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Still, Horne, a tall beta man despite his “little” moniker, is something of a stickler for rules. This character trait juxtaposes pleasingly with the extravagant capriciousness of that most alpha of alphas, the Taskmaster himself, played by Greg Davies. The dynamic between the two works most effectively as, of course, we are all hanging on the pleasure of the Taskmaster, who treats everyone with the same cruel disaffection regardless of career, secondary or primary gender, or ability. “It works because nobody expects it of him,” says Horne, “But I think everyone likes that, secretly. That alpha urge to be mean, to be nasty. It’s very satisfying to watch. To participate in.”
- James Park, “The Secret to Taskmaster’s Cult Success”, The Guardian
Alex Horne has a secret - later in life than is meant to happen to anyone, he presented as an omega. He decides to keep it under wraps; how hard can it be? He's got a successful show, he's got a group of friends... but a flare of unexpected jealousy during filming, coupled with a chance meeting in a hotel room in Manchester, starts a chain of events that soon rumbles out of his control.
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accidental fellowships by softlyblue
Fandoms: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
18 Feb 2026
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“So we know we cannot drown it,” Edmund says, his words sticking in his throat; thirty pairs of eyes fly to him, but he refuses to be drawn away from his point. He has plenty of practice holding his own in council chambers too old for him. “We know we can’t drown it, and you say we can’t keep it – can’t use its power for our own benefit. What do we know, then? How can it be destroyed?”
“Finally,” Greyhame flings his hand Edmund’s direction, “The right questions.”
***
A chance discovery on a remote hill in Dorset leads the four Pevensie siblings, now all grown up, into Middle-Earth. But as they come together to Rivendell, each with their own cross to bear, will they be able to discover what has brought them here, and fulfill their quest without the world falling to darkness?
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It had been a spur of the moment purchase.
Greg’s got a fake name for when he orders weird shit to his house. When the box arrived last week, coming for a David Timms, he’d been so embarrassed to be ordering fucking sex toys to his fucking house like a fucking kid, but now he’s through that and into the delightful little vignettes that the fucking thing has inspired.
“What,” Alex’s voice actually sounds a little hoarse, and oh, what a delight that is, to know he can pull a sound like that out of a man as artfully constructed as this, “What exactly was your plan with… this?”
Greg doesn’t have to look around to know that Alex is plucking at the bubble wrap and the instructions, discarding both in the corner of the box, feeling the leeching of the cold metal base, the odd, insincere rubber of the black silicone where it swells to fatness and thins again.
“Well,” he says, in a slow, patient voice, “I thought I’d take you home and fuck you, and then tomorrow morning I’d put that in you and we’d go to work.”
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Greg follows him leisurely, watching his arse in his jeans. “Any particular plans this evening?” He teases.
Alex sets the milk carefully on the kitchen table, then stands there, awkward, a spare part. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
What does it say about Greg that even that sentence gets him going? “Lucky for you, I do. Sit down.”
Alex puts his hand on the back of one of the chairs, but Greg lifts a finger, muscling in on Alex, using his wider shoulders to cram the man into the space between counter and table. “Ah, ah,” he warns, “I said sit down, but I didn’t give you permission to use my chairs.”
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Curiosity piqued, he taps into Alex's photo.
Again, it's totally innocuous on its own; it's Alex's hand, held out in the white background of the lab at the filming house, holding a loop of hot pink electrician's tape, the sort you get in B&Q if you're the kind of man that paints his own edgings, or skirtings, or fixtures or whatever. Skinny, the plastic end slightly white where someone has pulled it with force. Greg can't help but see the marks on Alex's wrist, though, soft pink strips of skin, overlapping, newly freed from mysterious confines.
someone tie u up?
tape u up?
with that?
looks like it hurt -
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It’s always been about sex a little bit, and Greg’s known that from the start. Almost from the start. It doesn’t matter – he’d known that going in, and he’d still signed up, name on the dotted line, because he doesn’t care.
“You can do pretty much anything you want to me,” Alex had said at the time, before the thing was even fully commissioned, back when it was in that uncomfortable time where a lot of people had committed a lot of time and money to getting this made, but there was a high chance – a high chance – that someone up above would pull the plug, and everyone would have to slink home with their tails between their legs.
“You can do pretty much anything you want to me,” Alex begs now, lying with his shirt unbuttoned, open by his sides, his trousers down to his ankles, a makeshift blindfold (Greg’s scarf, slung down from the edge of the door) around his eyes, his hands knotted together behind his head, kept in place with hot-pink electrician’s tape, “Greg, you can do – you can do-”
“Yeah,” Greg says, hands on his hips, surveying Alex with pleasure, “You think I don’t know that?”
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He opens the door - “Oh! Jamie!”
Something hot and unwanted springs to life inside his stomach.
Jamie has been tied and bound and is lying, cramped and looking desperately uncomfortable, half-hidden under a rack of discarded lab coats and tarpaulins. His kilt has ridden up, and to the Doctor’s shame and scarlet delight he can see the indents of his own sharpish teeth, the purple bruises like berries on the insides of Jamie’s thighs, and he knows Jamie will know he’s looking too. He’s blinking up at the Doctor - his eyes are dreadfully wide and white - and glowering.
“Mmf,” he says, or tries to say, and shakes his head as a wet dog might, trying to dislodge an irritation.
Series
- Part 4 of the adventures of brat jamie
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“Doctor, what if someone-”
“Well, you’d better keep hush, hadn’t you?” The Doctor’s long, clever fingers unzip Harry’s trousers, and he pushes Harry back tighter against the alien brickwork, keeping the clothes up by proxy, “Now, ask again.”
Series
- Part 11 of harry four sarah <3
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Ever since they met, Jamie has despised Theodore Benik.
And known he is desired in return.
“Boys, boys,” Salamander says calmly, sitting at his desk with one foot propped high up on his knee, one wrist draped over his calf, the other hand busy feeding a cigar to his lips, “There’s plenty to go around.”
Jamie stands to attention in the centre of the room, determined to let his respectability stand for itself even if humiliation is on the menu. His hands are tucked behind his back; his shoulders are taut with tension, and he can feel the tremble he’s pushed away from himself, down into his legs, his knees, his feet. Benik couldn’t be further from that. He’s taken place in one of the uncomfortable chairs opposite Salamander’s desk, the chairs the Leader keeps purposefully painful to deter overlong meetings, lounging so deeply that his body almost echoes the lazy grin on his face.
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Pull back for a moment.
The door is cracked open. There’s a creak under a footstep and a pause - silence. Deadly silence.
We peer around the doorway, and see the moonlight illuminating the scene. The boy and the bed; he twitches, his hands folded helplessly over his chest, his face turned to one side, his mouth slightly open, his lip plush, two indents where his teeth have dug in; the sheets pool around his hips, and there’s a delightful pink, so full of blood, so close to the surface. The boy moves, moans, his eyes fluttering, his long lashes brushing his cheeks. His forehead is wet. His pillow is damp. Where his neck was tasted there are bruises, and on his arm, too, fingerprints where he was gripped too tight. Red marks on his knees. Where shall we go tonight? The femoral, the thick blue line in the thigh, the legs spread tantalisingly, invitingly; who could resist? Who would want to resist?
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Jamie McCrimmon has lived for the last five years in a village tormented by a vampire. He knows the only way to rid his town and friends of the curse is to hunt it - and when an enigmatic stranger shows up promising to do just that, how can he do anything but go with him?
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Jamie fucked up. Benik reaps the benefit.
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She shuts her eyes and exhales as he steps right up to her and brushes the black thing across the bare expanse of her belly. “Please,” Peri whispers, “What - what is that?”
“This little thing?” He keeps it pressed lengthways against her, humming, pulsing gently, “It’s called the TCE. It has many uses. Many fun, varied uses. Can you guess at one of them?” And he drags it down her skin, down to the place where the string of her bikini bottom is tied above the waistband of her shorts, “Or are you truly as stupid as you look?”
“Don’t,” she breathes. Her hand is clutching at her shirt. She feels hot and dizzy and stupid, and knows that he knows it.
He laughs and takes her hand in his own, pulling it away from her shirt, placing it at her side and giving it a condescending pet. “I rather think you’re in no position to make demands of me. Where is the component?”
“I - I-”
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“We’re no longer in the woods. And Alexander - that young man? Was that your Alexander?” The man, the Doctor, creases with pity, “I’m so sorry, dear boy. Whoever was behind that helmet, he isn’t there any more. There is no longer any Alexander.”
“I - I - the ship?” Jamie stands on unsteady legs, afraid the room might vanish at any second, and decides to shelve the Alexander argument for a later time, “What… what is this? How is this?”
That makes this Doctor beam with pleasure. Apart from the odd dancing lights in his eyes, Jamie might even mistake him for ordinary. What is he? Is he even human? “She’s my pride and joy,” he says, throwing his arms wide, then coming back to tug on his lapels, “She’s called, officially, the artificial returner to dimensions in space, but that’s just the name of the enchantment I put on her. I mostly call her the ship.”
With wonder painted naked on his face, Jamie looks around.
***
After his troop of knights is attacked by Syber Men, Ser Jamie McCrimmon finds himself falling in with a mysterious man calling himself the Doctor. But when they land on a village haunted by strange creatures, they soon find all is not as it seems...
Series
- Part 1 of the order of the thistle
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long, long, long into the night by softlyblue for thespiderbaby
Fandoms: Doctor Who (1963)
21 Dec 2024
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The TARDIS has parked herself in the corner of what seems to be a rich, beautiful corridor, judging by the painted walls and plinths at even intervals, on which are balanced shoulder-up busts of men and women, the men severe and the women beautiful. There’s the sound of laughter in the distance, and strings - a violin? No, a harp - and birdsong.
“Athens!” The Doctor strides confidently out of the TARDIS and into the corridor, Jamie tripping after him, “Just smell the civilisation!”
Obediently, Jamie sniffs the air. “Smells of city.”
“Well, yes, but…”
“What’s democracy smell of?”
“Honey.”
“Oh, well, in that case - aye, I smell democracy.”
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So, it goes like this -
It’s a quiet night. The console room is in low-energy mode, the lights orange and dimmed, the TARDIS humming in standby around them, a little music playing because a little music is almost always playing; something classical and moody. Beethoven, perhaps, or Haydn.
Kneeling on the floor, hands clasped obediently in his lap, mouth open, eyes unseeing, is a stocky lad of dark hair and soft face. He’s wearing a white shirt, although all the buttons are undone, parted to reveal his flushed chest; his red kilt has ridden up his thighs by the frame of his legs, and there’s a telling spot there at the folds near the core of himself. He’s not wearing shoes. His socks are white and pulled most of the way up his calves. His lips are dry but his mouth is wet - he’s been here for some time.
“Come again, Jamie,” the Doctor commands softly, and with a cry, fresh, wet tears coursing down his cheeks, the boy does.
Series
- Part 3 of the adventures of brat jamie
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“Spice and silk and trade and cloth. These are the things one goes to war over, but in my heart of hearts, I know they are not worth it.”
- quoted from a letter penned by the Crown Prince to his lover, at the end of the Southern War
Yoongi is a prisoner-of-war, captured and made to play for the amusement of the cruel Lord. When the Prince of the land, Hoseok, comes to visit his family, he finds Yoongi - and much more, for the asking.
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“Admit it,” Jamie says, Victoria away to bed, Jamie wiping soot from his wrists, still out of breath from their charge through the TARDIS doors, “You got no control, Doctor. You-”
And then he squeaks and drops the hanky; the Doctor’s seized both wrists and is standing between Jamie’s parted legs, and he’s breathing heavily. There’s blood on his face, too, and Jamie belatedly remembers that the guard on the mining colony had taken greater offence to the Doctor than Jamie or Victoria, and had taken him off to the side room for a bit of one-to-one interrogation. “Say it again, Jamie,” he says, and shakes him by the grip he has on his arms, “Say it again.”
Series
- Part 2 of the adventures of brat jamie
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"Well," Harry struggles, indistinctly blinking, "'S like this. They have their jokes, right, because they met when he was his old self, right?"
"Right," Benton nods.
"And I'm kind of, kind of plonking along, but I arrived too late. 'S the Doctor and Sarah, and then Harry's here for a bit. No?"
"Right," Benton nods, then blinks. "No?"
Harry's gloom is all-encompassing. "I'm feeling sorry for myself," he says, because he is self-aware and works on himself and has read almost all of Freud and even a little bit of Jung on a sleepy Sunday afternoon, "And feeling sorry for oneself is not attractive."
"Oh, I dunno," says Benton, and tips his empty glass up. "Want another?"
Series
- Part 10 of harry four sarah <3
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you know what they say about honey by softlyblue for FredericaBimmel69
Fandoms: Doctor Who (1963)
01 Aug 2024
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The third and most pressing issue is the boy.
He’s lying on Kent’s sofa now, his arms fallen over his chest, his legs bent to fit, strangely elfin, like a Rosetti, all red cheeks and full lips and beguiling expressions. He’s in a black shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal his pale chest, and a kilt that does very little to hide his thick thighs and calves, the stocky muscles that vanish into sensible brown boots. His hair is dark, slightly too long, curling at the end, and his face is youthful, round, clinging to baby fat. The thing that’s causing the Doctor his issue is the mark on the boy’s face, marring his brow - and the fear the boy had shown him, the begging, the pleading.
The Doctor already suspected Salamander of villainy. Now he knows it for sure.
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Harry shuts his eyes. “The Doctor is free,” he sounds like he’s reminding himself more than her; “He’s coming for us.”
“Yes,” Sarah says.
She couldn’t sound more convincing if she tried.
When Harry and Sarah are kidnapped by an insular, warlike race living on a valuable mineral moon, the Doctor is fighting the clock to rescue them. But the aliens have a strange technology - a collar that compels the wearer to do as they are told - and Harry and Sarah might just lose themselves before they're found again.
Series
- Part 9 of harry four sarah <3