#I would love to blaze any of my fics but I get hate anons just from posting them on my own blog and then getting reblogged by the event

[polyamorouspunk]

Like theoretically I support tumblr blaze as a means to help financially compensate this hellscape but the idea of paying for more people I don’t know to give me shit online FOR paying for people I don’t know to give me shit online is a little meh if I’m being honest

[4dtk]

ok so my mind is all over the place right now, but i really do need to read a good jaemin sm*t fic aka corruption king. he makes you wear this/this outfit (IM SORRY i cant choose between the two but pls pick what u think is best 🥺) because you'd always wear baggy clothes/hoodies and he just wants to make his baby feel good? an aggressively playful jaem with his shy gf and a quote, "don't hide your pretty face from me"

IM ALIVE. IM ALIVE???????? oh my gosh anon i am SO SORRY for ghosting you. if anyone sees this i was given an emergency commission by my brother and so i went mia and went crazy trying to finish it and i got so busy... i also had no motivation so there’s that. i am SO sorry bro oh my gosh. anyway, i picked out the second outfit anon <3. (read up on the update of my event at the bottom of this post!!!!!)

pairing: jaemin x reader

warnings: soft dom!jaemin, sub!reader, jaemin calls her ‘princess’ and ‘good girl’, corruption kink, virginity loss (if you consider it to be p in v sex, they both have done oral before), clothed sex (lingerie), fingering, vaginal penetration, clit stimulation, fondling, cowgirl, unprotected sex, implication of more than one round, n*sfw under the cut

jaemin’s eyes are glued to the screen more than you liked, looking left to right like he’s reading something before scrolling to something else. it carries on for a while, and as much as you hated his gaming nights, that was more fun (with the chaos from the other dreamies) than just sitting in silence.

but whenever you tried to look over to the screen, your boyfriend would flash his signature pout and mention how you weren’t supposed to see what he was doing. and with one final click, jaemin hums happily while your frown only deepens, fading fast when the laptop is forgotten and he tackles you into a hug.

“alright, alright, i’m here now, baby,” jaemin mumbles into your neck, missing how your expression drifts to the computer screen every few seconds. it doesn’t provide any explanation since the tab’s closed and the screen black but, you trust jaemin enough to commit himself fully to you. his hands distract you from your thoughts, however, feeling the coldness of his skin upon yours under your oversized tee.

“you’re never out of my t-shirts, huh?” jaemin giggles from above you, gentle fingers brushing away the strands of hair falling from your face. “i’ll get you in some lingerie next, alright?” all doubt is gone from your head for good when he starts kissing you down from your neck to your chest, fingers leaving a blazing trail behind them with each inch down your body. the boys already know that they won’t have to come home, after a quick rushed text in the midst of kissing (where the warnings were given so often that they could decode any gibberish jaemin sends).

“(y/n)?” mark calls out into the house the next day just as they were leaving, the forgetful boy having had to come back in and take his in-ear monitors while the others had already left in haste. no one saw the package outside their door but mark, who bids you goodbye after you sleepily receive the package. too tired and groggy to actually do anything, you just leave it on the empty sheets beside you.

until jaemin’s text wakes you up later asking if he’s received anything.

[2:01pm, read] Hi my love, anything come in the mail this morning?

you hum at the notification, memory resetting at how mark gave you the parcel before leaving.

[2:03pm, delivered] uh huh, what about it?

[2:03pm, read] :)

[2:04pm, read] Oh nothing, just a little present I picked out for my pretty princess. I want to come home to you wearing it, nothing else. It’s time I spoiled you. Love you

you’re quick to think of all the times jaemin did spoil you, which was admittedly too much for you too, but one more present didn’t help especially if it’s something he specifically chose. could it be the website he was yesterday…?

you’re undoubtedly still a little cautious, opening the plastic with carefulness in case that it was for someone else, but when it uncovers itself, a gasp makes its way onto your face. behind the noisy synthetic was a set that was so intricately detailed that it looked almost fragile. with the straps running thin, you’d think they would snap, and the thong attracted to the leotard-like apparel looked uncomfortable to wear.

sighing, you were unsure of whether to go through with it since you know jaemin would never force you into something you didn’t like and yet — there was thrill in the unknown, of something you hadn’t experienced one bit and the one thing you always wanted to try out, lingerie. it wasn’t like a sin or anything, but oversized clothes were always your go-to: convenient, comfortable, some smelled like your sweet, sweet boyfriend, who could go wrong with those?

but while you enjoyed your laze arounds in oversized fabric, a part of you hoped the see your physique in some tight-fitting clothes every once in a while. maybe some part of you could drink yourself incoherent and impulse purchase a bodycon dress, maybe your friends would convince you to get some raunchy sets for your own empowerment. and while you didn’t have any issues with your body, it just felt… off.

well, jaemin was determined to change that.

the argument in your friend group turned out very one-sided, getting an overflow of messages that encouraged you to wear the piece, “im sure youll look dashing!!!!!”, “remember to take a pic for us babe”, “Oh! Is this the set he chose? That’s so cute, wish my boyfriend would’ve gotten me these.”

[5:56pm, delivered] how did you know which website he got them from???

and your friends answered like it was the simplest question in the world: “he asked us, dummy.”

every part of the bodtsuit sliding onto your body felt weird, and despite the unfamiliar sight in front of you, you can’t help but smile as you finish it off with the translucent lacey skirt. and while sometimes unfamiliar felt bad, you’ve never admired your body this much in stark white lace against your skin (and the cute little bunny tail at the back), the contrast complementing the whole look even more. you get so caught up in the view in the mirror that—

“oh, wow,” jaemin bursts into the room, not expecting you to be already changed, “you actually— holy fuck.”

“jaemin, can you— the door’s open, oh my god.” covering your face didn’t do the trick, feeling the heat of your cheeks via your palms.

instead of closing it, he just laughs, mostly in disbelief of how fucking delicious you look, but also at your confidence that shines, as well as how much he’s going to ruin you. it’s all it takes for jaemin to stalk over to you and within a few steps, he has your lips captured in a passionate kiss. he’s eager, needy, both hands already exploring your body while he tries to devour more and more but it’s never enough. not when you look like the most beautiful thing from head to toe.

his words, not yours. “baby, princess, oh my god,” jaemin has his forehead to yours, staring intently into your eyes that only the slam of the door by renjun and his shout of ‘close the damn door!’ brings him out of the spell he was under.

“god, you’re stunning.” everything is blurred after that. jaemin tackles you to the bed, a hand already moving to the thin piece of fabric. just like he assumes, you’re soaking wet from merely kissing, whining into him and squirming about on the sheets at the unfamiliar sensation. but you remember — unfamiliar isn’t always bad, and jaemin proves it when he slips a finger into you. his mouth doesn’t rest.

it’s thicker than yours and it’s so different from just the tongue that you cry out from the feeling. “that alright, darling?” the consent alone has you moving your hips onto his finger for more friction, testing the waters more even after telling your boyfriend how scary penetration was. well, you didn’t seem to think so so much now, asking quietly for a second finger.

“j—jaemin, please. feels s’good…” you’re whimpering out once he shoves in two more fingers, the stretch stinging just a little. pleasure takes over soon enough, your arousal acting as lube for jaemin’s fingers, while his other hand plays with your breasts over the lingerie. his tongue darting out to flick at your nipples through the fabric and the stimulation makes you squeal.

“yeah? such a good girl for me.” he praises, eyes glued on how he picks you apart piece by piece, inch by inch until you’ll be nothing but a babbling mess for him and while he does that, he still would prioritise your comfort above anything else. “d’you think it’s enough for my cock, baby? or would you rather stick to—” jaemin is anything but impatient, and yet he can only manage a shaky breath everytime his eyes land on the very outfit he picked out.

jaemin pumps his fingers a few more times and that has only got you moaning louder and louder, eyes observing yours attentively, “—oral?” before the other could delve into your cunt, your grasping at his arms, words not coming out despite your mouth moving.

“jae— i… you— uhm,” you’re having trouble forming sentences, something that jaemin isn’t a stranger to especially in the bedroom. he always has you at his mercy when his tongue flicks over your clit, juices staining his chin until you’d tell him you couldn’t cum any more. this time was no different: begging for something, anything, and he would get his answer when you claw at his pants. “i-i want your cock, jaemin. i want it in me, fuck— anything, please!”

your boyfriend admires the way your face scrunches up when you first sink down onto his cock, hands carefully placed on his still clothed body as you shiver at the sensation of him filling you up. “breathe, princess, breathe.” the stretch is worst than when he had his fingers in you, but you follow his instructions exceptionally well, gasping when he bottoms out completely.

“oh my god… f-fuck…“ it comes out in between choked moans, your words and mewls, tensing up just as jaemin slowly thrusts up his hips into yours. it’s terribly lewd, everything from how your hips subconsciously move or the slutty way you moaned out that you cover your face. “oh— wow…” you can’t help but mimic your boyfriend’s words from earlier as you start moving up and down, juices running down your thighs and onto his balls. your skin burns and so does your thighs even though you just started, but you try anyway. Your hands hardly shield you from jaemin’s lusty gaze.

“am i doing okay, jaem?”

he offers a gentle smile in the midst of pleasure, in the midst of feeling your pussy clench around him and suck him in so nicely that he doesn’t just have to fuck his fist any more, and it’s shaky at best but it’s the most he can manage as he feels your gummy walls around his length. “you’re doing great, pretty girl, just don’t— mhhm… don’t hide your pretty face from me.” and it’s all you need to remove your hands and keep at your own pace, especially with something so big in your cunt for the first time. 

jaemin helps, too, with his hips, bucking up into your pussy while his hands guide your waist, until he finds that it’s too addicting at your dripping cunt meeting his pelvis each time. he thrusts up once, twice, grinning in relief when you submit to him almost immediately and he takes advantage right away. “poor baby was tired, huh?” the way he bucks up into you is criminal, each thrust meeting your ass with wet slaps as your moans mixed with the other’s.

“you feel so good, baby. you’re making me feel so good, such a good girl.” all the praise gets to your head, only making you whine into thin air before you’re yanked into his chest. “that’s it, hang onto me while i pound you.” there, all you’re doing is crying out into his neck, with a mixture of his name and incoherent sentences.

“i— wanna- i wanna cum, jaem! fuck…“ you mewl into his neck, a desperate hand slipping in between your bodies to rub at your clit. it’s rushed, and jaemin doesn’t even have time to ask you before you’re releasing all over his cock, juices coating his length while he continues to thrust, albeit slowly.

“oh my— oh my god! s-shit, baby, you’re cumming so much.” you giggle at that, high from the orgasm that you can only manage sounds as he slowly pulls out. he mutters praises as he does, “oh, you’re such a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” putting on that piece of clothing was the best decision of the boring day, eyelids falling heavily from the climax until you realise how jaemin sacrified something.

“jaemin! you— you didn’t release yet, right?” even with your first time, you’re still so caring, giving you the same smile he did earlier. he hums softly.

“it’s okay, i’ll manage. you get some rest and i’ll wake you up when it’s time for—”

“o-oh, uhm, we’re done?” jaemin’s smile has never been wider, a hint of slyness behind it.

“you want more, baby?” you’re ashamed at how quickly you nod and jaemin’s impressed at how you’ve already succumbed to the pleasure. you move your hips subtly, pussy lips brushing against his cock ever so slightly. jaemin sighs. “well, should we test how long you’ll last? don’t worry, i’ll guide you, princess.”

event rules here, request here

[blitheringmcgonagall]

My Gallant Lad - Part 2

A wonderful anon told me this is their favourite Lily Rescues James fic, it’s part of my canon marauders fic  We Can Be Heroes. But it works as a stand alone, so I’m posting it in four parts here. I hope you like it (Lily is very BAMF here but James here is the bravest I have ever seen as well as very clever so I think they are both fantastic), set during First Wizarding War during an Order mission gone wrong...

Read part 1 here : 

TW: Lots of angst and violence...

Part 2...

Previously...

“Leave it to me,” he whispered.

Taking a deep breath, he turned and locked eyes with Severus Snape.

“Fuck you, Severus Snape! You absolute bastard! Stay the fuck away from my wife, do you hear? Don’t you dare go near her, you fucking piece of shit! I despise you, Snivellus! You fucking coward! Bastard cursed Death Eater! Stay the fuck away from her or I’ll kill you with my bare hands!” James screamed.

Voldemort had now reached them and was looking between Snape and James in confusion, and with not a small amount of displeasure.

“What do we have here then?” he said, turning to Severus Snape and smiling thinly. “Someone who is not a fan of yours, Severus? How very interesting. These two Dumbledore followers are clearly not aware whose presence they are in, or they would shut up and keep their heads low unless spoken to!”

Lily made a disbelieving noise at Voldemort. What the hell did that bastard think he was playing at, pretending never to have met them before, she thought.

James elbowed her sharply just as she was about to speak.

“Silencio!” hissed Voldemort, his face contorted with rage as two spells shot at lightning speed towards them. “I am the Dark Lord and I do not recall giving you permission to speak!”

Voldemort looked up at Mulciber, still wrathful, his wand pointed towards the Death Eaters in the room.

“My Lord,” Mulciber said immediately. “They clearly have no idea who they have been captured by.”

Voldemort’s face darkened.

“I am most displeased,” he hissed, so quietly that they had to strain to hear him.  Who are these two?”

“I have never seen them before in battle, my Lord,” Mulciber answered quickly. “But I do recall seeing them in Hogwarts, both in Gryffindor, I believe they were Head Boy and Head Girl, graduated in ’78, James Potter and Lily Evans, blood traitor and mudblood.”

Mulciber was obviously lying, Lily thought, in order not to embarrass Voldemort. It was as though Voldemort had rewritten history, their previous capture and escape wiped out of their collective memories. Perhaps he had. 

“I see,” Voldemort turned towards Snape, with a bored expression. “Lily Evans? Was that not the name of the mudblood you coveted, before you realised the error of your ways? Still do desire, somewhat, as far as I can recall?”

Snape’s face remained impenetrable, but he nodded his head minimally. James’ face blazed with fury.

“Oh dear, I think that the mudblood’s friend is upset by this fact, Severus, am I correct?” Voldemort smiled at James and Severus in turn.

“Potter has always detested me, my Lord,” Severus said, keeping his voice steady.

“They are married now, my Lord,” said Wilkes, interrupting the conversation.

Severus’ eyes widened for a split second. Long enough for Voldemort to notice. Voldemort’s smile grew.

“Oh Severus, how delightful!” he said, laughing lightly, and turning to look at James again. “I suggest you spend some time showing your friend, Mr. Potter, what happens to those who join Dumbledore’s side and fight against us? And afterwards, if you would be so kind as to visit Mrs. Potter in her cell, and do likewise, I’m sure she would love to see you?”

James looked like he was about to explode.

“Wonderful!” Voldemort said, pocketing his wand and giving Severus a forced smile. “I’m exceptionally pleased, Severus, I do hope you arrange an entertaining evening for us! We are sadly very bored at the moment, and your mudblood has provided us with a lively diversion! Don’t disappoint me, Severus!”

“I will strive to live up to your high expectations, my Lord,” Severus said, bowing low.

“Excellent,” Voldemort’s eyes gleamed as they rested on Lily’s white face. “Wilkes, Villiers – take the mudblood and lock her into one of the holding cells, they are currently empty. Mulciber, Rosier – escort Mr. Potter to the oubliette.”

Lily looked at James in confusion and terror, as Wilkes and Villiers began dragging her away.

“I fear the mudblood does not yet know what an oubliette is, Mulciber. Would you care to enlighten her?” Voldemort said, with a wide smile. “I have other more interesting and pressing matters to attend to.”

All the Death Eaters bowed low in front of him, and Voldemort strolled out of the room.

“Certainly, my Lord,” Mulciber’s eyes glimmered cruelly. “It is a dungeon that has only one escape route — through a trap door in its ceiling. Escape is of course pretty much impossible. In this castle it also doubles up as our torture chamber.”

Lily’s wide eyes flew to James’ face, both still unable to speak. What if this was the last time she saw him alive? She had never gotten the chance to say she was sorry about their stupid row, to tell him how much she loved him, she couldn’t lose him now, they couldn’t hurt him, anything but that. She felt unable to breathe. A single tear tracked down her cheek. James looked back, a determined look on his face, she knew that look.

I’ve got this, I have a plan, his face said.

His eyes were burning, burning through to her very soul.

I need you, beautiful, I need you safe, she thought, her own eyes heavy with dread and fear.

James closed his eyes for a brief moment, and when he looked at her again, they were shining brightly, a warm smile, and almost imperceptible wink. She knew that smile.

Alright, Evans…

She tried to smile back.

I trust you, she thought, I trust you, James.

Then Mulciber and Rosier jerked James backwards, and her captors pulled her in the opposite direction, and their eyes remained locked until James reached the stairs leading into the dungeons, and Mulciber lifted his booted leg and pushed James down the stairs, hard.

“Stop it!” Lily screamed, unsure how she had overcome the spell so quickly, pulling so hard that she was momentarily free from the Death Eaters holding her.

They grabbed her again, looking stunned.

“A fall like that down stone stairs could kill him! If anything happens to him, God forgive me, I’ll come after whoever is responsible and-“ Lily was still screaming.

“How the fuck is she able to talk?” stammered Wilkes.

“No idea,” Villiers said, concentrating on trying to hold onto Lily, who was twisting violently in his grasp.

“James!” shouted Lily.

As they dragged her kicking and screaming into the holding cell, she heard the creak of something metal opening and after a few seconds, the sound of a sickening thud as something heavy hit the floor.

“Welcome to the oubliette, Mr. Potter!”

She could hear the cruelty in Mulciber’s voice.

“Wake up, Potter, stop being a drama queen, as usual.”

Snape’s nasal tones, filled with contempt, floated into his consciousness as soon as he awoke. He opened his eyes slowly, intense pain racking his body, making him wish he could sink back into oblivion. As his eyes accommodated to the dark, he noted he was chained to a freezing cold, damp wall, arms outstretched and unable to bear any weight on his feet, he guessed correctly that he must have fractured both his ankles when he was thrown down feet first. He was slumped forwards as a result. It was painful to breath, probably due to a few broken ribs. The difficulty in breathing appeared to be also due to the effort he had to make to lift his ribcage against his own weight. His shoulders were killing him, he wondered vaguely had they been dislocated. His glasses must have fallen off and he could feel bits of glass sticking into his face. There were torches in the corners of the room. And it was freezing cold, his jacket and muggle clothing gone, his teeth were chattering and his body shaking. Mulciber and Rosier were standing behind Snape, looking bored, leaning against the wall. Snape was standing next to a small table, wand in his hand, with a mask-like facial expression, revealing nothing. He concentrated on trying to breathe for a moment. He knew immediately that they had already used the Cruciatus on him a number of times, although he couldn’t remember much, if anything.

“The Dark Lord wants to know what you and Lily Evans were doing here today, Potter,” Snape said, curling his lip as he spat out his surname.

“My wife and I were going for a walk, before we were rudely interrupted by your friends, Snivellus,” said James, smirking openly as he saw Snape’s eyes darken at the mention of wife. 

“Hardly credible, Potter,” Snape said, looking livid as he gripped his wand tightly.

“What Mr. and Mrs. Potter do in their spare time is frankly none of your business,” James laughed, his breathing laboured as he shot Snape a condescending look.

Snape’s nostrils flared.

“Sniv, you should keep your abnormally large nose out of this. Try to remember that Lily Evans hates your guts and that she never once returned your affections. You disgust her,” James said.

Snape appeared speechless momentarily. James saw his fists curl as he stepped closer to him.

“Do I need to remind you who’s in charge here, Potter?” Snape murmured through his teeth.

“You can’t make me tell you anything, Sniv,” James’ teeth were chattering so hard he could barely get the words out, but the utter contempt was clear.

“I can do what I want to you!” Snape’s voice was full of rage as his wand tip touched James’ right shoulder. “Crucio!”

The pain flashed through his sinews and his chest and ribs, stopping his breathing. All remaining colour drained from his face. He couldn’t even cry out with the pain, until Snape moved his wand lower and James heard himself scream in agony as he gasped for air, the pain in his legs intensifying dramatically. He couldn’t breathe and scream at the same time and he began to feel panicked, his pupils dilating.

“What were you saying, Potter?” Snape laughed to himself, glancing back at the two men who were now looking mildly entertained.

As the spell wore off, James looked up at Snape through the hair that had fallen over his eyes, dripping sweat and melting frost, every inhaled breath a struggle.

“I said… you can’t read my mind, I won’t tell you… anything,” he gasped, with a derisive eye-roll.

Snape’s face lit up.

“Wrong, Potter, I suggest you do your research a bit better the next time you say that to a Legilimens, but then you were always infinitely arrogant and stupid,” Snape was wearing the biggest smile as he plunged his wand into the base of James’ neck and intoned the spell.

The unpleasant tingling sensation behind James’ forehead, painful so closely following on from the Cruciatus, confirmed the spell was working.

Took you long enough, James thought, glaring at Snape.

Snape narrowed his eyes, his expression somewhat unsure. He could now read James’ mind completely.

Oh for Merlin’s sake, man, I’ve been hinting you use that spell for bloody ages. I need to talk to you, alone. It’s about Lily.

Snape’s mouth shut tightly as he listened to James’ thoughts, his wand now pushing against James’ Adam’s apple.

“Why would you possibly think I would be interested in doing that?” he said quietly.

Because you’re interested… in Lily’s fate? Because you don’t… want her to die?

Snape watched as James’ breathing became more difficult, as the man pursed his lips together tightly while exhaling through his mouth and inhaling through the nose with his mouth closed.

“Of course not!” Snape said, dread and fear making his fingers shake as he grabbed hold of James’ hair and lifted him upwards roughly.

James gasped a lungful of air as he watched Snape, knowing the other men wouldn’t know what he was thinking.

Please, talk to me… alone… for a few minutes, that’s all I ask… you can bring them back in… any time you want…

Snape let go of James and watched as his body slid downwards, groaning in pain, his weight hanging from his shoulders, his neck hanging down. Snape looked back at the two Death-Eaters, regarding him with mild interest.

“What did you find out, Snape?” Mulciber asked, stifling a wide yawn.

“Not enough,” Snape demurred.

He looked back at James, unsure.

“I need to question him, alone,” he said eventually, sounding displeased. “Leave this room, I shall call you if I need anything.”

“Are you sure?” Mulciber asked.

He sounded disappointed.

“Yes, for now. Stand guard above the trapdoor,” he said, his wand still pressed to James’ neck. “You shall be needed again shortly.”

James’ breathing seemed shallower once more.

Please hurry… we don’t have much time…

“You have very little time and talking to me will do nothing to change that!” Snape snapped back, as soon as he heard the trap door swing shut.

“Talk!” he ordered, removing the wand from the other man’s neck but keeping it levelled at him.

“Of course it won’t change that,” James’ voice was barely a whisper. “We both know I’ll be dead soon.”

“Obviously,” Snape said coldly.

“And if you don’t do something, Lily will die later today too,” James said, lifting his head with difficulty and looking straight at Snape.

Snape’s mouth went dry. He had been trying to avoid thinking about that possibility, probability, but it was true. And it terrified him.

“I…” he said.

Fuck you, Snape, if she dies, I will hold you entirely responsible!

James was making a strange noise as he breathed in, Snape could see that talking was too difficult for the other man.

“I won’t be the one killing her!” Snape whispered, his dark eyes molten. “You killed her, allowing her to be part of your futile resistance group! What kind of husband were you? Did you want her to die? Were you sick of her already?”

“Pah!” James made a dismissive sound in his throat and spat out some blood. “If she dies… it will be… because you failed… to rescue her!”

Snape looked at him furiously, his heart racing, feeling unwell. He didn’t want to hear any more, wanted no part in this entire awful scenario involving the love of his life. Wanted this to be a nightmare that he could wake up from. Most of all, he wanted James Potter to shut up and stop appealing to his conscience.

“I’m going to have to Crucio you again,” Snape said, placing the wand back onto James’ chest.

“Are you now? How astonishing,” James rasped, looking vaguely bored.

“It will appear suspicious otherwise. Wouldn’t want the others to guess what you’re trying to do, would you?” Snape said.

James’ face immediately changed, and he nodded.

“Do it,” he ordered.

Snape hated being told what to do, by Potter, as though he was Head Boy again, in this situation – how was that even possible?

Snape’s Crucio was excruciating and longer than the previous spell. By the time it wore off, James was flitting in and out of consciousness and shaking like a leaf.

Please…

Snape stared back at him.

Please…

“Please what?” he whispered irritably.

I’m going to tell you how you save Lily.

“I cannot ask Voldemort to spare her! Not now, not in these circumstances!” Snape hissed, swallowing hard.

Not the plan…

He could see James was wilting rapidly, his mind becoming progressively emptier.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake!” he said, throwing a powerful healing charm at James. “What are you talking about?”

James opened his eyes and took a few deeper breaths.

“I want you to go directly from here to Lily. Tell her I’m dead. Tell her you’ve had a change of heart and want to leave Voldemort’s forces. Tell her you’re going to save her, that you’re doing it because you love her. She has a portkey on her. Bring her to whatever part of the castle is accessible by portkey and get both of you out of here. You can decide on longer term plans after that. If you approach the others with Lily, looking for help, they will accept you. Lily will never agree to join Voldemort. Ever,” James whispered.

James was wrong, Severus was sure of it, if there was no option, Lily would cave and join Voldemort. But having Lily Evans at last? He was willing to risk everything.

“And you?” Snape said. “You know I can’t-“

James looked at him blankly.

What do you mean?

“You stay here,” Snape said.

“Obviously,” James said, mimicking Snape’s earlier statement and tone.

“Which means you-“ Snape said, narrowing his eyes.

Yes, I’m quite aware, Snape.

James lips had turned a bluish colour.

“Will she agree to… you know?” Snape said after a pause.

I can’t mind read, elaborate…

Snape tossed his head.

“You know exactly what I mean, Potter!” he whispered irritably. “Do I… have I any chance with her?”

He could see James struggling to think, his eyes closed.

“Maybe, yes,” he gasped. “But tell her… tell her you tried to save me… that I convinced you… to swap sides… she needs to believe that…”

Snape’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t imagine himself saying that to Lily.

“Snape!” James’ voice was fading but urgent. “You have to…”

She won’t go with you unless she thinks… you have… please…

The man’s thoughts weren’t even making sense now.

“If I do this, I shall be risking my life. If Voldemort finds out, I’m a dead man,” Snape’s words were clipped, anxious.

I know… but it’s Lily… your only hope… with her…

Snape stayed quiet.

If he finds… Blame me… Occlumens…

Snape vacillated. He was an excellent Occlumens. He could blame Potter, a trick he had fallen for, and then an opportunity to play Dumbledore? The fact that Voldemort knew about his past infatuation made it more credible, but also more dangerous.

She’s dead otherwise, Snape, dead!

Snape nodded slowly.

“Do you have anything I can say to her if she doesn’t believe that we discussed this? Any secret code or words?” Snape said, leaning down.

James’ whisper was barely audible.

“Graham’s number.”

Disbelief written all over his face, Snape turned to leave.

Snape!

He turned back.

Be good to her. Please.

His dark eyes widening slightly.

Get her out of here, Severus, I’m depending on you…

It was ridiculous and stupid and laughable. What would he have done, in the same position? Would he have sacrificed himself to save Lily if it meant Potter won in the end? She was better off without Potter. Lily would see that, she’d come around, she would come to love him, he knew it deep down, especially if she thought he had tried to save her husband. Potter was right.

Would he have done the same, though?

He shivered, impatient to rid himself of these thoughts. Get her out of here, Severus, always telling him what to do! Still, there was no denying the man was brave, braver than he had expected, if you valued that. He found himself compelled to look at James Potter one last time – shaking violently with the cold, his lips blue, his body covered in the pinprick rash of the Cruciatus, his breathing ragged, his face grey, unable to stand. Potter’s eyes made his stomach twist uncomfortably – there was pain there, and that glazed look that prisoners got. But there was fire still in his eyes, desperate light, and he knew why they burned.

“For Lily,” he said to Potter, nodding his head.

For Lily… Thank you.

Potter was unable to talk now. Without answering, Snape aimed his ebony wand at the trapdoor and intoned a spell to pull himself upwards, holding onto the rope ladder.

“Get Hugo Avery,” he said brusquely to Rosier and Mulciber. “Tell him he can have Potter. You can help him, of course.”

Mulciber looked mutinous.

“The Dark Lord’s wishes,” Snape said.

Mulciber stormed off, cursing under his breath.

Snape flew down the corridor towards the holding cells, his heart racing furiously, wand out. He had thrown a silencing spell at the oubliette. He hadn’t forgotten anything. This was a dangerous game. But he loved Lily Po- Evans, Lily Evans, with all his heart. It was worth it, if it meant he got to be with her for the rest of his life. He stood in front of the door to her cell, taking deep breaths and flicked some dandruff off his dark robes, before entering the room.

                                                  ***

Severus pushed the heavy door slowly, almost reluctantly, now that it came to it. He looked uncharacteristically agitated, his waxy cheeks flushed. Relief swept over him as he looked at Lily. She looked upset but safe. She was shackled to the wall, her hands above her head, tied together. She was trembling and pale. There was no sign of the Cruciatus, or other dark magic.

“Are you alright, Lily?” He said, hurriedly throwing a potent heating charm at her. “What are you doing here?” Lily’s husky voice surprised him, he hadn’t heard her screaming.

“What happened? Did they hurt you?” Severus said, moving closer to Lily and regarding her anxiously. “They hurt me by hurting him,” she whispered.

Tears tracked down her cheek, and Severus wiped it with his thumb. “I’m so sorry, Lily,” he said, his voice trembling – he was slightly scared of her, and then there was unexpected guilt - guilt about lying, guilt about how James was going to die. “I tried to... I tried...”

He stopped and took a few breaths, looking at the ground.

“I tried to save him, I tried some healing charms and... and I sent the others away. I wasn’t sure what to do, Lily, but then I was called away and Avery had... I was too late, Lily, I’m so sorry.”

He couldn’t look at her.

“No, Sev, please, not James, please,” Lily’s broken whisper made Severus’ heart ache.

“I’m so sorry, I’m... you don’t know how sorry I am,” Severus whispered back. “I’m desperately sorry.”

Lily didn’t say anything, silent tears streaming down her face.

“He... James and I, he spoke to me, he thanked me for trying to save him, before he... he asked me to save you, to get you out of here. I promised him I’d do it. Do you understand Lily?” She was looking at him blankly, through her tears, her mind far away in some distant time or place. “Lily!” Severus whispered urgently. “Lily, he wanted you to be safe! He insisted I save you! He told me a code word - I’ve no idea what he meant, but he said to tell you - Graham’s Number.“ “Graham’s Number,” Lily repeated quietly, as though dazed. “James.” “Yes, James,” Severus said, trying not to sound impatient. “We have to leave now, I promised him I’d get you out of here! Do you understand?”

Lily nodded, still crying.

“My beautiful,” she said. “My gallant lad.”

“Yes, yes,” Severus said, eying the door of the cell. “We need to leave! Now! If Voldemort finds us, we’re both dead!”

Lily stared at him intently. After a few seconds she smiled vaguely.

“I’m so sorry Sev, let’s go, I just... it’s so much to take in, you know? I can never thank you enough, for trying to save him, for being such a noble person?”

Severus squirmed.

“It means everything to me,” she said, her red-rimmed eyes looking into his soul.

“It’s nothing,” he said firmly, refusing to hold eye contact and pointing his wand at the chains. “Frangit!”

The chains broke, and Lily collapsed into Severus’ arms.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Can you help me? I don’t think I can walk?”

                                                 ***

He heard the trapdoor groan, one at a time he heard the light footfall of young men jump down the rope ladder. He wouldn’t let himself think of her. She was safe. Lily - the kindest, bravest, truest person he had ever met. Their baby was safe. He had managed to keep Snape’s Legilimency away from those thoughts. Voldemort’s reaction to his rant, his own interaction with Snape - both had played out exactly as James had predicted, practically word for word. In another world, another future - he could see Lily and their two children, all four of them, standing in that field surrounded by wildflowers and joy. It was not to be. Not in this lifetime.

He looked up at Avery, ready. “Fancy meeting you here? I knew we’d get you in the end, Potter!” Avery laughed. “Looks like today is my lucky day!” He was rubbing his hands together with glee, his laughter loud and erratic, his eyes wide. He had changed drastically since James had last seen him in King’s Cross Station all those years ago. There was no trace of boyishness left in him, despite his laughter - his eyes were cold, lifeless, bitter.  “What a pitiful way to die! This is how traitors die, Potter! How your friends will mourn! When I’m finished with you here, I’ll move on and kill your little mudblood. It will be reassuring for you to know what sort of death awaits her, won’t it?” Avery’s shrill laughter echoed around the dungeon. Please, if there is a God, let her be safe, he asked, closing his eyes. “Scribo per Ignem!” Avery cried, as a dark, liquid, ink-like substance poured out of his wand and floated in front of James, suspended in the air, shimmering as though molten. “Proditor!” Avery said, with a slash of his wand.

The liquid rearranged itself into the word “traitor”, that seared into the skin of James’ chest, sizzling as it burned, unbearable. “Crucio!” said Avery, placing the tip of his wand inside the burnt flesh.

James blacked out with the pain. He flirted in and out of consciousness, each time the pain overwhelmed him and he felt everything fade into blessed darkness, one of the three men threw a powerful healing charm at him, which kept him awake long enough for another Crucio. Mulciber and Rosier joined in, Sectumsempra one of the many spells they used.

He could feel his body weakening with the blood loss. Lily would have their child, a boy, Harry. Thinking about Lily would only endanger her safety, in case she felt his presence. His parents would be proud of him for saving Lily, and they would have a beloved grandchild. Sirius and the Marauders would make the most excellent uncles. Nobody was a loser. For a moment he thought of Sirius losing his blood brother, then losing him too. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his brother, ignoring the pain. I’m fine, Sirius old chap, this is how it ends. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m too weak to cope with losing any of you. You deserve a long life with Moony, the best man we have ever known.

He opened his eyes again and saw Mr and Mrs Evans standing beside him, smiling.

“I kept my promise, Sir,” he tried to say.

When he blinked, they were gone. He fought it, yet as he sank into darkness, all he could think about was Lily.

Lily, Lily, Lily…

[juju-on-that-yeet]

Oh please, yes!!! I am a lover of whump, and hurt comfort, and I definitely have idea in mind. Like Dr. Iplier and someone (Yan) like gets out of control (emotionally or physically) and they have to be sedated... and it’s just Dr. Iplier comforting them while they slowly drift off against their will...

I like your style, Anon ;) So much so that I already wrote something like that in Chapter 9 of Unravel. But since that fic is (very) long and you may not want to read eight chapters of context, I also wrote a little something here, as a treat :3c Hope you like it!

~

The building is silent.

All the egos, young and old, weak and strong, have shut themselves in their bedrooms, doors locked. Every important room is closed off. The greenhouse, the library, the control room, all of it locked and inaccessible.

The reason for this lockdown begins with Dark. He’s off on a business trip, but it’s been hours since anyone’s heard from him. All calls and texts have gone unanswered. The countless messages in his answering machine, if heard, have not gotten a response. He is probably busy with meetings, or the phone’s battery has died, or his phone has been lost or stolen. There’s any number of reasons for Dark to be ignoring messages, and him being injured or dead is the very least likely.

The reason for this lockdown ends with Yandere.

When he has no information to go off, he defaults to the worse-case scenario. His imagination is too active, his fear is too powerful, his rage is unstoppable. He staggers through the halls of Ego Inc., eyes blazing red, the tip of his katana dragging along the wall, alternating between giggling madly and weeping messily. He’s left Dark seventeen voice messages and texted him forty-two times. As far as he knows, Dark is dead in a ditch, and his mind can’t handle it. He’s out for blood, something to take his suffering out on. He’s already taken a slice out of Silver Shepherd for trying to talk him down. The other egos hide so they don’t suffer the same.

In the clinic, the two egos closest to Yandere discuss the situation.

“What now?” asks Dr. Iplier, keeping quiet lest Yandere hear him. “Everyone’s in a panic, and I’m reduced to texting King on how best to bandage Silver’s stab wound. He’ll hurt someone else eventually if we don’t stop him.”

“Maybe I could try talking to him,” says Wilford, only giving the situation half the gravity it deserves. “He’s just scared, I can help him feel better.”

“We both know the only person who could get through to him now is Dark,” Dr. Iplier mutters, thinking, “Unless he suddenly calls Yandere back, we’ll...we’ll have to subdue him somehow.”

“I can’t keep him in my void,” Wilford muses, frowning, “It’d tear him apart in an hour.”

“We could get him in his room and barricade it,” Dr. Iplier says, “But there’s no guarantee he won’t find a way out through the vents, or hurt himself if he can’t.”

They think.

“I think...” Dr. Iplier finally sighs, “That he has to be sedated. I can strap him down while he’s out, and he won’t be able to hurt anyone or himself. It should hold until Dark gets back to us.”

“Does that mean I’m on distraction duty?” Wilford asks.

“More like grabbing duty, if you can manage it,” Dr. Iplier replies. He moves to prepare a tranquilizer. “We only have one chance. Yan won’t let his guard down with us a second time.”

Despite suggesting it, and knowing it must be done, Dr. Iplier follows behind Wilford through the halls with guilt in his heart. He doesn’t want to think of shoving the needle in his hand into his boy’s neck. But he will. He has to. His job is to do no harm, and that means subduing those who would do harm, like Yandere now.

Before long, they reach him. His head snaps toward them, but he only looks at Wilford.

“What do you want, onii-san?” Yandere growls. He perks up suddenly. “Oh, did senpai call you? Or text you?”

“Uhhhhh...yes,” Wilford decides, “He did, as a matter of fact. He wants to talk to you, actually.” He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. “He texted me, you can text him back!”

Yandere laughs, loud and long.

“Onii-san, I can text him back from here,” Yandere chuckles. He eyes narrow. “That is, I can if he’ll truly respond. But he won’t. You’re lying to me, aren’t you, onii-san?”

“Name one time I lied!” Wilford protests.

“Just now,” Yandere snarls, before lunging at Wilford.

But Wilford is ready, and he sidesteps Yandere’s downswing, using a bit of quick teleportation to get behind Yandere. Dr. Iplier barely manages to get out of the way of Yandere’s weapon. Another swing would get him for sure, but Wilford grabs Yandere’s arms before he can try. Yandere screams and struggles violently. He screams louder when he catches sight of Dr. Iplier’s tranquilizer, nearly kicking the syringe out of his hand.

“Honey, honey, calm down, please,” Dr. Iplier begs.

“Fuck you, I won’t calm down!!” Yandere hollers, still twisting in Wilford’s grip. “Yami could be hurt, he could be dead! It’s been seven hours and thirty-two minutes and five seconds since he last said anything to me! Don’t make be calm!”

“Relax, sweetheart, it’ll be easier,” Dr. Iplier tells him, drawing closer.

“Don’t make me sleep!” Yandere cries. “Don’t you get it!? This is serious! You can’t tell me to calm down when you shouldn’t be calm, either!! You can’t do this to me!”

Dr. Iplier doesn’t reply, he only comes forward with the syringe, aiming for Yandere’s neck. But at the last moment Yandere kicks out, catching Dr. Ipleir’s leg, making him buckle. The needle goes into Yandere’s shoulder instead. Yandere gasps, Dr. Iplier curses, but an injection is an injection, so Dr. Iplier pushes down the plunger and unloads the sedative into Yandere.

“Fuck you!” Yandere yells, kicking out again. Dr. Iplier manages not to get kicked again as he removes the needle.

“Why’s he still awake?” Wilford asks, “You still gave him the shot, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but in a bad spot,” Dr. Iplier mutters, “It’ll take a bit longer for it to work.”

“I hate you! I hate both of you!!” Yandere wails, but already his struggling is weaker.

“You don’t mean that, love,” Dr. Iplier murmurs. He cups Yandere’s face in his hands. “You’re upset, and you’re scared.”

“Yami could be dead,” Yandere growls, standing but not moving.

“He isn’t, sweetheart.”

“You don’t know-” Yandere gasps, and his feet give out from under him. He slumps down, only in the air by Wilford’s hands on his arms.

“Give him to me,” Dr. Iplier orders, a rush of protectiveness running through him. Wilford obeys, and Dr. Iplier lowers Yandere to the ground, holding him close.

“No,” Yandere moans, “Don’t make me, don’t make me...”

“Shh,” Dr. Iplier whispers, one arm holding Yandere as the other hand strokes his cheek, “Go to sleep, love, it’ll be alright.”

“I want Yami,” Yandere whimpers, the red fading from his eyes as sleep overpowers his anger. A tear snakes down his cheek until Dr. Iplier’s finger catches it.

“I know, Yan,” Dr. Iplier murmurs, “We’ll figure out what’s going on, I promise.”

“I...I want...” Yandere’s eyes start to close against his will, he body starts to go limp.

“Shhhh,” Dr. Iplier murmurs, still stroking his cheek, “It’s alright son, I love you.”

After a few more moments of Yandere’s eyelids fluttering, his eyes finally droop closed, and his body relaxes into Dr. Iplier’s arms. Dr. Iplier sighs shakily as he stands, carrying Yandere and ignoring the hand Wilford offers to help him up.

“Doc, are you crying?” Wilford asks, bewildered.

“Let’s just get to the clinic to strap him down,” Dr. Iplier mutters, walking away.

[leejihoonownsmyheart]

New Year, New Me

Part One of the New Year, New Me Series

Summary:

You’ve hated Jeonghan for so long that it’s practically become a part of who you are. Of course, who's to say what those feelings of mutual hatred may do for you two going into the new year…

requested fic for an anon- hope I didn’t take too many liberties, I hope you like this fic!

Warnings: Degradation: slut and whore are used a lot cause I like them so I hope that’s okay. Mentions of fluids, unprotected sex (I know I’m becoming like a poster child for it, but use condoms my dudes have safe sex), rough sex, deepthroating, mirror sex, creampie 🙃, hair pulling, dub-con, pretty much Jeonghan with a dirty mouth, overall pretty dirty fic- enjoy!

 -

You’ve hated Jeonghan from the first moment you laid eyes on him your freshmen year of high school. You weren’t really sure what it was about him. Maybe his attitude towards others, the sly smiles he hid behind people’s backs, or maybe it was just because he made fun of your favorite sweater on the first day of classes.

Either way, you had hated him from the start. Whenever your schedules lined up you tried not to gag as you realized that you would have to suffer through another entire class with him by your side.

He too had decided from the start that he hated you. Now, granted, he never said it, but he sure as hell did show it.

He pulled your hair and made fun of your clothing and called you out to the teacher if you weren’t paying attention. He stole your food at lunchtime and wasn’t afraid to tease you when he found out that you had a crush on Joshua Hong Junior year.

All in all, you hated Jeonghan, and when you realized that going to college meant you wouldn’t have to see him all the time you were utterly ecstatic.

Until, of course, he plopped down next to you that next year in your first 8am of the year grabbed the water bottle from your desk- smirked and said: “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

As luck would have it, you guys were soon stuck with the same dorm hall, the same classes, the same clubs, and of course, the icing on the cake, the same group of friends.

You were stuck with him.

If four years hadn’t been enough it was already Junior year of college and still Jeonghan was at every event you were at.

“I don’t want to go,” you pouted at Joshua. He looked over at you with an amused expression on his face. Sometime Senior year, you had been able to kick your crush on Joshua. It wasn’t the easiest thing on the planet. He was nice, and handsome, and a dork, and you loved him to death. But eventually that love shifted from liking him and wanting to date him, to just wanting to be friends with him.

And since he ended up at the same college as you, the two of you had become fast best friends.

“You missed the Christmas party because Jeonghan was there,” Joshua mumbled, giving you a small frown. “You can’t miss the New Year’s party too.”

“You really want me to go to an event where there will only be couples, only for it to be reasserted how single I am at the start of the year when everyone else kisses their significant others?” You asked him bluntly. He chuckled and patted your head.

“I think you’ll be able to survive,” he insisted softly. You rolled your eyes, but only because you knew that he was right.

“Alright, alright. I’ll come… But I’m going to complain about it all night,” you murmured.

And you kept that promise.

From the minute you laid eyes on Jeonghan you started to complain to Joshua. Mostly quietly, just between the two of you but as the night wore on, you knew that Jeonghan could hear you speaking to Joshua. Each complaint making him wrinkle his nose just a little bit.

You weren’t sure why he was bothering to listen to you, but after Joshua drifted off to join his girlfriend as the New Year approached more rapidly you found yourself wandering your friends' house desperate to getaway from all the people who were preparing to start the year off right.

You had at some point wandered upstairs and were running your fingers over Joshua’s photo frame when the atmosphere of the room changed. You raised an eyebrow, wondering who could have possibly entered. You glanced over your shoulder and sighed.

“What are you doing here?” You asked him, turning your attention back to a photo frame with you and Joshua smiling within. Your fingers tentatively trailed over your glass-encased faces.

“I’m just calling a truce. No one to kiss on New Year’s, so I thought I’d come bother you,” Jeonghan responded. He wandered towards you, setting a hand on your shoulder as he looked over at the photo. “You still not over him?”

“Guys and girls can be friends you know,” you grumbled back. Jeonghan rolled his eyes and picked the picture frame out of your fingers. You opened your mouth to protest but he just placed the frame up on the shelf again.

“Guys only think about one thing,” Jeonghan responded. He turned to face you, quirking his eyebrows upward suggestively. You grunted.

“Not Joshua,” you responded. You slid yourself onto his windowsill, your fingers brushing against the curtains that you often got lost in when he was busy studying. “Joshua is a nice guy. Good catholic boy. He also thinks about God sometimes.”

Jeonghan snorted out a laugh, and you risked a glance at him. He looked tired, more so then you had ever seen on him. You didn’t really feel bad for him. He got around quite a bit, and you knew the only reason that he was tired was because he had been busy fooling with another girl the other day.

“Shouldn’t you be out with… Oh, what’s her name again? I can’t remember- Oh you’re not still fooling around with that Patricia, are you?” You asked him. He groaned.

“Come on you know I haven’t talked with Patricia in months,” he mumbled. “I know that you listen to me talking about this stuff all the time. Why pretend you don’t pay attention?”

You rolled your eyes and stood up, getting distracted again briefly by the books on Joshua’s shelf.

“It’s just hard to keep up with all of them,” you stated, shrugging.

“At least I actually get any action,” Jeonghan shot back just as harshly. “God, you’re like a nun with how many people you end up seeing every year.”

You couldn’t believe he was bringing this up when he knew just how upset you were about not having anyone to kiss this New Year. At least in the past, you had been serious with someone around the time of the New Year. Now you hadn’t dated in… Who even knew how long anymore, and it was driving you crazy.

“Better than dropping my pants to every girl that says hello to me!” You blurted back, turning to face Jeonghan your face red. “I can’t believe this is how I’m starting off the New Year. Kissing absolutely nobody and being stuck in a room with you.”

The statement just made Jeonghan huff.

“If you want to kiss someone so badly…” He trailed off, his expression hardening as he suddenly came up close to you, pushing you roughly against the wall behind you. You heard the faint cheer of people in the other room counting down. 3, 2, 1… “Just shut up already.”

Before you could react to him in any way his lips had collided with yours, your teeth clashing as he consumed you in something that you supposed in your haze was something akin to a kiss. You gasped against Jeonghan’s lips, completely helpless to the way that he was dominating you.

Most days, you would rather scream then have Jeonghan in a position of power over you. It built his ego too high, and his ego was already absolutely ridiculous in the first place, but today for some reason, you didn’t mind.

Your fingers- which had instinctively balled into fists upon Jeonghan coming too close to you weakly raised and hit Jeonghan on the chest. He briefly pulled his lips from yours, his eyes flickering from your lips to your eyes, back to your lips: “This okay?”

You managed to squeak out a weak: “Yes” and then his lips were back on yours all over again.

You felt your fingers unclenching from their balls, and you felt yourself instead resting them on Jeonghan’s chest. The tips of your fingers digging into Jeonghan’s shirt as his hands wandered your body.

They went from your hips, tracing lightly up your side, before finally settling on your shoulders.

You gasped into Jeonghan’s mouth, unable to help the pitiful whimper that left your lips when his fingers dug into your shoulder blades. The noise in itself, once again made Jeonghan pull away, and you were pretty sure that your knees would have given way if it hadn’t been for the fact that Jeonghan was holding you up.

He stared at you, watching with a barely-there smirk as you panted, and you must have truly made a sight because he stared at you for so long that you were able to finally compose yourself enough to, look up at him, wipe the spit from your chin and raise an eyebrow.

“What?” You bit out. He laughed.

“Strong tone for a girl who just whimpered.”

Your face blazed red from his words, and you let your hair fall back into your face. It only hid you for a short moment before Jeonghan’s fingers had tangled themselves in your hair and he was roughly pulling your head back.

“In the past, I don’t think I ever would have cared for it, but something about you tonight,” he murmured. His gaze once again lowered from your eyes, trailing down to your lips. “God, I want to ruin you for all other men.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but he didn’t let you speak. His grip just tightened in your hair, making a small knot form in your throat.

“How does that sound?” He asked you. “You want me to take you right here like the little slut that you are?”

His eyes bore into yours, and you resisted the urge to look away from him. It was hard to keep your eyes on a man you hated so much when you know that he wanted to take you. Because the way that he was talking made you not hate him so much.

“You think you can just fist my hair and call me a slut and I’ll be begging for you to fuck me?” You asked with a scoff. Jeonghan rolled his eyes, squeezing your hip softly.

“Oh sweetheart, I hate you,” Jeonghan mumbled. “I spend my days with you watching your interactions with everyone around you. I know who you like, who you hate, who you tolerate, and I know what you like too.”

He pulled his hands away from you, releasing your hair and he began to slowly unbutton his button-up, his eyes locking you in a steely gaze.

“You want someone to take control,” he mumbled. “Someone who can control you with mere words and someone who will leave bruises all over your body so that you can remember what he did to you for weeks to come.”

He dropped his shirt down to his elbows and laughed at the way you hungrily licked your lips at the action.

“You like what you see?” He asked you. His fingers began to fumble with his belt, and he slid off his pants before you could even manage to say a word. You couldn’t believe how excited you were to see him entirely naked, and you also couldn’t believe exactly how good he looked.

You liked to joke that he just sat around all day, never did anything that was useful or worth anyone’s time. It was one of your favorite things. To poke at him about his weight and say that he should work out more.

Well, it turns out you had been drastically wrong to make fun of him like that.

His body was well-toned, and while he didn’t have a six-pack, he did have a beautiful body. It sort of made him resemble that of a god and you felt wrong for all the things you had said about him in the past.

His last article of clothing finally dropped to the floor, making your breath hitch in your throat.

Maybe he resembled a demon more than a god…

He was already so hard, that his cock was standing upright on its own, and you were pretty sure that you could see his tip leaking with some precum. You were surprised that you were able to affect him like this. He was, after all, a very well composed man and you had never imagined that you would be able to turn him on like this.

But it was only fair considering the fact that you were just as turned on as he was. You were just glad he couldn’t tell.

As if he could read your mind, Jeonghan kicked his pants aside and lowered to his knees, his fingers tightening around your thighs.

“I’m so glad you wore this skirt,” he mumbled softly. “You’ve always wanted someone to fuck you in this  haven’t you?”

His hands slide beneath your skirt, his fingers running over the soft fabric of your panties. It made you shiver a little. You watched as his eyes skimmed up your body, smiling up at you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbled. He seemed to rethink the statement humming and shrugged just a little. “You know, for you. You always dress so sexily, like you’re just begging for someone to shove you against a wall and take you like you so desperately want to be taken.”

Despite how dirty his words, his touch was gentle on your body. He was slow to hook his fingers in your waistband and just as slow to drag your panties and skirt down over your hips. You shivered as he pulled them off, unable to hold back a whine when you felt his fingers brush the folds of your pussy.

“You must be so excited,” he teased, rubbing you’re his fingers lightly over your fold. Enough pressure for you to feel that he was touching you- teasing you really- but not enough pressure for you to feel sated at all by his touch. “How long has it been since you were last even touched by a man? At least a year.”

“Only because you keep ruining my chances,” you blurted out. He laughed and tilted his head to the side.

“Maybe,” he admitted with a shrug. “But it’s fun to watch you squirm.”

His fingers dipped a little further into your body, his fingers brushing between your soaked folds.

“Speaking of, you sure are squirming beneath me now. Everything you say makes it seem like you might not want this, but your body and mind sure betrays you doesn’t it? You want this.”

Your eyebrows furrowed deeply, and you reached forward blindly, your fingers digging into his side.

“I,” you mumbled, your voice shaking. “… Do I really have to say it?”

Jeonghan’s smirk only grew and his fingers began to retract just so.

“I mean if you don’t want to do this with me, we certainly don’t-”

“God you are such a dick,” you blurted. “Yes, I want this okay? I want you to fuck me. Is that what you wanted to-”

He shut you up by simply shoving two of his fingers deep into your wet pussy. You threw your head back, letting it gently bump against the wall.

“You talk too much,” he mumbled softly as his eyes roamed over your arched body. “I think that’s one of your problems. Always running your mouth.”

You let out a strangled moan as he scissored his fingers in and out of you, making your thighs tremble under his touch. You kind of hated how responsive your body was for him, but only because you felt so out of control. You had never let lust take control of you like this. You had never just genuinely not cared so much about how you looked while you were with someone.

As if he could hear your thoughts, Jeonghan fisted your hair with his free hand, forcing you to look at him. You whined at the action.

“I don’t think you’re paying enough attention,” he mumbled. Before you could say another thing, his fingers had slipped from your body. A quick glance around the room and he was pulling you by the hair over to a mirror that was in Joshua’s room. You scoffed at the audacity of him- thinking that he could just pull you around like that. You opened your mouth to say just that, which just made him scoff.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten what we are doing here,” he mumbled. He pushed you roughly to your knees and tapped his hard cock at your lips. You decided not to play defiant and opened your mouth for him. He smiled at that.

At first, he just laid his heavy cock on your tongue. You decided after a moment it must be a power play, he stood there, one hand still buried in your hair, the other rested on his hips, his eyes darting from looking down at you, to looking at the two of you’s reflection in the mirror.

As he stared, not moving the part of his body that you wanted him to move in the slightest, he began to loosen his grip in your hair and start to comfortingly run his fingers through it.  At first, the comforting motions were barely there, but then they were so evident they were near impossible to ignore.

It was like being petted and for some reason that just turned you on more. The thought that you were entirely at his beck and call. The thought that if he wanted his soft touches could turn rough and controlling and he could have your face pressed into the carpet as he watched his thick cock spreading you open wide and-

Your thoughts were interrupted by a soft laugh, and you forced your eyes away from Jeonghan’s cock, which twitched ever so slightly when you made eye contact with him.

“What’s going through that dirty little head of yours?” He teased. His grip tightened in your hair as he began to guide his cock deeper into your mouth. “Your mouth is salivating, and I can see your pussy dripping on the carpet from here.”

Before he was fully seated inside of your mouth- before you could choke on it- he pulled his cock back. He moved his hips so slowly in and out of your mouth, that it almost felt like he wasn’t moving at all. The only thing that clued you in was the building pressure that tied in your stomach like a tight knot, and the way that your body burned with the need to be touched.

“You know, I think I like this a lot better,” he murmured. Your eyes had lowered progressively to just watching his cock as it glistened in the light from your saliva catching the light, so when he addressed you again, you looked back up at him. “Now that I have my cock shoved down your throat, you’ve finally shut up.” Like that, it was like a switch was flipped in Jeonghan’s brain.

He went from the asshole who pulled on the strands of your hair in the middle of class, to an animal. His grip tightened in your hair again and he shoved you all the way down on his cock, making you choke out in surprise when his tip hit the back of your throat.

It wasn’t your first time deepthroating, but it sure as hell seemed like it the way that you choked around him. Your fingers blindly reached forward, wrapping tightly around Jeonghan’s thigs as you tried to keep focused on catching your breath.

Jeonghan didn’t seem to care either. He was watching you carefully, but he made no move to pull you back off of his cock, he just waited a moment for you to regain your composure and then he yanked you back off and onto his cock again.

He started a cruel cycle, waiting for you to catch your breath, before making you choke again. You could feel his precum leaking into your mouth, taste the salty traces of it on your tongue as he thrust you onto him. Your fingers dug deep into his thighs as you felt his cock throbbing in your mouth. Saliva rolled down your chin, and every moan that left Jeonghan’s mouth just made you suck around his cock harder, wanting nothing more than to taste his sweet seed fill your mouth.

Suddenly, it became more of a goal than your own pleasure. You didn’t care that you were making a mess on the carpet your pussy was dripping so much, and you didn’t care that Jeonghan’s rough thrusts would probably leave you sore in the morning. You wanted to have him fill your mouth with cum.

You hallowed out your cheeks around him, sucking hard on his tip whenever he pulled you back enough for him to do so. It made his moans rapidly increase, his cock utterly destroying your mouth.

“Please,” you mumbled around his cock. “Please cum for me.”

And just like that, he shoved your face all the way onto his cock: “Take it all you little cum slut.”

Jeonghan didn’t touch you and you supposed you had gone so long without touching yourself and without being touched that you were pretty oversensitive. You felt the pull of Jeonghan’s fingers in your hair and felt his cum start to spurt into your throat, and before you knew it you were cumming too. Your hips rocked in the air as your body quivered uncontrollably.

Jeonghan slipped his cock from his lips, dropping to his knees before you. His head fell to the side, his fingers brushing more gently through your hair as he looked at you shake.

“Are you… Are you having an orgasm?” He asked in disbelief. You didn’t respond, just let your body rock forward, your head falling onto Jeonghan’s chest. He was surprisingly soft about it. His fingers ran comfortingly through your hair, back to the petting versus the pulling as he waited for you to come down from your orgasm.

Your panting didn’t subside, but the moment you stopped shaking, he pressed you back gently. Raising his eyes in amusement.

“I didn’t even have to touch you,” he teased ever-so-lightly.

You fixed him with a sharp glare.

“Shut up.”

He hummed softly

“Alright, alright… But only because I can think of a better use for my mouth at the moment…”

Before you could ask what that could possibly mean, Jeonghan had your back pressed to the ground, and his fingers were wrapped around your thighs. He hummed as he settled himself between your legs, his eyebrows raising at the sight laid out before him.

“Soaked, you’re utterly soaked,” he mumbled softly. “What’s Joshua going to say when he realizes what a mess you made in his room?” You went to speak, but only ended up crying out in pleasure as Jeonghan leaned forward, his tongue tentatively tasting your fluids.

“Oh Jesus, who even cares what he says. You taste incredible.”

He pushed two fingers back into your wet hole, the sound of him sliding in and out of you making lewd wet noises as he eased them in and out of you.

“If I had known you were such a little whore, I don’t think I would’ve messed with all those other girls. You seem like much more fun,” he mumbled. You wanted to roll your eyes or claim that you weren’t just another notch on his belt, but just then his fingers brushed against something inside of you that made your thighs quiver, and your toes curl.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you blurted out. “Jeonghan, I am still sensitive.”

He laughed.

“I can tell. Your pussy is so reactive,” he murmured. “And you haven’t said anything about it yet, but I’m starting to think you like being degraded by me.”

“Just-”

“What? Shut up?” He asked you, laughing. You felt his hot breath puff against you, warming your thighs, and you hated how it just turned you on more. “I don’t think little sluts like you should be telling me to shut up?” Your walls clamped down on his fingers uncontrollably, which just invited Jeonghan to slide another finger into you.

“Oh dear, look at that,” he mumbled. “You’re making such a big mess… Someone should clean that for you.”

Before you could manage to ask what that meant, his mouth was on your clit, sucking hard. At first it sent a wave of shock through you. You were still a little sensitive from your first orgasm, but the fact that it had been so utterly unsatisfying the first time you came made that first wave off shock pass fast, replaced with unparalleled pleasure.

You generally hated Jeonghan’s stupid mouth, only opening to say something stupid or mean or something that was just meant to draw attention to himself.

But… Suddenly, his mouth was like a miracle sent from god himself. His fingers slipped from you, replaced by his tongue, which reached impossibly deep in your body, the tip of his nose bumping your clit as he utterly devoured you.

You weren’t sure what came over you, but your moans couldn’t be kept to a minimum, you needed to grab hold of him.

“Fuck, s-sir,” you blurted out, your face burning red as you called him that. “I want to grab your hair… Can I please grab your hair?”

Jeonghan’s eyebrows shot up at the question, and he looked up at you, his eyes so dark with lust you couldn’t even see his pupils.

“You really felt the need to ask for permission?” He asked. Your face still blazed, as you nodded, biting your lip a little to keep from whimpering again. “Oh, fucking hell. Hands to yourself you good little girl, I’m going to make you cum on my tongue.”

He dove back down to you again, this time, sliding his fingers into your body alongside his tongue. His thrusts were relentless, and he found your sweet spot in no time- so fast that you would have questioned it had you not had your head thrown back in pleasure- hands in your own mouth to keep yourself from screaming.

“You gonna cum for me baby?” Jeonghan teased, pulling back briefly to rocket his fingers in and out of your body. You rocked your hips against his hand, and he let you, smiling cockily at the sight of you. “That’s right, cum for me. Cum for me so that I can fuck your dirty little pussy right into the New Year.” He dipped his head again, his lips attaching to your clit, and that’s what got you.

You rocked your hips wildly against Jeonghan’s mouth as your body was ceased with pleasure, screaming into your fist as he rode it out, not slowing his thrusts even as you clamped around his fingers. You felt like sobbing, but instead your eyes grew big like saucers.

“Fuck me Jeonghan,” you blurted before you had even come all the way down from your orgasm. He looked at you in amusement. “Please, come on, fuck me please.”

He didn’t waste much time, he pulled away from you and stood up, tapping his cock against your lips as you scrambled to your knees, desperate to know how he was going to take you.

“You’re so dirty,” he murmured, but his fingers caressed your chin as he said it. “Spit on my cock.”

You obeyed, and once your lips were open, he took advantage of your mouth, sliding his cock into it. You whined, but he didn’t use your mouth for long.

“Hands and knees,” he ordered. You scrambled into position quickly, lifting your ass in the air for Jeonghan. It made the man smile, his hand reaching out to teasingly rub your wet folds. “Such a good girl.”

And then he pressed his tip into your entrance.

“Oh, baby girl you little slut. I can’t get enough of you.” He grunted as he slid his cock slowly into your pussy. “Fucking hell you’re as tight as a damn virgin.”

You whined, arching your back as he finally bottomed out inside of you.

“And you’re so damn wet. You know proper girls don’t get wet like this when a man has them on their knees like this. You’re really this turned on from me taking you on the floor?”

You tried to respond but it came out as a jumble of absolute nonsense, mixed in with a deep moan. Jeonghan laughed, but it was deep… Much more guttural of a noise then you were used to. He slowly slid his cock from your body, and then slammed it back into you. The shock of the action made you cry out, and you dropped down to your elbows, your forehead brushing the carpet.

“Fuck, Jeonghan I-”

He tangled his free hand in your hair again and shoved your cheek into the carpet.

“Look into the mirror pretty girl,” he mumbled. “And keep your moans down unless you want the others to hear.”

You whined but pried your eyes open, forcing yourself to confront your own gaze in the mirror. You looked like a wreck, bent under the curve of Jeonghan’s body, and somehow the desperate expression on your face didn’t embarrass you or make you want to hide your face. Instead you let out a soft moan.

“Oh, Jeonghan, fuck me, fuck me please,” you begged. You reached backwards as Jeonghan slipped out of you at the beg. At first you just blindly reached for him, but once you realized his cock was too far away you settled with just spreading your pussy lips apart so that he could see the hole that surely had to be gaping and sooping wet at this point. “Jeonghan, come on it’s not funny just fuck me- jesus I need your cock.”

Jeonghan laughed, tightening his grip in your hair, and taking your already bruised hip in his other hand as he repositioned himself at your entrance.

“So, there’s my pretty little slut. Begging for my cock.”

He shoved his cock into you again, and you cried out. Your eyes fluttered shut at the sudden movement. Jeonghan groaned at the noise that you made as he began to fuck you relentlessly. His hips snapping into you hard.

“You really don’t know how to be quiet do you?” He asked. Before you could respond he hooked his free hand on the inside of your cheek, muffling your words slightly. Honestly, the fact that he felt the need to muffle you, you were so loud, just turned you on all the more. You started to thrust yourself back into his thrusts, your fingers curling in the carpet, your eyes practically rolling into the back of your head.

Jeonghan on the other hand, didn’t stop for a second. He bent over your body, briefly tapping your legs so that you would spread them larger for him. His mouth- when he was bored, hooked to your neck, teeth nipping at your skin as he left marks all over your body.

But the best part possibly was when you looked up into the mirror and saw that Jeonghan was staring at the two of you guys’ reflections. So, turned on by the sight of his cock disappearing into your body that his moans grew louder and his thrusts more desperate.

At some point the room flooded with the sounds of skin against skin, and your muffled moans. But the closer that Jeonghan got, the more he began to speak, his brief murmurs of “slut” and ”babygirl” and “so beautiful” turning into sentences all over again.

“You little whore,” he mumbled softly, his mouth making its way up the length of your neck until it settled right by your ear. “You like having my cock that much? Don’t think I’ve ever had you so obedient.”

“’M not-”

“Oh, but you are,” Jeonghan interrupted you, pulling your head back so that his lips could brush against yours. “Haven’t had a problem with you since I got you on your knees.”

“I just-” You tried to protest, but Jeonghan wouldn’t have it. Instead he smiled against your lips.

“Don’t deny it,” he mumbled. “Being a little slut isn’t a bad thing. You’re such a good slut. Calling me sir and begging for me to fuck you. I love it.”

He thrust sharply into you as if to emphasis his point.

“I love that I made you like this. A begging mess for the guy that you’ve hated since high school, and yet I can’t stand that you made me like this too, knowing exactly what to say to make me utterly destroy you.”

You whined, and Jeonghan caught your lips, bringing you into another rough, controlling kiss that had you melting against him.

“Can I cum inside of you?” He murmured, his voice hitching as his cock throbbed inside of you. You cried out at the simple thought, suddenly hitting your own orgasm as you wildly bucked against him.

“Please.”

Jeonghan spilled his cum inside of you, sinking his teeth into your neck as he buried himself deep into your body. You whined collapsing against the floor under him as he spurted rope after rope of cum inside of you. Each time more cum spurted into you he snapped his hips in and out of you, making you feel it get pushed deeper into you, until finally he stopped.

For a moment, he was still. His body collapsed over yours and his sweaty chest heaved, as he caught his breath.

Then, without warning he pulled out.

You whined at the loss of his body heat, fingers knotting once again into the carpet beneath you but before you could get too upset his warm lips were on your pussy.

Unlike before he wasn’t devouring you. He slowly, gently lapped at your pussy, clearly having no intent on making you cum again. You were confused but didn’t fight against the soft moans that left your lips as he cleaned your pussy clean of his and your fluids.

He was down there for quite a while, sucking at your folds just enough to comfort you without turning you on again. Then he raised himself back up, his fingers dragging your lips open.

“Taste,” he mumbled. His lips pressed to yours, his tongue massaging the taste of his fluids and yours mixed into your mouth. You groaned against his lips, your arms wrapping around his chest.

“God, I hate you,” you mumbled as soon as he pulled away. He laughed and stood up, beginning to get dressed. He looked down at you in amusement.

“But.”

And you truly hated to say it.

“That was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life,” you admitted softly. Jeonghan laughed and nodded.

“Yeah, I’ll have to second that one.”

He slid his pants over his body and rolled back his shoulders as he tucked his shirt into his pants.

“So, I spilled beer all over you,” he stated suddenly. Your eyebrows shot up and you propped yourself up with your elbows to get a better look at him.

“Excuse me?”

He raised a finger, clearly asking for silence.

“I spilled beer all over you, and so you went to Joshua’s room to take a shower and had to borrow some of his clothes.” He paused, partway in and out of the door. “Make sure to wear a hoodie. To hide your hickeys.”

His tone was soft, but his expression was cocky. It made you roll your eyes.

“I’m surprised you even care about a cover story,” you grunted. “Isn’t that a little caring for Mr. Jeonghan?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be very good of your sir to not care about your aftercare,” he teased. Suddenly you were wondering when it had gotten so hot in this room. “Besides, what can I say? New Year, New me.”

Before you could say another word, he disappeared through the doorway, closing the door with a click behind him. You stared after him silently for a long moment, unable to make his last words to you stop echoing through your brain. Then you sighed and began to search for a towel in Joshua’s room.

It was going to be a long year.

 A.N Just another friendly reminder to use protection!! The concept of unprotected sex and cream pies are so fun but not fun if you get an unwanted pregnancy or a std ☹

Part Two

[onereallygoodlambonastick]

1, 2, 7, 8, 9 and 10 please

finally some good fucking food, thanks anon;

1. What themes would you like to write about that you feel don’t get explored very often?

Generally speaking, I think the in-betweens, the casual time-skips, and the quick intermissions are the things that get glossed over the most. The “missing scenes”, if you will--the hours after a squabble between a team, the morning before the battle, the months where a child sat idle, the dreams that turned into prophecy. 

I also think the theme of re-connection is not often explored--its always “love on first sight” kind of deal, but what about the enduring kind of love, the kind that stays like an ache in your bones? the one you remember and miss? the one you long for like a phantom limb?

2. What are some common elements of stories you are tired of seeing? What would you avoid writing about? 

This varies wildly between fandoms, but probably the thing they all have in common is: mindless smut. Just straight up down and dirty fucking, with no motive or prompting or characterization. Just the author smashing two guys (usually) at the hips and being done with it. 

That’s fine; we all love to see it. It’s just so dull sometimes. 

I need some intricacy, some intimacy, some ache, some angst, some destructive lines and some ruthless gut-punches, you know? Not a guy coming for the fifth time. 

For the AFTG fandom: I’m tired of seeing people being fine with the way Sakavic treated her characters and coddling Neil & Andrew in the face of it. I don’t hate Andreil, I feel like I should say, but so much of it relies on one or the other sticking people with their knives or fists and that’s such a toxic love, a misconception of what a “good” relationship should be. Now, there are some brilliant fics I’ve read that are just gorgeous with the concept of Andreil--that was what I wished Sakavic had the ability to achieve in her series, while giving dignity to Kevin Day and the rest of the characters that were there and LIVED despite the romance. 

So, obviously, I would avoid doing any of the above I just mentioned, and pray that you will too. Just let these ppl breathe, alright?

For the AoT fandom (yeah i dabbled cuz the manga is just. depressing man): same issue---too much fucking, not enough talking and emoting. Why are there so many goddamned high school AUs? My god. I need a fic that gets down and dirty with the shit going down in the manga and take me through it so I can stand to continue. What about the grief and mourning and the betrayal of it all? Can I get me some of that? Lord, don’t go near the Levi/Eren tag. Y’all just don’t even knock it. Go to Levi/Erwin or something. Or just don’t. Don’t.

For the BNHA fandom (lol. a staple): actually, there’s quite a bit of diversity here so I geniunely can’t complain about much. The sheer magnitude of the English-speaking fandom helps on that end, I suppose. I do think there should be more fics looking at the Shit n Grit of Hero’s society tho, Stain-style. The people the heroes couldn’t save or didn’t want to, the forgotten bodies and the cooling hands, the victims that never got closure, the heroes who got maimed and multilated and couldn’t get back on their feet once the limelight left em. Those sorts of things. I think the fact we see thru the rosy-eyed worldviews of a bunch of green-eared kids deludes people to the fact that People Are Fucking Bad and Disgusting almost all the time. So exploring that, I think, is far more worthwhile. 

But I will also take injury aftermath. I’m not a monster.

For the KNY fandom: EYYY we talk about grief and suffering a lot which if you haven’t noticed, is kind of my Jam! Actually, this fandom prob hits a lot of my sweet spots: role reversals, grief/mourning aftermath, SabiGiyuu, Sabito Lives, the usual! Can’t really say much abt this. Except, there’s a lot of Demon Sex and Rape and, uh. Guys? Can we go back for a hot sec?

For the Code Geass fandom (*rubs hands in glee*): SO this is the fandom I’m most active in aside from AFTG at this precise moment. It’s pretty dead, tbh. My favorite two fics in the AO3 archive was published in 2014 and the author hasn’t written for my fav pairing (Suzaku/Lelouch) since. So. There’s that. There’s also a lot of fucking here! And gross cishet dynamics, but, uh, whatever. I think the Emperor Lelouch/Knight of Zero Suzaku has been overused and abused for rough sex and just general Angst-ing it out. I wanna see how their dynamic plays out like that for sure, but what about when they still had secrets between them a mile wide and had to tell each other half-lies and half-truths? How about them coping with the fact of their betrayals and the death of their loved ones at the hands of each other? Where’s the hardcore shit? 

Think this fandom doesn’t want to dig their fingers in too deep. Shame. 

Another thing: CC is not an immortal seductress. My god give her pizza and some fucking DEPTH. She’s a walking encyclopedia, not some mysterious slut machine! Get your stereotypes and fetishes outta here!

Final thing: TALK ABOUT THE SHIT SUZAKU HAS BEEN THROUGH! He’s not just Lelouch’s boytoy or knight! Stop that! Examine his abuse, his time with the military, his span as a pawn! Look at his motivations and his internalized disgust for himself as a Japanese that was ingrained in him by an oppressive fucking system! Why does he bow? Why is he silent? Speak for him!

7. Favorite description in your wip? (If asked more than once, respond with a new piece each time)

Suzaku watched him watch the discoloring, and Suzaku watched the stillness change into the bare bones of animosity. It was almost kind, the way Lelouch turned his face away and shifted his grip to snatch up the antiseptic.

Neither of them spoke as sharp hands dabbed at the slightly split skin and wet bruising. It stung, but only a little. Long minutes passed like this, Lelouch exchanging swabs for cloths, Suzaku sitting still and watching him work.

Neither of them mentioned the scatter of old deadened skin, puckered across Suzaku’s build like a migration of mutilated fish.

8. Favorite dialogue in your wip? (If asked more than once, respond with a new piece each time)

"You know I can't be seen with you two."

"And I just warned you to not be a coward." Lelouch's eyes gleamed. Again, the challenge was there, and like a fool only Lellouch could make of him, Suzaku took it, open-mouthed and open-palmed.

"Fine," Suzaku said, not knowing what he'd promised himself to: a dinner or a duel. Even though the last time Lelouch picked up a sword it was wooden and he was tiny and cute and clumsy. But Lelouch didn’t need blades to cut. "I'll be there. Does Nunnally still enjoy a good scone?"

"Bring the blueberry ones," Lelouch said, extending the comment like a plank between them, and leapt off the wall, into the white sun. "One for the bastardly son and one for the disowned daughter."

Suzaku followed him out into the blaze of heat, feeling the crude perch of his laughter at the base of his throat. He was so fucking dramatic. "Which one of us do you mean?"

9. What scene was the hardest to write for you and why?

From the same wip fic from above--I’m stuck on the “light” kind-of crackish scene where Suzaku is literally just exasperated with Rivalz and his porn mags. Like I just can’t write it. It’s too.....friendly. And “nice”.

10. What scene was the most fun to write for you and why?

Out of the same fic as above: probably the scene from #8. It was fun to see how coy and rough-mouthed Suzaku could get once he’s together with Lelouch. Just to see them fool around with each other whilst keeping secrets but also somehow be honest was very satisfying and interesting to write out. They are just boys, there. Just boys. In love.

[welllpthisishappening]

Carol of the [Wedding] Bells

It all happens fairly quickly and he doesn’t remember much of it, which, really, seems fairly unfair from where Killian is sitting. Or, laying. Technically. He’s still laying in bed. With Emma next to him. And matching rings on either one of their fingers. On Christmas Eve. In Vegas.

Rating: Like a pretty solid T Word Count: Just under 8K. The prompts, they’re getting longer. Let’s all act super surprised. AN: So, in an effort to make things look a bit nicer, I’m going to post the Festive Fic Prompt a Thon stories on their own, outside of the asks. Today’s prompt from a lovely anon is: "we accidentally got married in vegas oops.” We’ve got pining, we’ve got friends to lovers, we’ve got opinionated Ariel, we’ve got thoughts on the Rat King in the Nutcracker.

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

-------

His head is going to snap in half.

He kind of hopes it does. It will presumably be more comfortable than whatever is happening behind his right eye, a dull throb and pounding that times up far too closely with his pulse, making Killian’s stomach heave and his mouth is very dry.

He’s not entirely sure where he is.

It’s not very warm.

That is...surprising.

The whole schtick of this place is its warmth. A dry heat and whatnot. He swallows, feeling like his mouth is full of cotton balls with a tongue that is questionably large, blinking against the light streaming in through unfamiliar curtains and—

Bouncing off the band of metal sitting on his finger.

Maybe his head has already cracked. Maybe he’s cracked.

In a psychological sense.

Killian blinks. Once, twice, three times, but the metal doesn’t move and the pain behind his eye appears to be drifting down his spine and he’s so goddamn cold because the other person draped across the majority of the bed has stolen nearly all the blankets.

There’s a bit of fabric clinging to his left heel.

“Holy fu—” he breathes, the rest of the word getting caught in a throat that suddenly feels as if it’s collapsing in on himself.

He can hear his heart pounding against his rib cage, another noise his head does not appreciate and his eyes are starting to water.

He’d blinked enough already. He assumes he’s physically incapable now.

Because now things are starting to piece together, even through the fog and the metaphorical cotton balls, smiles and laughter and far too much alcohol, missed flights and East coast snowstorms, changed plans and new plans and—

Emma mumbles something in her sleep.

So, maybe he’ll just die here.

That would probably be easier to deal with.

“Swan,” Killian says, but his voice doesn’t even sound like him. It scratches its way out of his throat, rough and maybe still a little drunk and...married.

To Emma Swan. Presumably.

God, he really can’t remember.

That is...disappointing.

“Swan,” he repeats, and it takes more than a moment to flip over, another twist of his stomach and clench of his jaw, and Emma makes more noise. Less disappointing. Endearing, even. This is a problem. A bad problem. The worst problem. “Swan, c’mon, love—”

Killian reaches his hand out, lets the pads of his fingers drift over the curve of her elbow, even when it’s still covered by blankets with an astoundingly high thread count. He’s going to choke on his tongue.

It’s growing.

He’s positive.

Taking up far too much real estate in his mouth, a biological defense mechanism because love has always seemed to roll right off that same tongue when Emma Swan is involved, but now it sounds far too big and much too heavy, and Killian cannot think about both his tongue and Emma Swan in the same sentence.

Not when he’s— “Why are you talking to me?” Emma grumbles. He laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but that’s apparently par for the course of the last twelve hours and at some point he’s going to promise that this is all Will’s fault.

And global warming.

If it hadn’t been snowing in New York and Boston, then everyone else would have been able to get to Las Vegas. For Christmas. As planned.

Mary Margaret’s plan, really. There was a schedule and we’ve never done this before and that had been reason enough for everyone to buy plane tickets and book hotels and Emma had called Killian almost immediately to ask do you think we can bribe a hotel clerk to put us in rooms next to each other. Which had almost led to his heart bruising his ribs.

What with all the faster-than-normal beating and being in love with Emma Swan and whatever.

Whatever.

Emma Swan. His wife.

Holy fuck.

“Seriously your voice is so loud,” Emma continues. “Are they doing construction outside or something? It’s too early for that.” “I have no idea what time it is, actually.”

“It’s probably not construction, is it?” “No, I don’t think so.”

“But...you’re here. Yeah?” Killian hums, pointedly ignoring the flicker of hope that appears in the back of his brain at those particular words in that particular order. As if she’d want that.

As if she’d want— They’re friends.

They’re...best friends. He knows things about her. She knows things about him. Good things, not so good things, things they’ve shared together, quiet moments and easy smiles, the growing sense that it’s just a bit easier to breathe around Emma Swan than any other human being on the planet.

They text. They FaceTime. On a schedule. One that Killian would argue is far better than Mary Margaret’s Christmas in Vegas extravaganza. He and Emma have known each other forever, have settled into their roles in the friendship group; the tag-alongs. The extra pairs, third wheels and sad ones with no designated other and this is really Will’s fault. He was supposed to get to Vegas before Mary Margaret and David.

“Here, Swan,” Killian whispers when he realizes Emma is still waiting on an answer.

He needs to find his phone.

He needs to Google things.

“Ok, good. That’s good, just—go back to sleep, ok?”

Her lips barely move when she speaks, burrowing further into the cocoon of blankets she’s created for herself, hair a riotous mess on multiple pillows and the smudges of black in the corners of her eyes make it obvious that neither one of them did much more than collapse into bed the night before.

They’re still wearing clothes.

So, that’s something.

Killian licks his lips. He’s not sure when he started breathing out of his mouth, but he’s suddenly all too aware of it, like every inhale is a particular challenge and he briefly wonders if she can feel whatever it is he’s feeling because the pinch that appears between her brows is rather sudden.

“Swan, Emma, it’s a—” Her eyes fly open, a blazing gaze that Killian swears cuts him right down the middle and stitches him back together. All at the same time.

“Wait,” she snaps. “You’re here.” “Yuh huh.” “In my room. This hotel room.” “Yup.” “And a bed.” “Also true.” “What are you—” “—I, uh,” Killian cuts in, and that’s probably not the best course of action. He bites back the urge to make another golf-related pun. To himself. Emma hasn’t blinked yet. “What do you remember about last night?” She shrugs, lower lip jutted out slightly. He’s got to stop staring at her lips. “I don’t—we were...did we come up with a song to go with the slot machine?” “Yuh huh.”

“Seriously, what is your deal right now? That’s—I mean, we were drunk, but—” Emma stops so abruptly Killian is fairly certain the world has also stopped spinning for a second. Until her hand jerks forward, as if she’s going to swat at his shoulder like it’s any other morning and any other day and he bites down on the side of his tongue. It’s bleeding.

The whole thing is oddly poetic in an entirely depressing sort of way.

Because Emma’s eyes bugs. Her jaw drops. Her exhale is impossibly loud.

“What is that?” Emma exclaims, jumping up and taking the blankets with her. She sways when she gets to her feet, gritting her teeth, and Killian reaches out on something like instinct.

She hisses.

The light glints off his ring again, casting weird shadows across Emma’s face and the dress she’s wearing and she’s still wearing a dress. It’s not white. It’s red and good and great and Killian feels some of the tension that had lingered between his shoulders dissipate as soon as his eyes sweep across her.

This is bad.

And not—

No, bad. Horrible, terrible, an absolute mistake.

Emma runs a hand over her face, fingers moving to pinch the bridge of her nose as she tries to catch her breath. Killian can still taste blood in his mouth. “Ok,” she says, all forced calm, “so, uh—we made up the jingle, song thing and then—” “—Jingle implies that it was an advertisement for the slot machines, doesn’t it?” “Oh my God, you’re making jokes.” Killian nods. “Yeah, a few.” “They’re not funny.” “Has that ever been the case, though?” One side of her mouth tilts up. “I hate you.” “That seems reasonable, all things considered.”

Emma huffs, tugging on the end of her hair like she does when she’s nervous and Killian doesn’t want her to be nervous around him, but he also didn’t expect to wake up married to the best friend he’s spent years pining for, so. Maybe nothing makes sense anymore.

“This is real?” Of all the questions Emma could have asked, standing barefoot in her own hotel room, with, Killian assumes, her own fairly awful hangover, that is not the one he expected to hear.

He expected more shouting.

If he’s being honest.

He nods again, slower that time. “Yeah, I think so.” “Ok, so, uh—” She clicks her teeth, more than once, as if she’s trying to work out some sort of residual energy and that dress is incredibly distracting. Being in love with her is incredibly distracting. “Did we win money last night?” “Quite a bit, if memory serves.” “And does it? Serve?” “Comes and goes in waves,” Killian admits, propping himself up on his elbows. Emma’s mouth does something else. “Scarlet called, do you remember that part?” “To tell us that he was stuck at JFK with Ruby and Belle?” “Yeah. And David and Mary Margaret couldn’t get out of Storybrooke—” “—Well, that’s because the entire town probably has like two pounds of road salt available, so—” “—Four pounds, maybe.” “The jokes,” Emma groans, but there’s not really any frustration to the words and that’s always been the case. The problem, maybe. It’s all too easy.

With her.

And them.

As a unit.

Killian’s eyes flicker to his ring. “Anyway. Scarlett called, gave a progress report on the great Nor’easter of 2019, Mary Margaret might have shed a few tears over her schedule and—” “—Wait until she finds out what we did,” Emma mutters.

The tension returns. Tenfold. It sinks under Killian’s skin and wraps around every one of his bones, slinks through his veins and settles between muscle fibers, threatening to push him into the mattress.

A muscle in Emma’s jaw jumps. ‘I just—” she starts, both hands waving in front of her. “Well, it’s not exactly like getting—”

That muscle is going to fly out of her face. That wasn’t on Mary Margaret’s schedule either. Emma flushes when she can’t finish the sentence, tugging both of her lips behind her teeth. Killian tries not to lift his eyebrows.

It doesn’t work.

He knows as soon as Emma sighs.

“So,” she continues pointedly, “we got the phone call, decided to—” “—Take in the sights of the strip. That’s a verbatim quote by you.” “God, did we start drinking here?” Killian points a finger towards the mini-bar, door still half-open and most of the shelves empty. “Context clues.” “And that led to the casino and the slots and then we won, so…” “I believe the term celebration was used several times.” Emma hums noncommittally, color still dotting her cheeks even when she does her best to bore her eyes into the tiny bit of carpet between her feet. And Killian holds his breath.

He counts to ten. Twenty. Forty-seven.

Backwards, too.

Because the memories keep settling into place, quick flashes of moments and earnest conversation, roaming hands and smiles that would put even the most rhinestone-covered outfit to shame.

Her hand had been very warm in his all night.

And there’d been—

He wishes he didn’t know how soft Emma’s lips were when he kissed her.

At least not like that.

“Right, right,” Emma mumbles. “And, uh—Chapel of the Bells?” “There was a Christmas joke involved there.” “Oh my God, by you or me?” “I honestly can’t remember.” Emma makes a noise previously never heard by human ears. It leaves her whole body bent in half and Killian’s heart shattering in his chest, far too much emotion for a drunken-fueled elopement, but he’s still having a very hard time coming to terms with the dress and the way she keeps twisting strands of hair around her finger and—

He’s already spent too much time thinking about this.

It seems exceptionally unfair that it ended up like this.

“How did we get a license? Don’t you have to have a license in Vegas or is that just for responsible cities with real rules?” “It’s a pretty scathing review of Las Vegas,” Killian says with half a grin. “We looked up that place, didn’t we? The Bell place.” “Oh call it the Bell place from now on, please.” She glares. “The jokes have got to stop. This is—ok, so the Bell place had packages. That’s...I remember that. We went in and we signed things and I had flowers. Like...roses, did you pick those out?” He’s the one blushing now, a heat in his cheeks and lingering at the base of his spine. Whatever inhale Killian takes does not do much to assuage the tightening in his lungs. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I wanted you to have something nice.”

It’s not an admission, per se.

It’s a fact, really.

But Emma’s eyes flicker up and he would swear in front of a variety of judges that there’s a hint of emotion on the edge, her own brand of want that he’s coveted for far longer than he’s willing to admit.

“And now we’re….” “Yuh huh,” Killian repeats, not able to say the actual word. So, he’s really a giant coward is what he is.

“How do we not be that?” It’s for the best that his heart has already cracked because the rest of him feels like it’s falling off in rather large hunks and that’s a disgusting thought, but Killian can still taste blood in his mouth and Emma won’t meet his gaze anymore and—

HIs phone is ringing somewhere.

“Do you need to get that?” Emma asks, soft enough that he can barely hear her. Killian blinks. Multiple times. Again.

“No, that’s—” “—You should probably get your phone, Killian. It’s, um...I mean we need to figure this out, right?” He makes a noise, is only aware that he nods when the muscles in his neck ache with the movement. Emma squeezes her eyes closed. “Because,” she continues, “it’s just a drunken thing. Yeah? That’s—I bet it happens to people all the time. This is like Vegas’ slogan.” “Drunk things brought about by delayed flights and the Christmas spirit?”

Emma’s lips twitch. “That’s verbatim too, huh?” “Something like that.” HIs phone stops ringing. And immediately starts again.

“Get that,” Emma repeats. “I’m, uh—why did we come back here, though?” “You were very certain you had the best sheets in the entire hotel.” “They’re stupid soft, aren’t they?” “I wouldn’t know, you stole all of them in the middle of the night.”

“I’m sorry.” And he can hear the apology for what it is, far more than bedding or questionably cold internal body temperature. For everything.

A mistake neither one of them wanted to make for entirely different reasons.

Killian stands up slowly, careful when he steps into Emma’s space and he’s at least eighty-two percent positive the sun is doing this reflecting thing on purpose. He ignores it, lets his head drop half an inch until his forehead is nearly resting on hers and his heart has made a miraculous recovery, hammering away in his chest like it’s trying to prove a point and—

She turns her head when his fingers graze her cheek, eyes fluttering shut.

“We’ll fix it, Swan,” Killian promises, the words like acid on his tongue. He’s really being the most dramatic groom.

She hums, a quick nod and hint of a smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

And, really, it’s stupid.

It’s idiotic and dumb and wrong, on some sort of fundamental level, but Killian’s moving before he’s even processed any of those words and Emma doesn’t do anything more than exhale softly as son as his lips brush over the crown of her head.

So, points.

Or whatever.

His phone vibrates off the table a few feet away.

By the time Killian reaches his phone Ariel has called fourteen times, which seems a little— “Excessive,” he says, but that only gets him a screech-like sound and he’s not sure how much more of this his body can take.

As a whole.

“Are you kidding me?” “Say words.” “These are words,” Ariel sneers. She’s pacing. He can hear the floor creaking in what he can only imagine is her living room or bedroom and the specifics don’t really matter because she’s far too preoccupied with yelling at him to be concerned with the structural integrity of her house. “These are very—”

“—Opinionated words?” Killian suggests.

“You told me.” “Wait, what?” “Oh not so high and mighty now, are we?” “Ariel, I really do not have time for this. I’ve got to look shit up and—” “—You know it’s Christmas Eve, right? You probably won’t be able to talk to a lawyer today. Or tomorrow for that matter.”

His legs lock, glancing down to make sure his stomach has not actually fallen on the floor. No such luck. That would have been a good excuse for getting off the phone.

“Got you there, don’t I?” “Are you playing games, right now?” “No,” Ariel says, but the way her laugh clings to her voice makes Killian wonder all sorts of things he shouldn’t. If only because they make his blood run a bit cold. Or, colder. He still hasn’t really recovered from the blanket theft.

“Are you?” she adds.

Killian’s going to bite his tongue in half by the end of the day.

Maybe the end of the morning.

“Did I call you last night?” he asks softly, ducking further into the corner like that will stop his voice from traveling across the room.

Emma’s on the phone too.

“Several times,” Ariel replies, not bothering to disguise her laugh anymore. “Each one got progressively more excited. It was honestly almost nice.” “Almost?” “Almost. Because, uh—did you really actually do it?” He’s frozen. Stuck. Stock-still in the corner with the shadow and his own regret and he’s already lost track of the number of times he’s looked at his ring.

Killian’s got to stop thinking of it like that.

It’s far too possessive.

“Your silence is deafening,” Ariel murmurs.

“Shut up.” “The honeymoon’s over, huh?”

“Seriously, shut up.”

“Killian,” Ariel says, voice going placating. He narrows his eyes at open air. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

“Don’t you have better things to do?”

“Right now? No.”

“You might want to reexamine your priorities.”

“Oh, don’t be a dick. I’m worried about you.”

“Me? Why?”

The breadth of Ariels’ reactionary noises would be impressive in any other situation. As it is, they’re mostly just annoying and Killian needs to take a shower. And down a fistful of Ibuprofen.

“You’re really kidding me, aren’t you?” Ariel challenges. “Oh my God, that’s—how long would you say you’ve been madly in love with your best friend?”

Silence. It’s not his first choice, but his tongue is doing that thing again and Emma’s voice is getting sharper on the other side of the room.

Ariel hums. “It’s so obvious. Even before the elopement. I mean—I was not joking about the messages. You should probably make sure you didn’t take out ad space in whatever the major Las Vegas newspaper is.”

“The Las Vegas Review Journal.” “God, you’re such a dweeb.” “Was this the worry?”

“You love that girl,” Ariel says matter of factly. “And you have forever. And it’s—she is so ridiculously into you—” “—What?” Killian growls, hand going tight enough around his phone that he’s worried he’s going to snap it in half. That might not be the worst thing in the world.

“People do not just marry their best friends.” “There was a lot of alcohol involved.” “What’s that saying about drunk thoughts and actions?” His eyes flicker towards Emma, swallowing back his retort because he wants, wants, wants, with every single fiber of his being and every reason why he hasn’t taken his ring off yet and—

“Silence,” Ariel mutters. “You should tell her at some point that you’d like to date her while you’re married.” “We’re not staying married.” “That’s stupid.” “That’s practical.” “When is romance practical?” “Ariel.” “Killian,” she says, and he rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. It hurts. “You really did sound happy last night.” “You’re getting sentimental on me.” “You’re a martyr, you know that?” “Nah,” he objects. “It’s just—” “—Oh say, it’s complicated, please.” “It is.” Ariel clicks her tongue. “Sure it is. Seriously, you may want to double check on the newspaper ads. And other voicemails. From both of your phones.” He’s going to say something. It will be scathing and it will get the smile he’s sure is taking up most of the space on Ariel’s face to disappear, but then Emma is walking towards him, nerves practically rolling off her in waves. “I, uh—I called Mary Margaret last night.” “Told you,” Ariel yells. Killian snarls into the phone. She cackles.

Emma scrunches her nose. “So, she’s called me like forty-seven times. They’re still trying to get to Logan and apparently Scarlet did get on a flight. Ruby yelled and Belle pleaded and it was a whole thing, so they’re on their way here and—” “—They’re probably bringing gifts,” Ariel shouts.

“Is that Ariel?” Killian hums. “She’s very bored on Christmas break. Mind gone soft and so now she’s just determined to do permanent damage to my hearing and—” “—You are a dick,” Ariel says, making sure to pause between each word. For emphasis.

“Did you call Ariel?” Emma asks.

“Something about good news and it traveling fast.” She lets out a strangled sound between gritted teeth, nose still scrunched and far more attractive than any nose has any right to be. “Keep that in mind because Mary Margaret in all her overprotective wonder passed our tidings of great joy—” “—Look who’s making jokes now.” “She told Regina.”

Killian curses.

“Who was,” Emma continues, “as judgmental as you’d expect her to be, but also full of legal advice and promises that an annulment isn’t just possible, but is exactly what we should be doing and—are you ok?” “Hmmm?” “You’re doing that thing with your face.” “I have no face thing.” “Killian.” “Swan.” “Didn’t we do this before?” “Oh my God, how we were you not already married?” Ariel cries. Killian hangs up on her, stuffing his phone back in his pocket. It buzzes immediately.

“Where’s the inevitable but in this string of instructions?” Killian asks.

Emma smiles. Honest. Real. A little nervous, still, but something almost close to the expression Killian has started to consider his and that’s insane. He’s insane.

God, they’re married.

They are married.

He’s not sure he doesn’t want to be.

“Mind reader.” “Regina wouldn’t be able to make it easy.” “I’m not sure if it’s her or national holidays and our timing,” Emma shrugs. “But, uh—well, she said that we talk to lawyer, figure out the right reason for the annulment and then it shouldn’t take more than two weeks. We just—need it to not be Christmas.” “Meaning?” “Meaning our friends are on their way and we won’t be able to do much about this,” she nods towards his hand, hanging limply at his side, “until December twenty-sixth.” “Right.” “The face.” “No face, love,” Killian says, another slip of the tongue and he’s got to stop. That seems harder than not being in love with her.

Emma quirks an eyebrow. “Mary Margaret said they should be here tonight. But that leaves us—” “—A schedule for today?” “The Nutcracker.” “A ballet?” Emma nods. “And she thought Scarlet would agree to go to that?” “I don’t think he did. There are only four tickets and she’s already sold hers and David’s, so it’s just—” “—Us.” “Us,” Emma repeats.

Killian takes a deep breath, forcing a smile. It doesn’t do much to convince Emma, he knows, but his phone is making noise and his heart is doing its best hummingbird impression.

She hasn’t taken her ring off.

He dimly remembers picking out rings.

With her.

They are married.

“So,” Emma says, “if you want to get ready, then—maybe we could get some breakfast or something?” “Yeah?” “Sounds like you’re double checking that I want to.” “I mean—” “—We’ll fix it,” she cuts in. “But there’s nothing we can really do now and if I don’t shower soon, I may go insane. Killian barks out a laugh. “That’s fair. I’ll meet you—” “—Back here?” “Ok.” “Ok.”

Approximately 12:30 a.m. Christmas Eve

“That one.” “Yeah?” “Is this you double checking?” Emma asks, glancing over her shoulder and there’s something about that exact shade of green in her eyes that has Killian leaning forward, catching her lips with his. They’re definitely in the double-digits, kiss-wise now. He’s not all that inclined to stop, a rush that moves through both of his arms and settles in the base of his heels every single time it happens, like it’s grounding him and sending him into orbit at exactly the same time.

It’s better than he thought it would be.

The way her head tilts and that soft sound she makes, like she’s breathing out any sense of worry or fear, just trying to inhale him instead, light scratches of her nails when her fingers find their way into his hair.

That keeps happening.

He curls an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest.

It leaves them impossibly close, like they’re trying to occupy the same few inches, or maybe just take up a bit more space in each other’s lives and Killian swears his head spins as soon as he feels her tongue brush his.

And the words bubble. They threaten. They rise up the back of his throat, feelings and desire and some rational part of him knows he should say them before they do this, but this seems to be happening and it kind of feels like a roller coaster.

Terrifying and exciting and he hopes he doesn’t lose his sunglasses when they flip upside down.

It’s admittedly a slightly jumbled metaphor.

But.

Then Emma is kissing him and the chapel worker coughs and she might giggle. He hoards the sound away. For later.

Forever.

“That one,” Emma repeats, tapping on the glass case it’s not much more than a thin band of white gold, but it could be her band of white gold and—

“Perfect,” Killian says.

From: Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com To: Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com Subject: AHAHAHAHAHAHA

AHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHA

IDIOT.

From: sherrif@storybrooke.gov To: Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com Subject: [Empty]

If you mess this up, I may scream. God, you’re an idiot. Did you at least tell her you love her yet?

From: Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com To: Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com CC: sherrif@storybrooke.gov

Subject: AHAHAHAHAHAHA PART TWO

David says you didn’t tell her you love her yet?????

Seriously, do you have a brain cell????? Like. One????

From: sherrif@storybrooke.gov To: Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com Subject: Re: AHAHAHAHAHAHA PART TWO

Braincell is one word, isn’t it?

From: Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com To: Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com sherrif@storybrooke.gov Subject: Re: AHAHAHAHAHAHA PART TWO

Are you….are you kidding me?

From: Killian.Jones@JonesShipping.com To: Scarlet_Will@yahoo.com sherrif@storybrooke.gov Subject: Re: AHAHAHAHAHAHA PART TWO

Did you both pay for in-flight wifi to do this?

From: Will@yahoo.com To: sherrif@storybrooke.gov Subject: The Idiot

I don’t think he told her he loved her.

From: sherrif@storybrooke.gov To: Will@yahoo.com Subject: Re: The Idiot

Idiot.

He keeps glancing at her.

It’s not all that covert, despite Killian’s best efforts. And, really, he refuses to admit that it’s even remotely his fault, because Emma keeps making quiet sounds that catch his attention, eyes wide whenever a ballerina does something particularly impressive and he’s not sure she’s blinked the entire second act.

He’s cataloguing her reactions.

In a way that isn’t nearly as creepy as it sounds.

In...drunkenly married his best friend on Christmas Eve and can’t unmarry his best friend because of legal bullshit and might be falling a bit more in love with that same best friend while she watches The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies.

He thinks that’s what this is.

Like ninety-six percent positive.

“You’re missing everything,” Emma mumbles out one side of her mouth.

“No, I’m not.” “If you stare at me any harder, you’re going to drill a hole into the side of my head.” “You’d look weird then.” She muffles her laugh with her hand, sliding further into her seat, but then her eyebrows are flying up her forehead and he can still hear the exact way she gasps when even more dancers appear on stage, a sea of color and swelling music and—

Killian grabs her hand.

Instinct. More than instinct. Head over heels in love with her.

Any of those excuses work, really.

And Emma doesn’t pull her hand away, doesn’t flinch or do anything except lace her fingers around Killian’s, thumb brushing the back of his palm.

Her eyes don’t leave the stage.

Her hand doesn’t leave his.

He genuinely doesn’t remember how Clara got back to her house.

Magic, he assumes. Something about Christmas and—

“Mary Margaret is going to be so disappointed she didn’t see that,” Emma breathes as soon as the curtain falls, head snapping towards Killian. Her eyes are bright again, an excitement there that doesn’t match up with the nerves of the last few hours, but he assumes it might just be more magic, or some kind of something that is inherently them and the power of friendship.

Or, whatever.

He kind of hates that last part. “That was,” Emma says, “Just—God, that was so...pretty.” He grins.

“Oh, don’t make fun.” “I’m not,” Killian objects. “It was very pretty.” She clicks her tongue, thinks he’s teasing her, but it might be the most honest thing he’s said all day. Idiot, Idiot. Idiot. “You didn’t even watch any of it. You laughed at the Rat King.” “Well, that was kind of funny.” “They were threatening!” “I’m sure if I got shrunk down to the size of a toy, I would also think a rat wearing a crown was a threat. And Uncle Drosselmeyer was—” “—Let’s not talk about Uncle Drosselmeyer.” “Because he’s a giant creep?” Emma mutters something that sounds like bah humbug under her breath, standing up to starting moving towards an exit. Her thumb taps against Killian’s. “You’re mixing references, love.” She squeezes his hand.

He thinks. He doesn’t want to imagine that.

But he’s also getting very greedy and he hadn’t taken his ring off and she’s wearing a different dress. Blue this time.

He might give Uncle Drosselmeyer a run for his creep-type money. There’s a joke about slot machines in there, Killian is sure.

“So,” Emma says when they reach the lobby, “what do we do now?” “What else was on Mary Margaret’s schedule?” “I don’t know actually, um—probably dinner, but they all land around seven anyway and—” “—You don’t want to eat without them?” “That’s not a secret me avoiding you thing.” “No?” Killian asks, and he hopes she doesn’t hear the added emotion behind both letters. That would be embarrassing.

More than everything else.

He probably shouldn’t have spent an entire ballet matinee staring at her.

“No,” Emma echoes. She tugs on the front of his jacket, like will make the words ring truer. He’s admittedly staring at her still, though. So.

“You want to play slots again?”

Killian presses his tongue to the inside of his mouth, a flutter of nerves in the pit of his stomach. “A dangerous game, don’t you think?” “We were good at it.” “I don’t know if you can be good at slots, Swan. That’s just—luck and spin ratio and—” “—Oh my God, say spin ratio again please.” “I’m serious.” “I know, so am I.”

He considers that for a moment—lets the sound of her voice settle in the darker corners of his brain, the places only Emma is really aware of, lost moments and could-have-been and Killian is breathing out of his mouth again, but for as fucked up as this whole thing is and will be for the next forty-eight hours, existing in the same space as her has been as easy as ever.

Maybe better.

With white-gold shine added in.

“We’re going to have to get more coins.” “We’re capable of doing that.” “You don’t want to try blackjack or something?” Emma shakes her head. “Nah, the house is always going to wind up screwing you at all those table games and I don’t know how to count cards.” “Is that a requirement?” “Hollywood would suggest it is.” Killian chuckles, the desire to kiss her senseless rushing up his spine. As if that’s not his constant state of being. “Plus,” Emma adds, rocking forward until her head bumps his collarbone, “the slots are more fun with their lights and showmanship and it’s not quite so—” “—So what?” “Serious?” She asks it like she’s not sure she actually wanted to say the word and Killian’s answering inhale is far too sharp, his nod far too brusque. “Right,” he says, and he’d let the analogy go on for too long anyway. “You want to walk to a casino, or—” “—Yeah, that’s fine.” “Cool. Let’s go.”

Approximately 10 p.m., December 23rd

The lights are very loud.

Casinos by their very nature seem very loud. There are people and more people, roulette wheels and sound effects. Drink orders and music playing, shouting and cheering and booing, as if the cards give a fuck about human emotions and Killian’s feeling almost too existential with Emma plastered to his front, demanding more coins for the slot machine they’ve claimed as they’re own.

They win.

They keep winning.

It makes more noise.

And then—

“I like you,” Emma announces, spinning on the spot and her arms are draped over his shoulders and— “Yeah?” “Is this you double checking?” “Something like that,” Killian mumbles. His vision swims, half convinced this is a dream he’s had more than once. “Yeah.” “That was the answer, then?” “Yeah.” “A little more loquacious, love.”

Emma lets out a shaky laugh, color rising in her cheeks and the side of her neck, shuddering slightly when Killian tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. And it all kind of—

“I’d really like to kiss you,” he whispers. “Do it, then.”

He does.

They don’t win.

It seems almost too heavy-handed, an unnecessary message from the universe that they can’t have nice things or simple things and this isn’t either one of those things, but Killian found himself hoping somewhere during the curtain call of the Nutcracker and he’s starting to wonder if they can get their money back from the Chapel of the Bells. He should make a list of everyone he has to call.

They will all be monumentally depressing phone calls.

And Emma keeps sighing, his jacket hanging heavy on her shoulders because it’s Las Vegas, but she’s constantly cold and he’s nothing if not a glutton for punishment. She stuffs another coin into a machine that’s different than the one they played last night and the signs have got to stop. Killian is going to scream.

“Ah, shit,” Emma hisses, kicking a frustrated leg out when the machine shows three different fruits. “That’s—it’s garbage.” “Scathing.” “I’m losing all your money.” “Eh, some of it is yours.” “Is it?” “Mmhm, you didn’t want to carry your wallet and I took some of your cash.” Killian shrugs when Emma gapes at him. “We don’t really have much left, honestly.”

“God, that is so sad.” “Scarlet owes us drinks.” “How do you figure?” “I told him sixteen times he should have gotten on an earlier flight, but—” “—He’s a stubborn ass?” “That, exactly.” Emma chuckles, a little more watery than Killian would like it to be, but he also assumes most casinos are used to crying. Just in general. He needs to stop giving the casino a personality. “He thought it’d be cheaper to fly closer to the holiday. And flying makes him nervous, so—” “—No way.” “Did you not know that?” “No. Although I bet Ruby mocked him mercilessly for that the entire flight.” “What would you bet?” She smiles, teeth finding her lower lip like she’s worried the action is too big. For them. And this moment.

Of complete and utter awkwardness.

Someone wants to use their machine.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Killian growls, an arm around Emma’s waist when he pulls her away. The woman, her coin bucket jangling noisily when she plops onto the plastic seat, grimaces at them, but she doesn’t actually speak and—“Let’s play a different game, love,” he says.

They don’t.

Killian didn’t really expect them to, what with their decreasing funds and a ring on his hand that seems determined to pull him into the Earth and he’s got to say something. He needs to say everything, but saying anything is suddenly the biggest challenge in the world and it is so goddamn loud.

Emma says something anyway.

“I’m sorry.” Killian’s shoulders sag. “What? For...what do you have to be—” “—Is that a joke?” “I’m out of jokes, I think.”

“This isn’t normal.” “No, but—” “—There are no buts here? We got married!” “I was there, Swan.” “Where you? Really? Because we’re just acting like it’s nothing and—” “—What would you rather do?”

It’s another big question. Far too big. Epically big. God, he hopes he doesn’t have to talk to Ariel for a week. She’s going to be insufferable. “Do you honestly not remember how this went?” He can feel his eyebrows lower, confusion rattling down his spine. Emma looks close to distraught. “I just—this made sense. Last night and even before last night and—” She drags both her hands down her cheeks, leaving streaks in her wake and Killian is not breathing. “I asked you to kiss me, Killian! That was—it was all me and—” “—Stop that.” “What?” “We’re going in circles, I think.” “I don’t understand.” “Are you under some impression that I don’t want to kiss you? Constantly?” “What?” “Emma, love, you’ve got to say something else.”

Her whole body sags. She wins. “I don’t—” she stammers, fingers curling around the back of her neck and the chain there and something in the back of his brain startles at that, not used to seeing the metal or the light imprint it leaves on her skin. “You can’t double up on nicknames like that, it’s cheating.” “That’s just your name.” “Yeah, but you’ve got your own thing, don’t you?” “Is that you double checking?” “It might be,” she admits, and there wasn’t that much space between them, but she rocks forward anyway, the toe of her shoes brushing Killian’s. “I—I don’t really remember how we got to the chapel.” “Neither do I, honestly.” “So, no idea who asked who, then?” “Maybe some hope.” The words fall out of him. It feels that way, at least. Part admission, part want, again, Emma’s eyes going wide enough to do damage and Killian doesn’t think. It’s too loud for that, anyway.

He ducks his head, swallowing down his groan when Emma steps on his foot. It’s easy to do that when he’s kissing her instead. His hands find her waist, holding on like he’s battling some kind of romantic tide and he’s barely cognizant of Emma’s eyes fluttering shut before her fingers curl around the front of his shirt, tugging him forward. Killian tilts his head, lets himself fall into a rhythm, far easier than anything else he’s done and if he’s keeping with the water puns, it feels like cresting the surface of a particular strong wave.

That he’d be all too content to drown in.

Emma pushes up again, lets her fingers card through the hair at the back of his neck and he can’t stop moving his own hands, desperate to blaze some kind of path that he’ll think about for the rest of forever.

The word bounces around his brain, leaves bruises and brands and another word that’s inherently more positive than that and— “Heyo, what are we doing here?” Killian is going to commit murder on the first floor of the Bellagio.

Andy Garcia’s character from Ocean’s Eleven will be pissed off.

And the whole lot of them are still holding their luggage, coats draped over arms and matching looks of surprise on their faces. Or so Killian assumes. He’s still staring at Emma, watching the dismay cloud her gaze.

She swallows.

“I’m going to get some air,” Emma announces, not bothering to hand Killian back his jacket. He doesn’t ask for it.

Mary Margaret mutters something undoubtedly encouraging, Ruby’s hand over mouth and Belle swatting at Will while he continues to laugh uproariously. David looks at Killian, stuck to the spot with his heart crumbling and his stomach on a different floor and he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to—

Something hits him.

Not literally. Metaphorically.

Memory...y.

“Did you tell her you love her?” David asks knowingly, and Killian doesn’t nod or shake his head, just kind of twists his neck because— “I’ll be right back.” He runs.

Approximately four in the morning, Christmas Eve

They got married.

Married.

To each other.

Killian’s whole body is thrumming, excitement mixing with everything he’s ever felt for Emma Swan and the questionable amount of alcohol either one of them has ingested. They haven’t taken their clothes off, which he’s sure he’ll be disappointed by eventually, but for now he’s content to lay there, staring up at the ceiling with his wife curled against his side, fingers tracing idle patterns over her arm.

He’s fairly certain she’s asleep.

It’s really why he says what he does. “I love you, Emma.” She doesn’t still, so much as she takes a deep breath, Killian hoping and wanting and—“I love you too, Killian.”

She hasn’t made it very far.

And he shouldn’t take much joy from that, but Killian’s desperate and greedy and he skids to a stop in front of a fountain that isn’t doing fountain things yet. He supposes it’s only a matter of time.

It’s another clunky metaphor.

“Hi,” Killian breathes, Emma’s lips curling up even when she tugs on the chain around her neck. He realizes what’s on it.

Her ring.

He’s glad he didn’t waste time killing Scarlett. It’d be hard to profess his love from jail.

“If I apologize again are you going to freak out?” “Undoubtedly,” Killian nods.

“That’s dumb.” “Your apology? Yes.”

Emma huffs, the ring falling over the front of her dress and the side of his jacket zipper and that kind of messes with his head a little. “This is insane.”

“Unorthodox.” “They all saw us making out in the casino.” “I’d imagine a lot of people did,” Killian reasons, dropping in front of her. “The degenerates come out in droves on national holidays, you know.”

“What happened to being out of jokes?” “It’s a defense mechanism.” “From me?”

She whispers the question, trepidation and nerves and Killian hopes he doesn’t fall over when he lifts his hand. His balance is better sober, though. “I didn’t want to—” “—Marry me?” He’s not holding his breath, so whatever sound he makes is absurd, leaving his forehead resting on Emma’s and her fingers brushing over the side of his jaw, familiar and not and normal and unexpected and absolutely goddamn perfect.

In an unorthodox sort of way.

“Say that again.” “You first.” “God, you’re stubborn, you know that,” he mutters, and Emma smiles, a kiss between his eyebrows. “I—ok, you want to be honest? Let’s be honest. That’s how Christmas works, right?” “Something about naughty and nice and rats.” “No rats, Swan.” “Nutcracker princes?” “Look who’s making jokes now,” Killian grins. He noses at her cheek, like some dam of emotional upheaval has been broken and he can’t stop touching her if he tries. He doesn’t try.

“You didn’t take it off.” “What?” “Your, uh—” Emma says, “your wedding ring. You haven’t—God, I keep looking at it. You’re sure it’s not a magnet?” “Not that I’m aware of, no.” “Weird.” “The weirdest.” “Why didn’t you take it off?”

Killian takes a deep breath, not as nervous as he probably should be because this is the moment and he’s almost surprised they don’t have a larger audience. Mary Margaret might be hiding behind a bush.

“I didn’t want to,” he says. Strictly speaking he wishes he said he more. He wishes there were some ridiculously romantic speech with adjectives and adverbs and every promise he’s ever made to himself when it comes to Emma, but that’s the important part and she’s kissing him.

He can feel her smile against his mouth.

And that’s enough.

By a long shot.

Gambling puns.

Emma pulls him up when she stands, Killian’s palm flat on her back and her fingers tracing as much of him as she can, rocking back and forth until they find a rhythm that might just be them and—

They both yelp when the fountain goes off behind them.

He nearly falls over her. She kicks him in the ankle. They laugh. Loudly. And he’d been right about Mary Margaret.

They’re all there, another round of smiles and practically giddy laughter, hands in the air and shouts of triumph that sound suspiciously like winning the jackpot.

Killian feels that way.

“I didn’t want to,” he repeats, soft enough that only Emma can hear. “I just wanted—” “—Me?” “You, Swan. From the very start. For as long as I can remember. And it’s—you want to go on a date or something?” “Honestly?” “No jokes.” She leans back, eyes wide and as hopeful as he’s ever wanted them to be. About him. And them. Collectively. “I’d like to go on several dates. That end with less clothing. I was really upset about all the clothing last night.” “We can probably work on that.” “Yeah?” “Yeah,” Killian nods. “And I—well, we don’t have to stay this—” “—No, no, that’s...I mean, it’s not the worst thing in the world.” “High praise.” “Something like that,” she agrees. “Just, you know...maybe we can date while we’re—” “—Married,” Killian finishes.

“That’s the first time you’ve said that.” “Why do you know that?” “As if you didn’t.” He kisses her again. He can’t help it. Scarlet whistles. And they do go to dinner eventually, but then Killian’s tugging Emma down a hallway, a mouth against her neck and her fingers working buttons and—

It’s even colder the next morning, a distinct lack of clothing and bedding, but there’s a body against his and a small smile on her face and he lets his eyes close again, hopeful for whatever else they may want together.

Approximately 5:15 p.m. April 17th

He asks her.

For real that time.

It’s sooner than he plans on, but they’ve been married for months and Emma smiles when she kisses him.

He figures that’s the response.

[neuxue]

Who are some of your favorite villains?

Oh man, that is a question, anon. This is not a comprehensive list, because if I started listing every morally corrupt character who owns my soul, we’d be here all night. I’ve also taken a somewhat flexible definition of villainy at times, because…it’s complicated.

Also, spoilers for uh…most of the things listed; I’ve tried to keep it vague where possible, but the nature of villainous arcs means sometimes that doesn’t work. I’ve listed the work before the commentary, so if you don’t want spoilers for the thing, skip that section.

In no particular order…

Lord Asriel and Marisa Coulter (His Dark Materials): okay, so arguably they’re not villains, per se, but they each serve as antagonists at various points, they’re ambitious and proud beyond belief, and their morality is…well. Complicated. (Did I lose my mind at the ‘corruption and envy and lust for power. Cruelty and coldness. A vicious probing curiosity. Pure, poisonous toxic malice […] you are a cesspit of moral filth’ speech, from a corrupt angel to the one deceiving him? Abso-fucking-lutely. Also ‘I wanted you to come and join me. And I thought you would prefer a lie’). They’re also on this list because they were my Formative Villain Faves from the age of 7, which probably tells you something about who I was as a child and who I am as a person.

Nirai Kujen (Machineries of Empire). You really…could not write a villain more My Type if you tried. I’m not sure I could write a villain more My Type if I tried. Immortal, immoral mathematician who traded empathy for the ability to act on it, reconfigured a universe, and has lost most of his humanity but not his sense of beauty? I am but a simple woman. It helps that there is one hell of an enemies/allies/lovers dynamic going on between him and another character who is a different sort of my type, and it’s precisely my kind of Fucked Up Power Dynamics.

Moridin (Wheel of Time): ’Your logic destroyed you, didn’t it?’ I have a whole…thing about villains who see themselves as a kind of anti-Chosen One. I’ve written about it slightly more coherently elsewhere, but it comes down to a particular kind of despair and perception of inevitability, that they have no choice but to fight and that their role is always to lose, and that they will be cast and remembered as the monster, and so there is not reason not to be monstrous, but that doesn’t help with the self-hatred.

Semirhage (Wheel of Time): I could pick a lot of the Forsaken, and one or two other characters from WoT but I’ll stick to two here. Semirhage is all about pain without emotion, and I’m into it.

Malkar (Doctrine of Labyrinths): okay, he’s sort of in the category of scenery-chewing villain you love to hate, but I do love to hate him. And he causes so much delicious pain for the major characters; it’s almost like he’s running a charity service for those of us who like watching our favourite characters hurt.

Aaravos (The Dragon Prince): Listen. Listen. Trapped in a mirror, lost and alone and yet only letting that show in glimpses, possibly a Prometheus figure, graceful and beautiful and terrible, and that voice. Also the entire aesthetic. He is awful, and he is a delight, and he has that kind of cruelty that you can almost forget about - it’s as though he’s so into the villain aesthetic that you almost think it’s just an aesthetic, almost forget how capable he truly is of horrors, and so when he commits them it’s all the more thrilling.

Astrid & Athos Dane (Shades of Magic): The Dane twins deserved better. And by better I mean more screen time. They were criminally underused as villains and they had such potential. Vicious and cruel in a world where to be otherwise is to die, holding power by blood and pain, and chaining another …well, if not villain then certainly antagonist to their will, forcing him to serve the world he wants to save? Which brings us to…

Holland (Shades of Magic): Holland is…arguably not a villain but as an antagonist he is absolutely my type: powerful and ruthless and broken, and yet somehow still fighting; a character whose defining trait is his extraordinary will (and also self-hatred); a character who, literally in canon on the goddamn page, is told ‘no one suffers as beautifully as you’. (Plus he gets a redemption arc! That lets him remain complicated and doesn’t undermine his competence! And while it falls into redemption-equals-death, his death doesn’t come at the turning point in his arc the way it does for so many villains - he gets a whole road-trip first!)

Melisande Shahrizai (Kushiel): oh man. She’s such an interesting character, and the narrative does an excellent job of creating that link between her and Phedre - a really, really compelling and beautiful form of 'you know it’s a terrible idea but you can’t help yourself’. Also, she and Marisa Coulter should never be allowed to meet (by which I mean, I would read that fic). I’m also always here for a female villain who gets to be complicated, who has depth beyond just the typical 'femme fatale’ (though Melisande could certainly claim that title), and who is truly central to the story rather than there to look pretty.

Azula (Avatar: The Last Airbender): For all that I love Zuko, he doesn’t belong on this list, flexible as my definition of 'villain’ here is. Azula, on the other hand…sharp and vicious and a void of anger and fear inside, and if she has to feel that, then the world should too.

Zhao (Avatar: The Last Airbender): It’s at least 85% the voice, and the other 15% is the way he looks at Zuko (I know, I know, I’m sorry).

Rhaegar (A Song of Ice and Fire): Rhaegar’s villainy is…complicated, but he gets a spot here anyway. I have a niche subtype that can be defined as Sad Harpists (Rhaegar, Maglor, Deth, Morgon, Asmodean), so that’s part of it, as is the way he sets that aside out of what he perceives as necessity. But also most of his draw is how he’s this shadow hanging over the entire narrative and yet is himself a void in it; we see so little of him, know so little of him in truth, catch only glimpses and will never know what’s behind them, and every character sees him differently, and he has defined all their lives but we know almost nothing of his. I’m all about identity and choices, and the fact that his are so thoroughly obfuscated but have such a lasting impact on the entire world really does it for me.

Baru Cormorant (The Masquerade): Does she count as a villain? I suppose it depends entirely on whose point of view you’re watching from, which is kind of the point. Regardless, she is so much of what I want from a character, from an author who doesn’t do things halfway. Intelligent and ambitious and utterly ruthless, to both herself and the world she wants to burn down around her.

Delilah Briarwood (Critical Role Campaign 1): any character whose cry of agony and despair takes the form of 'I broke the world for us!’ is a character I’m going to like.

The Lone Power (Young Wizards): mostly because the traditional greeting, upon encountering them, is ’fairest and fallen, greetings and defiance’, and I am a simple woman. But also because they’re the Lucifer figure, in all senses - evil, perhaps, but mostly a necessary embodiment of entropy, one who must exist and must struggle and must always lose, beautiful and bright and terrible, and oh so proud.

Judas (Christian Mythology): He betrayed a guy with a kiss. What more do you want from me?

Rin (the Poppy War): By the end, she makes a very compelling case for herself as a Villain Protagonist and I, for one, am into it. Also, 'genocidal’ gets tossed around a lot when villains are discussed, often without cause, so uh…points to Rin for actually deserving it? (This book is strongly in the category of Not For Everyone, but if it’s your thing…weaponising gods.)

Loki (Marvel franchise & Norse Mythology): so, I have a complicated relationship with 'trickster’ figures and characters, in that I like the idea of them, but tend only to actually enjoy the ones who fall on the darker side of that line they all dance around. Loki, in pretty much all his incarnations, fits that mould.

Achilles (Greek Mythology): Is Achilles a villain? Depends who you ask. But he’s powerful and proud and doomed, and knows it. I just…heroes who go out in a blaze of glory are all well and good, but villains who step up to the flames of their own damnation?

Ruin (Mistborn): It’s funny; I really enjoy a lot of Sanderson’s stories, but by and large he tends not to write my type of villain (which I will forgive him because he gave me Kelsier). But Ruin…starts off like just another godlike semicorporeal villain with absurd power, as you do, and then gets significantly more interesting – and tragic – when you learn the full story. I have a thing for villains who chose their villainy out of necessity (with a side helping of hubris) and become that which they most hated or feared. The ones who look at a razor’s edge and think 'I can walk that’. Who look at power that will consume them and think 'I can control it’. It’s a very specific kind of… arrogant sacrifice, I suppose, and it never ends well and I’m into it every time.

[nancywheelxr]

Hello, I read doors open like arms and I absolutely loved it! It was the first time I read a fanfic where Hela was not just a stereotypical villain, but her reasons were somewhat explained, which was great. Also, the Loki-Thor dynamic is amazing, really realistic (to me) and great to read. There is just one problem, though... Now I got invested in your story and I desperately need continuation, does Hela attack, maybe she joins brothers against Thanos... Pretty please?

Hey there, thank you so much! I loved writing that fic and hearing this is seriously making my whole week, anon! I do plan to write more of it, ideally fixing the whole Infinity War-Endgame mess, so maybe subscribe to that fic on AO3 to keep an eye out for updates, but while I hammer out the details of that, here is a small interlude of what happens next:

*

Odin's funeral comes and goes like the flaming arrow that lights up his boat: swiftly and with a blazing streak across the skies that remains burned into Loki's eyelids long after the after images should have faded.

The hollowness that sits hungrily on his chest follows its lead, clawing behind his ribs and demanding his attention. 

In any case, it's on his nature to be contrary, so Loki firmly ignores it and pointedly does not try to untangle the knot of emotions that weighs him down. Instead, he chooses to focus on another absence at the dinner table.

"Now," he says, staring at the murals they have not yet decided what to do with– painting over them feels wrong, but leaving them in the open feels just as upsetting. Loki has half a mind to demolish the whole thing. "This is just getting ridiculous."

"Maybe she hasn't noticed yet," Thor murmurs beside him, quieter than Loki's ever heard him. "Maybe she thinks he still lives."

“You don’t believe that,” he scoffs.

“You don’t believe that,” replies Thor, sullenly. It’s been five minutes since they’ve last encountered some nobleman or other seeking either pointless answers or having some entirely uninteresting news to report. Loki is beginning to grow suspicious; in his time on the throne, five minutes of solitude had been a rare blessing.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe in,” Loki waves him off, glancing away from these dreadful paintings. His stomach rolls unpleasantly. “This will not fix itself and neither of us has been to see her in days.”

Thor bristles. “Father has–”

The words die on his throat, halted with a crushing grief that Loki wants to be about as far away as possible. Thor’s sentimentality has a way of catching. And yet, he finds himself foolishly rooted to the floor. “I know,” he says, voice unwillingly softer, “I know, I don’t mean it accusingly. But we need to deal with Hela, sooner rather than later.”

With a weary sigh, Thor drags a hand across his face. “Something also needs to be done about these murals, I hate the sight of them,” he shakes his head as if that could dispel all the wrong that seems to have settled over their lives as of late. “No matter! This shall wait while we pay our sister a long overdue visit!”

Long overdue might be a little exaggerated, but at least Thor has seen the wisdom on his suggestion. Allowing Hela to stew on her own, to make her plans with only her half of the story, well– they all saw how that turned out for him in the past. For everyone, in fact, and–

“My king,” a servant bows demurely, looking nervously between the two of them, and Loki has seen enough of this to know the Bifrost will be carrying only one of them today. “Lord Asmund has asked for your counsel over a disagreement among the Council.”

“I– thank you,” Thor says, clearing his throat, “but I’m afraid I’m far too busy at the moment, tell the Council I’ll be with them shortly, as soon as I have returned.”

The itch to smack his brother across the head is great, but somehow, Loki finds it in himself to wait until the servant has scurred away. Too dangerous to do anything undermining to his brother’s rule so soon into his regency. “Don’t be daft,” he rolls his eyes, scowls, “you can’t afford to slight your Council this early, especially considering the current affronts you’ve made against their wishes.”

“What,” it brings him up short and Loki raises one eyebrow, unimpressed, spreads his hands as if to gesture himself.

“Do you truly think they want me here, brother?” He sighs, “they will not be happy about Hela either. In fact, it would be in your best interests to exile the two us before the whole court sees you taking in yet another monster.”

The smack across his head comes as a shocking surprise. “Have you lost your mind? Or perhaps you wish to lose that hand?!”

“I will tolerate no insults to my family,” Thor replies calmly, smugly, “much less coming from my family.”

Loki glowers, far too much happening for him to keep track. That, too, he ignores violently. Instead, he focuses on his irritation. “You’re a fool and I will remind you I warned you now when this inevitably leads to disaster.”

Thor laughs. “Of course you will, brother. Now, let’s go see our sister.”

“No,” he says, haughtily pushing him towards the hallway the servant had disappeared back into, “I will go see Hela alone while you see to your Council.”

Perhaps, had he had the chance, Thor might have protested, but as it is, by the time he realizes an illusion has been telling him that, Loki is nearly too far to hear his enraged cry, the glittering of the rainbow bridge already twinkling in the distance.

*

Helheim is still as dreadful as ever, greying and dark, and Loki hates this place more than on principle. A thousand years here, it’s a miracle Hela has clung to any shreds of sanity– it makes him wonder what did Odin think of the future; he locked her here and then what? Did the old man think he would live forever?

“Why have you come this time, little brother?” Hela’s voice is standoffish and cool, uninterested down to the vowels. Loki firmly does not listen to the faint voice in his head, so much like Frigga’s, pointing out how much alike she sounds to him right now.

They did not grow up together nor even heard stories of each other and yet, a stranger in the streets would certainly mistake them for siblings after listening for five minutes.

“That’s not the right question now, is it?” He hums, turning around to see Hela lounging in a conjured throne with Fenrir at her feet. She looks well, less pale than before, less hungry, less like a lingering ghost. More solid, more real. It should probably be more frightening than he feels it is. 

Hela snorts, rolling her eyes. “I suppose you expect me to ask next what it is, then,” she cards her fingers through grey fur, unsettlingly in good spirits, “very well, I’ll humor you this once– what should I be asking?”

He narrows his eyes in suspicion for a second before deciding to go for a milder approach. “The real question is not why am I here, but why are you?” 

Her good mood vanishes at his words. “Where else would I be?” 

“The Allfather is gone,” he points out needlessly, gestures the barren landscape around them, “you don’t have to stay here anymore.”

“Indeed,” she says, “and I daresay Odin would just love to see me leaving my prison now that he is gone to bring Asgard down. No, I don’t think so. I’m not playing into his games anymore.”

“There are more choices besides staying here or destroying an entire realm, you know.”

Her eyes flash dangerously. “If you think I’ll return to that place in chains, a prisoner where once I ruled, you are terribly wrong. A gilded cage is still a cage and at least here, I don’t have to withstand those ancient fools prattling about.”

Loki studies her for a moment, taking the chance to collect his thoughts; this is the first time he’s on this side of this speech, you see. In hindsight, perhaps he should have let Thor come along, he certainly has more experience handling this.

Oh well, it’s not like he can say she is wrong, he supposes.

“Thor would say Asgard is not a cage,” he says, “and ask you to come home immediately. He’s a bit upset you missed the funeral.”

“That one is a fool,” Hela waves him off, “am I to understand you are here to do the same?”

“No, I like to think I know better,” Loki shrugs, dusting off his armor to prepare himself for the travel back. Nothing more to do here today, better not to rush her. “You’re right in one matter, sister– the court truly is full of decrepit imbeciles.”

Fenrir lifts his head lazily, tail wagging once as Hela laughs, and Loki calls for Heimdall, allowing the blaze of light to sweep him back home.

*

“Where’s Hela?” Thor frowns, breaking off from where he had been talking with the Warriors Three and the distance does nothing to soften Sif’s distrustful glare. Fair enough. 

“In her prison,” he answers calmly, not bothering to stop but slowing his steps, “although she seems to have regained her full power. I think I saw some trees there this time.”

“What?” Thor makes a face, “does she know–”

“Yes, she’s aware.”

“And she wants to stay where she is?”

Loki thinks of the depressing landscape, Fenrir’s tail blowing thin dust into the air each time it hit the ground, the unnatural taste of the forever dim lights. No one wants to stay stuck in an eternal twilight, at the edge of a nightmare. “No, she does not.”

“No, she does n– you are making no sense, brother,” Thor sighs, huffs, and he looks very tired, worn like Loki has never seen him. Even in his worst days as King, Loki can’t remember looking so exhausted, old. Then again, he didn’t care half as much, didn’t want much more than keeping the peace and send those blasted stones about as far as he could trust someone to hide them.

And, well, if he’s being honest, he had never expected to reign for so long. A few months, maybe, but not years. Thor, he expects, has millenniums to look forward to.

Good thing neither of them is a seer, truly.

“Give it time,” he offers, catching sight of some harried lord of other he never bothered to learn the name, and ducks into a different hallway, parting ways to return to his room. Still, he calls behind his shoulder, “and stop avoiding your meetings!”

*

“You again,” Hela purses her lips. Today, Fenrir is off chasing rabbits; if he pays attention, Loki thinks he can hear the anguished cries and the tear of fur and flesh.

“Me again,” he agrees cheerily, taking a seat into the newly made garden. It looks a little like Frigga’s, if less gentle, less idyllic. Wilder, actually, with poison ivies strangling trees and roots upending the earth. “You will not believe what happened today.”

“Do tell, but only if it’s interesting,” she says, watching flies buzz around, a dead bird attracting the lot of them. “How fares our dear brother in the throne?”

“Surprisingly not disastrously,” Loki admits, “do you want to hear it or not?”

“Not particularly. Since I so clearly am not going to be the queen, why should I care for Asgard?” Her tone is cavalier, dismissive, but he hears the undercurrent of hurt there, the spiteful resignation– yes, she wouldn’t be Odin’s blood-thirsty monster, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, wouldn’t wreak the havoc he had expected her to, but at what cost? She’s making a garden out of her prison, but he wonders how much of herself is she losing with these illusions?

How much change until there’s nothing of yourself left?

He shakes his head. “It’s where your power comes from, is it not?”

“In a way,” she nods, “doesn’t mean I have to be embroiled into whatever court nonsense has you into such a tirade.”

Fenrir comes lumbering back, muzzle dripping with blood and tail wagging happily, more dog than feral beast. Loki turns his nose in disgust, huffs. “I feel I am the only one with sense in that place.”

“It would not come as a surprise. You seem to have some intelligence, I could not say the same for the rest of the court.”

“Thank you, sister, for the glowing endorsement,” he drawls, rolling his eyes, then– a thought. “You should come home, help me help them not to run the city to the ground.”

Hela laughs. “I thought you were going to tell me a story, little prince.”

*

“Tonight there is a feast, will you come?”

“No, I don’t think I will,” says Hela, and Fenrir darts past them, a bloodied deer in his maw, still twitching every other second. “Will you attend?”

Loki grins, settling in one of the benches with the pile of books he had brought with him today. “People will certainly see me there.”

Hela rolls her eyes but picks one of the tomes. The poor lighting is terrible for reading, nothing a few witch lights can’t fix.

*

“Thor has a room made for you,” Loki points out, “it was garish at first, of course, but I had it redecorated.”

“Tell me, then, little brother, do these quarters come with how many guards at my door?”

“No guards, no,” he shrugs, “but I expect the Council will try to riddle it with spies. They certainly tried with mine.”

Hela hums. “Of course. I’d turn them inside out and leave their entrails at the door. Or perhaps their heads in a spike?”

“I would think you’d sick Fenrir on them.”

“He deserves better than a traitor’s flesh.”

“Does that mean you are coming?”

“That means I would rather be left alone.”

*

“It’s been a fortnight, will you come home now?”

“No. Be careful with the nightshade, it’s been wilting lately.”

*

“Thor has been asking for you, he’s convinced the Council you will not be a threat to the Realm. No more than I, in any case. Will you come home?”

“I’m offended, I will not.”

*

It takes half a season for Thor to finally grow too impatient with his visits and if he’s being honest, Loki is only surprised it took him this long to corner him outside his room. “You’re off to see Hela again, aren’t you?”

“I did say I would take care of the situation, didn’t I?” He raises one eyebrow, eyeing his displeased scowl.

“Yes, yes, but,” Thor glares, sour to the bone, “you haven’t been to a Council meeting in forever! Maybe we should let her come to us when she is ready, give up on these fruitless visits.”

Loki rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. “What do you think I have been doing? You try convincing the Goddess of Death to do anything. She keeps conjuring the most hideous plants for her garden, but I believe I’m close to getting her to lose the corpse flowers.”

“Losing the–”

“You won’t want to know, they smell terrible, really, like rotting flesh. Even the blasted wolf hates it.”

Thor looks like he might want to protest or perhaps inquire further on Hela’s awful gardening plans, or, more likely, to question him again on what they’ve been discussing, but a servant interrupts them again, reminding Thor of a meeting he seems to be almost late to. Good thing, really, that Loki has arranged for the staff to keep these reminders coming. It wouldn’t do for their king to be late, it gives time for gossip and scheming to brew.

And if the distrust, the suspicion Loki might be the one plotting behind Thor’s back with Hela to– what? Destroy Asgard? Kill their brother? – well, it might sting, yes, but it’s not like he can blame him, not in light of the past decade, even the past few months. 

Still, Loki excuses himself cooly, trying not to allow unfair resentments to claw at his throat.

*

“If they are all constantly suspicious of you,” Hela says, a frown so much like Thor’s on her brow, “and it bothers you so, then why stay? You know the pathways between worlds, why not slip away from their petty grievances?”

Loki can’t help snorting; only Hela would call his crimes petty.

And yet, her question, as they often do, gives him pause. Why did he stay? He could have gone anywhere in the universe, thrown the tesseract in the nearest wormhole and run in the other direction. It wouldn’t have hidden him from the Titan, not forever, but neither will Asgard– which reminds him, he will have to warn his brother of this soon: Thanos’ madness will not spare their home, not even if Loki were a thousand miles away, if the Tesseract were a thousand miles away.

Soon isn’t today, though, so instead, he allows himself to faintly prod at the tangled knots of emotions he had been ignoring these past months. If he were someone else, someone more prone to feelings and such, he might say he stayed because pushing everything away had become too tiring on his shoulder, because he had died once, nearly twice, and when you die for somewhere, for someone, that has to count for something, because more often than not it feels like never stopped falling, but in Asgard, it’s easier to pretend there’s solid ground beneath his feet.

Because running away has only ever made things worse, so he chose to stay for once, is choosing to stay, and sometimes, he thinks it might be the same as choosing his family and that could be enough because it’s on purpose.

“Because it’s worth it,” he tells Hela at last and watches her consider his words carefully, hesitant as she absently pets Fenrir, eyes far away to the sky like she’s seeing golden and blue instead of dulling greys. When she says nothing, he adds softly, “will you come home and see it for yourself?”

This time when he calls for Heimdall and the Bifrost strikes from the sky, the Guardian is there, steady and dependable, to welcome him home along with Hela, her ridiculously large wolf, and the stupid cactus in a yellow vase she carries in her hands. 

[poeticandvaguelysweet]

#233 - Abandonment

ANON: Owen and Claire get into an argument and one of them leaves to blow off steam but Maisie gets upset

ANON: love to read your take on Maisie calling Owen and Claire, dad and mom for the first time

I honestly cannot hold onto fics that long. As soon as they’re done I need to give them to you. It’s killing me. 

AO3

ABANDONMENT

The skies had rumbled before. Angry clouds rolling over the other as they shattered above house and home, frightening children in their beds. Owen’s voice, when he was mad, rumbled, crackling overhead as it left the trailer and loomed over the young girl.

She hadn’t heard two people fighting before.

Mr Mills had raised his voice once or twice, but that was almost a long time ago now. He had only ever done it in frustration towards her, irritated that she was asking simple questions or invading his space. Never had she heard him yell at another person who was roaring back. It wasn’t as mad as this, as angry and hateful as their words muffled inside the tin shell, forgetful of Maisie playing in the giant tree beside the half-finished cabin. Mr Mills was nothing compared to her newfound parents, her careers yelling at each other so loudly she could hear them behind closed doors.

She jumped when Claire burst out of the trailer, door hitting the side of their mobile home with a bang that chased up her spine in cold chills. Maisie dropped from the tree, watching as Claire marched across the grass a few steps, Owen’s head appearing in the doorway, calling to her before she turned back him. ‘Fuck you, Owen!’ She yelled, cheeks red and eyes blazing, every inch of her radiating irritation. Maisie stood still not drawing attention to herself as she watched cool, calm and collected Claire lose it.

‘If it bothers you so much, just go!’ He yelled back, dismissive, words spitting as Maisie felt her heart stop. No. She didn’t want Claire to go anywhere, her eyes darting between the two adults as she opened her mouth, wanting to say something but unsure of what.

‘I’m going!’ Claire retorted as he turned his back before she finished, trailer door slamming shut behind him. ‘Don’t expect me to come back!’ She taunted, getting in the final word before she turned and stalked towards her car. Maisie couldn’t breathe, could barely move until she saw the flash of the Mercedes unlocking.

She pushed forward, forcing her legs to move as her knees threatened to give in. ‘No!’ Maisie warbled, ‘Don’t go!’ But her voice wasn’t loud enough to reach Claire, the woman barely batting an eyelash, her back to the girl. ‘He’s sorry.’ She whispered, unable to make her voice any louder than it was. ‘He didn’t mean it!’ She apologised for Owen, trying to make good on the adult situation that had exploded in front of her. She was sure it was Owen’s fault. He was the one who said go, he was the one who needed to apologise and, Maisie could make sure he did that.

Claire couldn’t leave. Everyone left Maisie in one way or another. The idea of a mother, father and a normal childhood. Iris went. Grandfather died. Even the kindness Mr Mills used to bestow upon her left. The childish innocence she had disappeared with the revelation that she wasn’t just like everyone else, that something born of heartbreak made her an abomination. She didn’t want Claire to leave because she had hung all her hopes on that woman. Maisie had pressed promises into the space between Claire’s fingers and each strand of her hair while the night moved past her, wide awake as she struggled with nightmares.

She had attached herself to Claire, bound her life with hers and it was nowhere near fair that the woman was leaving.

She tripped when the engine started, unable to keep her feet under her body as the car door slammed shut. Maisie fell to the grass; shoe caught on a sturdy vine. Her knees began to sting, the telltale sign that she had scrapped them as she watched Claire’s car pull away from their cabin site and disappear down the dirt road.

[…]

Inside the trailer, Owen was trying to calm himself down. His fists clenched, fingers rolled into a tight grip as he refrained from punching the wall. She had a bad habit of driving him insane. Her fight or flight twisting itself into a morbid want to abandon all things right for her. Claire wasn’t coping. He knew it, saw the signs but chose not to handle it before things exploded.

She’d take a few days, calm down and come back with a solution. She always did. If not, Owen would reach for her, compromise or bend to her original wants. In the centre sat his cabin and van. They hadn’t talked about it. Just picked up life in the backwoods and carried on. It turned itself into a problem.

‘This might work for you, but it doesn’t work for us! For her. She needs something stable and social. She’s been living on her own in a manor her whole fucking life, Owen. She needs to see more than the god damn woods.’

Owen was taking deep breaths through his mouth, trying to loosen the tension in his neck when he heard it. The howl was human, unbearably distraught as it tore through a young throat. It didn’t take him long to figure out who was making the noise on their vacant property as he flew out of the trailer to find Maisie sitting in the middle of the yard, legs tucked under her body, clothes streaked with dirt as her hands fisted mounds of earth.

They had seen her upset and had nursed nightmares and daytime fears. This was different; this was Maisie with as much heartbreak as her chest could muster. She was a little girl falling apart. ‘Hey, hey, hey, what happened?’ He was by her side in a second flat, trying to untangle her fingers from the grass with one hand as the other scooped her into his lap.

She didn’t look hurt. There was a graze on her knee, but in the weeks that they had her free and wild in the mountains around Owen’s property, she had braved much worse.

‘You’re okay, Maisie.’ She was shaking her head, unable to speak as her chest rose and fell in small movements, her lungs not allowing her to breathe in more than an inch at a time. ‘Breathe, kid.’ He was trying to encourage, taking deep breaths himself as he focused on the softness of his touch, the way he held her like she was the most precious thing he ever had. She had filled that position right beside Claire in a matter of weeks. He wanted what was best for her, but neither adult could agree on what that was.

‘Maisie,’ his voice was stern as he sat her up, bending his head to meet his green eyes with her wet brown. She hadn’t stopped crying, tears falling hard and fast as she sobbed like the world was ending. ‘You need to stop this.’ He was concerned, watching her chest catch as her cries continued. She was only going to make herself sick.

She shook her head, hand lifting curled fingers to her lips as she pulled on her chin another howl ripping her throat into ribbons as he couldn’t help but get upset himself. ‘My m-mom.’ She cried, finally getting words past her cries as her head continued to move from side to side, gaze falling on the dirt path that led back to town. ‘Gone.’

Owen felt his shoulders relax. His tension shifted no longer concerned about his argument with Claire but the wellbeing of the girl in his lap. Something in his head stopped on mom and the childish way the word bubbled from her throat. It shouldn’t have been the way this happened. Claire should have been there when Maisie chose to anoint her with the title. She should not have said it under extreme duress, but happy giggles as they surprisingly tickled it out of her. ‘Oh, Mais, Claire will come back. She’s just gone for a drive.’ He promised.

She surprised him when her small hand hit him on the shoulder, pushing him with all her strength. ‘You told her to go!’ She screamed, voice shaking as a rage-filled her tear soaked eyes. ‘Just like Mr Mills, you sent her away!’ He let her go, his heart shattering as Maisie found the strength to scamper away from him, only stopping at a few feet.

He hadn’t been that bad. He knew it. Knew that Claire always needed a breather to blow off steam before resolving their problems. Maisie didn’t know what the fought about, only heard muffled words. He had been painted as the bad guy. In an instant, she deflated him as he watched the girl curl in on herself, cries growing louder. They shouldn’t have been arguing near her in the first place. Should have waited until the weekend Karen had scheduled to come to visit, using her sister to usher the girl out of their presence so they could have at each other’s throats in peace.

He didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t a father, had barely been a guardian to the girl since they got her. Hell, he didn’t even know how they still had her or why in their right minds Claire insisted on keeping her. He loved Maisie. Nothing would change that now. Owen just wasn’t too sure how exactly they ended up being the right kind of people to keep her. The nightmares were one thing. He considered himself an expert in PTSD … especially the dinosaur related type. Maybe it was better to rehabilitate her and then release the girl to a better livelihood. But, she had called Claire mom, and that had just about solidified them as hers forever.  

Maisie made herself sick, her hyperventilated crying too much for her small body as her stomach expelled itself onto the grass.

‘Oh, sweetheart.’ His chest ached, Owen desperate to reach for her but scared of the backlash she had already proven she was capable of. It took ten seconds for Maisie to recover, realising that she needed him before she shuffled over and curled into his arms. ‘She’s coming back, I promise.’ Maisie cried against his shoulder, a mix of her upset emotions and stomach soaking his shirt.

He lifted her, one arm under her bent knees while the other supported her back, carrying her back inside the trailer where she would be more comfortable. She threw up again, Owen managing to fetch a bucket just in time as Maisie leaned over the end of the bed, her face a little green.

Despite how much her body was telling her to stop crying, she couldn’t. Owen had failed when he handed her a glass of water. He didn’t want her to dehydrate herself, leaving her head aching and her face sore. Her hands shook as she held the glass, gulping it down before she handed it back to him with wide, expectant eyes. The water only brought on more tears, and when she emptied it into the bucket five minutes later, he knew they had a problem.

‘I want Claire.’ Maisie hiccoughed between her cries when he asked her what would make this better. He was hoping it would be a Twinkie stashed in the back of the cupboard. They had a large stash of confectionary that she could choose from, but instead, she wanted the one thing he was hesitant to give her.

He called Claire anyway, panic twisting in his fingers as he watched Maisie curl in on herself again. She had tangled herself in the blankets; her arms wrapped tight around Claire’s pillow as he listened to the dial tone over and over. He called her three times before he realised she wasn’t going to answer. Instead, he sent a text hoping the Bluetooth in her car would read it aloud.

[…]

Everything stopped when her car spoke. ‘New text message from Owen. Something is wrong with Maisie. You need to come back.’ It read in its robotic voice, pitch diving up and down across the words as Claire hit the breaks and turned her car around.

She had conjured up the worst possible scenarios on her return to the cabin; sure she would arrive to find the girl bleeding, unconscious or gone altogether. The property was still when she arrived, her anxiety making it quiet as she approached the trailer and stepped inside. ‘Is everything okay?’ She asked, peering into the space as she sought out the man and girl she had left there.

‘Claire?!’ Maisie’s voice croaked, trying for a squeak but her throat was too sore. She didn’t see the girl she moved so fast, flinging herself off the edge of the queen sized bed as arms and legs wrapped themselves around Claire with a vice-like grip. She wrapped her arms around the girl in response, eyes squeezing closed as she tightened her hold, matching the pressure the child was supplying.

‘Are you alright?’ She asked, pulling her head back to try and see Maisie’s face, her hand stroking through the girl’s damp hair. Owen was sitting on the edge of the bed, his body not catching her attention until he moved, trying to slide past her with a bucket of sick. ‘Were you sick, baby?’ Claire asked, hand sliding from Maisie’s head, down her back and back up again before her fingers found her forehead checking the girl’s temperature. Maisie nodded. ‘You’re a little warm.’ She didn’t know what was warm or too hot with just her hands, mental itinerary double checking what they had in the first aid kit in the trailer. Mostly bandages for building accidents.

She felt Maisie tense. ‘Bucket,’ Claire called for Owen, instinct warning her as she felt the man at her back the exact second Maisie tilted in her arms. She threw up again, not missing the container Owen was holding as Claire kept a firm hold on the girl, stopping her from falling.

Concern climbed up her spine, nesting itself between her temples as she frowned down at Maisie in her arms. Resettling herself, Maisie started to cry again, biting on her knuckle as she pressed her cheek to Claire’s chest, tears falling on her skin. ‘You’re alright.’ Claire soothed, trying to shuffle around the small space as she soaked a cloth in the kitchenette before applying it to Maisie’s forehead. Owen stayed out of her way, watching Claire’s movement, careful not to get a purposeful elbow to the gut as she passed. ‘What happened?’ She asked, sitting with Maisie on the edge of the bed, girl wrapped around her torso and refusing to let go.

‘I thought you weren’t never gonna come back.’ Maisie warbled, tears seeping back into her words as her hands locked tighter between Claire’s shoulder blades. She thought there was still a chance that was going to happen, but if she anchored herself to Claire, there would be no way they could tear her away. ‘I called out to you.’ She hiccoughed, fingers in her mouth, playing with her teeth. ‘But you didn’t listen.’ Her sobs started again, Claire quick to soothe her as she rocked the girl slightly promising it was all in the past. She was there now.

‘I didn’t hear you, sweetheart.’ She apologised, hand taking a large circle across Maisie’s back as she kissed the top of the girl’s head, wishing they had a bath they could put her in. Another mental strike against trailer life.

Owen had disappeared, making himself scarce, the bucket with him while Claire made herself comfortable in the centre of the bed, Maisie lying directly on top of her, grip not letting go. ‘I don’t feel well.’ Her words wobbled, mouth drew into a pout as Claire felt the girl’s chin shake against her chest.

‘I bet you don’t.’ She rubbed at Maisie’s back with two hands now, slow and sure movements. ‘Why don’t you close your eyes, okay? I’m right here. I’ve got you, baby.’ She reassured the girl, closing her own eyes at the same time, back propped up with pillows as she held the girl like she was an ailing infant.

They were quiet, Maisie’s breathing evening out as it returned to a regular pattern, her deep breaths following Claire’s. ‘Am I too much?’ Maisie asked, sniffling as she turned her head, nose dragging across Claire’s chest. Claire felt her breath catch, heart aching that the girl felt the need to ask such a question. She felt overwhelmed at times, unsure of the bond and relationship she was forming with the girl. She knew that she was taking on the parental role, but Claire had nothing to prepare her for that, no guidance other than Owen who’s view on parenting was somewhat different from hers. ‘I can be a good girl, Mama.’ Her heart shattered, officially breaking apart and spitting itself out into the atmosphere. She was too much sometimes. Her desperate need to feel loved, wanted and needed was overbearing. Claire didn’t know what to do with it. Ultimately, it was sweet, precious, still somewhat heartbreaking to hear the girl required constant reassurance that she was enough for them. They were committing themselves to her and were not planning on looking back. She was theirs.

Hearing her plead for an opportunity to stay, calling Claire mama in the process was too much. She felt the tears prick her eyes but refused to let them be anything more than that. She couldn’t cry and wouldn’t, not at this moment.

‘Oh Maisie,’ she sighed. ‘You’re perfect.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m broken,’ she admitted causing Claire’s chest to further clench. ‘And needy.’

Claire didn’t even know where she had picked up the word. They certainly hadn’t said it, nor eluded to it in or out of Maisie’s presence. ‘It’s okay to need people.’ She couldn’t see her face, hands still running up and down her back as Maisie sighed heavily. ‘A little or a lot, you can need me. I don’t mind.’ She waited for a beat. ‘Mama’s are there to be needed.’ She used the girl’s word, taking on the title softly as she pressed a kiss to Maisie’s temple. ‘You don’t need to get this upset about it, Mais. Okay?’ The girl nodded. ‘I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.’

Maisie sniffled again, ‘but you did go. I wanted you to be my mom, and you went away like everyone else.’

‘I came back, didn’t I?’ She chuckled softly, pressing her lips to Maisie’s hair again. Owen returned to the trailer, their mobile home rocking upon his entrance as he paused in the small bedroom doorway to check over them, grimace on his face and heart on his sleeve. ‘I need you to know that if ever I walk out that door or any other, I will always come back to you.’ Her eyes met Owen’s, locking for a brief second before her gaze turned back to the girl lying on her chest. ‘You’ve got us for life, kiddo.’ There were still no promises on that, but Claire was sure she would fight tooth and nail to keep the girl with her no matter the cost. She had committed.  

They fell back into silence, still rubbing Maisie’s back as they lay there wasting away a lazy afternoon. ‘Are you still mad at Owen?’ Maisie asked, as his head turned back to them, ears picking up, hoping he would be called forward like the family pet.

Claire hummed. ‘Yes,’ she answered without hesitation, her eyes raising to meet his. ‘But, we’re grown-ups. Our problems are for us to solve. First and foremost, we care about you, Mais. We were arguing about what was best for you and I got a little hot headed about it. I needed to walk away for a little bit to let myself cool down.’

‘But you drove away, not walked.’ Maisie’s hand was tight on the side of her shirt, death-grip returning in memory of her earlier abandonment.

She saw humour flicker across Owen’s face, a smile pulling at his lips, his eyes on Maisie and not Claire. She supposed, somehow, he was drinking them both in. She wasn’t stupid. She knew how much this journey was challenging them but also how thrilled he was to see this side of their lives unfold.

‘Okay,’ she folded. ‘Next time I am mad about something I will go for a walk instead of getting in my car.’ She promised, despite knowing that the road helped her more than the trees. They were more Owen’s thing. Maisie hummed against her chest, breath warm on Claire’s collarbone. ‘How would you feel about moving to the city and staying in my apartment for a little bit?’ They had been out here long enough, and although she and Owen had not precisely agreed on the matter, this was a better opportunity than any other.

‘I like it out here.’ She lifted her head, brown eyes meeting Claire’s for the first time since she came back.

‘We can come back … on weekends.’ Owen offered, jumping in to compromise with Claire. He could have let her do this part-time. Could have told Maisie that she could come to visit whenever she wanted. Instead, he was volunteering his space and home to place them as his most important priority.

She nodded, ‘of course’. This wasn’t about them. It was about Maisie and what was best for her. If she enjoyed being out in the cabin with Owen two days a week, then Claire could live with it. She was getting the better end of the deal. Her apartment, her life, her job nearby. It was him who would have to make the compromises to fit his life with theirs. She could give him two days out of seven.

‘Will you still be my mom and dad in the city?’

Neither adult hesitated, their eyes meeting each other across the small space of the trailer’s bedroom. ‘Always.’ They answered. Claire tugged the girl back into another tight hug. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Claire reassured Maisie, her lips pressed to the girl’s cheek. She couldn’t. Not when they received that reaction from her.

‘Can you kiss and make up?’ Maisie asked, body still as she waited with bated breath. Claire nodded, her chin brushing against Maisie’s head while she sighed. The girl moved, pulling herself off Claire’s body, her hand still wrapped tightly around a fistful of her t-shirt, keeping hold just in case.  

Owen crawled over the mattress, meeting Claire at the headboard as Maisie watched their lips meet. The kiss was quick, a peck as to be child appropriate. Claire felt herself relax, the stressors from their earlier argument melting away with his skin on hers, apologetic and forgiving. Maisie was grinning at them when they pulled away, tears still sitting on her cheeks and her knuckle in her mouth. A smile was a smile. They could start with that.

‘Better?’ Claire asked, watching as the girl nodded. She reached a hand towards her, pushing Maisie’s hair out of her face. She had given them quite the scare, but evidently not as much as they had done to her. Maisie slipped back into Claire’s lap, taking up a space the woman was more than happy to give her.

[kingdumkum]

THE TRAIL WE BLAZE

even the best adventurers need to refer to their map sometimes; so have no fear, i've prepared only the most comprehensive GPS to help you find your way.

✵ a merrier world -> as Gandalf said, "if more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be #a merrier world," and so, too, do I value my mutuals. anything and everything involving them (sans asks) can be found here.

✵ adventure is out there! -> a motto to live by, and a reminder that sometimes, the best is yet to come. kasey's to be read pile, or rather--the adventures waiting to happen.

✵ be the first -> just as Achilles makes Patroclus the solemn promise that he will #be the first to be both happy and famous, so too do i make that promise. my series (4+ parts) will eventually get me a book contract, right?

✵ :(content) -> will be added onto posts as both warning AND a gathering of my favorite tropes/cliches. there will be permanent "trigger" cw warnings as well as "trope" warnings. check out this page for a comprehensive list of content tags.

✵ content:incoming! -> reblogs sans tags--but don't worry, they're incoming.

✵ eat you raw -> the all encompassing dark content tag. as dark as Achilles's vow to sacrifice his humanity to avenge his love - limits found in the astrolabe.

✵ far over... -> multi-fandom postings can be a haggle to navigate-- mountainous, if you will--but resting #far over… these misty mountains cold lies our special prize. pick your poison, or be surprised.

✵ follow the yellow brick road -> housekeeping, but only the behind-the-scenes stuff. the road you'd take to find your way home, from meeting your captain to reading the maps - but NOT the adventures we take along the way. that’s r. l. s. kasey, for our archives.

✵ fool's gold -> these might look like something special, but they're probably not. but hey, at least you'll get your cravings met with an original work exceeding 5k words, or broken into 2-3 parts.

✵ fragments of stardust -> "the way you are all made from the same pieces; the same #fragments of stardust and yet you are all so different," so too do we marvel at the various thirsts that aren't mine. not the full-blown fics, but the drool-worthy bits that charter a course to parts unknown.

✵ from the source -> anything and everything directly from the anime/manga/source; screen caps, gif-sets, art releases, promo shots, etc. if it's been officially sanctioned, it'll be here.

✵ going with you -> it's totally impossible to traverse the universe alone--and that's why, I'm #going with you. enter: kasey's self-ships, for your (my) viewing pleasure.

✵ hated to lose -> i'm usually not good at games (I've always #hated to lose), like John Silver, but... for you? I'll make an exception. Come play with me!

✵ jar of dirt -> like Jack Sparrow arms himself with dirt to prevent Davy Jones from taking his soul, so, too, does this pirate have her own jar to prevent Davy Jones from stealing her mind. got writer's block? the captain's #jar of dirt is here for inspiration.

✵ kasey and company -> would you look at that, we've signed a contract. all collaborations will be tagged with this, as well as any collab-specific tags. also the name of the tag list (for now).

✵ kasey discovers -> read along as your captain embarks on a brand new adventure, livestreaming any and all reactions. *will additionally be tagged with (fandom):(media).

✵ kasey's adventure book! -> any and all original works, regardless of length.

✵ kasey's clues -> as the Wall Guard says, "the only ones who ever come here are #the minstrels, and #the lovers, and #the mad;" or, in the common tongue, asks off anon, mutuals, and on anon.

✵ kasey's collection: (fandom name) -> writing AND art, broken down by fandom. just in case you can't pick a favorite.

✵ kasey's precious -> as how Gollum can't bear to be without his precious, Kasey can't bear to be without these golden rings of writing. my all time favorites.

✵ kasey's silver chain -> as Tristran and Yvaine were connected by love (and an unbreakable silver chain), so too is my heart to these art recommendations. after all, any pirate worth their salt's gonna have both silver chains (art) and precious gold rings (writing).

✵ kasey's soap box -> i might not be preaching to the choir, but i want to say it anyway. the thoughts/social commentary that i might not be qualified to give advice on, but can't help myself from offering two cents.

✵ kasey's sweet tooth -> the ooey-gooey fluff that makes you want to vomit (affectionately). totally SFW -- but still, NO MINORS ALLOWED.

✵ king of spades -> the shameless self-reblogs. because when you've worked that hard to share the perfect adventure, why not be as cocky as the #king of spades?

✵ makings of greatness -> everyone needs a reminder that they've "got the #makings of greatness in you," so here's mine. any original horn-ee time thots, >3k--for those who prefer a quicker adventure.

✵ no prey no pay -> commissions, both by and for the captain herself

✵ one lifetime with you -> love letters, which basically means the totally self-indulgent praises of my writing, whether it be reblogs or asks. i'd rather spend #one lifetime with you folks than all the ages of man alone &lt;3

✵ rattle the stars -> want to know which of my original works I'm so proud of, I'm going to #rattle the stars? same. maybe they'll eventually appear?

✵ r. l. s. kasey -> how to find your favorite scouts, specifically. a comprehensive list of the spellings I use; their tags; and if I'm feeling fancy, ~masterlists~

✵ that'll be the door -> I become Bilbo every time my doorbell rings; but just because I'm not in the mood to entertain doesn't mean I'm allowed not to. this queued content is sure to convince you I'm ready for guests--even if I need to be reminded #that'll be the door.

✵ the picture of kasey -> i've been told putting your heart and soul into your art is cathartic, but i think Dorian Gray would disagree. looks like you'll have to settle for the general mood, thoughts, and vibes of kasey's mind - sans my soul, of course.

✵ the one eyed king -> you know what they say about the land of the blind - #the one eyed man is king. all thoughts unrelated to creating/analyzing content, which means shit postings and mindless rambles will show you just how much this blind king can see.

✵ troll! in the dungeon! -> don't make me use this one! it'll hurt my feelings to see hate mail!

✵ you're either a thief or a hero -> when it comes to having an opinion, #you're either a thief or a hero. I'm not here to make judgement, only collect all literary analyses so you can decide for yourself.

happy navigating, try not to get lost

[synchronysymphony]

Make the post. Jean Prouvaire had a gun, Jean Prouvaire fired it, Jean prouvaire died fighting,, intrepid,, just as fierce as Enjolras,,, Jean Prouvaire was shredded

this is all the inspiration I need >:D

[ okay so obviously don’t read this if you like Jean Prouvaire or if you are into the UwU Baby trope, but ,, ]

So, I used to like Prouvaire, I mean he’s canonically pretty cool, with his guns and his death scene and his Romanticism, but then I saw more and more of him in the fandom, and I began to dislike him Intensely. I’m not shaming anybody, because of course, he’s a fictional character, and you’re allowed to write him in any way you want! Bear in mind that the following is only my opinion, and I am in no way attacking anyone, or trying to start drama. Maybe I’m wrong; it could be the case. And maybe I’m being overly mean. I don’t want to offend anyone over a literal book character, so if you want to send me anon hate (which I welcome; I still get a little jolt of excitement every time I get one), please consider that I really mean no harm. 

But the dude really gets on my nerves. He comes across as a whiny, immature, infantilized, one-dimensional, idolized baby– someone I would definitely avoid if I met him in real life. People are afraid to dig deeper into his character and really explore who he is, so he becomes really flat and vapid.

For example, people love to go on about how Enjolras is rich and privileged (which, yeah, he is, and it’s good to explore that), but they conveniently ignore the fact that Jehan is also canonically a rich only son. He’s just as privileged as Enjolras is, and would therefore probably have some problematic views, but I’ve never seen that addressed. Instead, he’s put on a pedestal as some flawless paragon of perfection, who’s soft and sweet and timid and cute and would never hurt a fly. Hugo wanted us to like the amis, but I find it very hard to feel anything but negatively about this guy, just because he’s so lauded as a mythic being who can do no wrong. He’s the one who calls people out (gently, of course; he’s so shy and kindhearted), because unlike his friends (usually Enjolras >://), he knows what’s Actually Right and Good. And then, often enough, his Mean Bad Friends misunderstand him and make him into a victim, because he’s so darling and quirky and misunderstood, and then his actually-soft-and-somehow-not-a-murderer-anymore boyfriend has to come and soothe his soul with words of love. [I used to love JehanParnasse, like I thought their dynamic was really cool and interesting, and I thought it would be really fascinating to explore that. But both of them have been so sanitized that they don’t even resemble their canonical characters anymore, and so the interesting dynamic goes away. Now, they could be any other rom-com couple.]

And it’s really frustrating, because canon Prouvaire is really cool! He’s quirky, yes, but fleshed-out– a dynamic, vivacious character, flaws and all. He learns several languages just so he can read his few favorite poets– who does that? And he’s a musician, and a botanist, and he purposefully wears unfashionable clothes, even though he was definitely brought up with a fancy wardrobe (maybe as an act of protest against his rich heritage?) and yes, he’s shy, but he’s also brave. We can see this when he prepares at the barricade with everyone else, knowing he’s going to have to kill people, but not shying away from it. And we can especially see this in his death scene, when he leaves the world in a blaze of glory with revolution on his lips until his breath gives out. He’s so much more than just a cutesy little quirkily-dressed flower-garlanded forest fawn. He’s complex, and brave, and noble, and really cool. 

I think this is why I hate so much that he’s so often portrayed as the Token Nonbinary Character. People like me don’t get much representation in general, so it’s frustrating that the only person who’s commonly written as such is so infantilized and stripped of all complexity. It doesn’t feel good to know that nonbinary people are seen in such a light. Of course, it’s the thin, conventionally attractive, waifish white boy who gets to be nb, and of course he can’t have any flaws or real personality. Are we stereotypes? Are we only palatable when we’re squeaky-clean and childish? It’s upsetting. Until this trope is done away with, I will never be comfortable seeing him portrayed as such. 

Finally, there’s the fact (petty though it is) that he’s everywhere. I don’t like reading fic with him in it, because he’s so annoying, but he’s in all of them, because he’s everyone’s favorite. And honest-to-goodness, I don’t understand why. Maybe if he were his canon self, I would understand. But he’s not.

[Wow that feels so nice to finally talk about! I feel much better now. Anyway, if you made it all the way through, you’re a champ. Have a good day!!]

[sometimesambroswrites]

ok so i've seen a lot of fics wherein for whatever reason, alec has to choose between magnus and jace?? and like, on one hand, that's a hobson's/angela's choice, it's like impossible, but on the OTHER hand... in literally all of them, either alec finds a way out of the choice, or he chooses jace (cue heartbreak). (1/2)

but like, just for ONCE I want alec to choose magnus. like, even though I think that alec could never actually choose between them in canon, I’m just so annoyed/sad that I can’t find a SINGLE FIC wherein alec chooses magnus. there could still be an angsty aftermath and all, jace’s reaction or something but I just rlly need this (2/2)

I’ll be really honest anon, this prompt really required all of my effort because it’s not something I would normally write, and I genuinely think Alec wouldn’t be able to choose between Magnus and Jace if it was a life or death situation, also because it’s not in his nature. Alec is a bit of a martyr, especially before Magnus, and I think the only other factor that could come in play is Jace’s even bigger martyr complex. Which is why I put them in a position where the choice wasn’t in Jace’s hands at all, but – I don’t know. Writing this left me with a bit of a weird taste in my mouth; but, you know, it was also interesting to push myself like this. I don’t know if you had something this extreme in mind, but it’s the only thing I could think of!

The whole Simon being kidnapped thing comes from season 3, which is why I tagged this as a Future Fic, although I seriously doubt it’ll be solved this easily.

Keep in mind that there is angst but NO character death. Also, I’d be really happy if you let me know what you think about this fic/the way I’ve handled the prompt!

Read on AO3

“I don’t like this,” Alec says,nervously closing his fingersaround the riser of his bow; he knows he’ll have to leave it behindas soon as the guards decide to show themselves and he’s alreadydreading the moment.

Jace has decided to leave all of hisweapons at the Institute and he’s apparently resigned and furious atthe mission.

Alec can’t really blame him.

Magnus looks as tense as Alec feels,and he knows it’s because the Faeries’ magic is different from his,it’s constant andmanipulative and devious,and, in the Seelie Court, overpowering.

He still sounds fairly calm when hesays: “We’ll just get Simon and then we’ll be free to go.”

Jace barks a humourless laugh: “Asif,” he comments darkly.

Neither Alec nor Magnus find it inthemselves to say anything else.

It isn’t long before the guards stepout of the thick forest, their feet barely making a sound against thecarpet of leaves on the ground, lead by Meliorn.

“I hope you’re all ready for theshow,” Jace drawls, and Meliorn turnson him his unimpressed gaze.

The Queen is in her adult form, redhair curling on her shoulders, pink lips and big, green eyes givingher a childish, innocent look. Alec’s hands immediately itch with theneed to hold his bow between them.

“You have taken your time,” theQueen says, somehow sounding displeased and delighted at the sametime.

“Yes, well,” Jace snorts, “weweren’t exactly in a hurry to come here again.”

The Queen turns her green eyes onhim, impassible: “That’s quite rude, isn’t it? Does it mean youdon’t want Simon back?”, she asks, like she genuinely thinks theymight say yes.

“Not at all, Your Majesty,” Alecsays, glaring at Jace to make him shut up. “We will be happy todiscuss our business and disturb you no further.”

The Queen turns her gaze on him,slowly, an arm lazily thrown over the armrest of her throne; her lipscurve slightly, almost imperceptibly as she ignores him to focus onMagnus: “Does a pretty face distract you enough to forget betrayal,Magnus? I expected more from the High Warlock of Brooklyn.”

Alec can see the sudden stillness inMagnus’ body, how he stops breathing for a moment, and he’s almosttoo focused on him to feel his own rage climb up his throat.

He’s thankful when Jace says: “Whatdo you want from us, Your Majesty?”, tone barely acceptable, andthe Queen turns sharply towards him, a bright grin suddenlystretching her lips without reaching  her eyes: “I think you canguess, Jace Wayland,” she lets her eyes linger on all of them, “Youdo know how I love to play games.”

Jace takes a furious step forwardand three guards are restraining him before his foot touches theground: “We are not your puppets,” he growls, ignoring the bladesa breath away from his throat.

The Queen laughs,a harsh sound in the silence of the court: “Yes, you are,” shesays, the sweetness suddenly disappearing from her voice as her greeneyes turn hard and cold: “You are in my realm and you ask forsomething that is rightfully mine. You are mypuppets.”

Jace stares furiously at her but hedoesn’t say anything, he takes a step back and shakes the guards offhis shoulders.

“I knew you’d see reason,” theQueen comments, drily; she turns her attention on Alec, her handsprimly folded in her lap: “I have a simple question for you,Shadowhunter. If you answer truthfully, Simon is free to go with youand my deal with him is broken.”

Alec straightens his shoulders, cansee Magnus and Jace taking a step closer to him out of the corner ofhis eyes.

The Queen’s lips curl in a satisfiedsmile in response. “The question is this. Let’s say you all findyourselves in a situation of life and death, hm? Oh, I know!” sheadds, suddenly brightening up, “Let’s make it easier on you,” shesnaps her fingers and vines start moving on the ground, making theirway towards Jace and Magnus through the leaves, and all the oxygenleaves Alec’s lungs like he’s suddenly underwater, “Theyare in a situation of life ordeath!”

The vines start wrapping themselvesaround their ankles, slowly, and Jace curses loudly asMagnus pales.

“All you have to do, Shadowhunter,is decide who you can’t live without. But there’s a catch,” theQueen smiles, “if you lie the vines will know and they will bothdie. If you don’t, well.” she twirls her fingers in the air, “Itwon’t be as fun, but it’ll be pretty entertaining.”

“No,” the word is breathless inAlec’s mouth, “No, you can’t – you can’t kill them! The Clavewill – you can’t.”

But the Queen looks unperturbed, hereyes glancing at the vines with a delighted light: “Tic, toc.”

Alec’s fingers immediately run tothe vines already wrapped around Jace’s calf, he uselessly tries topull and scratch, tries on Magnus too, his nails breaking as he looksfor the roots, for anything thatmight help, he’s hyperventilating but he doesn’t have timeto think about it, his fingersare bleeding as the vines seem to be getting thicker – Magnus’fingers wrap firmly around his.

“Alec, look at me.”

The vines are wrapped around hisknees, and Alec knows they must hurt, he can see how tight they are,but Magnus’ voice is calm as he looks in Alec’s eyes and Alec feelslike he’s trying to think through heavy curtains of blind panic.“Alec, it’s okay. Breathe. Breathe, it’s gonna be fine.”

Now he can hear Jace over the rushin his ears, can hear him as he spits against the Queen: “You knowthe Clave will have your head for this.”

But Alec knows, he knowsthe Queen doesn’t play games, helooks in Magnus’ eyes for a second more before he turns towards theQueen, still on his knees: “I can’t choose,” he says, desperationclear in his voice, “Ican’t.”

“Yes, you can,” the Queen says,sounding bored, “think.”

The vines are wrapped around theirwaists and Alec doesn’t even know where to start, he can’t even stopshaking, he can barely standup.

“Kill me instead! Please, please,don’t – ”

“That’s not part of the rules,”the Queen says, rolling her eyes, “Choose.”

“Fuck you,” Jace spits at theQueen, and then focuses on Alec, says: “Alec,” calls him, “Alec.Brother.”, and Alec’s eyes snap up to him, terrified. “Breathe.”

“I – Jace, I – ”, he looksat Magnus, his golden eyes blazing with useless magic, “I can’t.”

“I’ll tell you what you can’t do,”Jace says, voice calm, “You can’t lose us both. So I need you tobreathe and think.”

“Fuck you,” Alec spits, but thewords break in half, he tries to scratch at the vines again, the tipsof his fingers numb, but Jace’s hand is suddenly on his neck,anchoring him down, dragging him forward until their foreheads aretouching, until Jace’s eyes is the only thing Alec can see.

And Jace says: “Go to him.”, andAlec’s world breaks in half.

“What?” he asks, almostvoiceless.

“Go to him,” Jace repeats,trying to hide the way his voice is shaking, “I know you,” hesays.

And Alec can see it. His lifewithout Jace. Like a life without a limb, without his brother,without Jace and theirconstant fights, and it’s pure and simple hurtand pain, so deep thathe can feel it in his bones.

And Magnus – Magnus is half hissoul. I don’t think I can live without you.

He can’t – he can’t see it.

A somehow rational part of himrecognizes that he’s been trained to think he might lose Jace any dayof his life, but absolutely nothing has prepared him to lose Magnus.

He’s crying and he hates it, hewants to kill the Queen himself but he knows it’d be pointless totry, he’s holding on to Jace’s shoulders like he can fight off thevines wrapped around his chest if he holds on tight enough, and Jacesmiles. Not his douchebag smile, his real one. Even through the furyand the desperation in his eyes.

“Magnus,” Alec gasps, closinghis eyes and pressing hard, “Magnus,” he repeats, louder, shakingas Jace’s breathing turns erratic, and he can hear the vinesunwrapping themselves from Magnus’ body, he feels Magnus’ hands onthe vines on Jace’s body, magic running through his fingers as hetries to rip them apart, burns some but not nearly enough, until theQueen says: “That’s enough,” snapping her fingers, and– the vines unwrap themselves from Jace’s body as well.

Alec gasps as Jace stumbles in him,kneels to accompany his fall as he tries to drag oxygen in his lungs.

“You are not nearly as fun as Ithought,” the Queen says, pouting, “Get Simon and go. I don’tlike people crying in my court. It upsets us.”

*

Nobody talks, not even Simon.

Alec feels like there is toomuch around him; too manysounds, too many colours, just – too much.

He curls up on his old bed in theInstitute and he doesn’t stop shaking for hours.

*

Jace doesn’t knock – he never has.He doesn’t turn on the lights, and Alec is grateful for that.

“It was an impossible choice tomake, Alec.”

Alec doesn’t turn to look at him:“But I made it anyway,” he whispers, and then adds: “Maybe Ishouldn’t be your parabatai.”

Jace punches him on the shoulder andAlec instinctively turns to glare at him. “Don’t you dare, Alec,”Jace says, serious, “don’tyou dare let this define you.It wasn’t a test, itwas cruelty.”

Alec still feels like his heart hasbeen pulled from his chest.

“I know – I know you probablyfeel like shit. We all do. But holing yourself up in here isn’t goingto help.”

Alec looks away. He knows.But – he doesn’t know how to face the world quite yet. “If – apart of me would die with you.”

Jace presses his lips together for asecond before shrugging: “Of course it would. Your funny part. I’mthe one who’s keeping it real, here.”

Alec groans, smiling despitehimself.

*

He goes back to Magnus’ and Magnusapproaches him cautiously, stays a few steps away from him.

Alec wraps his arms around him andburies his nose in his neck, Magnus’ skin wet with his tears.

Alec lets everything that happenedwash over him, in waves, he shakes and feels like his body won’t makeit through.

He lets Magnus hold him together.

[jilliancares]

The Traveler’s Test

Summary: Dan for some reason agreed to go on Phil’s deadly mission, and they now find themselves trying to prove their love to a stranger who wants to kill them. It might be a bit easier if they didn’t already hate each other.

Word Count: 1.5k

this exists bc an anon asked for another kind of fic where they hate each other but are forced to kiss

~~

Dan didn’t know why he had agreed to go on the mission with Phil. Perhaps it was because he was bored and in dire need of an adventure. Perhaps it was because he was secretly a masochist and enjoyed causing himself pain. Either way, it no longer mattered—he was stuck in this situation, stood before a big man with a bigger beard and an even bigger sword, all of which paled in comparison to how badly he wanted to kill them.

Honestly, he should’ve spat at Phil’s feet when he’d asked him to come. They were in training to become the king’s personal guard, and do so was very trying indeed. It was long days of labor and training, only to be followed by longer nights of cleaning followed by more labor—Dan had no idea why Phil was there. Some men volunteered, of course, but others were sent there as punishment—Dan, for stealing. Sure, people wondered why criminals would be sent to train to be the king’s men, but most of them didn’t survive the training anyway. The only real relief was when you were chosen to go on a mission, usually some kind of deed the king needed done, something that he was willing to entrust to them. Missions were what everybody lived for, what they yearned to get chosen to do.

It was, of course, some evil kind of joke that Phil was chosen for a mission—allowed to bring one other, of course. And it was some much more evil kind of joke that he picked Dan. He could’ve said no, he supposed, if he’d wanted to be subjected to endless ridicule. And so a dangerous mission it was. At the time, Dan had thought that maybe he’d be lucky—maybe Phil would be killed on this mission.

Dan was never lucky.

“Drop your weapons!” The mad-man barked, his lips bared and spittle flying. Dan wrinkled his nose, wiping the spit off his face with a gloved hand.

“We already did,” Dan said, enunciating clearly. This was the third time they’d been asked to drop their weapons, and the second time since doing so. It was clear that this man wasn’t exactly right in the head.

“So it appears,” he answered in his deep rumble. His free hand came up to scratch at his beard. “And what’s your reason for trespassing in my territory?”

“We’ve been sent on king’s business, sir,” Phil answered, and if Dan could’ve done so subtly, he would’ve kicked him right in the head.

“King’s business?” the man roared. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right here, right now!”

It was then, that Dan noticed another man stood in the trees. Automatically, Dan tensed up, expecting an ambush, but… the man appeared injured. Not only that, he was watching the mad-man anxiously, his eyes wide with fear—not of him, for him. Wonderingly, Dan managed to catch a glimpse of the hand that held the man’s sword, the hand that beheld a ring…

“Because we’re here on a mission of love,” Dan blurted. Both Phil and the man looked at him in surprise.

“What in the blazes?” the man said incredulously.

“By king’s business, what my companion actually means, is… it would be the king’s business. If he were to find out.”

A look of understanding was dawning upon the other man’s face, but out of the corner of his eye, Dan could see Phil looking as stupid as ever. And by God, if he didn’t catch on soon and blew their cover they would both end up dead.

“You see, we can’t get married in the king’s lands,” Dan finally tacked on, solely for Phil’s benefit—he drew in a quick, shocked breath. “He wouldn’t approve of our love.” Dan hoped the stranger wouldn’t look at Phil’s face—Dan was pretty sure lovers didn’t glare at each other like that.

“Oh Harley,” the man in the trees spoke, his voice soft. Phil’s head whipped to the side with panic, just now noticing the other man. Idiot. “Let them pass Harley—they’re just young.”

“They could be lyin’ they could,” Harley growled, his softer expression morphing into a hard one once more. He glared down at Dan and Phil, his eyes darting between them.

“We aren’t!” Phil said hastily. His hand then shot out, grabbing and latching onto Dan’s with unnecessary force. “We’re very much in love. You know—we, we kiss and we have sex and—and all of it.”

“Prove it,” Harley suddenly snapped, and Phil’s eyes went about the size of the king’s golden coins.

“Have sex?” he squeaked.

“No!” Harley roared. “Kiss your lover, if that’s what he is!”

Phil’s eyes flitted nervously to Dan, who was carefully keeping his face entirely impassive.

“We don’t normally kiss in front of others…” Phil tried meekly. Harley snorted.

“I should think not, as you’d be arrested for it in that arsehole’s lands. Well go on then! Prove your love—kiss!”

Heart thudding in his chest and more aware than ever of the sword in Harley’s hand, Dan took a tentative step closer to Phil. God, kissing his worst enemy—what had the world come to?

“Don’t be shy,” Dan said. “This man won’t turn us over to the king.” Dan saw anger glint in Phil’s eyes, and had to use all his strength not to roll his own at the other man. At least he’d found a way to get them through this alive! His mind was a million times quicker than Phil’s, who’d told the savage that they were here on the king’s business—honestly!

Dan had been expecting a quick peck on the lips, a soft kiss good enough to confirm for the man that they were comfortable with doing so from many times of experience. Instead, Dan saw a threatening sort of look come over Phil’s face, before he was being harshly tugged into the other man’s arms. Phil’s arms were tight around his waist and Dan’s hands flung up to settle on Phil’s shoulders, only moments before their lips met.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet and slow and plausible. It was hard and fast and Dan was sure it looked like the truth. Phil’s lips were rough against his, his tongue hot in his mouth without invitation. They were both breathing heavily in seconds, Phil moving against him, kissing and sucking and biting, and Dan went fucking limp in his arms.

He’d never kissed anyone before, not that he would ever admit that to Phil, of all people, but it felt amazing. Dan felt lightheaded, likely due to all the blood in his body rushing elsewhere, and his knees were fucking shaking underneath him. He was lucky that Phil’s arms were around him, holding him up, as otherwise he would’ve sunk straight to the ground. He gasped when Phil tugged him closer, when proof that Dan was enjoying this a little too much was pressed against Phil’s thigh. And Phil noticed too, he hummed his amusement into Dan’s mouth, his lips twisted into a smirk. And then he shoved Dan away, left to stumble, red-raced, and try to stay upright.

After it all, only seconds had passed, but Dan was panting and beyond embarrassed, and the strangers looked impressed.

“Well, you clearly haven’t felt very safe to do that where you come from,” the man, still partially in the trees, chimed it. “Harley, it’s obvious they’re in love!”

“I can’t deny it, Rich,” Harley said gruffly. He sounded disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to run his sword through anybody.

Dan still felt shaky. It was a miracle he was still upright when all he wanted to do was slither to the floor and hug his knees to his chest. He’d never even really thought about kissing anybody before—and of course, he’d assumed he was straight but… but…

“We ought to give them the good news!” Rich said from the forest, which he then emerged from. He used tree branches as crutches, the reason immediately apparent: he only had one leg.

“Er—good news?” Phil said. His voice sounded completely normal, the bastard. Dan didn’t think he would be able to speak. Had Phil not been affected by that at all?

“I’m ordained!” Rich cheered. “I can marry you right here—no need for you to travel any further.”

“Oh,” Phil squeaked, his face suddenly pale. “How… wonderful.” Dan shared with him a wide-eyed look, and was helpless to do anything as they were shuffled into the couple’s cabin to be married.

[ben-barnes-is-my-husband]

Jon and Sansa are perfect couple. They're what dreams are made of, everyone agrees. Only 1 problem: they ship and write fics for opposite OTPs. (Trust me that stuff can really matter. LOL) Anyway they realize they love their stupid, gorgeous partners too much (even if Jon's wrong) and have earthshattering sex to squabble over ships. Maybe write OT3!Happy ending: Neither of their ships become canon&they bind over their mutual hate for their NoTP (say creepyship or J0nery$... what who said that?)

I hope you like, anon! This was actually rather cathartic to write lol. 

Ship Wars

Rating: Explicit 

Jon stood in the doorway of the bedroom and looked at Sansa, his girlfriend, who was on her  laptop on their bed. “You speaking to me yet?”

She didn’t answer him. 

“Sansa…”

She still didn’t answer him. 

“Look, I’m sorry about what I said. I never should have said that Sarah was a whiny little pain in the ass.”

She looked up, expressionless, her glasses slipping down her nose and her red hair up in a messy ponytail. “And I never should have said that Amy was an entitled little bitch and I hoped she died.”

Jon clenched his jaw. “You didn’t.”

“Oops.”

Well, that did it. “Do you honestly think that John and Amy are not going to end up together? I mean, their stories are parallel–”

“Have we been watching the same show? Have you been paying attention at all to what’s going on? Because that is categorically incorrect! And if you think Amy is going to swoop in and save that city because oooh, she has fucking Chimera’s for children–”

“Have you seen the Chimera’s, Sansa? They are EPIC and GLORIOUS. What the fuck does Sarah have? Nothing.”

“She has brains! Unlike Amy who is all tits and blond hair and has everyone else doing the work for her! Oh, and she gives speeches. Lots of them. And she says the same goddamn thing over and over and over and over again.”

“She is Amy of House Targiseres, she is the Breaker of Chains, the–” he stopped when Sansa shut her eyes and dipped her chin to her chest and let out a loud, exaggerated snore. “Sansa!”

Sansa lifted her head and looked at him. “She’s Amy of House Fucking Batshit Crazy.”

Jon stepped into the bedroom, shaking in anger. “And Sarah is House of Fucking Useless.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him. “You know who Amy reminds me of?”

“Don’t fucking say it, Sansa!”

“Donald. Trump.”

Jon shook his head at her, eyes blazing. “How could you?” he whispered. 

Sansa pushed her laptop to the bed, took off her glasses and threw them on the bed, and then got to her feet. “‘I’m Amy Targiseres and I’m going to be the best ruler. The best ruler. I’m going to do the best ruling, folks. It’s going to be something.’”

“I hope John fucks Amy,” Jon snarled.

Sansa came up close to him and glared right into his face. “And I hope Amy dies.”

Jon reached for Sansa just as Sansa reached for him. Their bodies collided, their lips captured. Their hands tore at each other’s clothes until they were scattered on the floor. Sansa pushed him onto the bed and climbed over him. She was dripping wet as she glided her pussy over his straining cock.

These epic ship battles always ended like this.  Jon wondered if she had any inkling that he “shipped” John and Amy to get a rise out of her.  He knew Sansa was passionate about her ships, and especially when it came to John and Sarah. These little battles got her hot, and so he purposely egged her on.

In all honesty, he didn’t like Amy either. He was pretty sure she was going to kick it soon, too, and he was rather looking forward to it. Then he would pretend to be all bummed out but would really delight in how excited Sansa would get over her couple getting together.

 “Sansa, come on. Fuck me,” he urged.

“Say it,” she ordered, her eyes like blue fire as she looked down at him.

He narrowed his eyes. “Not until you fuck me.”

She glided down his length, making him cross-eyed. “Jesus fuck!”

“Say it,” she commanded again.

“No, I want more first,” he growled. “Ride me.”

She started to ride him, but slow, and with another growl, Jon lifted her slightly up off him and then began to fuck up inside her hard and fast.

“Oh God oh God oh God!” she cried out, her eyes shutting tight.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he muttered. “That’s my Sansa, fucking me so good.”

“You’re fucking me,” she panted.

“Semantics.”

“Say it.”

He grinned. “No.” He knew exactly what she’d do next, and couldn’t wait for it.

She put her hand to his throat. “Say it!”

“Come for me, first!” he gasped and slid his hand down to her clit. He began to rub as she took over and started riding him. She was close…so close.

“Say it!” she screamed as she came.

“Sarah is the Queen Sarah is the Queen Sarah is the Queen!” he shouted as he held himself deep inside her and came.

She slumped against him and Jon wrapped his arms around his spent little baby. “Hey,” he murmured.

“Hmmm?”

“You’re my Queen. Queen Sansa of my heart.”

She giggled as she maneuvered herself off of him and onto the bed beside him. “You’re such a dork,” she said. “My King Dork.”

He chuckled. “Well, show’s not on for another couple hours. Does Queen Dork want to maybe hang out in bed for a while?”

She nodded, smiling, and kissed him.

He smiled when they parted and caressed the side of her face. “Just so you know… I didn’t really mean what I said about Sarah.”

“Thank you.”

“And?” he prompted.

“Oh yeah! I meant everything I said about Amy.”

With a growl, Jon rolled on top of her, her laughter soon giving away to moans.

[hotdamnvoltageman]

beyond the pale

oda oichi x tokugawa ieyasu

a/n: so i got an anonymous message today with a really interesting idea for a prompt: an slbp lord falling in love with his closest ally’s sibling/cousin. the anon suggested that i write nobu and ieyasu’s silbing/cousin but i may have gone in a slightly different direction... anyhow, the anon also might write a fic of their own for this, so i tried not to go in too deep. @jemchew, @naerial, @demon-princess-anastasia, @pasunny

There are a million and one things a samurai’s daughter shouldn’t do, and she has done quite a few of them. She imagines nobody expected any less of her, with Nobunaga as her sibling.

Oichi knows her choices are limited—has always known, since she was young and walking through gardens with delicate objects balanced on her head, with a hand pressing at the small of her back to keep her perfect, stones in her sleeves—but she makes the most of every choice she has. She chooses her wit, the silver knife in her mouth with its poisoned edges, and the pretty pink lips that conceal it—she chooses to fight as she can, with charm and with grace and eyes that make even her older brother wither.

There are men that fear her. There are women that hate her. Her downfall is her ultimate achievement—her ability to make others bend to her will.

Except for him.

There is no way to tell who has the more silvery tongue or the sharper wit, and she finds that exciting.

As a younger girl, she had dreaded war meetings and gatherings with allies. She was expected to stand tall, but not too tall; smile, but not too sharply; look important, but not too important. As a younger girl, she had attempted to do what she was told—as a young woman, that had changed.

With her brother’s campaign came a slew of changes, including her own.

And including him.

She recognized in him a kindred (if somewhat more sadistic) spirit. The first time he entered the room, he surveyed it, and when he smiled it was with a blade behind his teeth. She swore she could see the hand at the small of his back, guiding him, be perfect.

Tokugawa Ieyasu tried to scare people, just like she did—she saw it in the too-sweet tilt of his head and the constant grin on his face.

The first time she met him, she wanted desperately to punch him, and when her brother’s voice growled out she had worried, momentarily, it was her own.

Lord Ieyasu was seated beside her at the banquet, a newly headstrong young woman and a man they would come to call one of their closest allies.

The second time they met, she still wanted to fight him, knock him senseless—but she had settled for what she knew she was good at: verbal sparring.

The first insult she fired at him received a lackluster reaction from him, or so it would seem; but Oichi knew what to look for. He was so like her, so terribly similar, that the flash in his eyes told her all she needed to know.

She had found her worthiest opponent yet.

He was not one to insult a lady, not openly—but he made it clear that he did not approve of her presence in their war councils. The most frustrating was that she knew it had nothing to do with her ‘presence,' and everything to do with the fact that she could best him in verbal combat.

She learned that Ieyasu hated to lose, and especially to a member of the Oda Clan.

“Why don’t we take a break, for the sake of Lady Oichi?” He simpered, not even sparing her a glance. Before Nobunaga could speak, she smiled her best smile, straightening until her back is straight as the castle walls.

“Why, Lord Ieyasu, if you are so eager to end this meeting then you must have a suggestion as to how we can win this war,” she bit clean around every word, and the room fell silent.

The tips of his ears flushed red, but his face remained neutral.

“I hope to end this war as swiftly as possible, milady, so you may rest easily, as you deserve.”

She wanted to claw at his face, to let loose every poisoned word from her mouth that had festered in her heart since the world froze it over, but her brother’s voice rang out angrily, furthering the silence and telling them all to get out of his sight.

She had never been cornered by a man before, but Lord Ieyasu was unlike anyone she had ever met, and the sneer with which he greeted her in the emptied hallways was more infuriating than chilling.

“It must be difficult,” he hissed, pressing her close to the wall. “Speaking out when you have no brain.”

The sound of her hand connecting with his jaw rang out. It was surprising to her, later, that nobody thought to come check on them—but at the time it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the wild, fierce war-drum in her chest and the fire blazing in his eyes as he turned his face back to her.

“Vile wench.”

“Pathetic degenerate.”

“Dung-beetle.”

“Worthless pawn—“

His lips crashed against hers, more lethal than romantic, and when she pulled on his hair she pulled hard enough to make him hiss and press her tighter against the wall—

“I hate you,” he snarled, biting hard behind her ear so that her breath seemed to run cold through her chest.

“Likewise,” she replied, sharp—and he kissed her again.

Their relationship is made of shadows and sharp edges, and they both come away with (tactfully hidden) bruises and a strange sense of loneliness. It is cultivated over days that seem eternities apart, despite the fact that they both nearly spit in each other’s direction in the faces of retainers.

Her brother is too caught up in his new almost-wife to worry over Oichi’s actions, and Oichi is too determined to be her own woman to ever let anyone lord anything over her.

"I don’t hate you so much, wench,” Ieyasu grumbles, lips brushing just below her collarbone, face buried in her shoulder. She reaches up and smooths out his hair where she had been clutching it, laughing to herself.

“You’ve gone soft.”

“Shut up, wench.”

“Funny, you seem to like it well enough when I open my mouth—“

He kisses her again, just to shut her up, and while it used to make her mad she only holds his face in her hands and pulls him further into her space.

And it has been a long time since only personal space was what they shared.

It is a just a touch past impossible to be with him, she knows; but neither of them is very familiar with losing, much less surrendering. And if her brother can marry a Kyoto cook’s daughter, then, by the gods, Oichi will find herself Lady Tokugawa by the spring.

But, until then—

“If it isn’t Lord Ieyasu.”

“Lady Oichi.”

—she will settle for this.