showed. For a moment, Netherlands kept his distance, preferring to keep back so that he could watch him. He looked a lot different than he had back then, that last time they had been on the ice together. Taller. Older too, though he still looked a damn sight younger than the others in his family. There was something in the way he carried himself - he'd grown more confident, maybe. He wasn't a pouting kid any more. There was something more sure about the way that he moved, one foot in front of the other. It looked good. He looked good. Not for the first time, Netherlands found himself glad that their relationship had taken the turn that it did. He skated closer to him and tried to be quiet about it. He didn't want him to notice just yet. It was better to take the time to look at him and watch him move. It was nice. A sound must have clued Iceland in that something was up. The scrape of blades on ice, maybe. Or maybe he caught sight of Netherlands coming out of the corner of his eye, because he turned his head just a bit. Saw him. Froze - and then took off down the ice, leaving Netherlands standing there. It took Netherlands a second to figure out what was going on. Damn. So he really had meant that. "You'll have to catch me". Netherlands took off after him. Fine. If that was what he wanted, the kid could have it his way. It didn't take him long to catch up; Iceland wasn't half bad at skating, but in public like they were, he wasn't about to go too fast, either. Netherlands, with his longer strides, came round to him quickly. "Hey," he said, tapping him on the shoulder, then sweeping around in front to stop him. Iceland huffed and looked up at him, his cheeks pink and his hair cupping his face, giving Netherlands a pouty hard-done-by look, like he was sulking because he hadn't been able to keep him chasing for longer than that. "Were you taking your time or what?" he said. Cute, Netherlands thought. But how the hell was he supposed to respond to that? Might as well come clean. "I liked the view," he muttered, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Iceland's ear, and trying not to smirk as the pouting instantly disappeared, replaced with some wide-eyed blushing. "The view," Iceland repeated, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights, like he didn't know what he was getting at, even if it was obvious that he had some idea. "Yeah." Netherlands looked him over, not bothering to try to hide it, making sure that Iceland would catch it. And he did, if the way his cheeks turned a deeper shade of red was anything to go by. Cute. "Well, I--" Iceland started, stopped, sputtered a little. "Thanks." He murmured the last bit and didn't look Netherlands in the eye as he said it. To Netherlands' ear, he sounded embarrassed about the whole thing. "Welcome." Netherlands looked him over again. Iceland's cheeks were flushed, but now he couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment, or if it was just the cold. A bit of both, probably. Without another word he untied his scarf, then wrapped it around Iceland's neck. "Wh- hey, what're  you doing?" "Nothing." Which was a complete lie, and by the look on Iceland's face, he knew it. Uh. Damn. "It's fucking cold out." "I don't mind cold that much, you know," Iceland mumbled, even as he moved to adjust it, drawing it more firmly around his neck. "Are you sure you don't want it?" He huffed, breath fogging the frigid air. "No." That was also a lie, but he didn't give a damn about it. He zipped his coat up to his chin, then nodded toward the ice. "Let's skate." It was good. That's what that afternoon was. Nice. Never mind that it was cold as shit and the wind was sharp enough that he'd have burn on his cheeks the next day. The way it felt to be like that was enough: skating in the middle of his city, surrounded by his people, with Iceland beside him. Never mind that it was impossible to figure out just what Iceland was to him these days. Even in a moment like that, he hadn't been able to find the right word for it. Could call him a friend, but that didn't sound right. Not with how things had changed. Even if they'd had their disputes in recent years, they were still closer than they'd ever thought they would be. It was weird. But he liked it. Both of them did. They skated together in silence, just taking in the sounds and the air. Iceland spent about five minutes sticking close to his side, and after waiting it out for those five minutes, Netherlands felt his gloved fingers brush against his hand, then grab hold of it. He didn't say anything about it. Knowing Iceland, if Netherlands pointed it out, showed that he'd noticed, it'd be enough to make him let go. To hell with that; he didn't want that. But he couldn't keep himself from squeezing back, and luckily, Iceland held on. It was nice. When he turned to look at him, he liked what he saw: his scarf wrapped around Iceland's neck, pulled up over his nose to keep the wind off, hair sticking out at the sides. "What?" came Iceland's muffled voice. "Nothin'." It wasn't convincing. Iceland huffed, looked like he was going to argue, but didn't. He reached up and pulled the scarf down from over his face instead. "Hot chocolate might be good after this," he said. Iceland punctuated it with a squeeze to Netherlands' hand, and though it was hard to tell, it sounded like he'd rehearsed it. "Hot chocolate?" "Yeah. Um. I know you don't like sweet things much, but you said you keep some over for when your sister comes, and I...." It was like he only noticed at that moment that he was still holding Netherlands' hand, because that was when Iceland dropped it, mumbling, "Never mind." Crap. What now? "Sounds good." "Yeah?" "Yeah." He lifted his hand, untucked a few stuck strands of Iceland's hair. "It does." For a moment Iceland looked like he'd complain about the hair-touching, but apparently he decided to give up, because he drew the scarf back over his nose and gave a muffled, "Okay." "Okay." "Now?" "Sure." As they turned to glide back to where they had started, Iceland slipped his hand into Netherlands' again, giving it a squeeze. And after a moment, Netherlands squeezed back. It didn't matter what they called this. Whatever it was, it was good. The End