#she is not canonically a mom friend in the first place. she is a doormat. just because she is nice doesnt mean shes a mom friend

[bird-likes-to-fandom]

You know, as annoying as Mom Friend' Constance HCs sound, we could very well be living in the worse timeline where the fandom hates her because she 'has a good life but still complains about it'

oh, god. you have a point there

[aizawaorkuroo]

A Burnt Offering

Ship: Dabi x f!reader

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 5.7k

Summary: Your long lost childhood friend sends you letters. And then everything falls apart. Or perhaps together? Otherwise known as “Dabi wants you. And Dabi gets what he wants.”

Warnings: dubcon, non-consensual voyeurism, stalking, manipulation, spitting, dacryphilia, size kink, overstimulation, creampie, cock warming, unprotected sex

A/N: Spoilers for ch. 290 kinda!!! Don’t think too hard about how they’re childhood friends. Not going to be canon compliant cause i make the rules uwu,, also this is a little darker than what I’ve written in the past, (but still pretty soft all things considered) so please read the warnings!!!

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“Dreamed of peach trees. Dreamed, again, of drowning. Dreamed of highways becoming rivers. Dreamed of me, my long hair in flames, my body no longer a body, but a burnt offering, strange smoke rising up to meet him” - Nicola Maye Goldberg

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The first letter you received was a little out of the ordinary, but nothing special. It had been left under your doormat, sticking out ever so slightly. You had brushed it off, assuming they had gotten the address wrong, or meant to send it to the person who lived in your apartment before you.

The right thing would’ve been to leave it there, or throw it away. But curiosity is a fickle beast, choosing to rear its head at strange times.

You furrow your brows, eyes scanning the words hastily scratched onto the paper. It felt familiar, but nothing truly stuck with you. You couldn’t think too hard about it, now when you had so much to get done.

It was a random occurrence, one that slipped your mind as you went about your day, the letter sitting on your kitchen counter.

hey,

we haven’t talked in a while. i miss you i guess. i swear to god i sometimes still feel your hand in mine and sometimes i think of your smile. maybe I’ll see you soon.

It’s left unsigned, and you can’t help but to feel bad that it got sent to you. But there’s no return address, nothing to hint at where it’s supposed to go. So it sits on your counter, slipping out of your mind in the following weeks.  

The second letter sends a small shiver down your spine.

“you will be alone always and then you will die.” i can’t remember who told me that, but it rings around my head. there are days where it feels like it’s true, like time will catch up with me and I’ll be gone. but it’s not true. because I used to have you. but I’ll have you again.

Your eyes gloss over the words, a small frown slipping onto your face. Something melancholic sinks into you, making a home in your chest.

“You will be alone always and then you will die,” you whisper to yourself, fingers grazing over the sloppy letters. You feel guilty that the writer���s thoughts are stuck with you instead of this person they so desperately miss.

Yet there’s something unyielding about the last line, something so definite. Curiosity fills you, and you can’t help but to want to get the letter to where it’s supposed to be. But like the first letter, there’s no return address, no signature, nothing outside of the longing in the letter.

So it sits on the counter with the first, the weight of the words lingering in your chest until it too is forgotten.

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You’re sitting on a hill, watching as the stars plummet down. Someone’s sitting next to you, but when you turn to face him, he stays blurry as if he exists on the edges of reality, unable to be fully perceived.

You watch as a rainbow of flames overtake him and recede, further obscuring him. But the flames continue to cycle in and out, a constant ebb and flow. You know who he is.

He flickers, you cannot touch him. You place your hand on the flames. Nothing burns. When you look up again, the hill is gone. You're sitting in inky darkness, watching as the stars continue to fall all around you. And the boy is gone too. In his place is something of shadow and smoke, two gleaming blue eyes tearing into you. You freeze, unable to do anything but stare.

It stalks towards you slowly, grinning to show rows of sharp teeth. You know what it wants, you can feel the need across the space in between you too. And so close your eyes and tilt your neck, offering yourself up. And you don’t scream when it takes the first bite.

“I’m always on your side.”

You wake up in a cold sweat, heart pounding. You’re awake now, but you feel like the stars are still falling around you and him - right.

Touya.

His name blossoms in your head, memories of laughter and secrets told underneath the shade of a cherry blossom tree. Your head's pounding, and you run to the bathroom, splashing water on your face. That night, the last night you had seen him, when you watched the stars streak across the sky.

“I’m always on your side.”

A promise that withered into something shallow after he disappeared.

You blink at your reflection, fists curled into themselves so tightly it hurts. You wish Touya could hold your hand now.

You don’t go back to sleep.

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The third letter makes you frown a little. Three makes a pattern.

Really wish you would say something back. Has it been that long? Guess that’s to be expected.

You scan the page, melancholic thoughts lingering until you read the last line. Your eyes widen, heart leaping in your throat, as you read it over and over again. Your hands are shaking, mind cloudy, breath short.

Really, say something back y/n.

Your name, clear as day. They know your name. You’re the recipient. You blink blankly as a line from the previous letter pops into your brain. I’ll have you again.

The letter sits untouched on the counter for days before you finally build up the courage to tentatively write back. Who is this?

As you shakily write, it dawns on you how stupid this is. You should be going to the police, or getting a security system. But you can’t help but wonder who it is, and the fickle beast inside of you rears its head.

You tentatively place the response under the doormat, and scurry back inside, as if the action would burn you. The next morning the note is gone.

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It takes a few days for you to get a response. When you get home from work, you’re tempted to walk right past it, pretending to not see it. You could just let it slip from your mind, go on with your life as if nothing has changed. But nothing can ever be simple, and with shaking hands, you steal the letter before locking yourself inside.

I can imagine how scared you must be. I bet you’d look so cute. Part of me wants to make you guess. But I’d rather speed this up. It’s me. Y’know. Touya.

“Touya,” you whisper. It’s heavy on your lips. “Touya.” Your throat is raw. “Touya, Touya, Touya.” Your chest burns. Tufts of red hair, memories of childhood and shooting stars.

Brain pulsing in overdrive, you try to reconcile what you know to be true and what is being told to you.

1. Touya was your best friend.

This one is a fact. You remembered holding his hand, running around the estate. He would be battered, bruises and burns littering his skin. Right. His father. You shiver thinking about the man.

2. Touya disappeared as a child.

Another fact. You remember his mom’s tear-stained face as she turned you away, and when you were back home, safe in bed, you cried so hard you thought you’d never stop shaking.

3. Touya is still alive.

The first in your list that is debatable. No one’s seen him for years. It’s fully possible something horrible could have happened to him. But there’s no evidence he’s dead. If you can reason that Touya is still alive, then it’s possible…

4. Touya is sending you letters. 

The most difficult conclusion of all. If Touya is alive, it could be possible he’s sending you letters. But there’s no way to guarantee it is him. It could be some stranger, some pervert pretending to be your sweet redhead from childhood. You would have to test him.

Your response is careful, calculated as you try to navigate your emotions. Your hands shake as you write the final line, a question.

What was the last thing we did?

A small frown slips onto your face. It’s kind of a lame question, and yet it’s the best you can do. But it’s a baseline, a place to start.

His response comes almost immediately.

We watched a meteor shower. Go ahead. Dig deeper.

You chew on your lip while thinking. “Touya” is off to a good start, but there’s still no guarantee. So you push farther

Where did we hide the bowl I accidentally broke?

C’mon, it was a vase, not a bowl. We buried it along the fenceline. Good try.

You smile at the memory, the way you had cried over the broken porcelain, embarrassment coursing through you. Touya had helped you hide the evidence, telling you no one would find out.

What did you promise me?

I’m always on your side.

You inhale sharply, eyes glued to his messy scrawl. That’s it. It has to be him. You’ve never told that to anyone before. You squeeze your eyes shut, but you can see stars falling all around you. You feel a little light headed.

How did you find me?

Pure chance. I missed you, y/n. Does your face scrunch up when you get mad still? It was so fucking cute.

Shut the fuck up, Touya.

You don’t know how he’s done it, but Touya has inserted himself back into your life, whisking you off your feet with his stupid jokes and laid back attitude. And everyone in a while he’ll say something, that has you burying your face into your pillow, face warm and stomach in knots.

I’m going to hold you, and never let you go.

Would you let me kiss you? Would you let me sink my teeth into you? I bet you would.

I’d kiss you until you melt.

That one in particular made your chest burn, full of something warm and sappy. You read it over and over again, until the words are branded in your brain.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table at 2 am when you realize, you would. You would let him kiss you, let him sweep you off your feet. It occurs to you that you don’t know what he looks like anymore, but his words reach into you, stirring everything around to the point that you’re completely enamored anyways.

A sharp knock draws you from your thoughts. You narrow your eyes, glancing at the clock. Hesitantly, you approach your front door. You hover right in front of it, debating on whether or not to open it again. There’s a chance that no one’s even there anymore.

A second forceful knock makes your stomach flip. Taking a deep breath, you crack the door open.

Your eyes widen, and you're deafened by the blood pumping through you. Patchwork skin, pitch-black hair; you feel yourself begin to panic. 

Dabi. You recognized him from the Fukuoka fight that was on TV. You slam the door shut before he has a chance to say anything.

“No, no, no. Don’t do this to me y/n.” His voice is muffled by the door, but the separation doesn’t hide the way his voice barely cracks. You feel sick, brain cloudy as the room spins around you.

“How do you know my name?” you choke out, stomach growing nauseous.

“I thought we already did this… but you can’t recognize me either.” You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, wracking your brain for what he could be talking about.

“After all those letters.” 

Oh.

Oh.

Your stomach drops, and your heart does with it. Dabi is Touya. Touya is Dabi. You tremble against the door, flashes of red hair and childhood innocence ghosting through your mind. You should’ve paid more attention to how he found you.

“Open the door.” Touya’s voice- no Dabi’s voice? You shake your head at the confusion, finding it difficult to reconcile the two versions of him you know. Regardless, his voice is even now, something sharp lingering beneath the soft surface.

You shut your eyes, letting your head rest against the door; it’s all too much for you. You can practically feel the tears stinging the back of your eyes. Maybe he’ll go away, maybe you don’t have to have a breakdown in the middle of the night.

“Open up for me, Y/N.”

You blink your eyes open, something cold slipping down your spine. He’s not going away. He could burn the door down if he wanted to. You know what he does now, and you feel so fucking stupid. The fact that he’s asking is an unexpected kindness. Summoning all the willpower you have, you open the door, hand grasping the handle to avoid shaking.

Dabi’s head tilts to the side as his eyes meet yours, and a sharp grin pulls at his lips.

“Aren’t you going to let me in?” Your eyes dip to the floor, and you stumble to the side, closing the door as he brushes past you.

You awkwardly stand in front of him, fingers messing with the hem of your shirt as you try to control your breathing. Your stomachs in your throat as Dabi circles you. He is not the boy you knew. There’s an edge to him, a coldness radiating off of him that rolls into you.

“Now you can’t even look at me,” he sneers. Your gaze tilts up to meet him, trembling his words. Your heart lurches as you take in his appearance again. The puckered flesh, the staples, the jet black hair. It’s all too much.

But his eyes.

His eyes are the same, the same vivid blue that haunts your dreams. It hurts looking at him now, but it also hurts remembering what he was.

Hesitantly, you reach out to cup his face. He tenses under your touch, eyes flashing in warning. You swallow past the lump in your throat, forcing out a small “hi.” Your voice cracks under the weight of emotions, but his eyes soften, and he ever so gently tilts his head into your hand. And that’s enough.

A steady stream of tears leak from your eyes; you’re not completely sure why you’re crying, the emotions too jumbled, too complex to pinpoint a specific reason. Your thumb brushes over the marred skin under his eyes, and you feel sick. Like everything that’s wrong with the world has reared its ugly head in your apartment. But it hasn’t. It’s Touya. 

“Awww. Baby girl’s crying for me, huh?” he teases, making you narrow your eyes. He moves quickly, pulling you against him before you can step away. “Still the same crybaby from before.” You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to ignore the way your head’s spinning.

“What else am I supposed to do?” you bite back, letting your head rest against him. “I missed you.” He scoffs at that, hands sliding down to grip your waist.

Your breath stutters, and you squirm in his hold, unsure what to think. His grip tightens, making you wince. You pull your head back to look up at him, trying to keep your breathing even. Touya leans in close, eyes glued to you.

“Glad you missed me,” he mutters, and the borderline painful grip switches to something softer as he massages your flesh. “I missed you too, Y/N.” His voice rumbles through you softly, making your stomach flip. His tongue darts out of his mouth to flash across your cheek, licking the salty trail your tears left behind.

“Touya, what the fuck?”

You jerk away from him, sputtering as he throws his head back in laughter. Your skin feels too hot, and you struggle to put together a thought. You wiggle out of his grasp, wiping your face, and glaring at him.

“C’mon. Don’t be like that,” he laughs, obviously not taking this seriously. But you just shake your head, trying to squash all of your feelings.

“What do you want?” Your voice bends under the stress, and you face screws up, trying to stop the pathetic flow of tears.

“To see you,” he murmurs, eyes softer than before. The feelings behind the phrase are normally enough to make you giggle and your eyes turn into hearts. 

But this is Touya, or Dabi, or some bizarre amalgamation of the two. And you know what he’s done now. You know the price he’s paid. He is not the same.

“That’s not an answer. You shouldn’t be here,” you bite at him. All traces of warmth leave Dabi’s face, and your stomach drops. Something cold and sharp glints in his eyes, threatening to cut you if you get too close. You take a tiny step back, but he simply follows.

“Don’t be like this, Y/N.” His voice is tense, a warning of who he is now, what he’s done, what he could do to you. He cocks his head to the side, eyes trailing over you, gauging your reaction. He’s not the same. You know he’s not the same. His patchwork skin is proof of that enough.

It’s not fair. Echoes of childish giggles and burning blue eyes dance across your thoughts. But what he had done to all those people…You shut your eyes, crossing your arms as if you could hold yourself together.

“Well, what am I supposed to think? You were gone, for so long. And then you sent those fucking letters, and all I could think of was seeing you again. But you’re…” you trail off, but the unsaid hangs heavy in the air.

“Broken,” he hisses out, cold eyes narrowed at you as he gestures to his body. You glare right back at him, tears still flowing.

“It has nothing to do with that,” you manage to force out. “I just- I just don't know who you are.” Dabi’s face twists up into something bitter and forceful, a hurricane that’ll sweep you into something dangerous, you just know it. He is not the same.

“I wrote you those letters, Y/N. I’m still me.” But you don’t know who that is. Not anymore. He abruptly steps forward, forcing you against the wall, eyes wide in panic. He’s too close to your face, too warm, too overwhelming. 

You missed him so much, and it hurts. It hurts to see what happened, how he had to put himself back together, a dull mosaic that’s missing pieces. He reaches out to brush his thumb over your cheekbone.

“I’m always on your side.”

If it had been anyone else but Touya, you would’ve scoffed and kicked them out. But he knows you. He knows how you think, he knows what’ll make you respond. 

After all, he’s been watching you, making sure he knows how to say that’ll make you bend to his will. Touya wants you, his sweet best friend, to be his forever. So he knows what to say.

And something in you finally gives in, and you wrap arms around him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He slips his arms around your waist, holding you flush against him.

Your knees wobble, legs failing you as you melt to the ground. Touya follows you down, arms circling around you tighter as he smiles into your hair.

Fuck the league. Fuck his family. Fuck a normal life. Fuck, the whole world can burn down. He doesn’t give a fuck. But maybe, just maybe if there’s anyone out there listening, just let him have this. Just this once.

“That’s my baby girl,” he murmurs against you, pulling you into his lap. He kicks out his legs behind you, bending his knees to force snug against him. If he were a better man, he’d be content with this, having you on his side.

But Touya is not a good man. He’s greedy for more, and all he can think about is the heat radiating from your cunt.

His hands splay out against your back, gently rubbing you as you sniffle against him. But he can’t help it when his hands start to travel further down. You sound so cute and desperate, it ignites something within him. He squeezes the flesh of your ass, making you freeze against him. You lean away, lips trembling as your eyebrows draw together.

“Touya, what are you doing?” You sound pathetic to your own ears, and you hate it. But you’re not given any time to dwell on it when he leans forward, lips a few mere centimeters from yours. He rocks you gently against him, watching the conflict in your eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning to peck the corner of your lips. “I’m always on your side. Let me make you feel good.”

You stay stiff against him, hands slowly tangling into his hair as he litters the side of your neck with sloppy kisses. One of his hands pushing its way down your little shorts making you gasp. You can feel his erection growing beneath you, and you bite your lip, trying to make a decision to stop him or not.

“Touya,” you ask, “are you sure?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” You’re not 100% sure if this is the right decision, but he feels so good against you. And he’s handsome, scars and all. The intense warmth from earlier slipping into something more comforting, enveloping you as you rock against his hand ever so slightly.

So you don’t stop him. He would never hurt you, right? And it's been a while since you’ve gotten laid. Touya’s made sure of that. So you let him continue his exploration, melting against him as he gently rubs at your clit.

Touya watches your face, memorizing the expressions you make as he slips a finger into your hot cunt. To be clear, he’s seen your face when you’ve creamed around your little fingers on your own, unaware that he was stroking his cock outside your window. But you look so much better, happier even, when it’s his fingers you’re grinding into.

He nips at your neck, before pulling his fingers out of your shorts. He pushes you off of his lap, rolling his eyes at the way you pout.

“Calm down, baby girl. Wanna taste you.”

“Wait!” you warn. Touya freezes, eyes flicking up to yours, taking you in curiously. “Let’s go to the bedroom,” you stutter out, nervous at the look in his eyes. You can’t help but to feel embarrassed, laying on the floor of your apartment sputtering with your childhood best friend turned villain nestled against the apex of your thighs. Anything that can restore an ember of normalcy to the situation would make you feel better at this point.

Touya rests his head against your thigh, warmth returned to his eyes. He smiles at you a little too widely, too sharply. He resembles a predator, something stalking alone at night. Something you shouldn’t have let inside. He’s going to eat you alive. And maybe you’re okay with it.

“Alright, little girl. Lead the way.”

An awkward, hot tension surrounds you as you scrabble off the floor, grabbing his hand as you pull him towards the bedroom. Your thumb brushes over the staples, heart twisting at the feeling.

But the melancholic sting is forgotten once he’s leaving sharp little bites on your thighs, your clothes and his jacket tossed to a forgotten corner of your bedroom. His breath is hot against your exposed skin, goosebumps following his path to your hot cunt.

You’re nervous, still unsure of your current predicament. But Touya pinches your thigh, bringing your attention back to him as he watches as your thighs tense around him. His eyes meet yours, confident and sure of his place between your legs, and all of your uncertainty vanishes, consumed by the want and desire that fills you.

His eyes meet yours, clear and sharp, and he brings his hands to your pussy, thumbs pulling your folds open. His gaze drops, focused on your cunt, watching the way you clench around nothing. You squirm, embarrassed at the intensity of his stare.

“So wet already,” he mumbles, before his tongue swipes along your slit. You let out a small gasp, slamming your hand to your mouth in a lame attempt to gag yourself. Touya narrows his eyes, as he laps away, tongue flicking up to tease your clit, circling it but never touching the sensitive bud. You whine into your hand, trying to keep your hips still as he takes his time.

“Drop that hand.” The rumble of his voice travels through you, making you shiver. “Drop it, and I’ll touch this cute little clit.” Looking at him nervously, your hand falls tentatively, hovering above his hair, unsure if it’s okay to ground yourself there. Touya rolls his eyes, before pushing your hand down.

His tongue swipes at your clit making your hips jolt. He lets out a snort before repeating the action. Your grip in his hair is light, not wanting to hurt him; but your self-control goes out the door the second his lips make a seal around your clit.

He sucks at the throbbing bud, eyes lighting up at the way you buck against him, moaning loudly. Your fingers tangle into his hair, keeping him snug against your cunt. He slips a finger into your sopping hole, practically melting at how warm and wet it is. He needs to be inside you. Soon.

“Touya,” you moan, rocking in an attempt to increase the friction. He curls his finger inside of you, mouth still focused on your engorged bud. Your grip in his hair tightens, the pleasure that’s been simmering building rapidly.

“Gonna cum!” you squeal in warning. He doesn’t slow down, eyes trained on your face as your jaw drops, a choked noise clawing out of your throat. You tense around him, muscles quivering at the intensity of your orgasm. You whine and buck against him, and he lets you ride at your orgasm.

When his ministrations borderline into pain, you weakly push his head away, trying to catch your breath. He lets you pull away, eyes glimmering cruelly.

“That was fast.”

You whine in response, moving your hands to cover your face. Touya hisses, surging forward to yank your hands above your head. You wince as he squeezes, eyes narrowing on your face.

“Don’t hide what’s mine.” His lips pull back into a lazy grin as his eyes trail over your body, landing on your glistening cunt. “Gonna fuck you so good,” he mutters, mostly to himself. You blink stupidly at him when he lets you go, processing the fact that he’s kicked off his pants and taking his cock out.

Your eyes widen when you see the shiny piercings that gleam on his cock. It excites you, making your cunt clench around nothing. And yet your stomach drops when you finally realize that he’s bigger than you thought he would be. You bite your lip, trying to tame the swarm of nerves that take over the excitement.

“Touya, I think I need-” he cuts you off with a sloppy kiss. Your hips cant when you feel the head of his cock sliding along the lips of your pussy, his piercings tapping at your clit nicely. You’re not sure if you’re ready for him, and it simultaneously excites and terrifies you. But he leans on you, keeping you still with his body weight.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Open up for me,” he murmurs. And then next thing you know his lips are on yours, but you can’t help but to let out a cry against him when he thrusts his cock into you, bottoming out. He’s red hot inside of you, and tears prickle the corners of your eyes, leaking out as your nails dig into his back.

“So warm,” he murmurs, before pulling his hips back and thrusting into you. You cry out at the harsh stretch, tears falling down your cheeks as his piercings pull at your walls. He seems to like that though, and he brings a hand up to your cheek, thumb stroking the salty liquid. “You’re pretty when you cry.” He punctuates the sentence with a particularly harsh thrust, sending more tears down your face. “Attagirl,” he coos, looking absolutely enamored with your blubbering face.

“Touya, please,” you whine, not exactly sure what you’re asking for. But Touya seems to know, a sharp grin spreading wide on his face.

“Awww, does my baby girl wanna feel good too?” You nod, face twisted as you babble away.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’ll take good care of you.” He kisses you again messily, before slipping a hand in between your bodies to play with your exhausted clit. He massages the swollen bud, sighing as you start to gush around him. “Is that better?” You nod and whine, hands twisting in his hair to hold him against you.

Touya can’t help but chuckle, and he presses another kiss into your neck before sucking on the skin there. His thrusts are gentler now, appreciating the snug warmth that surrounds his cock. If he could stay buried in the heat of your cunt forever, he would.

He’s drawn from his thoughts when you tug at his shirt, wanting it gone. He stills against you, tensing. You look up at him with a pout, eyes begging him to take it off.

“Please,” you whine. “I wanna feel you.” His mouth opens, and you can already hear the annoying quip that lies on the tip of his tongue, so you push forward, hands tangled into his shirt. “I wanna feel all of you.” He pauses, head tilting to the side as you watch the gears turn behind his eyes.

“Please.” Your voice is soft, as you try to avoid squirming around his dick. Something seems to click in his mind because he draws back, pulling his shirt off. Your eyes wander across the expanse of stapled skin, the puckered burns, making your heart squeeze. But there’s nothing you can say, nothing you can change. So you reach out to him, beckoning him into your arms.

He falls forward, barely supporting himself, letting his body cover yours. You wrap your arms and legs around him holding him close as he begins to lightly thrust again.

“You feel so good,” you cry out panting against his face. Touya angles his head to face you, eyes boring into yours as his breaths mix with yours. It’s too hot, too much, but you can’t move away, overwhelmed by the sensations and entranced by his eyes.

Touya’s hips increase in pace, rutting violently against yours, the sharp sting of his skin against yours making you whine. Each thrust into you, steals your breath away, your hands digging into his back.

“Ever since I found you again, I needed to have you, needed you back. I wasn’t going to let myself lose you again,” he growls. You whimper as you gush around him, finding that you want him to stay buried in your pussy forever.

“Stick out your tongue,” he barks out. His eyes flash, and you do as he says, all while letting out little gasps as he thrusts into you. He hovers above you, a cruel grin spread out on his face. You watch as he spits onto your tongue, a shudder going down your spine. He reaches out to grip your open jaw harshly.

“Swallow.” When he lets go you do exactly that, cunt squeezing tightly. “Oh you like that?” he laughs as you nod. He hums before kissing you sloppily.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re gonna do what I say from now on. I’ll make you feel so fucking good.”

You should be alarmed by the promise of obedience, but you feel too good to care right now.

“Mine, mine, mine.”

It crosses your mind to tell him that you don’t belong to him, but all you can do is nod and hold him closer.

“Wanted to be inside this pussy the moment I saw you. You’re never gonna want another cock than mine.” At this point, all you can do is whine and nod, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

“Nothing’s gonna hurt you again, baby girl. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll take care of you.” Your nails scratch down his back, making him hiss, as your hips rut against him.

“Touya,” you cry out, tears leaking from your eyes so sweetly. “Gonna cum again.” He nods, lips brushing against yours.

“Wanna feel you cream around me, baby girl.” You nod blankly, drunk on the feeling of his cock pounding into you, piercings pulling so nicely at your gummy walls.

Propping himself up with one arm, he slips his hand in between your bodies, fingers playing with your clit again. It’s enough to send you over the edge, and you cry out, writing against him as your pussy gushes around his cock, squeezing him tightly.

He chokes against you, and your pulsating cunt launches him into his own orgasm. Touya’s hips jerk against you as his cum paints the inside of your cunt. He collapses against you as you twitch in a post-orgasmic haze. He nips at your neck, alternating the sharp stings with sweet kisses.

“You did so good, baby. So good to me. I’ll take care of you. I promise,” he murmurs against your skin, making you shiver. You’re still panting, sweeping your hands over his back, before they land in his hair, gently scratching at his scalp. He shuts his eyes, enjoying the sensations and the warmth, letting himself get lost in you, if only for a little bit.

But when he pushes himself off of you, pulling his hips away, you whine. Your legs lock around him, keeping him lodged inside you. He barks out a laugh before flopping down on his side, pulling you against him.

“I’ll stay right here. Don’t worry.”

“Touya…” you murmur, gently. He sends you a questioning gaze, waiting. You lean forward, pressing your lips against his, trying to convey the complexity of what you’re feeling. He responds aggressively, as if you might disappear. But it makes you melt. Maybe he was right about that.

 When you draw back, his thumb strokes at leftover tears on your cheek.

“It’s okay, You’re mine now.” It’s not exactly what you wanted to hear, but it’s all you get from him because he pulls you tight against him, eyes shutting in exhaustion.

You curl up against him, feeling his breathing even out. His cock feels heavy inside of you, and something cold sits in your stomach.

You shouldn’t have done that. He’s not okay. You really shouldn’t have done that. But you would deal with that in the morning.

For now, Touya is yours, and you’ll enjoy the warmth of his skin and the way the stars fall when you shut your eyes.✨

[she-who-fights-and-writes]

She-who-fights-and-writes Coronacation Book Rec List

I know that a lot of people are stuck at home right now in dire need of entertainment, so I decided I’d put out a book recommendations list of all the books I’m currently reading and all of my must-reads!

(Just a note that a lot of these are Fantasy because I’m a fantasy nerd haha)

Books/Series I am currently reading

1. The Folk of the Air Trilogy by Holly Black (Currently on #2, The Wicked King)

Genre: High Fantasy

Setting: The land of Faerie which is kind of historical, but in the human world it is modern day

Main cast :

Jude Duarte (white, human, cutthroat, if I saw her in a Denny’s Parking Lot at 3am I would RUN)

Cardan Greenbriar (white, faerie, the true embodiment of Bastard)

Vivienne (Jude’s half-sister, lesbian with canon gf, half-human half-faerie, I would totally try to be her friend)

Taryn Duarte (Jude’s twin sister, queen doormat, still, I would take a bullet for her she’s jUST TRYING TO FIT IN)

Rating: 5/5 Stars

These books have been on my “To Read” list for so long now and for some reason I just never got around to reading them! Hands-down, these are some of the best high fantasy books that I’ve read in a long, long while.

I finished the first book, The Cruel Prince, in just two days and rated it 5/5 stars! Even though these books are high fantasy and focus on the traditions and ways of life of faeries, somehow all of the characters seem like I could meet them in real life!

The main character actually has genuine flaws and not just “””“flaws”””” and is a Bad Bitch down with murder, and the plot had me on the edge of my seat from page one!

The summary makes it sound like it’s going to be about their romance, but it’s really mostly about a power struggle and Jude being a badass.

Goodreads summary for The Cruel Prince:

Jude was seven when her parents were murdered and she and her two sisters were stolen away to live in the treacherous High Court of Faerie. Ten years later, Jude wants nothing more than to belong there, despite her mortality. But many of the fey despise humans. Especially Prince Cardan, the youngest and wickedest son of the High King. To win a place at the Court, she must defy him–and face the consequences. As Jude becomes more deeply embroiled in palace intrigues and deceptions, she discovers her own capacity for trickery and bloodshed. But as betrayal threatens to drown the Courts of Faerie in violence, Jude will need to risk her life in a dangerous alliance to save her sisters, and Faerie itself.

2. The Raven Cycle Series by Maggie Stiefvater (Currently on #1, The Raven Boys)

Genre: Present-Day/Realistic Fantasy (?)

Setting: The fictional town of Henrietta, Virginia

I haven’t gotten around to much of the book, so there’s not much I can tell you about the characters and I can’t properly give it a rating yet.

These books were also on my “To Read” list for a while; I was a huge fan of her book The Scorpio Races and have also been looking for something to quench my thirst for “private school/ghosts/magic” that I’ve been dealing with ever since I read The Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo.

I’ve only JUST started The Raven Cycle yesterday, but so far I am hooked! I’m super worried because I’m TERRIBLE at juggling two series at a time but both of these are just so interesting! 

Goodreads Summary for The Raven Boys:

“There are only two reasons a non-seer would see a spirit on St. Mark’s Eve,” Neeve said. “Either you’re his true love . . . or you killed him.” It is freezing in the churchyard, even before the dead arrive. Every year, Blue Sargent stands next to her clairvoyant mother as the soon-to-be dead walk past. Blue herself never sees them—not until this year, when a boy emerges from the dark and speaks directly to her. His name is Gansey, and Blue soon discovers that he is a rich student at Aglionby, the local private school. Blue has a policy of staying away from Aglionby boys. Known as Raven Boys, they can only mean trouble. But Blue is drawn to Gansey, in a way she can’t entirely explain. He has it all—family money, good looks, devoted friends—but he’s looking for much more than that. He is on a quest that has encompassed three other Raven Boys: Adam, the scholarship student who resents all the privilege around him; Ronan, the fierce soul who ranges from anger to despair; and Noah, the taciturn watcher of the four, who notices many things but says very little. For as long as she can remember, Blue has been warned that she will cause her true love to die. She never thought this would be a problem. But now, as her life becomes caught up in the strange and sinister world of the Raven Boys, she’s not so sure anymore.

MY MUST-READ BOOK LIST

1. The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue by Mackenzi Lee

Genre: Historical Fiction

Setting: 1700s Europe (England, Paris, Barcelona, Marseilles, Venice)

Main cast (I’ll try my best not to spoil anything because you find out a LOT of different stuff about these characters throughout the book):

Henry “Monty” Montague (white, bi/pansexual, attitude problem)

Percy Newton (mixed race, gay, very sweet boy, definitely got “most likely to bring home to mom” in the yearbook)

Felicity Montague (white, Monty’s little sister, headcanoned as asexual, I love her to death)

Rating: 5/5 Stars

Daring adventure, gay representation, historical setting, hilarious characters!

This book literally has it all! I would consider it one of my favorite books of all time, yet for some reason I’ve never gotten around to reading any of the sequel books! The ending is very satisfying and ties everything together, which I feel is part of the reason why I haven’t gotten around to them yet. 

Therefore, it can serve as a one-shot read or a full series if you want to dive into something good!

The humor made me laugh out loud at points and all of the characters are very real and very, very relatable, not to mention the vivid settings of 1700s Europe!

Goodreads summary:

Henry “Monty” Montague was born and bred to be a gentleman, but he was never one to be tamed. The finest boarding schools in England and the constant disapproval of his father haven’t been able to curb any of his roguish passions—not for gambling halls, late nights spent with a bottle of spirits, or waking up in the arms of women or men. But as Monty embarks on his Grand Tour of Europe, his quest for a life filled with pleasure and vice is in danger of coming to an end. Not only does his father expect him to take over the family’s estate upon his return, but Monty is also nursing an impossible crush on his best friend and traveling companion, Percy. Still it isn’t in Monty’s nature to give up. Even with his younger sister, Felicity, in tow, he vows to make this yearlong escapade one last hedonistic hurrah and flirt with Percy from Paris to Rome. But when one of Monty’s reckless decisions turns their trip abroad into a harrowing manhunt that spans across Europe, it calls into question everything he knows, including his relationship with the boy he adores.

2. The Ninth House By Leigh Bardugo

Genre: Horror, Fantasy 

Setting: Yale University and the town of New Haven, Present Day

Main cast:

Galaxy “Alex” Stern (Hispanic, sees dead people, very scary)

Daniel Arlington “Darlington” (white, rich, an angel who can sometimes be a dick)

Pamela Dawes (tbh I honestly don’t remember what she looks like, only that she’s a tired grad student with big nerd energy)

Detective Alan Turner (Black, takes shit from nobody, husband material)

Rating: 4/5 Stars

(NOTE: THIS IS VERY DARK ADULT FICTION AND CONTAINS MATERIAL THAT MAY BE TRIGGERING FOR SOME PEOPLE, WOULD NOT RECOMMEND FOR PEOPLE UNDER 16)

This book is a great read for someone who’s looking for a disturbing, gritty book with layers upon layers of secrets that you have to peel away as the mystery unfolds. I love the secret societies and the intricate magic systems that the book introduces, and it actually made me hungry for more books like it!

 Alex is a three-dimensional, very real character who also serves as an unreliable narrator who witholds or warps the information that she’s telling you, making the narrative all the more riveting.

The only issues that I have with it are the fact that Leigh Bardugo kind of just dumps you in the middle of it without explaining stuff first, to the point where it kind of feels like you’re reading the second installment of a series rather than the first one, so things can get a bit confusing at first.

The book also can drag and draw things out for a bit too long, but once the plot fully kicks into gear, you will not be able to put it down!

Goodreads summary:

Galaxy “Alex” Stern is the most unlikely member of Yale’s freshman class. Raised in the Los Angeles hinterlands by a hippie mom, Alex dropped out of school early and into a world of shady drug dealer boyfriends, dead-end jobs, and much, much worse. By age twenty, in fact, she is the sole survivor of a horrific, unsolved multiple homicide. Some might say she’s thrown her life away. But at her hospital bed, Alex is offered a second chance: to attend one of the world’s most elite universities on a full ride. What’s the catch, and why her? Still searching for answers to this herself, Alex arrives in New Haven tasked by her mysterious benefactors with monitoring the activities of Yale’s secret societies. These eight windowless “tombs” are well-known to be haunts of the future rich and powerful, from high-ranking politicos to Wall Street and Hollywood’s biggest players. But their occult activities are revealed to be more sinister and more extraordinary than any paranoid imagination might conceive.

3. The Lunar Chronicles by Marissa Meyer

Genre: Sci-Fi/Fantasy

Setting: Earth, Space, The Moon

Main cast :

Linh Cinder (Chinese, based on Cinderella, cyborg, certified badass)

Scarlet Benoit (French, based on Little Red Riding Hood, farmer who is not afraid to shoot you)

Cress Darnel (White, based on Rapunzel, nerd, I will protect her with my life if I have to)

Kaito “Kai” (Chinese, based on Prince Charming, kind of has to run a whole country, a very kind soul, deserves a nap)

Carswell Thorne (White, based off of Rapunzel’s Prince, bastard)

Winter Hayle (Black, based off of Snow White, royalty, has super special powers)

Wolf (Race unspecified, based off of the Big Bad Wolf, charming killing machine, furry????) 

Rating: 5/5 Stars

Do you like fairy tales?

Have you ever wanted to know what fairy tales would be like if they took place in the FUTURE instead of the PAST? 

Do you like an amazing, hilarious cast paired with a super interesting plot? 

These are the books for you!

I haven’t read them in so long, but I remember how much joy I felt while devouring these pages. Definitely something you will not able to put down!

Goodreads Summary for Book #1: Cinder: 

Humans and androids crowd the raucous streets of New Beijing. A deadly plague ravages the population. From space, a ruthless lunar people watch, waiting to make their move. No one knows that Earth's fate hinges on one girl. . . . Cinder, a gifted mechanic, is a cyborg. She's a second-class citizen with a mysterious past, reviled by her stepmother and blamed for her stepsister's illness. But when her life becomes intertwined with the handsome Prince Kai's, she suddenly finds herself at the center of an intergalactic struggle, and a forbidden attraction. Caught between duty and freedom, loyalty and betrayal, she must uncover secrets about her past in order to protect her world's future.

4. The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

Genre: Fantasy

Setting: Ancient Greece

Main cast:

Patroclus (Greek, Gay, quiet pining) 

Achilles (Greek, gay, very strong, student athlete energy)

Brisies (Anatolian, clever, literally the only one in this story who has a brain cell)

Rating: 100000/5 stars

This is basically the Iliad but if historians hadn’t completely erased Patroclus and Achilles’ relationship. “Haha yeah these guys were totally bros” they say, even though I have read the Iliad and their relationship isn’t even subtle.

This book made me cry at least ten times. It’s just so beautifully written and has such a distinct vibe to it that whenever I crack it open for another time, it takes me straight back to the vacation that I read it on. (Needless to say, sobbing your eyes out can be less than helpful when you’re on the beach)

If you can only read one book on this list, it should be this one. I could talk all day about it and write novels on just how much of an incredible writer Madeline Miller is, but I feel like you’d get my drift a bit better if you actually read the book.

Goodreads Summary:

Greece in the age of heroes. Patroclus, an awkward young prince, has been exiled to the court of King Peleus and his perfect son Achilles. By all rights their paths should never cross, but Achilles takes the shamed prince as his friend, and as they grow into young men skilled in the arts of war and medicine their bond blossoms into something deeper - despite the displeasure of Achilles' mother Thetis, a cruel sea goddess. But then word comes that Helen of Sparta has been kidnapped. Torn between love and fear for his friend, Patroclus journeys with Achilles to Troy, little knowing that the years that follow will test everything they hold dear. Profoundly moving and breathtakingly original, this rendering of the epic Trojan War is a dazzling feat of the imagination, a devastating love story, and an almighty battle between gods and kings, peace and glory, immortal fame and the human heart.

Hope this list helps you through your coronacation, and please don’t be afraid to reblog or message me to tell me if you’ve read/will read any of these!

[ceruleanmusings]

mickames ship notes

I just need to put this somewhere so I can stop turning it over in my head. This is me thinking out loud so it does end up long but I also want a place to put this so I can reference it whenever I write more for them in the future. (Keep in mind this is just the version of James I see; others might have a different view on him and that’s okay!)

At a glance, James and Mickey shouldn’t work. They’re complete opposites, he enjoys the spotlight, thrives when getting attention, is vain and self-centered and doesn’t hesitate to put his wants and needs first. She prefers the background, doesn’t like too much attention, and thinks about others and their needs more than her own. But that’s what makes them work as well, they fill each other’s gaps.

James teaches her that, sometimes, it’s best to put yourself first and to go after what you want and need; there’s nothing wrong with making yourself a priority. She can take up space and demand respect and she won’t burst into flames for it. Mickey teaches him that, sometimes, you learn more about those you care about and the world by sitting back, observing, and letting others take the spotlight every once in a while; that being more empathetic and less self absorbed also serves you in a fulfilling way.

They meet at the Palm Woods (if I were to stick this anywhere in canon, it’d be near the tail end of season 2 I think. BTQuads would replace BTGirl Group. This is after retconning and fixing some things in BTQ considering I wrote that 11 years ago; if I rewrote it now I’d do it a little differently. Or maybe it would be somewhere near the beginning of the season as it’s own “episode”. I’m still figuring this out.) He flirts and she resists which comes across as him being a nuisance and her being a doormat; she doesn’t indulge but she doesn’t stop it either (hello?? a cute guy flirting and noticing her? she wasn’t going to let that go right away, even if she is being selfish about it and leading him on to a degree). And since he doesn’t have a stop sign in his face, he keeps toeing the line. Yeah, there are other girls he could be trying to win their favor, and he could do so easily, but there’s something about her not falling for it that makes him try harder.

She’s not perfect. She starts off with a very biased/judgy way of thinking of him: he’s nothing more than a pretty face, a good voice, and a skirt chaser. So the moments he is a nice, sweet, and thoughtful guy she brushes off like it’s a fluke. It takes her friends pointing out to her she’s kind of being a bitch to see how she acts towards him, first taking more offense to the accusation than the what they’re actually saying. She is justified, however, because the only time he talks to her, really, is when he’s hitting on her. She allows it to continue because she has a hard time saying no and, honestly from the beginning, she thinks it’s a joke. Because why would someone so out of her league be into her? Plus, it’s not like it will last. But it does. Eventually she reaches her wits end and tears him a new one, basically stating that he knows nothing about her and he needs to knock it off. 

It works and he backs off. At first he changes out of spite. (You say I know nothing about you? Fine! I’ll learn everything I can and show you that I do! So there!) He sits back and he watches her rituals and habits and he listens, learning about her likes and dislikes. He even keeps a list of them; much like his James’ Things to Do B-4 20 List. Only this one is filled with her hobbies and interests and disinterest and the smallest thing he could think of that involves her opinion. Through keeping the list he really does end up learning more about her and having more things to talk to her about where they, eventually (and with Carlos as a tether), become friends and he sees her as a person and not a prize to be won.

It also helps with their paths crossing a lot due to being part of his backing band and going along with the schemes he and his friends get themselves involved in on a daily basis. Her loving hockey always wins her points in his book (though she prefers to watch rather than play.) They can hang out and chill and talk to each other without expecting something out of it. (And he flirts sometimes, he can’t just turn it off, but that doesn’t make his comments about liking her hair or her looking gorgeous in a dress any less honest.) At that point it’s just James being James and who was she to make him change? He takes her as she is, quiet, hesitant, shy, over-thinker and all, she can take him for all his faults too.

It’s that line of thought which brings them to the point where they eventually feel safe with one another to open up and be vulnerable about their insecurities, which end up being similar in sentiment: they both want someone to put them first. James doesn’t have the best relationships with his parents, his mom was absent emotionally and his dad splits his time chasing after his washed up rockstar dreams and keeping his younger wife happy. They didn’t give him attention so he decided to give it to himself; he pumps himself up, dresses well, overstates his talents (though he can back it up), and makes himself a priority, No one else did so why not himself? But he’s tired and, for once, he wouldn’t mind someone else putting in the effort. Being a quadruplet, Mickey is used to sharing: space, attention, gifts, classes, a birthday, anything and everything. She comes as a set. And while she shies away from unwanted attention, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want things to be about her sometimes. She doesn’t know how to ask for it, instead curling in on herself, falling in line, and boosting others and their wants and needs and dreams thinking, one day, someone will do the same for her. There’s an odd sort of loneliness she feels being a quad and not knowing how to have an outside identity, wanting that attention but not feeling it’s right to want it. So she sits back and goes with the flow; it’s all she’s ever known.

It’s when Mickey sees James as the nice, driven, focused, sweet, funny, loyal, talented, understanding, and accepting guy he is her feelings for him change. She has a hard time grappling with them, not sure if she likes him or the undivided attention he gives her. Also, she has a habit of sabotaging good things for herself (a fact her sisters and aunt Kelly point out a lot). James is out of her league, why would she want to let him in if he’s only going to end up realizing the same thing and move onto the next thing? (On the other end, James thinks she’s out of his league; she’s smart, caring, funny, creative, supportive, selfless, thoughtful, and a badass on the bass.) She blinds herself to the fact that, ever since he met her, he’s never moved on.

Not even when he chased after Lucy. Lucy was a distraction to him not wanting to confront something he doesn’t know how to handle: actual feelings. Lucy always turned him down; he expected it, he knew the outcome, it was easy and safe. He couldn’t get hurt by a friend he wasn’t entirely invested in (I want to be clear here they are friends, unlike the show I have reasons as to why Lucy is friends with them and is involved more than just to be a love interest. My wording is directed that he’s not entirely invested in chasing after her, it being a front and him slipping into what he knows more than anything). He could get hurt by Mickey. She’s his best friend (well one of them, Carlos would hate to be bumped from his best bud ranking) and, if things went wrong, their friendship could get ruined too. He couldn’t risk that.

So they’re wishy-washy, coming closer and backing away at the last minute, admiring one another from afar, pretending their gazes aren’t being held a little too long or their smiles shine a little brighter in one another’s company. James is on uneven ground for the first time in his life; he always knows the right thing to say, never gets nervous, and can hold his own but Mickey can bowl him over. And while it sends him spiraling he also dips his toe into the uncharted waters. Eventually he gets fed up with her going back and forth and lays it all on the line, letting his feelings out, very plainly, and puts the ball in her court. Maybe she actually likes him, maybe she doesn’t. But she does and it takes her a little longer to accept she does, that she’s allowed to have someone who ticks off all her boxes, that she’s allowed to be happy. So she sends a plant to share her feelings instead; words come easier to her on paper than spoken aloud. And he’s shocked at first; while he hoped she felt the same way a larger part of him had convinced himself he was chasing after a lost cause. But they’re finally on the same page and he doesn’t want to mess it up.

In fact, he tries a little too hard to be the perfect boyfriend. Overeager as he his, he pulls out her chairs only for her to fall flat to the ground when he does so too hard, he spills drinks he bought on her, he tries to make her cookies only for them to be rock-solid hockey pucks that nearly break her teeth (he probably should have learned baking soda can’t be substituted with actual soda), he tries to hold open the door for her only to hit her in the face, he tries to buy her flowers only to wind up being allergic to them. It’s his first real relationship (the three days with Selana don’t count), he has to be the best at it. He’s always the best. To save herself form more bodily harm, Mickey ends up snapping him out of it and they both realize they’re scared of what it means to be with someone else and be in a relationship (it’s her first relationship too) and be committed so they agree that it would be easier to be scared together.

As eager as James is, he lets Mickey take the lead. So she’s the one to kiss him first, she’s the one to initiate holding hands and hugging and cuddling, she’s usually the first to lean into him if she needs grounding or reassurance; forehead touching and nuzzling are her go-tos. If it were up to him he’d pack on the PDA any chance he could get; she’d rather keep the bigger displays behind closed doors.

They view their separate loves, music and cooking, similarly: the end result, the way music or food brings people together and makes memories that last and touches people, as a driving force in putting their all into their craft. Even if being a rockstar wasn’t her dream and even if he doesn’t cook, they understand that feeling of supplying for others and being an escape.

Their relationship isn’t free from its bumps. James is more open with his words and intentions so he communicates well but Mickey is more guarded on that front; she tends to put forth her effort into her actions and showing how she cares so he is taken care of. Sometimes he takes advantage of it but he learns fast to tell her how much he appreciate her while she learns to verbally communicate her feelings better. Sometimes she doesn’t mind he’s self-absorbed, he can talk about himself all he wants while she can sit back and listen. But there are other moments she wants to pull her hair out because it wouldn’t kill him to ask her how she’s doing. Sometimes he wants her to be more firm, to be confident and make a choice rather than let others take the lead for her; other times he basks in her relying on him to navigate certain situations.

They date for a while, part ways, and then get back together in the future after learning more about themselves and what they want in a partner. In the end, opposites attract hit them hard and, like opposing poles on a magnet, will always bring them back to each other. (Plus, as James points out, Mickey Diamond has a nice rockstar ring to it. Pun intended.)

[my-miraculous-headcanons]

Heres some heacanons for the pv (what the show should have been personally): the thing that seperates brigettes timeline from marinettes is in the pv timeline its brigettes mom who is ill and not felix's leading to felix being more loved and secluded and brigette missinf mom and distant making her develop seperation anxiety and a fear of lonliness(hence the clinginess)

Personally, I don’t care as much for the PV as I care for the original starting concept of everything, when Marinette was named Marietta, had more of a straight cut to her pigtails, and was known as the Mini Menace Ladybug. 

I’m also… not the biggest fan of Felix or Marinette’s personalities in the PV. The darker themes were great, I loved everything from a design point of view, as well as the other characters, Alan, Claude, and Allegra, but I don’t think I would have been able to stand the show with a love square like that. It would have been infuriating. Regardless of the reasonings behind their personalities, Felix and Marinette’s behaviour in the PV really rubbed me wrong.

If I were to personally change the show to fit something more to my liking, using the first concepts and the PV as inspiration, I would have changed a LOT more than simply whose parents were more unfortunate.

Let’s start with Marinette:

Okay, to start off… I LOVE this version of Marinette. I love her hairstyle and ribbons a whole lot more than canon Marinette. I love her civilian clothing, and I love the much more menacing look that she has when she’s Ladybug, using a mask with white covering over her eyes. I also love the fact that’s she’s older. 

And I can’t say enough how much I love that her suit’s not just magicked on. (Don’t get me wrong, I love the magic of the whole show, but I also really love when magic doesn’t do everything for you. Yeah, here’s a magical indestructible super suit, but you’re gonna have to put it on and take it off yourself!)

THIS Marinette, who was previously named Marietta, is cunning, daring, stealthy, and efficient. She still has all of my favourite qualities that Current Marinette has, being smart, creative, and strategic. But there’s a lot of differences; Concept Marinette clearly isn’t a goody-two-shoes, for one.

LOOK at this intense look in her eyes. Those are the eyes of someone on a fucking mission. Those are the eyes of someone who isn’t going to let anyone stop her, no matter what. If that means being a wanted criminal and having to avoid the police at every turn, then so be it. 

This is a Marinette who’s combined with not only the cute and quirky Marinette we have currently, not only the stern focus we have in Ladybug currently, but ALSO with the TOTAL BADASSERY that was unfortunately cut out altogether in the final production. This Marinette is cute, focused, and sly. And clearly not afraid to hurt anyone, if the state of that officer is anything to go by. 

This Marinette never had troubles making friends. She’s ALREADY confident and outgoing. This wasn’t the kind of girl who would sit quietly in class and never make meaningful relationships with her classmates. This is the kind of girl who didn’t NEED magical jewelry to shine. Instead, the magical jewelry found her BECAUSE she shined so brightly. 

I mean, seriously, look at this. I don’t know about you, but this isn’t the kind of ballsy attitude you get just because some new kid gave you a pep talk. Clearly she was already born with it, and is assured of her capabilities. This is the confidence of someone who’s BEEN confident for a very long time.

This is the Marinette I’m dying for. This is the kind of main character I would be utterly entranced by. It doesn’t need to sacrifice all the other quirks that we have with Current Marinette, all it does it adds on to her and makes her the type of hero I would have followed to the DEATH as a kid. 

This is the Marinette who still designs, who still bakes, who still gardens, who still probably does that adorable butt wiggle thing when she’s excited, who still squeals in delight and still makes handmade gifts for her friends.

And this is ALSO a Marinette who’s broken the law on multiple occasions, will expertly kick your ass in the name of good, super suit or not, is probably BOTH a bad influence and a good influence on the people around her, has powered on and made more connections in the fashion world than other teenagers her age would have had the guts to do, and doesn’t solely use her powers in the face of other magical happenstances. This girl will use her powers on regular old drunkards if the situation calls for it. She has NO mercy, and is perfectly fine on her own.

Of course, she isn’t alone, is she?

The Mini Menace: Ladybug is partnered with another Mini Menace, and his name would be Chat Noir:

Now, don’t get me wrong, as much as I love the Mini Menace concepts of Ladybug and Chat Noir, Beanie Boy here isn’t my favourite concept of catboy.

Believe it or not, my favourite concept art of Chat Noir is the one that’s a good mixture between both Felix and Adrien. A combination of Adrien’s general friendliness, awkwardness, and genuine playfulness, while still having Felix’s emotional distance, willingness to be a little mean-spirited at times, and the capacity to be deceitful. 

THIS is my Chat Noir. He’s full of genuine expression that is in no way a façade to win Ladybug over, bright and silly and mischievous. This is a boy who would probably laugh at someone who slipped on a banana peel, but would still get up to help that person back onto their feet, still laughing the entire time. This is also a boy who would make light jokes and tell dramatic stories to make you FEEL as though you’re close friends, even though he hasn’t told you a single thing about himself.

This is a person who knows how to be completely distant while masquerading as an open book. 

And I need to add, I LOVE this concept of Adrien, which seems to place somewhere in the beginning when they were transitioning from Felix to Adrien as a character. This Adrien is amicable, smiling in in the company of another friendly face, and has an open expression. This seriously does NOT look like someone who dances around in a skintight leather catsuit at night, breaking the law and provoking policemen. And that’s what makes it brilliant to me. 

The ONLY thing that seems similar between Chat Noir and Adrien is that they both manage to stay emotionally distant while putting up the mask of someone who isn’t. The brilliance of this is that they do it in completely different ways.

Current Chat Noir’s openness isn’t a joke, as far as we’re concerned. Current Chat Noir is TRYING to be as open as possible, his attitude is how he really want to be. Concept Chat Noir is different, instead USING that goofy attitude as a shield. He’s still Adrien, but part Felix as well, very attached to their protective bubble and not willing to slip out their cover.

Speaking of Felix, we should dive more into how we connect Felix and Adrien’s vastly different personalities.

To put it simply, Felix is kind of a jerk. And Adrien… isn’t. Felix doesn’t let anybody force him to do anything and will outright tell you to get lost. Adrien’s kind of a doormat and would sooner sacrifice his personal comfort for the sake of other people around him.

Felix is willing to use his bad luck abilities to purposely hurt a girl who has a crush on him simply because she’s walking towards him. Adrien’s the kind of guy who would stand still and let any girl who likes him cling to him like a leech, whether he’s uncomfortable or not. How could you possibly mix those two personalities together?

Well… pretty easily, honestly.

Felix acts out and does pretty mean-spirited things when he’s annoyed or just doesn’t want to deal with things. He’s selfish and cares little for what other people think of him. Adrien does, though. He cares about what other people think, his father especially, and wants people to like him.

This Concept Adrien is still going to be selfish and do mean-spirited things from time to time. He’d probably make use of his misfortune abilities by ruining the days of people who are just plain rude, taking great joy in their misery. That kid from earlier who made some gross comment about girls? Use a little misfortune to tangle his shoelaces together and make him late for class. That teacher who for some reason takes pride in failing his class? Gets his tie stuck in a paper shredder, wonder how that happened. Someone laughs at his use of a cane? I hope you like spraining your ankle and having to use crutches for a little while.

Concept Adrien still really cares about making good impressions to people who deserve it, however, and would refrain from pulling pranks or using his misfortune on those people. Marinette is on that list. She’s probably at the top of the list, honestly. Class president, super popular, probably the most sweetest girl in school, and strong enough to protect all her friends with raw strength alone? Yeah, definitely someone he wants to make a good first impression with.

Concept Adrien is a good person with some gray areas. He might enjoy other peoples’ pain too much, at times, and some of his ‘pranks’ can go a little overboard. His reasoning for helping Ladybug here and there will probably be for personal gain, rather than out of the goodness of his heart, and they won’t be very close to each other. Concept Adrien can be a little manipulative when he wants to be and can trick people into telling him the information he wants to know.

And yet, Concept Adrien is still firmly on the Good Human Being side of the scale. If he hears someone on the city streets in need of true help, he’ll be there. While he remains distant, afraid to tell too much about himself, he still very deeply cares about his friends and will be there for them when he’s needed. And while he has the power of pure destruction and misfortune at his fingertips, he never uses it for anything extreme.

Speaking of powers…

Chat Noir having added powers like this excite me. And I’m really excited by the fact that he’s seemingly capable of calling upon these powers outside of the magic suit— it gives credence to my theory that the original concepts were that Marinette and Adrien are CONSTANTLY infused with magical power. It doesn’t only ever exist when they change into the super suits. All that strength, agility, and their magical powers are well within their capabilities at all times. 

I love that Chat Noir’s powers are more diverse. He has more up his sleeve than a simple Cataclysm, like how Ladybug has more than just the Lucky Charm. Ladybug’s also capable of literally restoring any damage caused by another Miraculous.

And, speaking of abilities and Ladybug, let’s dive onto her side now.

This Ladybug doesn’t have new magical powers necessarily like Chat Noir does, but what she DOES have is an entire arsenal of different weapons, all in one yoyo. 

This absolutely feels like something more inline with the Ladybug Miraculous, considering it’s literally all about good luck and creation. It makes absolute sense that she should be able to imagine whatever weapon she wants and have it mimicked through her yoyo. Bombs, swords, staffs, and even a shield that’s probably capable of cutting through things like butter. It also falls in line with Concept Marinette’s personality. She’s willing to go to extreme lengths to accomplish her goal, so in comparison to Current Marinette, Concept Marinette would likely think of a whole host of different weapons to help her out.

I mean… remember that scene in Malediktator where Ladybug’s Lucky Charm was a fucking. machine gun. You remember how she just picked the laser pointer off it and threw the gun away? Yeah. Concept Marinette would not have done that.

You guys can probably tell what the common theme of the concept universe at this point is. Darker, more violent, more morally grey, and full of much more weapons, powers, and villains unrelated to magical influence. 

There’s SO MUCH more I want to get into, I’m justing dying to delve more into Concept Hawkmoth/Gabriel, the kwamis, Concept Origins, Concept Love Square, Concept Fu, Concept Plot, etc, etc. But at this point the post has run on for much too long. This took me long enough that I had to stop for the night and fall asleep. I’ll expand more if anybody asks, I suppose. 

[terresdebrumestories]

Chapter 2/22: Demon

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: The Shadowhunters Chronicles RATING: Mature. WORDCOUNT: 6 281 words PAIRING(S): Clary Fray/Izzy Lightwood, other pairings to be revealed as the story goes. CHARACTER(S): Clary Fray/Fairchild/Morgenstern, Alec Lightwood, Izzy Lightwood, Jace Wayland/Morgenstern, Magnus Bane, Maryse Lightwood, Robert Lightwood, Jocelyn Fray, Luke Garroway, and most of the other canon characters. GENRE: Urban fantasy with a dash of coming of age and lesbian romance. TRIGGER WARNING(S): - NOTE(S): - SUMMARY: Clary’s life plan from her eighteenth birthday onward is fairly simple: do her internship with her mother at Moonlight Tattoos, become a world-renowed tatoo artist, and find herself a girl she can spend the rest of her life with, pretty much in that order.

The part where she tries to save a girl from a would-be rapist and ends up having to fight demons kinds of throws a wrench into that, though.

(Or: This is what I wish we’d had in City of Bones.)

[Also available on AO3]

“Going out already?”

Clary stops on her way to the front hall, and answers her mother’s worried look with a reassuring smile.

“I’m up for it,” she promises with a gesture at her face and general demeanor, “see? All rested. Besides, you know Aminata’s going to kill me if I miss her first reading.”

Clary has been following her friend to Java Jones’ poetry readings for almost as long as she’s known her, mostly because words are as essential to Aminata’s well-being as pictures are to her own. That spot at the microphone is too much of an accomplishment to let it pass now, especially when the entire country is about to wedge itself between them.

“You only woke up two hours ago,” Jo points out, “are you sure you don’t want to stay here and rest some more?”

Dismissal is Clary’s first reflex—she has, after all, slept more than long enough to feel completely refreshed—but the frown on her mother’s face, when she actually pays attention, is far too deep to be only about that. Clary’s eyebrows rise with understanding, and she makes herself smile again:

“It’s the middle of the day, mom, and it’s not like Pandemonium is right next door. I’ll be fine. ‘Sides, if I stay here I’ll just be in your way—you’ve been on the phone ever since I woke up.”

“With Cat and Luke,” Jo admits with an odd little smile, “I took a day off. More importantly, Luke and I were talking about what happened to you. We think it’d be a good idea to set up an appointment with Dr. Neba.”

“Today?” Clary protests—almost whines, really—before she can think better of it, “But I—”

“No, he’s out of town until Monday,” Jo says in a tone of voice that leaves very little doubt as to her feelings on the matter, “and we wouldn’t book it behind your back, anyway. I just wanted to know if that was alright with you?”

“Oh! Sure,” Clary says with a breath of relief, “no problem. The EMTs said I should get my wrist checked anyway.”

“Thank you. You should also talk to Luke soon. He’s—worried.”

Clary frowns a bit at her mother’s pause, but Jo smiles and, well. It’s hardly the first time she stumbles over English after using Canti with Luke for a while.

(Clary tried to research the language on the web once, but it has to be the most obscure dialect in the world because she never could find anything about it, even after several hours and getting two different librarians involved. Sometimes it almost feels like Luke and Jo made it up between them.)

“Okay,” Clary agrees, mouth stretching over a surprise yawn, “I’ll call him as soon as the poetry meeting is over. Can I go now? I’m already late.”

“Fine, abandon me, you ungrateful child!” Jo mock-whines with a dramatic hand to her chest.

Clary rolls her eyes with a chuckle, checks her purse—keys, water, aspirin and her sketchbook, useless though it’ll be today—and hurries down the steps and through the front door, so focused on getting to Java’s before Ami’s poem she doesn’t even pause for her customary eye roll when her mother yells ‘I love you’ at her from the parlor window.

{ooo}

Running, as it turns out, makes Clary’s wrist throb with pain. It’s not a pleasant sensation, and she ends up walking to Java Jones, the only upside of that being that she gets there mostly sweat free, and she can slip into the cool micro-climate of the coffee-shop with a contented sigh rather than a shiver.

Aminata may be the one who dragged her to the poetry readings, but Clary practically grew up in Java Jones. This is where her mother would take her for treats on the weekend: they’d hole-up in the age-worn couch next to the toilets’ door and Clary would spend entire afternoons alternating between playing with her toys and watching her mother sketch out customers, sometimes adding antlers and wings and scale just to make Clary laugh. Clary’s first subjects, when she started learning to draw, were found here, whether they were customers, the chalk frescoes her mother created for the giant blackboard, or the soft lines of flower-shaped lamps.

Java Jones has a decidedly Art Nouveau feel about it. Curving greens and flowering yellows fill the space above earth-colored wood panel and hardwood floor, and even with minimal furniture it’s impossible not to pretend the place is some sort of liminal space, the entryway to a magical fairy realm.

The difference being, of course, that no one has ever been trapped into the shop after eating their food, but aside from that Clary is pretty confident in the comparison.

She gives Aminata a quick wave when she spots her—nervously biting her nails on the same couch Clary learned to draw on—and walks up to her favorite barista as he serves a couple of coffees. He got a new tattoo—some kind of brown, fur-like thing dripping blood on his biceps from where it pokes out of his shirt sleeve. Clary wrinkles her nose at it when he’s not looking, but she refrains from commenting and just waits for her drink in silence.

At last, she makes her way over to Aminata with a white chocolate frappé freezing her fingers and a reassuring smile on her lips, unsurprised when her friend’s first move is to grab for her elbow and almost spill her drink in the process.

“I thought you wouldn’t make it,” Aminata hisses, the tremor of nerves in her voice almost palpable, “where on earth were you?”

“Had a talk with my mom,” Clary replies as she extracts her arm from Ami’s hands, “she wants me to see our doctor about this.”

Aminata’s face turns contrite when Clary waves her splint in her field of vision, but Clary doesn’t let her fall into guilt and shrugs instead. She’s still nervous, it’s true. Despite her reassuring words to her mother earlier, she couldn’t helps but look over her shoulder on her way here, as if the guy with the blue hair were about to pop out of a side-street and start beating her any moment—but this is Java Jones. She’s known the shop and its regulars all her life, there’s no reason to think anything should happen to her here.

“So,” Clary starts, putting extra cheer in her voice to drive out the awkward silence, “did I miss anything interesting?”

“I think Eric Levinsky’s poem was about you again. You know, ‘fire hair’, ‘concentrated temper’, the usual.”

“Still confusing bad temper and not being a doormat, I see,” Clary mutters, and Aminata snorts.

The guy also fails to grasp the concept of lesbianism, but then he’s hardly the first, won’t be the last, and Aminata isn’t quite as invested in that topic anyway. It’d take too much fun out of the snipping if Clary ended up being the only one with a gripe, here.

Besides, there are plenty of other things to enjoy here. The shop smells like ground coffee and honeysuckle, swaddled in the tang of hot asphalt pervading the afternoon air and slipping inside by some kind of almost-miracle. From the outside, light and shadow play over the crowd, spotting them in warm golds and cooler greens as they mill about the shop with varying degrees of attention for the poets on stage. Even the coming and going of customers toward the toilets isn’t too bothersome tonight. It’s drags at Ami’s nerves, that’s obvious enough, but it’s mostly kept quiet, and the couch is still the best spot for people watching.

Clary sits with her friend in silence and lets the poetry wash over her while Ami’s fingers grip and then slowly relax around her forearm, the lull of words and crowd noises dragging Clary down into the couch and out of her shoes in record time. She’s almost asleep by the time Aminata jostles her elbow on her way to the stage, the host encouraging the crowd to applaud and make some noise for a shy but promising newcomer.

The speech is nice—though the praise would be more meaningful if Clary hadn’t heard it about every beginner poet performing at the readings—and it gives Clary just enough time to readjust her ponytail and straighten up to full attention before Aminata starts reading.

Then a hand lands on her shoulder.

She freezes, back painfully rigid and heart picking up the rhythm as if gearing up for a race, and she has to swallow a whine when she realizes Aminata is too focused on the crowd of listeners to realize what’s going on in the corner. Slowly, without moving her head, Clary glances down at the hand—wide, firm, wrapped in dark, petrole blue leather—and blinks tears out of her eyes. There’s a barista close to her, serving a couple at the next table over, and Clary somehow manages to catch her eye.

The girl—Sarah, her name tag reads—gives Clary a funny look but walks over anyway. The hand on Clary’s shoulder tightens and tugs, and Sarah frowns.

“Everything alright miss?”

“Can you tell this person to leave me alone, please?”

To Clary’s horror, Sarah’s features go from concerned to a confused frown, the shadows on her face turning the white of her skin almost gray when she asks:

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t bother,” a light voice says, a little above Clary’s head, “she can’t—”

“That boy,” Clary insists, jerking a thumb over her shoulder, “please tell him to let me go.”

“See me,” the boy finishes while Sarah schools her features into polite disbelief.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I don’t see anyone there.”

Clary wants to tell Sarah her joke is just about everything but funny, but somehow it doesn’t feel like that would make anything better. She breathes in deep instead, and winces in pain when the knot in her throat stings on the way down. Don’t panic, she reminds herself, think.

Maybe she’s just hallucinating. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all, and she’s probably stressed enough for a migraine to come through. She felt fine a second ago but it’s still possible. Besides, she’s never remembered her hallucinations before—they could involve leather clad men for all she knows. She’s probably just being needlessly paranoid and looking like an idiot for no valid reason but...still.

The hand on her shoulder feels real—heavy and strong in a way she doesn’t think she could fight off. There’s nothing here she can use to protect herself, except maybe her ring, but even with that, she’d have to land a punch. she’s not trained enough to take that risk.

In her throat, her heartbeat speeds up and presses against her windpipe until the edges of her vision grow dark and she all but topples forward with a whine.

Sarah yelps.

“Careful!”

“Woah, Fray!”

“How do you know my name?”

Clary does her best to look angry more than scared as she twists around to stare at the stranger. He’s wearing a face mask, and the hood poking from under a black leather jacket obscures the rest of his face, making it impossible to distinguish in the low light of Java Jones. Clary takes a step aside, toward the exit, and hears someone hissing for her to shut up and sit down.

There’s a ripple of murmurs and whispers behind her, and an odd silence where Aminata’s voice should be, but Clary is too busy trying to go through her parents’ teachings to care.

Back to the exit? Check. Hands into fists, thumb over the finger? Check. Stalling for time until help gets there? On it.

“How do you know my name,” she repeats, raising her voice as she backs another step toward the exit.

“Does it really matter?” The guy asks, “Calm down, people are starting to think you’re nuts.”

“I don’t care!” Clary repeats, more forcefully, “I’ve never seen you before in my life—”

“Wha—oh, yeah, didn’t see my face, but I—”

“How the hell do you know my name?”

There’s an aborted sound, like the stranger was about to get frustrated and then decided it wasn’t worth it—then he jumps over the couch, hands reaching for Clary’s left wrist.

She manages to shove her splint into the face mask through sheer dumb luck, and dodges under his arm while he’s distracted. She barrels through the toilets door before anyone thinks of stopping her, both the guy’s and Sarah’s voice hollering after her.

She shoulders her way past a couple—one of them swear as they hit the ground—and doesn’t realize her mistake until she’s slammed the ladies’ restroom door shut behind her. Crap. Trapped in. Crap, crap, crap.

Clary drags her eyes around the room, breathing loud in her ears as she takes in the closed cubicles, only just waiting to burst open and reveal people yelling ‘surprise’ at her in an instant—but her shoulder still burns with the heat of a foreign hand, her wrist throbs with pain from hitting that guy, and all of it feels so real—and how would she know the difference? How do you even tell hallucinations from reality when they’re about things that could conceivably happen?

She’s got to call Jo. Preferably before she can throw up with fear.

She’s reaching for her back pocket when the door shakes behind her back, the handle digging into her back with bruising force. She yelps in fright, heart in her throat, and bites her lips hard enough to hurt when the guy growls:

“Come on, you can’t hide in there forever, you know that right?”

Clary clamps her good hand against her mouth and screws her eyes shut. Her throat, her eyes, her lungs are burning—her heart’s trying to choke her and her brain keeps supplying every horror story she’s ever heard about black girls in her position. The entire world seems to swim around her, and when the door rattles again—harder this time, like something heavy was thrown against it—Clary stumbles to her knees faster than she even whimpers.

Think, Clary. Think.

Forcing her eyes open, Clary blinks tears out of her eyes and tries to have a coherent look at the room. There’s no other door here, no safe exit—that’s why Lucy Teruko got stuck here for almost fifteen minutes on that horrible date of her until—the window!

Clary crawls to her feet—has to catch herself with her good hand before she falls flat on her face on the tiles—and throws herself into the last cubicle to the sound of a door banging open against the wall.

The window above the seat it barely large enough for someone to go through, and for once Clary thanks genetics for her pocket size, before climbing on the toilet seat. The porcelain is wet, and she ends up with one foot in the water and a painful ankle before she can regain her footing, but she does get the window open and her upper body through it as the first cubicle bangs open.

One after the other, doors slam against the walls of empty stalls. Clary forces herself to stay quiet and calls on long-unused monkey cage skills to hang on the windowsill with her hips, push her lower body forward, and land on her feet with a painful jolt to her ankle. Loud cursing follows her toward the main street.

Summer-hot asphalt burns at her feet as she runs, and people turn to stare as she races down the sidewalk, jumps over a golden retriever like she’s in the middle of a track meeting, and manages to cross in all the wrong places, terror pushing her to speed she’d only ever dreamed of before. Her entire body burns by now—feels like she’s going to collapse and start retching if she even thinks of slowing down—but she keeps going anyway.

She does have to stop, eventually, bending over a bunch of tired-looking hydrangeas about three quarters of the way to her place and emptying her guts over the stems, careful not to put too much weight on her left foot. She braces herself against a concrete wall while the nausea dies down, and makes herself take deep breaths while her brain slowly collects itself and analyses the situation.

She’s barefoot, blisters growing so fast she can almost feel them form. Her left ankle is busted. Her purse—with her money, her phone, her ID—is still at Java Jones, hopefully with Aminata, but it’s not like Clary is about to go back there to confirm.

In short, Clary probably looks like a maniac who doesn’t have the brains to put shoes on, with no way to call anyone in or prove who she is or the truth of what she say. Assuming, of course, that the whole thing isn’t just happening in her head.

She’s so screwed.

If she looked better—if she couldn’t feel rivers of sweat rolling down her back, feel the frazzled state of her ponytail against her back—she’d ask for help. Maybe. She’s heard horrific stories about black people asking for help and getting trouble instead though. Not all of them get out of it alive...and let’s face it, she doesn’t look good.

She just ran three blocks like somebody was out to kill her—which may or may not be the case—without shoes, and she doesn’t need a mirror to tell it shows. Frankly, she’s rather not risk it. Her ankle hurts, yeah, but it’s not broken, and it’s not like there’s much to do about blisters beside taking things easy and resting. Besides, even if the guy is real, Clary probably lost him by now, thank God for Jo and Luke’s insistence on track training.

Slowly, with a careful limp, Clary starts back toward her home, determined to get there, get back in bed, and not move for the rest of the weekend.

It’s hardly surprising that it takes her much longer than usual to get home, but that doesn’t mean she enjoys it. It takes effort to ignore the staring passersby, and some more to keep herself from wincing at the heat under her feet. The sun is getting a little less unbearable at this time of the day, but asphalt is stone. It keeps heat.

It sucks.

The good news is, although no one offers to help Clary, no one becomes a problem either, so by the time she reaches the little square in front of her home, she’s just about ready to weep with relief. The white little twins from two houses down are playing in the fountain, like they always do. The pug from across the square fell asleep in the shade again.

Clary steps up to her own building with the odd sensation of leaving what little was left of her energy behind, the wisterias from the facade wrapping her in its perfumed embrace long before she reaches her front porch, glad all of this happened on one of her mom’s home days.

She limps through the reception room without even a glance for the door that leads into Dorothea’s apartment and climbs up the stairs with her mother’s name half on her lips already.

She stops dead in her track when she notices the smear of blood at the top.

Her mouth stings when her hand slaps against it, but Clary doesn’t care. She swallows a frightened whine and keeps going, stomach heavy when a couple more steps reveal a long, bloodied shard of glass next to the gutted frame of one of Jo’s watercolors, and then Clary is actually high enough on the stair to take a good look around.

To the left, the parlor and the door to the art room both look undisturbed. To the right, on the other hand, the busted glass is far from the only damage. The sad remains of the living room door half-hang from the hinges, the bottom half lying on the floor like a mangled corpse, and stepping up to the landing to peer inside the room does nothing to reassure.

It’s like a hurricane went through it: the dinner table is on the ground, half a leg broken and abandoned next to the hallway door, a broken plate scattered all over the room. When Clary limps around debris and reaches the other side of the table, she finds large gouges in the wood and a bloody tooth on the floorboard. There are bloody hand prints on the threshold to the back hallway, and the largest kitchen knife lies on the ground with blood all over the blade.

No trace of Jo anywhere.

The twins’ laughter filters in through the open window, and Clary wonders how a house can possibly get turned into such a mess without the rest of the world being any wiser about it. Don’t they know something horrible just happened? How does the world even keep working around this? Clary’s legs sure don’t, at least, and she has to sit in the hallway before she ends up in a heap on the ground.

Stop panicking, Clary tells herself—she’s heard those words so many times in Jo’s mouth, in Luke’s voice. If you’re in danger, don’t panic. Think. Get helps, first. Panic later.

Get help first. Think first. Clary isn’t in a state to brave the phone yet—not if she wants to sound even vaguely coherent for the call. So, she thinks.

Clearly, someone broke into the house without being seen—maybe they used the back door. Just as clearly, someone got hurt. Probably Jo. Most likely Jo—oh, god, please let her be alive, let her—stop. Stop. Think. 911 has to come first.

There’s no way Clary can deal with all of this on her own, and there’s no guarantee Luke is even back in the city yet.

Police it is.

Clary stumbles to the kitchen on shaky legs, and stumbles over the undisturbed Fire Box on her way there. Her mother’s laptop is here, too, and Clary saw the silver candle holder on the ground when she crossed the living room, so either the people who came here weren’t after money, or they did a really poor job of it.

The aloe vera was thrown to the ground, along with most of the cutlery drawers, possibly in search of the kitchen knife. Clary has to look away from the fridge and its open door—like Jo forgot it, or maybe was stopped in the middle of something—and focus her sight on the land line to calm the tremors in her hands.

She keys the number in with bile rising up her throat. Forces herself to practice what she’s going to say. Breathes in deep to steady her voice. Screws her eyes shut when the movement of Jo’s screen-saver catches her attention.

She wants to go to bed—pretend none of it is happening and that Jo’s going to come in through the door any time, now, and take things in hands like she always does.

The hopeless fantasy shatters when Clary raises the phone to her ear, and nothing happens.

No sound.

No voice announcing the line is currently busy.

No dull beeping.

Nothing.

Clary sobs. Wipes tears out of her eyes. Does it again, and gives up when her lungs turn her breathing into full blown sobs. They cut the phone lines. The Wi-Fi router is intact, Clary’s seen it, but still. They cut the phone lines. Why would anyone cut the phone if they didn’t expect to find someone in? And why would anyone organize a robbery when there’s someone to witness them? Picking empty houses is just less work, isn’t it?

So, whoever came must have known Jo was here.

Maybe they even came specifically for her.

What if they’re here because of Clary, though? What if the rapist she saw in Pandemonium was some kind of—of gang member or mob boss or something? And he didn’t like Clary’s intervention and decided to take it out on her and managed to discover where she lived?

What if he sent the guy at Java Jones too, what if Clary was meant to be with her mom right now and the only reason she isn’t is because she went out and got stupidly lucky? What if all of this was only meant for Clary and Jo took the fall because she wasn’t there?

She shouldn’t have gone out. Should have listened to her mom and stayed in—she could have negotiated then. Begged for whoever came to spare Jo. After all, if this is all because of Pandemonium, she’s the only responsible one. She’s the only one who should pay for it, right?

She wasn’t there, though, and now Jo is gone God knows where in God knows what state and going through God knows what all because Clary couldn’t use her brain and stay out of somebody’s business and now she’s stuck wondering what’s happening and Luke won’t be here for hours yet and there’s no phone and no police and Clary’s panicking, she nows it, she knows, but knowing it doesn’t help and she ends up sitting in the dirt in the middle of the kitchen while sobs tear out of her louder than she even thought possible.

It takes her a long time to calm down—for her body to exhaust the tears and her breathing to slow down—but eventually, she does. She’s not even sure how. It’s not like anything’s changed. It’s just—it kind of feels like the attack putters out on its own, like a car running out of fuel.

It leaves Clary aching, her body back to throbbing in pain in ways she wouldn’t even have thought of as possible.

It also, thankfully, leaves her a little more coherent, like her mind got aired out.

It’s not much—it’s not a solution in itself, at any rate—but it does leave Clary coherent enough to remember Dorothea and her hermit ways. The woman so seldom leaves her apartment Clary used to be convinced she was a witch, so chances are she’s in...which means Clary can use her phone! All she has to do is get downstairs and ask politely—maybe negotiate a little but that’s negligible. Then she’ll call the police and Luke, and let him take over.

He’ll be far better than she is at this sort of thing, anyway. Clary has never seen either of her parents lose their head in a crisis, and wherever they learned this—it might be an innate sense of calmness but Clary finds the theory a little hard to swallow—Clary is presently very, very glad for it.

So, get downstairs. Get Dorothea. Get Luke. It all sounds so simple, compared to the rest, that it makes Clary’s head swim and she trips over her own feet on the way to the back hallway. Not a problem in itself, except when it’s followed by a heavy scrapping sound.

Clary freezes. She’s alone in the apartment. At least, she’s pretty sure she is. Jo would have signaled her presence if she was there, wouldn’t she? Unless she was—no, Clary isn’t even going to think about that one. And anyway, scrapping isn’t creaking. Creaking could have meant the neighborhood stray cat getting in through Clary’s open window again.

Scrapping means someone dragged heavy stuff on the floorboard.

Logically speaking—assuming Clary’s logic is somewhat functional at the moment—it’s probably not someone out to get her. Probably. A kidnapper would be more discreet, right? They wouldn’t be stupid enough to make a mistake even an unprepared teen can spot.

Right?

It’s probably not Jo either. Clary wasn’t exactly trying to keep her noise levels down when she came in earlier, so if Jo were here, she’d have signaled her presence. Probably. And if she were too weak to call out, she’d be too weak to produce that kind of sound as well. Not Jo, then.

But in that case, who? An attacker? A kidnapper? Or worse, someone to finish the job and finish Clary off?

With her heart in her throat, Clary takes another, far more careful step toward the hallway, and steps around the creaking boards near the back staircase to reach for the kitchen knife and its bloody blade. Hopefully, having her fingerprints on it won’t get her in trouble later, but she’ll get to that problem if and when it poses itself. For now, not dying has to be a priority.

She tries to step around the glass again, but her legs are still numb from her panic attack, and clumsy with fright. She hisses when the sole of her left foot lands on a particularly nasty shard, and has to land on her heel with a heavy thud to avoid falling flat on her face—or worse, her knife.

In her bedroom, Clary hears something scrape again, and a sudden jolt on the circular handle makes her jump something like a foot in the air. Thankfully, she doesn’t freeze this time—slips past her bedroom to the closet door and flattens her back against it while she ignores the pain in her right wrist to try and open it without a sound.

Her door’s handle stops moving.

For a heartbeat, Clary thinks this might mean safety.

Then the door bursts outward and slams into her.

Clary barely has time to realize she’s in pain—sharp, stabbing pain in her left side where the handle hit, hot pulsing where sticky warmth floods down her nose—before she collapses to the floor, pure luck the only thing preventing her from impaling herself on her improvised weapon. When she manages to remind her eyes of which way is up—her head must have taken a bigger hit than she thought—Clary finds shoes first.

A battered pair of once-varnished shoes leads up to the sad remnants of faded black suit pants, and Clary has to struggle in order to keep following the line upward. She finds a shirt dirty enough that it barely retains the memory of white, the whole thing filled with really, really thick arms. Clary’s blood freezes in her veins long before she manages to find her aggressor’s...head.

There’s no face there—only a mess of purple-and-red scars like earthworms, features obliterated by thick, painful-looking tissues that barely part wide enough to reveal destroyed eyes. In he mouth—what was once a mouth—blackened shards mark the spots where teeth used to be.

A thick, bruise-purple hand reaches for Clary’s ponytail—flails for a second against its unexpected volume—and drags her off the ground by the hair, a scream flying out of Clary before she can fully process the gesture.

That seems to be the wrong reaction, thought, because the other hand appears in Clary’s field of vision, aiming for her throat in a way that makes Clary kick, squirm, scream as hard as she can until she remembers the knife in her hand and swings it around until it catches at the suit’s arm.

Clary falls to the ground with a thud and scrambles away from the—the—whoever or whatever the hell it is, half-crawling and half running toward the living room and front hallway until her right shoulder refuses to move and yanks her entire body back with it. She hits the other’s chest with a pained huff, tries to use the knife again, but this time all it gets her is enough of a slap in the face that the world starts spinning—and then a hand on her throat.

There’s a vague, stiffening feeling of déjà-vu when a gloved fist collides with the mangled vestiges of a cheek, but Clary doesn’t have time to process it before she’s dropped on the ground, next to a pair of thick leather boots.

“Get outta here!”

Clary’s feet get the message before she does, and she’s already jumped over the living room table by the time she recognizes the voice. Turning around reveals the same silhouette—wide shoulder, stocky built, clothing alternating between black and deep dark blues—except this time the hood is down, short cropped frizzy hair and a black-skinned face poking from behind the face mask as the guy tries to fight Clary’s attacker off.

He doesn’t seem to have much luck there. Clary smothers a panicked shout when the creature slams the boy to the ground—from there it’s like the world turns into a collection of details.

The kitchen knife in Clary’s good hand—shiny and bloody and bigger than it should be. A gasp, filling the room even through the louder grunts. Something like fear in amber eyes, surrounded by a familiar shade of brown. Clary’s hand raising.

Dull shock all through her arm.

The creature, clutching its knee, wailing like a wraith.

The boy—the man—coughing as he struggles to his feet. Turns to Clary. Panics—only for a moment, a short second, but Clary sees it—and shoves her away from him, into the front hallway.

“Get out of here! I’ll be right there!”

Clary spins on her heel so fast her twisted ankle doesn’t even have time to protest, shoots through the living room door, slips on the broken glass there, and rolls into the staircase.

It’s like the world skips a beat. One second Clary is running away from a fight to the death, the next she’s sprawled on her back in the reception room, unable to focus on anything but pain and holy hell there’s no air, no air, need air—

It occurs to her, after a while, that the fish-out-of-water sounds popping in her ears come from her. It doesn’t help. If anything, it makes things worse—drives home how bad her situation is and sends her into overdrive—makes her legs and back and stomach and head pulse harder under the flesh, burning with the heat of sudden pain even as she tries to turn around.

There’s a series of loud thuds upstairs. Hurried steps.

“Don’t move!”

Clary stops her effort, but even going limp hurts—there’s something warm on her upper thigh and a harsh, stabbing burn somewhere up her left arm, but she doesn’t dare looking around to assess the damage. Overhead, the stairs tremble with the weight of her savior’s steps, although he doesn’t make a sound, even when he jumps over the last few steps and lands into a crouch next to Clary, eyes roaming over her while his hands rummage into his jacket.

“Is it bad?” Clary asks, even though she knows the answer to that one already.

It’s still less scary to ask ‘is it bad’ than ‘am I going to die’ because she doesn’t want to—she doesn’t, really—but wet warm spot on her thigh is growing and the boy—man—whichever he is—sounds panicked where he throws foreign words into a phone. Clary’s head grows lighter, even a the rest of her seems to triple weight in an instant, black spots dancing in front of her and growing more numerous with every blink—of course it’s bad.

Really bad, if the way her would-be savior looks at her is any indication.

She’s already crying by the time he takes her hand, ready to tell her a bunch of reassuring things that may or may not be true—but when he finally grasps her injured hand, his features go from worried to shocked.

“Where did you get that?”

“What?”

Clary’s trying to follow his second answer, she really is—even through the darkening edges of her vision the urgency on his face is obvious, but there’s not enough blood left in her head for that to work. He must realize it as well—his face hardens,and he reaches for something on his side with something that may or may not be an apology.

He brings his hand to Clary’s thigh, and the world bursts into pain.

She thinks she screams. At some point, the man all but sits on her to stop her from moving away from him.

Pain, pain, pain.

Nothing.

Sharp, stinging pain on her cheek, and then words in her ears—urgent, and raw, and way louder than anything she’s ready to bear.

“Thank the Angels,” her savior says, “I thought I’d killed you!”

Clary tries to speak, but it doesn’t come out quite right—at the very least, she can’t make out more than a garbled sound, like her mouth fell asleep and refuses to wake up. Her general state of mind must be obvious enough, though, because a gloved hand comes to rest on her cheek, and golden eyes shift from relief to reassurance:

“It’s okay, Fray. You’re my sister. I’m gonna help you. I’ll take you back home.”

Clary is already home, mutilated though it is, and she tries to convey the message through the pained whine that escapes her. The guy shushes her, too dry to be soothing, and then he picks her up like she weighs nothing, bridal style.

In some distant corner of her mind, the more sarcastic part of Clary wonders when her life turned into an action movie.

“It’s okay,” the man says, “it’ll be a while before we get there but I glamoured us. You just go to sleep, I’ll take care of the rest.”

Well. At least Clary got herself a nice kidnapper.

Eventually, she does fall asleep.