l'esprit de l'escalier

what goes together better than cold and dark?

2013-03-09T16:43:48Z

my art for apocalypsebang! it accompanies the absolutely brilliant Cold and Dark by sparrowshellcat, which you should go read right now :D

also on: tumblr | DA

I am ridiculously pleased that Jack's hand is on top of Iceland.

adventures in time and space

2013-01-26T17:33:01Z

Title: The Time Traveller's Guide to Werewolves
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Stiles/Derek
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Blood and Violence, but maybe not as much as you might think from the art. Deals a lot more with the aftermath than the actual cause.
Summary: Canon-based Time Traveler's Wife AU - Stiles has chrono-displacement. It sucks.
A/N: my twreversebang fic! I claimed puckboum's gorgeous art which you can see here, which I immediately fell in love with. I had a very vague idea about wanting to write a Time Traveler's Wife AU, and I knew I would get to build up such an amazing story around this picture so I was so thrilled when I got it! (figuring out the timeline, on the other hand... /quietly sobs)

I feel like I should probably warn for the experimental formatting - I wanted an easy visual cue for the separation between the chronological present and how Stiles's life jumps all over the place, so past is on the left and future on the right and everything in the center is set within a two-week period (that's some non-specific time after series two). It still jumps around a lot. I really, really hope it makes sense to people who aren't me.

Also available on AO3. Enjoy! :D

Derek is eight years old when a boy appears suddenly in his yard - the wind shifts and he can smell him, under the stench of human blood, and when he slowly turns around there's a teenage boy standing at the edge of his yard, naked and trying to shield himself behind a tree, and he's covered in blood.

"Oh my god," the boy says, when he sees Derek staring at him with wide, horrified eyes, and then, "Fuck."

The boy vanishes into thin air.

Derek stares at the space where he was for two long seconds. He screams for his dad.

---

He lands in the woods, knees and palms slipping against the mud, and Stiles breathes until his lungs can fill with air properly, until his stomach stops churning, and then gets to his feet, toes squelching a little in the leafmould.

It's dark, and still, and silent, and there is nothing on the trees that stretch out in every direction to tell him where he is - until the clouds shift, and silvery light floods the forest floor, and Stiles lifts his chin to look up at the full moon.

"Oh my god," he whines, and waits for something to howl ominously in the distance. On the positive side, he can now see the arrow etched into the largest tree, all stark edges in the moonlight, that points towards the Hale house. It's - okay, it's a risk, but there's always the chance he's landed in a blissful werewolf-free time for Beacon Hills, and maybe if he's really lucky either the Hales or Derek's pack will be somewhere off in the other side of the woods, either chained up or working on their team building skills, whatever, and Stiles can just slip in and grab a blanket and chill until he gets the call back home.

Blind and endless optimism. It's the only way to get through these long, cold nights.

He jogs, the cold clinging to his skin and it's not like he needs to be silent when there are creatures lurking that can smell him from a mile away. The Hale house looms through the trees, a lopsided shadow that stays still, and silent, and completely lacking in furious werewolves as Stiles slows to a cautious trudge, trying to guess the year by the state of decay but the shadows are too deep to see, and since he's not one to look the gift of continued dignity in the mouth Stiles heads straight for the suitcase he's got stashed under the remains of the back porch, and finds the jeans and ratty black sweatshirt he only put in there a month ago, so. That's hopeful, and Stiles is almost ready to settle down for an easy night when there are there are noises coming from around the front of the house, sharp and painful, and it's possible he left his self-preservation instinct back somewhere around when he discovered attractive werewolves were a thing, because Stiles immediately goes running towards it.

There are bodies when he rounds the corner, Erica and Boyd and Issac and Scott sprawled out and bloody on the forest floor, not moving, and there's another Stiles, wild-eyed and bloody, clutching a limp Derek to his chest like he's something to hold on to.

"What the hell," Stiles says, because what the hell, and the other Stiles looks at him like he's the worst thing that could happen right now.

"Get over here," he says, after a long pause and Stiles does, because this is a future Stiles (he's older, cheekbones sharper and eyes darker, even under the blood) and he usually knows what's going on. "Give me your shirt," he says, and when Stiles hesitates the other one rolls his eyes. "You're leaving in, like, two minutes. Hand it over before I have to pull it out the mud."

Stiles pulls it off, and hands it over. Older Stiles balls it up as tight as possible and presses it against the blood-stained mess that is Derek's back, and ignores Stiles completely. Derek makes a small, whimpering noise.

"The hell is going on?" Stiles manages to say, as he watches the blood ooze out of the gashes down Derek's arm. He can't- he can't even look over the other Stiles's shoulder, because he knows who's lying there and there's only so much he can deal with right now.

Other Stiles glances up at him, and then - "Press down here," he says, gesturing to Derek's back, and when Stiles eventually does, reaching out with hands that aren't shaking, the older Stiles slips away and goes to check on Scott like he's read his mind, and, oh- "This the third time I've been through this," older Stiles says with a glance back, as he leans over Scott and rolls him onto his side. "And Scott's okay, just unconscious."

Stiles breathes, and shifts his hands as blood seeps over his palms. "Thanks," he says, and suddenly other Stiles is running towards him, and there's that tug and he's going--

--and he's back on the floor on his bedroom in the middle of the afternoon and his hands are slick with blood.

---

This is what Stiles knows - he's always entirely by himself when he travels, nothing comes with him, but he tests it. He can scratch things into his skin. Ink wouldn't hold, but scars do. Blood sticks. Smell lingers. He can focus sometimes, choose where he wants to go if he concentrates hard enough, but the ADHD doesn't help, and sometimes he's scattered to the wind and sometimes he's so focused that the tug comes and he stays because he has work to do.

His dad teaches him to start a campfire with whatever he has to hand, how to set a rabbit trap with string and how to slip into a store without being noticed to grab clothes and food whatever he needs to stay safe, Stiles.

His mom teaches him to pick locks and lie, because she's had to deal with this long before there was even a name for it, and she knows better than anyone how to survive.

She shows him how to read someone, how to tell the difference between a person who just wanted to help and a person who didn't see you as a person. They don't tell his dad about that - the sheriff can imagine the dangers, knows far too well what happens to vulnerable people in strange places, but they don't want him to worry. She tries to teach him how to read the situation, to play pretend so a naked child running around doesn't get noticed, or is noticed enough that he'll be okay. He knows how to scream and kick and bite, but mostly he's learnt how to hide, and plan, and sometimes he makes lists of every place he goes, and bugs his older self for every place he can remember whenever they cross paths, helplessly stumbling through time, but it's never enough to stop him from landing, cold and shaking, in places he doesn't recognise.

When he really learns to control it, he practices making that feeling, that tug, work for him; move in the way he wants, pulling it until his vision starts to blur and then pushing it back down. It's exhausting, and it doesn't always work, and there are still times when he's ripped out of his life without warning, but - he has more control, even if it still means he can't stop anything else.

---

"Dude," Stiles says, when his hands are clean and Scott has picked up his phone. "We have a massive problem."

"What the hell," Scott says, when he's sitting on Stiles's bed, and then, "We have to tell Derek."

"And explain that I saw a future version of myself hunched over his probably dead body? I don't know how to explain that to me. I didn't explain that to me, because future self is continuing his awesome tradition of telling me nothing," Stiles groans, sinking low in his desk chair.

Scott laughs, because he's a terrible friend who has hung out with future Stiles more often than he has. "We kind of owe him," Scott says, and Stiles elects to ignore that with an unhappy noise, low in his throat.

"No, but, I don't how to explain this. What if I just blurt out, like, 'I travel through time and space and it's not voluntary and I basically never end up where I would like to be so yes, I am basically the TARDIS, it's as awesome as it sounds. By the way I think you're going to die horribly?'" He snorts, grimacing. "Chrono-displacement isn't exactly common."

"And werewolves are?" Scott deadpans.

"Apparently!" Stiles says, jumping up. "Although they'll be getting a lot rarer very soon if we don't figure out what was going on."

"Okay," Scott says, his smile falling sharply, and Stiles crashes down on the bed next to him. "We don't have to tell Derek everything, but - it's not like he won't accept that you've got a superpower too."

"How is this my life," Stiles says, to the ceiling.

---

When he's five he goes to kindergarten for the first time, and he knows his mom is worried so he gives her his biggest grin and runs into the room. He looks back and she's still standing by the door, watching him with that small smile she does.

"Stiles!" a kid he's never seen before shouts, and barrels into him. "You're here!"

"What?" Stiles says, and this kid, all messy hair and huge dark eyes, gasps.

"Oh, cool, you don't know me yet! I'm Scott," he says, and hugs him.

"What?" Stiles asks again, and Scott laughs.

"You turned up in my garden, like, a month ago. You said you were from the future," he shrugs, and Stiles realises he is in so much trouble.

"You can't tell anyone," he hisses, and Scott's eyes widen.

"Well, duh, you have superpowers, of course that should be a secret," Scott whispers back, and pulls him straight over to the dinosaur toys, and Stiles decides that Scott is the greatest friend in the world.

---

Stiles lasts a day before it's unbearable - he's never seen himself look so terrified, a future version of him ashen pale under his own blood, and the way he was holding Derek - he doesn't know how to deal with it, even before he stamps down the quiet, hopeful thing that tries to uncurl in the back of his mind, and so he grabs Scott and heads for the Hale house.

"I have something to tell you," Stiles announces, when Derek appears in the doorway and doesn't even step out onto the front porch, holding on to the door like he's ready to slam it.

"Not now, Stiles," he says, and takes a step back.

"You're going to die horribly!" Stiles exclaims, and then clutches a fist in front of his mouth because that's obviously the best opening he can come up with, and Derek freezes. Scott clears his throat. "But I'm not sure when, and I can't tell you how I know this but maybe you should avoid, like, having any little werewolf meetings in the next month or so. Because you all might die. Horribly," he adds, in case Derek missed that part.

Derek just stares at him for a long, silent moment. "That's incredibly helpful, Stiles, thank you," he eventually says, and shuts the door.

"You're welcome!" Stiles calls after him, and turns to Scott. "I don't think he believed me."

"I didn't believe you, to be honest," Scott says. "Even though your heartbeat is so steady right now, dude, I am impressed."

"You always know how to make it creepy. Thanks, man."

---

"I thought I told you this is private property," Derek freaking Hale says, and Stiles stares at him, mouth open.

"What," he says, and Derek Hale, who Stiles hasn't seen since his house burnt down like ten years ago and he and his sister took off somewhere, Derek Hale who Stiles was pretty sure he'd never see again and who has apparently grown up to be ridiculously hot - Derek stares at him like he's mentally deficient. "Er, yeah, sorry? I- I forgot. I have a routine, which involves running here naked and then picking up my clothes and then running away again, but apparently you're here now, so I'll get right on with that and never come back again."

"Naked running?" is apparently what Derek picks up from that.

"It's a thing," Stiles insists, and Derek has seriously weird issues because Stiles has been standing here with just his hands covering his junk and Derek hasn't batted an eyelid. His eyes never dip below Stiles's face, and when he's not glaring straight into his soul he's staring off into the woods like some kind of pensive lumberjack. Stiles knows he's not exactly much to look at but really, is just a stray peek too much to ask?

"My stuff is under the porch- yeah," Stiles says, as Derek leaps down the stairs like the weirdo he apparently is and grabs the bag without even having to look for it, shoving it at Stiles in a rough bastketball toss so he has quickly whip his hands up to catch it.

"Hey, if you wanted a dickshot you should have just said," Stiles shouts when he's caught it and recovered, but the front door is already shut.

---

And then for two weeks it's pretty much quiet, as far as Stile's life can ever be quiet. He focuses on the forest when he gets that tug low in his gut, but he always lands on empty sunny days when the woods are silent and he just wanders, climbs trees and tries to scratch notes into his arms.

He doesn't exactly forget about it, because no, but he knows future Stiles looked more terrified than he's ever seen him, and he's actually considering admitting this whole time travelling thing to Derek just so he can explain, maybe figure something out, a plan – even though it's not like he has this thing because it's useful or anything, he just gets the previews of all the terrible things he gets to look forward to.

He lands right outside the Hale house once, grey mid-morning light filtering through the trees and the ground is soaked deep red, long tracks in the mud like something large (and with legs, parallel lines deep in the dirt) has been dragged through, and Stiles can't hear anything but there's red up the steps to the porch and a handprint on the doorframe. He doesn't move, doesn't even try to find clothes - just stares, and breathes, and follows the tracks with his eyes like words on a page until he's snapped back home.

---

He oftens ends up in the forest that surrounds Beacon Hills when he travels, even when he's small, because there are no rumours of wolves in the woods and his mom begs him to think of the trees when that tug comes. They're known to be surprisingly safe (people get lost sometimes, but they're always found whole and well and maybe shaking a little from the strange animal noises, but somehow they always ended up back on the road and no one believes them when they say howling, and they convince themselves of that too) - that's why his mom moved here, why she chose to raise a child which would probably have the same disorder as her, for the endless woods where they can disappear from time into, where they can wait out the strangeness of their disorder, and no one knows.

They are huge and dark and scary for a five year old, but for Stiles that's the second best part of this whole thing that only he and his mom can do. He runs around, and sometimes he finds the road and gets taken back home before his chromosomes do it for him. There are jokes about the Stilinski's wild child of a son, but most of the time he comes back without much more than a few scratches from trying to climb trees.

When he's older, when the Hales have long gone and the house is left to smoulder and sink and finally hunch in on itself, it's half collapsed and no one in their right mind would go in there and so of course Stiles makes a b-line for it when he first realises where he is. By the time he's nine h's taught himself how to orientate himself in the woods, placing careful piles of stones for landmarks and scratching arrows into trees that he sees from young, thin things to study towering trees, his arrow scarred forever into the bark, always pointing towards the Hale house. He starts to stash clothes there; old shirts from his wardrobe and things his dad hands him with a proud look, because Stiles is looking out for himself, and hell, his amazing time-travelling kid might actually be okay.

But - he doesn't always stay in Beacon Hills, even when he tries to. Sometimes, when he can feel the pull and he just doesn't want to go so he doesn't think and he's dropped in the middle of Moscow, or a city he doesn't recognise where the streetlamps are lit with gas, or a lake where the ice cracks underneath him and he's drowning in darkness, seconds stretching on to infinity until suddenly there's a pull and he's throwing up water on his bedroom floor. He learns to concentrate, after that.

---

The worst thing is, it wasn't even planned. Stiles's ugly excuse for a conscience rears up and demands that he try again, and Scott insists on coming because Derek's acting weirder than usual, and when they drive up to the Hale house there's something going on - Issac's there, hauling cracked and blackened floorboards out of the upstairs windows, and apparently Derek is cleaning house.

Cleaning house involves a lot of dragging large, unrecognisably burnt things out the back to burn them even more.

"You having a party without us?" Erica says when she and Boyd show up, while Stiles is still leaning against the Jeep and Scott is giving Issac a hand.

"Therapy," she intones, when Stiles just stares at Derek hauling a couch out the front door, dusk falling in long blue shadows. "Working through the anger." Derek glares, but she gives him the I fought a pack of Alphas for you look, and he moves on a with scowl.

Stiles is ready to leave, forget giving them any possible information about potential catastrophic bloody massacres, when the pack looks at their pile of stuff to burn and realises that none of them have the means or ability to set it on fire. Turns out Stiles can actually get something burning with just two sticks of wood and a rock.

"You know how to start a campfire," Derek says flatly, eyebrows raised, and Stiles waves him off with a pssh.

"Yeah, I was a freaking boy scout. I could rig us up a tent and catch rainwater too with this waxed canvas I always carry around with me."

"I thought your dad-" Scott starts, but then Stiles flashes a look at him over the flames, eyes wide, and Scott stares for a second before he shuts his mouth. He shoots Stiles a grin instead.

"It's so cute when you're all telepathic," Erica coos, looking viciously delighted, and Derek crosses his arms and frowns at all of them.

It's turning out to be so downright pleasant that Stiles is surprised at his own surprise when it all goes to hell.

"Aw, look at this, everyone together," Erica beams, when they're inside what must have used to be the front room, the walls still black but it's empty, cleared and suddenly feeling more what might have been a home. It takes Stiles a second but then he's whipping his head up to look at Scott, eyes wide and oh fuck, no, not now-

Something crashes through the window, and explodes, and Stiles is falling and falling and falling--

---

he lands in the woods behind the hale house, the sun high and blinding and it takes a moment for his head to stop ringing, blinking until he can see again, and when he does he wishes he couldn't because there's the house, the garden perfect and a little kid that looks a lot like Derek staring at him from the back porch. Stiles swears, and then the ringing in his ears turns into banging and he's going--

he lands in his mom's hospital room, and she turns her head sleepily and reaches out for him and oh, sweetheart, and he's falling--

he lands, and this feels a lot like his life flashing before his eyes--

he lands--

he travels back, and back, and back, and the lake swallows him up.

---

College would be a lot easier if the entire werewolf population of Beacon Hills didn't have his number on speed dial. He thumbs ignore next to Derek's name on the screen and kicks down the guilt just as easily, because Derek knows he needs to study for this test, has listened to his rant about the complexity of mythology and history enough to start mockingly quoting it back at him (which, yeah, Stiles is totally secretly proud of that), and Stiles flips back to his textbook with a huff of determined concentration.

His phone beeps. He snatches it up immediately.

good luck, it says, which isn't actually that unusual since Derek finally learned that caring about other people again wasn't a Bad Thing, but something about it makes Stiles stop, and pause. There's a tension low in his spine which feels like a warning, the prelude to a episode that Stiles just does not have the time to deal with right now, and he knows he's maybe a little too stressed for safety - maybe he should go for a run, or give in and call Derek and work it out another way, and that's the thought that catches him when suddenly the tension turns into a tug that snaps and he's gone-

---

- he lands on blackened floorboards and he flips sharply, arching onto his back, trying to breathe. The ceiling looks familiar, and when he rolls onto his side there's a pile of his clothes, a purple hoodie and dark jeans he hasn't worn in years and he can't quite place it, this dark room with nothing but silence. He gets dressed and swears when the clouds shifts and moonlight floods into the room, empty of anything, obviously some point before Derek even knows about him - and then he remembers, the floor still scattered with muddy footprints, and fuck-

He runs out the front door of the Hale house and there's everyone, unconscious and bleeding on the ground and he doesn't even think, just heads straight for Derek, lying a little way in front of everyone like he was the last to fall.

"No," Derek says, when he sees him. He can barely open his eyes, lips lined with blood but he still fixes his eyes on his as Stiles runs up and slides to his knees next to him. "No, you're not him," Derek says, and tries to move away, or attack, or anything - he catches the heel of his palm against Stiles's nose and even drugged out on wolfsbane it's enough to make it crack.

"Motherfucker," Stiles says, sprawling back on his ass as Derek just watches, drained, but he's back up and at Derek's side without even wiping the blood off his mouth. "It's me. You don't even - no, of course," he says, as Derek narrows his eyes, because it's tonight. "You don't even know why there's three of me, oh my god, this is ridiculous."

Derek tries to glare at him but passes out instead, and Stiles is running around the side of the house, the version of him that has no idea what's going on, and he stumbles onto the scene with gasping breaths to find himself, wild-eyed and bloody, clutching Derek to his chest and staring him down defiantly.

"What the hell," other him says, and Stiles doesn't have time for this.

"Get over here and give me your shirt," he says, holding his hand out and tightening his lips when the other one doesn't do it immediately, too busy being horrified to be of any use. "You're leaving in, like, two minutes. Hand it over before I have to pull it out the mud," he sighs, and finally he listens. Stiles bundles it up, presses it against the wound, ignores the way Derek whimpers with the worst sound he's ever heard. Younger Stiles is staring at him, and he has no idea what to tell him so he's going to pretend he isn't there.

"The hell is going on?" the other one says, small and scared and like he's not really expecting an answer, so he's not going to give him one.

"Press down here," he says, moving his hands to the side of the makeshift gauze so the other one can get his hands over it, give him something to do while he goes to see that Scott really is okay, that nothing has changed since the last time he was here. "This the third time I've been through this," he says, on autopilot as he checks Scott's pulse, listens to his breathing, swipes his thumb over Scott's blood-slick knuckles and thinks about the last time he saw Scott, playing for his college lacrosse team. "And Scott's okay, just unconscious."

"Thanks," younger Stiles says, so openly relieved that Stiles winces, and then he remembers that this is the last thing he saw and he's on his feet again and running as the other Stiles rips away, and Derek slumps onto his back with a wet thump.

Derek groans, and Stiles grabs his shoulders, moves to haul him into his lap even as Derek reaches for him - presses a hand against his cheek, and then it slips down to his neck as he tries to hold on, his fingers cold and tacky with drying blood against his skin.

---

Weeks after Scott and Stiles find Laura's body, after Derek starts to work his way into his life without his permission, Stiles flashes out and finds himself in an alleyway in New York.

He has no idea what's happening, no idea why he's there of all places when he was pretty sure he was trying to figure out what the deal with the Hale family is, so - he kind of has no choice but to wait this out, and dumpster dives until he has jeans that smell gross and a plaid shirt that's mostly holes and a newspaper says 12th august, 2006, and he has no idea what to do with that. The street is burning hot against the bare soles of his feet, and he's able to swipe flip-flops from outside a souvenir shop and has to start running before he can make note of the name, because he was totally going to send them the money in about five years time. His dad has Opinions about felonies.

There's nothing better to do than walk - the sun is high and bright and he sticks to the shadows as best he can because he knows he looks homeless and suspicious and the best thing he can do is just try to look like he's got somewhere to be. A few blocks from where he landed he passes a coffee shop where there's a girl coming out with two cups and Stiles stops, frozen in the middle of the street with people shoving past him, because he knows her, there's something horribly familiar about the tilt of her jaw but Stiles can't place it. She seems to stop and - sniff the air?

And then she turns to look right at him, and snarls.

There's a second where Stiles thinks about running, because oh god - but she's across the street and bearing down on him before he can think and suddenly he recognises Laura Hale, and his eyes flick to the seating outside the coffee shop, scanning the faces until there's Derek sitting alone and oblivious and scowling at the pigeons, and Stiles is maybe freaking the hell out but there is a pretty girl looming over him and she's dead and this is his life, so. She seems to have some kind of power which means everyone walks around her instead of shoving past like they're doing to Stiles.

"You smell like pack," she says. "No, no - like, Beacon Hills. Who the fuck are you?"

"Um," Stiles says, and waits for the familiar tug but mostly he just feels hungry. "I know you're a werewolf," he says, because that's the only thing that comes to mind and the shock kind of works because she pulls back and stares at him, and then stares at the way his eyes keep flicking to her brother.

"You're one of those, aren't you? The time travellers," Laura says, and she's frowning but there's something almost like a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, like she's found a fascinating new puzzle to play with. Stiles thinks he probably shouldn't say that out loud, and chews his lip.

"I prefer chrono-displaced," Stiles says, and makes a point to look up the street, look anywhere but at Derek.

"I've read about you," she says, and then, "Is this about my brother?"

Stiles really doesn't know what to say to that, so he shakes his head and Laura looks entirely unconvinced. "Oh my god, you're stalking him," she says, too loud and Derek starts to turn and there's a burning low in Stiles's gut, so he turns and runs and is lost in the back alleys when he finally snaps back to Beacon Hills.

---

"You're not Stiles," Derek says again, barely more than a whisper. "You smell wrong," and Stiles kind of wants to take offence to that but it's the middle of finals and he lives in a dorm room that always smells faintly of damp, he's allowed to be a bit off.

"That is a conversation we need to have," Stiles admits, and Derek closes his eyes but his breathing stays steady. And, because what the hell, it's not like Derek isn't going to find out soon - "Is now a good time to mention that I sometimes travel in time?"

Derek opens his eyes. "What the fuck, Stiles," he says.

"Chrono-displacement," Stiles says. "And I really should be studying for my Eastern Mythology final right now but I'm stuck here, so please, ask away while you bleed on me."

Derek licks his lips, goes quiet for such a long time that Stiles sighs and looks off into the woods, and for the first time wonders if whatever did this is still out there. "I've heard of that," Derek says, quietly, drawing Stiles back with a snap. "Laura told me about it," he adds, and Stiles laughs.

"Of course," he says, and before Derek can ask what that even means he adds, "I met her," and Derek freezes, tense but not shaking in his arms, so Stiles talks. "In New York, like, a few years ago, it's depends on how you're counting. You were there but you didn't see me," Stiles says, staring up at the stars, and Derek's tension seems to jump into his own spine.

"What. What did she say?" Derek asks, halting and quiet, like he can't help but let the words spill out.

"She told me to stay the fuck away from you or she would rip my spine out. With her teeth."

Despite himself, Derek snorts, and Stiles looks down at him. "Hey, look at you, laughing at my jokes and everything," Stiles grins, and smooths his thumb over the corner of Derek's mouth, casual and intimate and there's his hand on Derek's cheek, fingers curling lightly around his jaw. Derek just stares at him, looking like he would bolt if he had full control of his legs.

"Oh my god," Stiles laughs, and pulls his hand back. "I can't believe I actually forgot how constipated you are about this. I'm going to go grab something from my Jeep, stay right there, don't faint on me," Stiles says, and carefully shifts Derek off his lap before jumping up and jogging over to his car, still parked a little way from the house and looking untouched. Derek pushes himself up onto his elbows, grimacing horribly but he gets high enough to watch Stiles go, to keep an eye of this kid who is Stiles but is so different, not the one he knows and yet this one touches his face like it's no big deal.

Stiles comes back with a drawstring bag full of bandages and antiseptic and strange herbs in pouches, and he mixes it together with a bottle of vodka that Derek pretends he doesn't see because there's a part of him that will never not think 'sheriff's kid' when he looks at Stiles, and then Stiles is pushing the bottle against his mouth and saying drink, and Derek does.

"Antidote," Stiles says, belatedly. "To the wolfsbane."

- and Derek realises he trusts him, this Stiles who isn't quite Stiles, and that's possibly the most terrifying thing that's happened all night.

"How do you know all this?" he asks, a background question to everything racing through his mind right now but, okay, focus on the important things.

"You taught me, and I stash useful things in the Jeep whenever I get the chance," Stiles says, like it's obvious as he tugs a roll of gauze and bandages out of his bag, and Derek is so confused, in the kind of way where he knows the answer but really doesn't want to.

"In the future," he says, before he can stop himself.

"Well, yeah, for you," Stiles clarifies, and then he presses down on the gouges in his arm and Derek passes out again. Stiles moves him so he's lying on his back, as comfortable as he can make him without having the strength to pick up one hundred and eighty pounds of werewolf and drag him into the house. He can't stop himself from just watching Derek for a minute, self-indulgent as hell but he's earned it, before he tends to the rest of them, gives them the antidote and desperately hopes that the other him, the one that should be in this right here, right now, gets back soon. There's a low tug in his stomach and for the moment it's a warning, it's a test of how good he's got at holding on and controlling this thing, but still - he waits, because he's not leaving Derek alone, but it's starting to feel like his bones are on fire.

- and then there's him, landing in the mud with his palms slipping against as he heaves up water, choking on air until he remembers how to breathe.

"Oh my god, finally," Stiles says, and jerks out of existence, and Stiles stops shaking enough to look up to see Derek staring at him, in a pool of his own blood that looks almost black in the moonlight.

Derek says, "You can travel in time," like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

---

When Stiles is eleven he's in the middle of a fight with Scott and the tug comes and his breath goes - and then he's on the floor on his own bedroom, and an older version of him glances down at him, and sighs.

"Wanna play Mario Kart?" he says, and eleven year old Stiles nods, and sniffs, and older Stiles, who's fourteen and has better things to do than hang out with this kid, rolls his eyes and pulls a sweatshirt out of his closet that's way too big for him.

"Scott's an idiot," Stiles says, when they're down in the front room and the game's loading up. Older Stiles hums his agreement. "He said Lydia would never like me."

"Ten year plan, buddy," he says, and Stiles pouts.

"But that's forever, and I haven't been that far," he sighs.

"Neither have I," Stiles shrugs, "but I met twenty-one, and he just laughed when I mentioned Lydia, so I don't know what to do with that."

"Future me is a dick," Stiles says.

"Yeah," Older Stiles says, and then, "Hey."

---

"It's no big deal," Stiles says, insistent, like something's weighing down on his shoulders that he just wants to shrug off. He's pulled on his own clothes, still warm from his own bodyheat from two years in the future, and he's still shaking. He shoves his hands under his armpits.

"No big deal," Derek echoes, deadpan.

"Yeah, you know, my best friend grows fangs every full moon, I occasionally time travel, my reading for what's normal is kind of massively screwed so yeah, it's not something I spend much time worrying about. Bigger things going on, you know," he finishes, and draws in on himself, somehow looking so much smaller than the one who could mix a wolfsbane antidote in the dark and Derek... Derek doesn't know what to say to that, but he really wishes he did, so he tentatively reaches out and curls a hand around Stiles's wrist instead. Stiles lets him, in the sense that he doesn't pull away but he doesn't look at it either.

"So, other me patched you up, huh?" Stiles says, fixing his eyes on Derek's arm instead. The bandage is spotted red but it's not spreading, and Derek's hand is burning hot against his skin.

"We're lucky he- you turned up," Derek says, soft, and Stiles hums vaguely. "What?"

"This travelling thing - I can control it, a bit," he says, and Derek runs that through his head.

"You came here on purpose?" Derek says, and then pulls back, dropping Stiles's wrist like he knows the answer.

"Hey," Stiles says, a little sharply. "My life does not revolve around you. Like, I focus on the woods all the time because it's convenient, seriously, so every time we've met - and yeah, every time I've shown up here naked, guess what."

Derek frowns at the ground for a moment, and then, "I remember you."

"I'm kind of unforgettable," Stiles says lightly, and Derek shakes his head.

"No, I mean, not one of those times. I had no idea if it was real and you were covered in blood but - yeah, it was definitely you."

Stiles's brain crashes to a halt - and then he laughs, and wipes a hand across his face. "I think that just happened for me," he admits. "Or I really hope it did, because if I have to flash you when you're just a kid again, I - I don't even know what I'll do, oh my god-"

"You're okay," Derek says, and he sounds so relieved.

"Hey, it's not like it happens often. I'm totally blaming turning up in your childhood as a side effect of the trauma of being caught up in your crap. Again. Because apparently this is my life," Stiles says, and Derek is just looking at him, eyes skimming over his face as though he's seeing him for the first time.

"Oh," Stiles says, and then, because he's pretty sure he just had a near-death experience, adds, "We could. This could be - I mean, we should give this thing a go because, no, really, life is short and until very recently yours was getting shorter, like, by the pint." Which is kind of a dumb thing to say now that the bleeding has almost stopped, that useful werewolf healing thing finally coming in to play as the antidote works, but still. It's a good point.

Derek blinks, and opens his mouth like he's going to say something that will shut this down entirely, and Stiles kisses him.

"I didn't want any future version of me getting to do that first," he says, and then, "Oh my god, that's what that fucker never told me about."

"What," Derek says, like he's not really listening, and he's staring at Stiles's mouth.

"No, no, this is awesome! Future me never tells me anything important!"

Stiles kisses him again, and somewhere in the background Scott wakes up with a groan, and then a stoic whoo because he's a true friend.

---

(when Stiles is twenty seven he finds himself landing in the woods outside the Hale house, behind a team of hunters with grenades laced with wolfsbane and crossbows with silver-tipped bolts, and they've got the pack drugged out and bleeding on the ground but they don't know these woods like Stiles does. There's three of them, all turned towards the house, their weapons loose at their sides, because they have the arrogance to think these woods aren't protected.

Derek's still conscious, just, eyes red and fangs out but he's on his hands and knees and he can barely raise his head - and he's enough of a distraction for Stiles to sneak up behind the guy in the center of the group. Stiles takes out one with a branch and then another before he can even turn around, and Stiles hates a lot of things about the way he travels but there's something to be said for the surprise element of being attacked by a naked guy.

"Get the fuck out of here," he says, and he must look fucking terrifying because the last guy just flees, dropping his crossbow and disappearing down the track as fast as he can run.

Derek's passed out by the time he turns around again, and Stiles takes a step towards him and something tugs sharply -

-- and he's back on the floor of his bedroom, in the middle of the night, and he doesn't wait for Derek to wake up before he's kissing him like he's drowning.

"You owe me so hard," Stiles gasps, when Derek murmurs sleepily, kissing him until Derek wakes up properly and gets with the program, and pulls him down on to the bed.)

operator please

2012-11-30T12:05:12Z

Title: like clouds across oceans
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Allison/Lydia
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In all the possible universes, three lives that Allison and Lydia are living. (Spy AU, Bakery AU, and Roller Derby AU!)
Summary: written for quintenttsy in the femslash12 exchange :D

one.
"Everdeen," Lydia says, her voice sharp and clear over the comm line.

"Yeah?" Allison says, sitting cross-legged on a roof in the middle of Budapest. She's got both hands on her crossbow but it's resting in her lap as she watches the city move beneath her, their target a good twenty minutes away, and the sun is high and bright behind her. It's bitterly cold, though - her breath hangs in fading mists, her scarf drawn tight around her, and there's a promise of snow on the horizon.

"I'm thinking lunch when this is done," Lydia says, a careful measure of boredom in her voice. Allison can hear the traffic rumbling past, the café Lydia's waiting in on the corner of a junction. "We could visit the Citadel."

"I'll go anywhere as long as it's warm," Allison says, peeling her left hand away from the crossbow so she can flex it a few times, working some feeling back into her fingers. It's not a problem - she's done missions in Moscow in worse weather than this, and they went as smoothly as they ever do (which is to say, not as smooth as she would like).

Lydia laughs, quiet and muffled like she's pressing a hand against her mouth, and Allison narrows her eyes.

"Are you eating?" she asks, and Lydia's laugh gets a little louder.

"They do a really good Dobosh Torte here," Lydia says, not sounding the least bit sorry. There's a quiet sound over the comm line, and something that might be the scrape of metal on china, and then Lydia's moaning, soft and low and obscene. "Really good," she sighs, and then laughs wickedly when Allison is silent.

"I'll bring you some after," Lydia promises, and Allison hums softly in acquiescence. "Just don't give me a reason to come over there."

"Heads up," Allison says, eyes tracking a sleek black car turning the corner. "Target's early," she says, and frowns. The car pulls up outside the hotel halfway down the road - the figure that gets out is all long blonde hair and a tight dress, and she glances up at the skyline, smirking, before disappearing into the hotel.

"The Wolf's here," Allison says, voice flat, and Lydia swears.

"I'm coming over," Lydia says, and Allison's just starting to protest when she hears the sound of someone trying to creep up silently behind her.

"Yeah," she agrees, and leaps to her feet, finger already half-pressed on the trigger.

Lydia's hands are steady and she stitches with quick, precise moves, but her shoulders are high and tense and her mouth is tight with worry, her eyes just wide enough that Allison can recognise the fear behind her frown and her pout, and that scares Allison more than the sight of the gaping wound in her thigh. "Hey," she says, reaching for her, and her fingers smear blood against Lydia's pale cheek as she leans into it for a second, closing her eyes and taking a slow, deep breath. "I'm going to be okay. I've had worse. You've given me worse."

"I was having an off-day," Lydia says, pulling back and opening her eyes with the barest hesitation, and her hands are steady when she finishes stitching up the cut.

"I wouldn't be here if you weren't," Allison says, light so it doesn't sound too soft, too much like a confession, and Lydia concentrates on cutting the end of the thread. Allison's smiling at her when she glances up, the painkillers kicking in, and Lydia presses her lips together and grabs a cloth to start dabbing away at her blood-slick skin. She's glowing ruby-red in the evening light that spills into the bare apartment - the only furniture the cot that Allison's stripped down and sprawled out on, Lydia kneeling on the exposed floorboards beside her.

"Go to sleep," Lydia says, as Allison hums and tries to help, reaching for her hand without attempting to sit up - Lydia swats her fingers away, frowning, and so Allison reaches for her face instead, catching two fingers under her chin and brushing her thumb against the corner of Lydia's mouth.

"Hey," she says, and Lydia looks up at her. "Come here. Please," she adds, when Lydia looks mutinous, and after a beat Lydia does, crawling forward enough to press their lips together, enough for Allison to sigh and sink into the mattress, enough to feel boneless and relaxed for the first time in a month. She tries to protest when Lydia moves back, a low sound in the back of her throat, but Lydia just kisses her again quickly and then goes back to fixing a bandage across the wound, pressing it down firmly.

Allison whines, arching away from the mattress, and Lydia clucks her tongue and apologises with a kiss to the top of her thigh. She presses another to her opposite hip, and trails another up to the curve of her stomach, and then pulls away and starts to gather up their medical supplies, her hands still slick with Allison's blood.

Allison makes an unhappy little sound, and tries to roll onto her side, towards her - she falls back, hissing, as her thigh pulls taut.

"Yeah," Lydia says, looking entirely unsympathetic while holding a blood-soaked towel. "That's what you get for not doing exactly what I say," she says, and walks out the room with her bundles of supplies.

"Tease," Allison calls, drowsy and without heat.

"I'll bring you torte if you go the fuck to sleep," Lydia calls back from the bathroom, and Allison pulls the blankets up over her face, hiding her grin.

two.
They open in January - it's a week into the new semester, and Allison chose this college town because she knows that no one, especially students, can resist a bakery that does home deliveries. She's arranged her shop just how she's always imagined it; two long glass cabinets in an L-shape, with the gluten-free and vegan specialities down one end, and just one table with two chairs by the window which hopefully looks picturesque without actually encouraging anyone to sit there. Pop-culture-referencing baked goods are kind of her thing - she finishes arranging a display of The Hunger Games-themed cupcakes, placing the one with the bow and arrow embedded in the icing at the front before, finally, going around to the door and flipping the sign to 'Open'. After a pause, she opens the door as well.

There's a girl striding down the opposite side of the road, and she glances over as the door chimes - she sees the 'Argent's Bakeries' sign above the door, black handpainted script on pale yellow, stares at it for a moment, and then hurries over.

Allison watches her, bemused.

"What's the most sugar-coated thing you have?" the girl asks when she's two feet away and Allison has to hurriedly step back to let her into the shop, as she sweeps in with a flick of flame-red hair.

"The raspberry turnovers," Allison says quickly, because she's used to both sudden enthusiasm for baked goods and odd requests, and the girl scans the counter with narrowed eyes until she spots them.

"Yeah, they'll do," she says, and suddenly she's grinning at Allison, and Allison feels her breath catch. Oh, fuck. "I'll take three- no, um, make that four," she amends, glancing at the clock behind the counter, and Allison hurries around to start piling them into a paper bag.

The girl pulls her credit card out of her purse and taps it against the glass until Allison asks for it, a light beat that sparks something at the back of Allison's mind and is quickly ignored. Lydia Martin, Allison notices as she takes the card, and tells herself she has absolutely no reason to remember it as Lydia continues tapping her nails against the glass, staring blindly at the cupcakes.

Allison doesn't want to ask. She does this because she loves baking - if she could leave all the rest of it to someone else, she would, but her dad has had words with her about customer service, and so she takes a breath and fixes her expression into a polite smile and asks, "Busy morning?"

Lydia snaps out of it, and rolls her eyes. "Don't," she says, and before Allison can apologise she's talking again. "It's not even worth talking about it, I will not be one of those girls who gets stupidly emotional because the neanderthals in her class won't admit that she's fully capable of completing a basic molecular biology assignment without their supervision. Like, I know how to obtain the nucleotide sequence, I don't need them breathing over me while I do it."

"Right," Allison says, blinking, and hands over her card and the bag full of pastries.

"Thanks!" Lydia calls, and sweeps out the door.

She sweeps back in two days later, looking pristine despite the slushy snow that's already starting to melt outside, and fixes Allison with a look as soon as the guy collecting a large portion of cherry cheesecake gets out of her way.

"You're not allowed to be nice to me," Lydia demands, staring straight at her with terrifyingly intense eyes, and Allison doesn't take a step back, but it's only because she's got nowhere to go. "Because I've had a terrible day, and if anyone's nice to me then I'm going to crack."

"I wasn't going to?" Allison says, and then thinks about it. "Wait, no, of course I will be nice, it's my job." Lydia twists her lips to side. "... but I will be the minimum required amount of nice? I won't even say 'have a nice day' as you leave, I promise," Allison continues, holding her hands up in surrender. There are a lot of people who get kind of intense when desperate for sugar. She can handle it.

Lydia just watches her for a long moment, eyes narrowed, and then the corner of her mouth quirks up and she huffs a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. "Thank you," she says, clipped and so polite it sounds mocking, and steps closer to the glass case. "I'll take one of those," she says, pointing at a cupcake piled with raspberry swirl icing, "and something I can rip apart with my bare hands."

"Definitely a chocolate croissant, then," Allison says, and adds one to the box, and then, "Oh, and an éclair. They're the best when you want to destroy something, you'll get cream and chocolate everywhere but it's like a gooey stress ball."

"A gooey stress ball," Lydia echoes flatly, but hands her credit card over anyway. Allison bites her lip to stop herself smiling,

"Have a nice day!" Allison calls, just as the door is swinging shut behind her, and Lydia strides off in the opposite direction so Allison can't see her laugh.

"Why 'bakeries'?" Lydia asks when they're sitting on the fire escape out the back, picking at the last of the cupcakes that have been left over from the day. The nights are still cold as spring creeps in, so they huddle together under one thick blanket, knees pressed together.

"Hmm?" Allison says, sucking icing off her fingers, and Lydia watches for a moment before turning her face up to the stars.

"'Argent's Bakeries' - are you a chain? You seem all... homely," Lydia says, pulling a face as she shrugs sharply.

"Oh! Kind of," Allison says, wiping crumbs off her hands. "Most of my family are bakers, or confectioners, or pastry chefs, it's kind of our thing. My ancestors worked in the kitchens of French royalty so it's this huge tradition that we're meant to continue, but - I love it, I guess. The name's important, so we all use it - except my aunt Kate, actually," Allison says, and frowns a little.

Lydia shivers suddenly, and Allison sucks in a breath and throws an arm around her shoulders before she can think about it. Lydia turns to smile at her.

"Oh, you've got icing-" Allison says, gesturing towards her own mouth in the universal sign for there's something on your face.

"Hmm?" Lydia says, as she licks at the side of her lips, missing it completely. Allison grins, and then bites her lip, and reaches over to brush her thumb against the corner of Lydia's mouth, catching two fingers under her chin to hold her still.

"Got it," she says, and doesn't pull her hand away.

"Just kiss me already," Lydia says, and grins against her mouth.

three.
"And - oh, Katniss Everdead takes a hit! Leaving Amelia Blackheart to sail through and take the points!"

Allison clings to the barricade, gasping for breath. The crowd sounds a little distant, a kind of muffled roar that slowly grows by eons until she can open her eyes and focus on the crowd just below her; a guy waves a flyer with Amelia Blackheart's face on it, red hair flaming out from underneath her helmet. Allison frowns.

"I'm okay," she says, gulping down air as her teammate slings an arm around her waist and pulls her up, giving her a moment to get her skates back under her shaking legs.

"Sure," Erica laughs, guiding them down the bank and patting her bruised hip, and Allison pulls away to punch her in the arm, skating away before she can retaliate. Erica just laughs at her. "See? Better already."

Allison glances at her out of the corner of her eye, eyebrows raised, and Erica smirks back before looking up at the scoreboard. "They've got a fourteen point lead," she says, pushing her tongue up against the back of her teeth, and clucking with a thought. "We definitely can't win, so - revenge?"

"Revenge," Allison agrees, and laughs when Erica throws her arms in the air and spins away.

"Everdead!" Lydia calls out across the locker room, and Allison winces, caught in the middle of pulling on her hoodie. She twists, muscles taut and aching horribly as she tugs it down over her colouring ribs and pushes the hood back, turning to find Lydia standing a foot away and glaring. "You know what you are?"

"Dead?" she ventures, fixing her sleeves.

Lydia stares at her for a short moment, and bursts out laughing. "I was going to say my new best friend, but sure," she says, and reaches forward to tug free a loop of hair caught in Allison's sweater; she curls it around her finger, and lets it fall with a bounce back onto Allison's shoulder. She's already changed and fixed her helmet-flattened hair in the time it's taken for Allison to struggle into her loosest jeans - Lydia's dress is short and tight and purple to match the bruise blossoming on her right arm.

"Um," Allison says, and Lydia glances back up at her, the corners of her mouth quirked tight and devilish.

"Thanks for clearing the way for me," she explains, reaching forward again to smooth down the line of her sleeve, and Allison lets her. "I never would have got past if you hadn't taken such a spectacular fall."

Allison ducks her head, and laughs softly. "Amelia Blackheart, right?" she says, for lack of anything better, and Lydia flashes her a sharp grin and turns to the mirror. "I like it."

"Yeah? I haven't registered it yet. I was thinking about changing it to Rawberry Blonde," Lydia says, pouting in the mirror as she fixes a curl that's tumbling down into the dip of her cleavage.

"Hmm" Allison says, low and without really meaning to, and Lydia glances at Allison's reflection, catching her eye. "No, I mean, I like Amelia," she amends, and holds her gaze.

"Me too," Lydia grins, and spins around, hair bouncing, to grab Allison by the wrist and slide her other hand around the top of Allison's arm, tugging her close with bruisingly strong fingers. "Is that what you're wearing to the party?" she says, flicking her eyes down briefly and back up, eyebrow raised.

"Um," Allison says, because she's both buzzing and exhausted, aching down to her bones and she desperately wants to go home and soak in a warm bath until it feels like she can move again without wincing. Lydia stares at her, lips dangerously close, and Allison swallows. "I wasn't planning on going to the party? I'm just really tired, and-"

"Hmm. No, you're coming, no excuses" Lydia says, and grins up at her. "I want to get to know the new girl. And, um," she breathes, close and warm and her hand slides up to her shoulder, her fingers tapping the lightest beat against Allison's collarbone, "I thought I should make it up to you."

"You don't have to apologise-" Allison starts, but Lydia rolls her eyes and steps away, the hand around her wrist slipping down to link their fingers together as she starts towards the door.

"I didn't say anything about apologising, Katniss," Lydia says, and stops short, changing her mind with a sharp turn so Allison is off-balance and just starting to move when Lydia cups her jaw and kisses her, sharp and quick. "Let me teach you the difference between apology and reciprocity," she purrs against her lips, and palms Allison's bruised hip as she backs her up against the lockers.

Allison tries not to hiss, and bites her lip instead. It tingles.

"Oh!" Lydia says, wide-eyed and mock-innocent, and presses her lips together as Allison shifts, a lock digging into her ribs and Lydia pressing close and her hands move to Lydia's waist. "Maybe I do need to- oh!"

Because Allison is buzzing and exhausted and her mind has been narrowed down to a single track, because she's not the kind of girl who waits around for the things she wants, and Lydia is something she's wanted since she first discovered Roller Derby and saw a war machine with flame-red hair fly between two blockers before they even realised she was there, she grabs her by the hips and spins them so Lydia is pinned against the lockers, and kisses her properly.

Lydia growls against her mouth, but it sounds happy, and loops her arms around Allison's neck.

"Get it, new girl!" Erica calls as she strolls past the door, and Allison remembers something, and squeezes Lydia's arm in revenge. Lydia squeaks, and kisses her harder.

_afterism @ 2012-11-25T09:59:00

2012-11-25T09:59:12Z

my teenwolf_bingo card, because I have a compulsion to sign up for all the things.

allison/lydia	derek/stiles	pack	scott/stiles	erica/allison
obsession	apocalypse	watching a movie	torture or interrogation	heat wave
favors (sexual or otherwise)	angst	curses and hexes	photographs	medical
chocolate	gender swap	*	practice makes perfect	part time job
sweet sixteen	dystopian	walk on the beach	virgin	phobias
reunion	fast food	heat	best friends	pretending to date

marvel_bang art \o/

2012-11-16T12:19:56Z

My art for the awesome Shield Academy by duckgirlie!

also on: tumblr | deviantart
Toni Stark is perfection in biker boots and candy-apple lipstick, and Beth Banner never had a chance.

I don't get to draw genderswap things very often, despite loving it to a ridiculous degree, so this was so much fun! and duckgirlie was immensely helpful in figuring out what these girls looked like - Toni being kind of small and sprawled out and not particularly caring about her appearance, and Beth being, well, much better put together. It was so much fun researching New York to find a good setting for this - if google isn't lying to me, that coffee shop behind them is a Starbucks in the Village, but don't hold me to that.

The fic is an absolute delight, so go read it! :D

dear yuletide writer

2012-10-15T16:20:54Z

HI :D

First of all: you're awesome, and I'm incredibly easy to please, so everything's going to be fine.

Optional details are very much optional, and I would be genuinely delighted with any fic about these characters. Everything under the fandom specfics is just me trying to give you as much as possible to work with - there's no particular idea that I'm desperately hoping for, so please take anything that you're inspired by and feel free to ignore the rest!

If you want to ~~procrastinate~~ find out more about what I like: yuletide tag for previous years' letters and stuff, AO3 for my fic and bookmarks, and tumblr for fandoms/ships/tag novels, etc.

Things I Like: stories that focus on the characters and their development and relationships, plotty fic and domestic fic and everything in between, AUs of absolutely any kind, universes where homosexuality and queer characters are treated as entirely normal and not even worth an eyebrow raise, ridic tropes like bodyswap and sexpollen and suddenly! telepathy!, cracky concepts that written relatively seriously, fics that play with formatting and timelines and storytelling, women who are awesome and competent and friends with other women, UST that takes a long time to get resolved, banter and snark and people being sarcastic instead of saying how they really feel, first kisses, getting together, and christmas fic.

Things I don't like: non-con, permanent character death, abuse of any kind, homophobia, bleak and hopeless endings. I am a little bit flexible on these, especially in dark!fic, but please have a very good narrative reason if you do include any of them.
(eta, but mainly to remind myself to include this in next year's letter: I really, really dislike snails, and I'd be massively grateful if you avoided all mention of them. I know this is an incredibly specific and odd request! and probably irrelevant to what you're writing and even if it isn't it certainly won't ruin a fic for me, but it will make me cringe, so. a warning would be nice? if there's more than a passing mention of them? /ridiculous phobia confessions)

Dollhouse
Topher Brink
If you're unfamiliar with the fandom but curious: IMDB and it's very easy to find DVDs/streaming options. It's a Joss Whedon project, so consider that fair warning for awesomeness to incredibly heartbreaking character death ratio (it is very much worth it. but also, ow.)

Anything set during or after Epitaph - something that explores how Topher ended up working directly for Rossum again, and what happened while he was there that broke him so completely. Or, find a way for him to survive in the end and show me how he pieces himself back together. Dark, twisty fic is kind of inevitable (and wonderful!), and I would be utterly delighted with anything that explored Topher's conscience and morality and the way he views the world.

That said, broken!Topher breaks my heart in the worst/best ways and I would be equally delighted with anything that was set pre-canon, or pre-the beginning of the end, where Topher was still mostly his nerdy, snarky, morality-free self. Show me what he was like at college! Or tell me about the adventures he has on his birthday, or why he's so into the human brain (if you want to get technical and nerdy on me I would be thrilled! because I am a total nerd about the human brain, but I also really love the pseudoscience and how Topher/the show uses a lot of analogies and vague terms (the squigglies!) to describe it, so please don't feel like I'm going to be nitpicky about any science bits!), or how he came to work for the Dollhouse.

So, I would be delighted with pretty much any kind of fic as long as it focuses on Topher! I love the way he's so matter-of-fact about his genius and his work and the Dollhouse, how he's consciously shallow and childish and can talk to anybody but has no idea how to reach out, his complete lack of morals that turns out to not be complete. I'd love anything that explores his morality and nerdiness and passions and the limits of a conscience that doesn't get tested often. I'm kind of torn between wanting something that celebrates how perfectly ridiculous he is, and something that explores what happens when a brilliant mind is broken. So, that's your decision! :D

I'd love to see something where he survives in the end (due to a remote detonator, or a timer, or anything that doesn't involve someone else dying in his place) and deals with how fractured his mind has become just to deal with the all horrors - a story that's as broken up and occasionally incoherent as he is could be amazing. Or something set during the ten(?) years he was at Rossum, pretending to figure out how to wipe out the rest of world, and having to watch someone die everyday until he did - how long did it take before they started using that tactic, and when did he start breaking? My only caveat for that is please no physical or sexual abuse; the mental abuse Topher was inflicting on himself was plenty enough to destroy him.

For anything set pre-apocalypse, I'd love something light and cracky and fun - or, at least, not overwhelmingly dark and serious, because for the most part Topher is never dark and serious. Even when things are serious he's refreshingly terrible at responding appropriately (and, just throwing out ridic ideas, it could be awesome to see Topher dealing with an apocalypse that he wasn't partially responsible for? or maybe a minor zombie one that he set up as a birthday present to himself?). Enver Gjokaj's impression of Topher is one of the highlights of the show for me, so fic with two Tophers and the ridiculous/brilliant things they get up to could be fantastic, and I'd be fascinated with anything that plays with the limits of what you can do with imprinting. Anything that gives more Topher backstory, or examines what makes him tick, or just has fun with what Topher does on a daily basis (!) would be wonderful.

The only thing I would like to request is that whatever you write is somewhere between gen and R-rated. You can have him in a relationship of any kind, platonic or otherwise - I love his relationship with Adelle, and Bennett (fix-it fic would be perfect), and pre-reveal Boyd, and I'd be delighted to see more of that but I would prefer it if it stayed as complex and snarky and low-rated as the show. (My personal headcanon is that Topher is asexual, but that's not a requirement for you to include and I don't mind at all if that's not how you see him!)

(I have a lot of Topher ideas at the moment, because I just finished marathoning Dollhouse in the space of three days. Please don't let the length of this one put you off if you're assigned to another fandom for me! or intimidate you if you are assigned to this one, even. I'm just slightly overwhelmed with feelings.)

Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Havelock Vetinari | Samuel Vimes | Cheery Littlebottom
If you're unfamiliar with the fandom but curious: Discworld is a series of (currently 39) fantasy books by Terry Prachett, which are brilliant and funny and somewhat hard to explain in their entirety so I'm just going to link you to the Wikipedia article and this article about where to start reading them. :D

I would love pretty much anything that focused on any of these characters! Casefic that brought them all together would be amazing - tell me about another time someone tried to bring down one of the Guilds, or the Patrician, or the entirety of Ankh-Morpork, and how far Vetinari let it continue, and how Vimes eventually figured it out. I love Vetinari being quietly and extremely clever - it would be great to see more of him when he was at the Assassin's Guild, or tell me about his typical day. For Cheery, anything about what being a forensic alchemist in Ankh-Morpork generally entails, or more about her friendship with Angua! Vimes is quite possibly my Favourite Character Of All Time, so I would love anything about him, something set in the Watch or with Sybil or including Young Sam, because I love seeing people with important jobs having quiet, domestic moments (even though those moments are always interrupted).

I love all the alternative history and pop-culture references, so if you want to take an historical event or classic literature and and show me how it would go down in the Discworld, I would be delighted! World-building fic would be just as awesome as a character study.

You don't have to include all three characters - you can focus on just one, or two (I would be delighted with the obvious combinations, but Vetinari & Cheery somehow working together would be endlessly fascinating), and similarly you can include any other characters that you like! I'm especially fond of Sybil if you're going to write about Vimes and/or Vetinari (and if you want to write polyamorous fic about all three I would be both in awe and probably rolling on the floor with excitement), and Angua (especially her friendship with Cheery! a fic that is entirely just the two of them talking would be wonderful!), and I really love Death's cameos, even if he only appears in one line.

This is probably the fandom where I'm least sure about what I might want, because I haven't read all the Discworld books and I don't know everything about these characters and I would genuinely be delighted with anything, so. Um. Feel free to take this in any direction you like, and don't worry about spoiling me for books I might not have read, or basing your whole story on something I might not be familiar with - I'm reading the books in whatever order I can find them, and if you give me a quick summary of the things I need to know/give me a link in the author's note, that'll be fine!

In case it is useful, here's a list of the Discworld books I have read or will have finished reading before Yuletide (the Watch novels are my favourite, in case that wasn't obvious from my request):

[click]

Mort, Reaper Man, Wyrd Sisters, Men at Arms, Maskerade, Feet of Clay, Jingo, The Truth, Thief of Time, Night Watch, Monstrous Regiment, Thud!, Unseen Academicals, Snuff.

Doctor Who RPF
Matt Smith | Arthur Darvill | Karen Gillan
If you're unfamiliar with the fandom but curious: this is kind of hard to summarise! um, here are a load of things (mostly from tumblr) about why I love these perfectly ridiculous actors so much: absolutely everything about The Last Days of the Ponds video, but especially 'Part-time lovers, occasionally time travelers'; because look at these fucking hipsters, no seriously look; that time where Matt & Arthur taught Karen how to pet a horse; the vast amount of in-jokes and ridiculousness that only comes with spending way too much time with someone (in fact, everything about this interview); and, actually, I'm getting most of these off my karen gillan tag on tumblr, so feel free to browse that! (and for the sake of completeness, arthur darvill and matt smith tags! there's quite a lot crossposting, because I really, really love it when these three are together.)

If you're up for writing it, I'd love to see all three in a (dsy)functional polyamorous relationship - either exploring how they all came together in the first place, or how they manage to keep it together now. I would be equally pleased with Arthur/Matt, or Matt/Karen, and I could be easily convinced on Karen/Arthur as long as Matt has plenty to do in the fic as well! Porn is very much optional - I'm more interested in the dynamic between everyone, and how they make it work, and if you'd prefer to write gen or pre-relationship fic then as long it's still about how these three fit together I will be thrilled!

AUs of any kind would be awesome - inept spies! bakery AU! disney movie fusions! hipsters, hipsters everywhere! if you want to get cracky and meta, then Hipsters In Space would work for me on so many levels (as long as it was clearly a cracky RPS AU, and not a sneaky way of getting a Doctor Who fic into yuletide. That's not what I'm requesting)! And, if you'd like, a deliciously meta Inspector Spacetime crossover would actually make me shriek with joy.

I love Karen's mad energy and endless enthusiasm about seemingly everything, Matt's dorkiness and clumsiness and the way he gets excited about everything, Arthur's humour and sarcasm and fondness for hideous sweaters that is only rivaled by Matt's and how he's a bit more reserved than the others, but perfectly capable of keeping up with them. I really, really love how silly they are when they're together, in the kind of way you can only be when you're 100% comfortable around someone, and how they bounce off each other and have ridic in-jokes and are basically the perfect trio.

I am pretty much open to any direction you want to take this - something about the day to day life on set, and how they keep each other amused in the long wait between filming, or domestic fic about them all living together and maybe phone sex when they're apart, or how they feel about no longer seeing each other every day, or an AU where Matt and Karen are spies and Arthur is their long-suffering handler, or ghost hunters, or college fic, or they're caught in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, or absolutely any other kind of AU you want. These three are ridiculous and wonderful and I love the intense relationship that forms from working with each other so closely for so long, so anything canon or AU that explores that would be perfect. And I know it sounds like I've got my heart set on OT3 fic, but I would genuinely be utterly delighted with something gen or just about two people in a relationship, so please don't stress if that's not what you want to write!

If you are interested in writing about a polyamorous relationship: I'm usually all about the first kisses and getting together, but for OT3 fic I would be equally fascinated by how the relationship works a few months in, or even after a couple of years. It doesn't have to be smooth all the way - show me the conflict! Tell me about all the ways it really shouldn't work, but they're all so hopelessly in love with each other that they refuse to let it fall apart.

I Am Not A Princess - Marina and the Diamonds (Music Video)
Any
If you're unfamiliar with the fandom but curious: Youtube link. It's a ten minute feminist retelling of classic princess fairytales, full of girls taking charge and following their heart and generally being awesome and inspirational, set to a perfect mix of songs from The Family Jewels. Even if you're not matched with me on this fandom, go watch it!

I would love absolutely anything inspired by this video! Tell me more about any of the princesses (Belle and Sleeping Beauty are possibly my favourites, but I love every story), or the fairy godmothers who go around and give princesses the courage and opportunity to go for what they really want, or tell me more about this version of Wonderland which apparently steals young girls away and gives them strong female role models! Or you could retell another fairytale in this style - I love discovering new fairytales, so don't worry if you want to write about one that's not very well-known. Anything that captured the beauty and magic and kickass ladies vibe of the video would be perfect.

This is probably the easiest fandom to pick up if you've been matched to a different fandom for me but want to write something else! The source is only ten minutes long and there is so much you could do with it. I have no particular strong ideas about what I want from this, so feel free to ignore my request entirely and write whatever you want in this universe, because I would be delighted with anything! Femslash between the princesses or genderswapping the princes would also be lovely, but that's totally up to you. The only definite request I do have is that it focuses on the girls - I'd prefer something that shows the world from the princess's point of view, rather than something that shows the princess from the prince's point of view, if that makes sense.

(also, an incredibly silly and more optional than optional prompt, just because my fourth request was originally going to be for Elementary: What would Joan Watson do if she was trapped in one of these fairytales?)

and possibly i like the thrill

2012-09-29T15:23:54Z

OT3-centric coda to The Power of Three, because oh my god, if that whole episode wasn't about how perfect the Doctor, Rory and Amy are all together then I don't even know.

Title: stay (if you're wondering)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Eleven/Rory/Amy
Rating: R
Summary: 26th June, 1890, in a room in the recently opened Savoy Hotel - Amy and Rory decide that the Doctor is staying the night.

Two steps into the TARDIS he remembers something about the electricity - newly installed, first hotel of its kind in London, they should probably avoid the dimmer switch because he's not sure those have been invented yet.

"Did I mention-?" he starts, stepping out and clasping his hands together, but Amy's right in front of him like she was waiting, and she's grinning.

"That you were staying the night? Yeah," she says, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling him, stumbling, further into the room. Rory's standing a little to the right, looking oddly amused, and the Doctor finds his feet and looks at the both of them.

"Pardon?" he says, his arms hanging a little awkwardly at his side because Amy is still holding onto his jacket.

"Amy's- we've decided you're staying. With us. For the night," Rory says, correcting himself with a sharp glance from Amy, and when the Doctor fixes her with a look she just grins brightly.

"And this, is it...?" he says, waving a hand between the three of them. He's frowning, like there's a piece of the puzzle missing and they're being deliberately unhelpful by being all... human.

"We talked about it. What you stayed for those four days, we thought, maybe-" Rory starts, and then stops with a jerky nod.

Amy rolls her eyes, and laughs. "We thought you should join us. Properly," she says, and her hands slip a little further down the edge of his jacket, tugging him closer.

"Oh," he says, and laughs a little bit breathlessly. "Well then," he says, and then Amy has let go and Rory is grabbing his face with both hands and he's... hesitating.

"Amy said I should probably go first," Rory says, but doesn't actually move any closer. His hands are burning warm against the Doctor's jaw, his fingertips pressing lightly into his neck, and he can feel the hard jump of the muscles in his throat working as he swallows.

"Yep," Amy says, popping the 'p' sound with delight, and the Doctor glances at her. "It's only fair, as you two haven't actually kissed yet," she explains.

"Well," Rory says, glancing at the ceiling, and Amy cuts him off with a frown and a wave of her hand.

"I didn't see it so it didn't count," she says, and the Doctor laughs in a slightly unsure way. Amy widens her eyes at Rory and he kind of sighs and nods rapidly, his hands still holding the Doctor's head still, and then, finally, leans closer to kiss him.

The Doctor goes very still for a moment, and Amy is close enough that he can hear her quiet huff of laughter, but Rory's kissing him and that deserves attention; because if he's going to do this (and - of course he is, because he's never learnt how to deny himself the things he shouldn't want, and the way Rory is holding him with a stubborn grip is every reason why he shouldn't) he's going to do it properly. He presses into it, suddenly and harshly, his hand reaching up to curl around the back of Rory's neck, and Amy squeaks with delight.

Rory's mouth opens with a small noise of surprise, and his hands - no longer having to hold him still, having to stop him from running away - slide down to rest on the Doctor's shoulders, his fingers slipping under the edge of his collar. They kiss, soft and slow for a few long seconds, until the Doctor catches himself laughing and Rory pulls away, catching his eye with a calculated boldness.

"Right," the Doctor says, and his thumb brushes against the corner of Rory's jaw.

"Oh, come here," Amy says, with fond exasperation, and pulls him into a kiss, pushing her entire body close and leaning backwards so he has to bend over her. Rory slips away - the Doctor's hand hovers, for a moment, and then finds its way to Amy's waist, and then Rory's behind her and starting to unfasten her dress, the fabric slipping away under the Doctor's fingers.

"Got my boys," Amy murmurs happily against his mouth, and drops her hands from his shoulders so Rory can slide her dress down, skimming the lines of her corset and her hips and her thighs as it drops to the floor. Rory wraps his hands around her hips, his fingertips pressing pale shadows into her skin, and tugs her back a step - she pulls away from the Doctor, giggling, and spins in Rory's arms so she can kiss him properly.

She tries to hook a leg around his waist, and grins against his mouth when Rory curls his hands under her thighs and picks her up, his arms rigid and stronger than the Doctor has ever noticed - she tangles her fingers in his hair, licking into his mouth with familiar ease and Rory turns on his heel and carries her around the side of the bed, two steps that take forever as Amy uncrosses and crosses her ankles around his back, her thighs squeezing against his waist as she tries to rut against him teasingly. Rory tilts his head back, sucking her bottom lip for a second as he pulls away and catches her eye: all the warning she gets before he throws her onto the bed and she lands with a yelp, pushing herself up on her elbows to glare at him through her eyelashes as the feather in her hair starts to dip to the side.

Rory looks entirely unapologetic, though his smile is small and thoughtful until the Doctor steps up behind him and slides his hands around his waist, pulling Rory back against him. He nuzzles softly at the downy line where Rory's hair meets his neck, and Rory closes his eyes and sighs a little softly as the Doctor runs his hands up his chest to grab the edges of Rory's tailcoat, tugging it off and throwing it blindly across the room.

When Rory opens his eyes Amy is watching them, her legs endless and golden in the candlelight and her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and the Doctor slides his fingers over Rory's ribs as he mouths at the flushed skin under his jaw.

"Don't mind me," Amy says, low and breathless when the Doctor bites at the curve of his neck and Rory's breath stutters.

"I think my wife would like some attention," Rory whispers, and the Doctor exhales a laugh against his skin.

"Damn right I do," she says, and swings her legs around so she can kneel up in front of them, grabbing Rory by the front of his shirt and moving him to the side so she can paw at the Doctor's bowtie. "I am not sleeping with you if you're still wearing this."

Amy bats his hands away when he tries to protest, and a glance at Rory is no help at all as Rory sits down on the bed and undoes his own necktie and the top three buttons of his stiff shirt; he laughs softly when the Doctor shoots him a betrayed look, and lets himself fall until his back hits the bedsheets.

He lifts his head a little so he can watch them - the delicate, considering way the Doctor looks at Amy as she tugs the bowtie apart but leaves it dangling around his neck, her fingers immediately working on the buttons of his shirt and when she glances up the Doctor smiles a little wider.

"What," she says, but the Doctor just wets his bottom lip with a flick of his tongue and she doesn't hesitate to throw her arms around his shoulders and kiss him, warm and demanding and brilliant, until the Doctor lets his hands curl around her hips, dipping low over the edge of her corset and suddenly she grabs him by the shoulders and spins them around, pushing him down onto the bed to land with a thump next to Rory.

The Doctor stares up at her with wide eyes, the sweep of his hair falling over his forehead and she just laughs at him, kneeling on the edge of the bed.

"You've no idea how long I've wanted to do this," Amy says, her eyes bright as she grins down at both of them, glowing and beautiful in the light spilling out from the fireplace.

"Seriously. She talks about it a lot," Rory sighs, but his fingers are tracing invisible patterns up Amy's thighs and something in his smile turns soft whenever he looks at her. "Usually when I just want to go to sleep."

"Yeah, because you're boring," she says, and swoops down to kiss him, her carefully-arranged pile of hair shifting a little as he arches up to greet her and the Doctor just watches, smiling quietly.

"Hey," Amy says, barely pulling away from Rory's mouth and blinding reaching out towards the Doctor. "Stop watching and get over here," she says, her lips brushing Rory's with every word and in a rustle of bedsheets the Doctor is pressed up against his side, his fingers tracing the dips of his chest and Rory feels impossibly warm, flushed from the heat of the fire and Amy and the Doctor; he's all soft shadows and flickering highlights when Rory cants his head towards him, and in the sweet crush of bodies the Doctor finds himself on his back as Amy and Rory suddenly decide to focus on him. Amy looks deviously gleeful, her eyes dancing, and the Doctor reaches up to untuck a curl of her hair.

"Your champagne, sirs," the concierge says suddenly from the doorway, wheeling in a small trolley, and Rory lifts his head to stare at him disbelief. The concierge looks unperturbed, pouring out three glasses, and then turns to leave.

"Er," Rory says, mostly by accident, and the concierge turns his head to look at him. There's a crack as his neck rotates beyond the line of his shoulder, his body facing the door as his head is turned completely towards him.

"Thanks?" Rory squeaks. He nods, in a way that Rory knows should be impossible with a broken spine, and leaves.

"Er, Doctor?" Rory says, and the Doctor just hums vaguely underneath him, Amy's mouth against his collarbone. "I don't think that guy was human," he says, and everything goes to hell.

For seven weeks they don't really talk about it - because they're busy, and the Doctor is easily distracted, and Amy accidentally gets married again. It's complicated, until it's not, and they're back at their own anniversary party before the second bottle of champagne is opened.

"The Doctor's staying with us, for a while," Amy says, when it's a little past midnight and the last of their friends have said goodbye, leaving a scattered mess of empty wine glasses and paper cups and the fairy lights in the garden blinking at empty space. Their house suddenly seems to ring in the silence.

"Ha," Rory laughs, and Amy looks at him. "Oh God, you're serious."

"It's because of the cubes, and stuff. And-" she pauses, presses her lips together and closes the short distance between them, looping her arms around his waist.

"And?" Rory prompts, glancing down as she licks her lips.

"And because we have some unfinished business," she says, and kisses him; soft and sweet and swiftly turning dirty as she parts her lips just enough to slide their mouths together, crowding close with her hands slipping under his shirt.

"Oh! Don't mind me, I just left something in the garden-" the Doctor says, trying to stride past without really looking at them, and Amy pulls away to scowl at him.

"Oi," she says, and the Doctor stops, and slowly turns to look at her. "Are you coming to bed, or what?"

"Oh," the Doctor says, and glances at Rory, who smiles at him. His hands are splayed over Amy's hips, and his shirt is rucked up around Amy's arms, and Amy is staring at him expectantly. "Yes. Yes, I suppose I am," he says, and grins.

"Good," Amy says, and presses a quick kiss to Rory's mouth before slipping away and grabbing the Doctor by his wrist, propelling him towards the hallway. "Come on!" she calls, and Rory tries not to laugh as he follows them upstairs.

There's a brief dance about showers and toothbrushes ("We got you a toothbrush. Just in case, you know," Amy says, and waves her hand vaguely in way that definitely doesn't mean anything in British Sign Language, but does mean 'pigeons' on a small planet just outside of the Perugellis System. He assumes she doesn't mean it) and how, exactly, they are going to fit on their bed, but then Rory slips out the room to brush his teeth and Amy fixes the Doctor with a look.

"No complications this time," she says, and keeps her voice flat. "Just us, and this house, for as long as you're here. Okay?"

"No complications," the Doctor echoes, looking slightly concerned, and Amy rolls her eyes and reels him in with an arm draped around his neck.

"Not unless you count the taps in the bathroom not working," she says, and then hooks a finger over his bowtie when the Doctor suddenly looks thoughtful. "No. Don't you dare tinker with anything in my house, you hear?" she says, lowering her chin so she can glare up at him.

Rory comes back in before he can reply, in just boxers and a soft grey t-shirt, and Amy smirks at him. "Clothes off," she says to the Doctor, and pulls off her own shirt in one quick gesture. "I've never really been into the whole 'slow stripping' thing."

She's down to her black and lacy underwear in moments, and she jumps onto the bed to lean against the headboard, patting the space either side of her. "Come along, Mr. Pond. And you, Doctor," she says, low and teasing, and then laughs when the Doctor just raises an eyebrow at her as he undoes his bowtie.

"Let me help you with that," Rory says, calm and light and with calloused hands that burn against his skin as he starts to unbutton his shirt, and then Rory's tugging off his jacket and suspenders and trousers and the Doctor catches his face between his hands and kisses him, guiding them towards the bed.

"Finally," Amy sighs, when they are either side of her, Rory's hand ghosting over her stomach and the Doctor reaching up to card his fingers through her hair, and it works: Rory kisses his way from her collarbone to her hip, nosing at the crease of her thigh with a hot rush of breath against her pale skin before flicking his tongue down, his fingers tugging her panties to the side as he presses a kiss to her core and she gasps happily into the Doctor's mouth as he kisses her, his hands smoothing up the sides of her ribs and she squirms, laughing.

It works: as the Doctor presses into her, as he licks the hollow of her collarbone and Rory bites at the flesh of his shoulder, as the Doctor wraps a hand around Rory's cock and the three of them work out some kind of staccato rhythm, not quite moving together but it's slick and hot and perfect. It works even as the Doctor accidentally elbows Rory in the ribs, and Amy's thigh gets in the way when they try to move, but then Rory's pressing up warm and solid around her and the Doctor's at his back, touching them both as much as he can with his leg thrown haphazardly over their thighs and when Amy comes it's with her mouth muffled against Rory's chest and her fingers interlinked with the Doctor's.

The Doctor watches them as they drift off to sleep, Amy curled around Rory as he sprawls out in the middle of the bed, and doesn't think about the cubes.

There are very early mornings when Rory gets home from a long shift and they undress him slowly, letting him sink into the mattress and keeping him teasingly awake as they cover him with wet-soft kisses and smooth hands. Amy likes to pin the Doctor against the kitchen counter when he's experimenting with something mysterious he found in the garden, and if Rory is reading in the living room while the Doctor is playing on the Wii he tends to get jumped on in celebration whenever the Doctor wins at the tennis (on easy mode, Rory doesn't point out), and sometimes that drifts from a mad crush of their lips into something a little slower; the Doctor working his tongue in a way that reminds him of Latin grammar, and Amy will find them half an hour later still making out like teenagers, Rory's leg pressing up between the Doctor's thighs, and asks loudly if they should get a bigger sofa.

It feels a bit like running, in the overwhelming dizziness of the emotional feedback loop when they're both crowding close and deliciously hot, but then Amy slips a hand under his jacket, and Rory presses a kiss to his jaw, and,

"Thanks," Amy whispers, late one night when Rory's already asleep, and Amy is still sandwiched between them. "For staying," she says, warm breath quiet and tender against his chest, and the Doctor tightens his arm around her.

"How could I leave?" he says, after a long minute, and Amy sighs in her sleep.

i am my own self-fulfilling prophecy

2012-09-24T21:17:41Z

I needed to write some warm-up porn to get me in the right headspace for another fic I'm working on, and suddenly Sterek happened. :D?

Title: feeling as good as lovers can
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He wants so much more, wants anything he can get when they've got a whole summer afternoon to themselves, just sunlight and bare skin and the slow drag of Derek's fingers against his pulse.
A/N: shameless PWP, partly in celebration of Sterek winning the AfterElton poll (!!), but mostly just because porn. :D
written for the 'afternoon' prompt on my cottoncandy_bingo card.

"Fuck," Stiles says, arching up as Derek licks a long stripe from his stomach to his neck, and Derek huffs a soft laugh against his skin. He nuzzles at the curve of Stiles's jaw before nipping lightly, teasing the pinch with his tongue, and Stiles groans and fists a hand in Derek's hair.

"What happened to-" Stiles tries, but Derek pushes up, sliding chest to chest and covers him completely before kissing him again, rough and possessive and he catches Stiles's free hand that was trying to grab at his arm and pins it to the pillow.

"I prefer this plan," Derek says, low and dark but there's laughter behind it and he presses a kiss to the corner of Stiles's mouth before nuzzling back down his neck, brushing his lips over his collarbone and catching his nipple lightly between his teeth. Stiles's breath catches, then stutters, then dips into an annoyed groan as Derek sucks on the skin a little to the left of his nipple and then moves lower, his hands on either side of Stile's ribs to hold him still.

"I'd prefer it if you weren't such a tease," Stiles says, trying to arch up against Derek's mouth as he sucks kisses along his hip, and Derek hides his smile by mouthing at the join of his thigh, maddeningly close and Stiles just groans, throwing one hand out to the side so it hits the mattress with a soft thump.

He's desperately hard, red and aching and Derek is just ignoring it, instead pushing Stiles's thighs apart with a hand under each knee, spreading him irresistibly, and then he just presses his mouth against the soft, smooth skin of his inner thigh. There's a hint of teeth, Derek's breath hot and wet and he's not fucking moving; Stiles gives up and just grabs at Derek's hair with both hands, his fingers gripping at the back of his head and he whines, "Come on!"

Derek just laughs, a hot brush of air that lingers close to his cock but nowhere near close enough, and slides his hands up Stiles's legs so they're covering his hips, huge and warm and holding him down with barely any effort when Stiles tries to buck his hips to get closer to his mouth.

"I hate you," Stiles says, breathless and tense. "I actually hate you."

"Yeah?" Derek says, and suddenly he's looming over him, placing a hand either side of his head and he's not touching him anywhere, as Stiles's hands fall back onto the mattress and they're nose to nose. Stiles's eyes glow golden in the afternoon light and Derek just looks at him, as Stiles tries to squirm without showing it and his cheeks are flushed red, lips parted and eyes bright and fixed on Derek's mouth before flicking up to watch him watching him.

"Okay, maybe I don't," Stiles says, swallowing, and Derek lowers himself an inch just as Stiles launches upwards, looping his arms around Derek's neck as he crashes their mouths together and kisses him, hard and open-mouthed. Derek drinks him in, levering down until he's settled between Stiles's legs and his cock is rubbing hot friction against Stiles: he gasps wetly into Derek's mouth, tightening his grip around his neck and arches up so tightly Derek can slip a hand between his shoulder blades and hold him there, pressed together from hip to shoulder.

"You're still a tease," Stiles mutters against his lips as he rolls his hips up, and grins in triumph when Derek groans softly and bites at his mouth. It's impossibly warm, in the late summer heat and with the overwhelming crush of Derek baring down on him, making him feel entirely consumed and like his skin is pricking with sweat, and then Derek reaches down to enclose their cocks in one hand and Stiles throws his head back against the pillow with a strangled yelp, baring his neck.

"Please," he says, when Derek just rests his forehead against Stiles's shoulder and pumps his fist slowly, the dragging friction so, so good but he wants so much more, wants anything he can get when they've got a whole summer afternoon to themselves, just sunlight and bare skin and the slow drag of Derek's fingers against his pulse. Derek pushes up to suck a kiss on his neck, his nose tucked against the corner of his jaw, and then slinks lower, peppering kisses down Stiles's chest as one hand still lazily works Stiles's erection with a kind of diligent stubbornness, unwilling to let go even as he shifts to lie between Stiles's thighs and he nips his way along his treasure trail.

Stiles moans with exaggerated encouragement, keening and silly, and spreads his legs wider as Derek rests a hand on the top of his thigh, his thumb smoothing circles into the join of his hip, and then finally, finally Derek's mouth reaches the base of Stiles's cock and he ghosts warm breath over his flushed skin. Stiles bucks up impatiently, half-stopped by the solid weight of Derek's hand and he feels the humming laughter vibrating through Derek's lips as he (finally) starts to mouth at his cock, sliding his fingers out the way so he can swipe the flat of his tongue up to the head and then suck it between his lips, sudden hot pressure and Stiles moans for real, one hand clutching at the bedsheets like an anchor.

"Fuck, yeah, just like that," Stiles sighs, high and tight and Derek swallows, sliding his lips further down his length as he wraps his fingers around the base and squeezes for a moment, before slowly pumping his hand up until it meets his mouth. He closes his eyes and the smell of Stiles is overwhelming, musk and salt and something earthy like the depth of the woods, and when he sucks, hollowing his cheeks and squeezing his hand tighter, the way Stiles moans with his whole body makes something animalistic and possessive rise up, makes Derek want to devour him like he does every time he's got Stiles sprawled out and open underneath him.

He shifts, trying to lightly press his own erection into the mattress for some kind of relief, and Stiles reaches down to curl a hand around the back of his head, his fingertips brushing against the join of his hairline and his neck. It's the lightest touch but it's like an anchor, and urging, and permission, and Derek sucks two fingers into his mouth alongside Stiles's cock before slipping them down, nudging the tight skin just behind his balls and then slipping further.

He pushes two fingers in, slow but steady and Stiles is loose enough that he just lets his knees fall wider and pushes back, urging him in more until Derek is up to the knuckle and Stiles is keening, small, urgent noises between the cacophony of swearing and, "oh my god," and, "Derek, if you don't move I'm going to fill your hair gel with glitter, I swear to god, it's pink and it'll never come out-"

and Derek just hums lightly because he knows that makes Stiles's breath catch and makes him stop talking, leaves him just moaning incoherently as Derek draws his fingers out to the second knuckle before pushing back in, working him open with sure little thrusts and the wet slide of his mouth over his cock. Stiles arches up, rolling his hips forward so he can push into that hot pressure and he's so, so close, as Derek sucks tightly and draws his mouth up, the tip of Stiles's cock slipping against his pursed lips for a second before he swallows him back down, slides a third finger into him and Stiles comes, gasping wetly and grabbing desperately onto the sheets as he cants into Derek's mouth.

"Get up here," Stiles says, after a long moment of just breathing, after Derek works him through the aftershocks with the steady press of his fingers and the soft working of his tongue, and Derek pads up the bed and kisses him softly as he blindly grabs a tissue to wipe his fingers with. Stiles kisses back, blissful and sloppy and eyes closed, and with a lazy hand he reaches down to curl his fingers around Derek's cock where it's pressing against his stomach.

"You don't have to," Derek says, murmured against his lips and Stiles pulls a face. "I'm nearly-"

"Like hell I don't. Gimme," he says, with a rough tug down the length of Derek's cock, and Derek turns the kiss harder for a moment, a rough crush of their lips together before he reaches up to grab a condom and lube from where they're not exactly well-hidden on the shelf above Stiles's bed.

Stiles grabs the condom off him and rips it open, reaching down to roll it along Derek's cock as Derek leans his forehead against Stiles's and just breathes slowly.

"Yeah? You like that?" Stiles says, and Derek snorts. "I'm taking that as a yes."

Derek covers Stiles's mouth with his own, mainly to shut him up, and leans on one forearm so he can slick himself up, his own fingers making him hiss. Stiles is still loose and pliant and his fingers slip in easily as he coats him generously, because he needs this as easy as possible to make it last at all, and Stiles sighs happily, blissful and content, as he guides his cock slowly inside him.

"Yeah, come on," Stiles breathes, as Derek wraps his hands around Stiles's hips and presses in all the way. He curls over him and Stiles arches up, kissing him soft and slow as he starts to thrust in shallow bursts, and this isn't going to last long at all, Stiles a perfect tight heat around him and he growls lowly into his mouth.

Stiles murmurs vague, filthy encouragement against his lips and he's so close to the edge that it's actually hot, and he moves with aching slowness that has Stiles palming his own cock again as it lays against his stomach.

"Oh my god, are you doing this on purpose," Stiles groans, as Derek pushes all the way in and just holds, his body snapped tight above him, and Stiles rocks his hips forward and up, pushing relentlessly against him - and in two short thrusts Derek is coming with a rough growl that Stiles swallows down, laughing happily.

The soft afternoon light streaks across the bed and Derek holds himself over Stiles, his arms taut as he pulls out and Stiles gives a soft sigh, too boneless to be anything more than half-hard and without moving his arms he snaps his hands in Derek's direction as he gets up to throw the condom in the trash.

"Get back here," Stiles says, as Derek is already climbing back onto the bed. "I know you're secretly a cuddler."

"It's not that secret," Derek says, and Stiles laughs, still sprawled and open and entirely without shame, and pulls him in for a kiss.

and it's over

2012-09-14T19:11:36Z

yeah, I write Teen Wolf fic now?

Title: Raise Your Weapon
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Stiles/Derek
Rating: PG
Summary: Stiles is Death and Derek is War, but they're both still so human. Also, the apocalypse is happening. So there's that.
A/N: inspired by the brilliant four horsemen of the apocalypse AU that was around a few weeks ago, and I discovered my headcanon was heavily Good Omens flavoured. basically! the apocalypse is going to happen in Beacon Hills, and the four horsemen are reborn as humans because of prophecy reasons, and so they have no idea who or what they really are. They still have their powers, kind of, and a great sense of this being where they need to be, but they are human. It causes some complications.
Also, Scott's the Antichrist.

The sky boils, the colour of a fading bruise, and at the edge of the woods Stiles falls into step besides Derek.

"So. The apocalypse starts in Beacon Hills?" he asks, glancing at Derek before he looks up at the sky, and pretends he can't see the glow like a raging wildfire behind his eyes.

"Looks like," Derek says, and Stiles laughs, the hollows of his cheeks oddly shadowed by the unsettling light.

Derek would never start a fight, but he kept finding himself in the middle of one.

Home was always a little volatile; a house full of growing werewolves and the hormones and the full moon always looming - fights were common, and expected, and as a family they knew how to deal with it. Everyone healed (eventually), and when Laura had nearly clawed her cousin's face off because he wouldn't stop teasing Derek about the way he howled - an old argument that didn't even make sense anymore, since he hit puberty, but Jake just wouldn't let it go - she would slam her door and blast Fall Out Boy through the wall because she knew how much he hated them, and Derek would stare at his hands and watch his claws until his dad knocked on his door and told him to come down to dinner.

He knew their pack didn't work like everybody else, but they were special, and that was worth sitting through every stupid argument that would suddenly erupt between his cousins when he was trying to concentrate on his homework.

But - outside the house, at school and between classes and in the middle of the lunch hall, fights would bloom like bruises around him and he had no idea why. He had a reputation for being at the wrong place at the wrong time, always standing at the sidelines as a half-assed joke about someone's buckteeth would end with their molars on the floor, and the girls who sat in front of him in chemistry were forcibly separated as one tried to pour acid over her partner's hand. He thought this was just how humans were; as animalistic as werewolves without the focus of the full moon, but there was something about the way his teachers watched him when he sat down and waited for the class to start, and the air so often smelt like salt and copper and anger that he only noticed the lack of it when he was alone.

In eighth grade he broke up a fight between his two closest friends, over something ridiculous like Troy not sharing his snack box, and he pulled them apart so roughly that David ended up with whiplash. His teacher, who always smelled earthy and anxious but never frightened, squeezed his shoulder and told him he was very brave for stepping in. When he got home his dad sat him down and gave him the very long, very humiliating talk about showing off, and how it put their entire family in danger, and what, exactly, did Derek think he was doing?

He didn't get involved anymore. As soon as he felt the shift in the air, the sharp tang as someone wouldn’t stop talking and the kid who sat in front of him hunched his shoulders and clenched his right hand into a fist, his fingernails scratching against the desk, Derek grabbed his bag and slipped out the classroom before he had to watch another person getting punched in the jaw. He heard the sickening crunch of it instead, as the door was just clicking shut, and he rested his head against the wood for a moment and sighed.

He started to eat lunch alone out on the playing field, once he'd figured out enough to realise no one was quite so on edge when he wasn't around. Sometimes Laura would sit with him, and tease him for his brooding superhero outlook on life when he haltingly tried to explain why he avoids his friends, because of course she just thought he was being ridiculous. And, maybe, he could convince himself it was all in his head when Laura was still there and she grinned a little wider whenever she managed to make him laugh.

"We have to get Scott-" Derek says, and Stiles cuts him off with a wave of his hand. Derek raises an eyebrow.

"He's got it covered," Stiles says. Shrugs when Derek just stares at him. "He wants the world to end just as much as we do, dude. Which is not at all."

"And you think he can handle it? This?"

"Yeah!" Stiles insists, with the loyalty of a best friend and the rolling gut of an ancient creature being called to battle. He knows Derek can feel it too, in the way he suddenly knows a lot of things about the end of the world - the relentless ache of a duty ignored, and very soon it's going to start hurting. Derek glares at him, silent.

"Yeah, we should probably go help him," Stiles says, and takes off running towards the Jeep.

There are people who wear their skeletons a little too close to the surface; their skin pale and stretched, the hard lines of their skull and the sharp length of their fingers that in the wrong (pale) light look like they've already broken through the skin. There's something curled around their bones, something that calls to that whispering primal instinct, a death rattle in fragile wrists. The thing that's lurking in the back of Stiles's mind feels as endless and barren as the depths of winter, but it's familiar, and has been for longer than he can remember, before his mom and before he could put it into words. It's almost reassuring in a way he can't quite grasp.

Stiles is, undeniably, human, but he knows death more intimately than any teenage boy should.

"You have a flaming sword, I have a scythe, we can totally handle this," Stiles says, and can't help glancing in his rearview mirror to see their weapons lying casually in the backseat on his Jeep. The first time he'd summoned hi- the scythe it had been completely by accident; stretching out his arms behind him as he took a moment's break from staring at his laptop screen, trying to figure out what the hell it meant when the sky was rolling and bloody, and suddenly there was a crack like thunder and he was gripping something huge and heavy and ancient. It felt right in his hands, and he took one look and immediately dropped it on the floor. Somehow, it was still following him around.

"You don't even know what we're meant to be doing!" Derek says, low and tense and his sword flares brightly. He'd barely reacted when it appeared in his hand, because the world was going to hell and of course it was in fire and ash. The blade rests against the handle of the scythe, and somehow nothing in the Jeep is catching fire. Stiles's knuckles are white.

"Sure we do! This can't be the first apocalypse we've averted, right?" Stiles says, glancing at Derek as he shifts his grip on the steering wheel. This feels right, too - Derek next to him as they race towards something terrifying, and he doesn't want to think about that.

"Not like this? Not- not mortal. I don't even remember what I'm supposed to be!" Derek hits the door with the flat of his hand, and Stiles is barking out a 'hey!' before Derek catches his eye, and:

Stiles looks at him - actually looks, like he's been avoiding doing since the sky cracked and something as old as humanity woke up inside him, and looked around wearily - and sees something very old and very familiar looking back at him.

"You're the personification of War, right? I'm... Death," he says, for the first time in millennia, and pulls a face like he's trying not to taste the words. "Together we stop the world from ending?" and, that wasn't meant to end on a question mark. Derek looks unconvinced.

On Thursday evenings there was no one using the swimming pool, and Derek would do laps as fast as he could; no water fights escalating into attempting drownings around him and no one around to lecture him about showing off, no one staring at him as he walked out of the changing rooms and making him feel even more awkward in his own skin. He dove in and tapped the bottom of the pool with his fingertips, twisted so his feet were touching the floor and he was ready to push off when there was a splash down at the other end, and there was a girl swimming towards him, all long legs and a sleek black swimsuit.

He opened his mouth and came up spluttering, gasping for air. She was there, suddenly, next to him and laughing, and when he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand she introduced herself as Kate, and challenged him to a race. That was familiar: at stop lights anyone who pulled up beside him would try to race him off the line, even high school girls driving Volvos and refusing to make eye contact, but when Kate grinned at him the challenge in her eyes was light and teasing in a way he had never seen before. There was something under the smell of chlorine, too faint and unfamiliar for him to pick out, but she had kicked off the side of the pool and was calling back, "come on!" before he could think about it, and the water splashed against his too-wide smile as he gave chase.

He was still grinning when he reached the other end, a body length behind her and she spun around smirk at him as he reached out to grab onto the edge of pool. When she caught his wrist to pull him closer, her thumb smoothing over his pulse point, her heartbeat was strong and unflinching even as his started to race, and he was too young to think of anything but how she's so beautiful, and unlike anyone he's ever met.

When it ended at the ashes of his house, the sweetsick smell of damp charcoal as it rained, heavy and constant, he realised the steady beat of her pulse was because Kate was at war before she even met him.

They got the hell out of Beacon Hills as soon as they could and he had hoped, with a kind of foolish naivety that Derek still hates himself for because he didn't know anything, that maybe the problem was Beacon Hills, maybe it wasn't anything to do with him at all, and once they're gone everything will be - not fine, but, okay. They'll stick together, because that's what pack does, and they'll be okay.

He didn't notice how much it felt like home until he was two thousand miles away and hunched up in the passenger seat of their dad's SUV, Laura driving with her mouth set in a hard line and her tired eyes fixed on the road. There was an ache in his chest that grew stronger the farther they got, like something was trying to tug him back, and he thought he knew what that meant because he was sixteen and he had just lost everything.

They managed for a year; moving around constantly, because there was nowhere they could feel settled and they couldn’t stay on another pack’s territory - not for long, and not without a fight that neither of them were ready for. After two weeks living in an apartment block in Missouri the couple below them had split up when the ninety-pound girl threw her boyfriend out of the third-storey window. Laura had nodded with a smile that didn't reach her eyes when Derek threw the few clothes they'd unpacked into their backpacks, and they left.

"That wasn't your fault," she said, when they were two hundred miles away and still driving. She reached over to hold his hand, and smiled when he finally, slowly, looked at her, and said everything would be okay. (she didn't tease him about it anymore, because of course it was him. seventeen years old and he knew everything he touched died.) When they were driving out of Colorado several months later he looked at Laura, her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel too hard and her jaw tight as she carefully watched the guy in front of them who kept breaking for no reason, and knew he had to get as far away from her as possible.

"Why did you open the Hellmouth?" Stiles says, when they find Scott standing in the middle of a field and the dust is starting to swirl around him.

"It wasn't me!" Scott says, looking panicked, and Stiles closes his eyes for a moment when Derek just sighs. He opens them, and the dust is still gathering, and Derek is pursing his lips like he's considering who to eviscerate first. The wind picks up suddenly and he digs his hands deep into his pockets, and when he glances down the scythe is waiting on the ground by his feet. Lydia and Jackson are somewhere nearby, he knows with a clarity that feels both instinctual and unused, and idly wonders what happens if everyone just goes home.

Scott suddenly crouches down, scrabbling at the ground like he's looking for something. "Then stop it?" Stiles shouts over the wind, and Scott shakes his head.

"I don't know how!" he calls back, but when he stands up he's got Allison's pendant clutched in one hand.

Stiles has dreams sometimes, of plagues and fires and wars, of fields of dying men and villages of dying children and he can see every person who is about to die, the shimmer around the edges. The ones he really remembers are the times it's just a single person; an old woman in a bed who smiles when he steps into the room, a boy who won't stop crying, a creature he doesn't even know the name for that hauls itself out of the sea and stares at him ruefully until he offers it a hand up. Its touch was warmer than he expected, and dry, and there was something sickening beating in its chest, and when Stiles drew his hand back the creature sighed softly, and melted.

The worst part (beyond the visceral horror and the smell and the way he can feel everything, the way it feels more like a memory than a dream) is that it doesn't feel like a nightmare: because when he touches them he knows their suffering ends. It almost feels like he's done something right - a sense of dull inevitability in it that doesn't even give him the satisfaction of feeling horrified, because he knows, in the omniscient way anyone knows things in their dreams, things about their time and the natural order of things and how this is what is supposed to happen, regardless of if you love them, or if you know their name. In the dreams, it feels like a reassuring end to the terrible things the he sees, even when Stiles wakes up and wants to know where the fuck those thoughts are coming from because that's not the point.

When consciousness lingers behind his eyelids he remembers that death is something that happens to the people who are left behind, and he wakes up choking because there's nothing he can do for them.

(Death is constant, in a way that War, Famine and Pestilence can only linger, waiting. It's a little more permanent, and its memories are a little more solid, and even when he's human Stiles can see the shimmer around some people, and even though it scares the fuck out of him he stills watches out for it because he’s not convinced it means what his brain is trying to tell him. He avoids hospitals, and knows that death isn't dramatic, or sweet, or honourable. It just is.)

"I think I'm meant to kill you!" Scott yells, almost lost in the roar of the wind, and Stiles gapes at him.

"You are the worst at making plans," he shouts back, and Scott pulls a face.

"Then come up with something better!" Derek yells at the both of them, and swings his sword through a pillar of approaching darkness that is somehow reaching for him. It bursts into flame, and disappears.

By the time he had convinced Laura to stay put in New York while he headed for California (she had sighed, and told him not to be idiot, and hugged him so fiercely his ribs hurt for two days straight), he knew there was something truly wrong with him, but he didn't understand why. The way he seemed to dredge up the worst of humanity just by standing in one place for too long, the way men with arms like tree trunks would watch him warily and clench their fists, and perfectly ordinary businessmen in their best suits would raise their chin at him and try to stare him down - it didn't make sense, but he still saw it every single time and it was starting to feel like the rage inside him had been boiling for centuries.

When Stiles visits relatives out of state sometimes, or holiday camps with Scott, he feels lighter in a way he can't account for; like a storm is no longer hanging over him. And maybe he knows it's not forever - because nothing is, of course, and he'll always end up in Beacon Hills again eventually. For Derek, it felt like he had a constant headache for as long as he was away from Beacon Hills, like a warning bell, but he only really noticed it when he pulled up outside his old house and his head was full of ringing silence.

"We choose," Stiles says, because what was the point of making them human if the ultimate answer wasn't in favour of humanity? And he remembers now, about prophecy and the necessity of doing things the right way, and maybe Death is just a soldier following orders, but Stiles has other plans.

"How?" Derek asks, sword drawn up in front of him and he's looking to the side, fixed on something approaching through the howling dust storm.

Stiles lowers the scythe so he's holding it like a spear at his side, ready to swipe it anything that comes any nearer, and grabs Derek's attention by grabbing the front of his shirt. Derek stares at him, eyebrows raised.

"I choose you, pikachu," Stiles says, hauling himself closer because Derek feels like the only solid thing still existing for miles, and Scott rolls his eyes because not the time, dude.

Stiles kisses Derek like he's wanted to since he rode back into town in his red Camaro, like he's wanted to since he was human, and in the distance it sounds like Allison is shouting something. The wind drops.

gears! gears everywhere!

2012-09-04T15:58:44Z

My submission for avengers_rbb! :D

reblog on tumblr

read the awesome accompanying fic by eostrecalliope here: Incident on the Orient Express ♥!

This was kind of a last minute idea and mainly an excuse to draw fancy clothes, but I had way too much figuring out the details for this. The pipe wrapped around Clint's arm goes to the quiver, and through complicated gear mechanisms allows him to choose the different arrow heads by flicking a switch on his bow. Natasha's bustle allows for concealment of just about everything she needs, including a full skirt that she can pull down in seconds and immediately look like a respectable Victorian lady. The pistol on her thigh belonged to Catherine the Great, and no one dares ask how she got it.

For anything else that doesn't make sense, I'm going to wave the BECAUSE STEAMPUNK card and run away. :D

_afterism @ 2012-08-14T13:43:00

2012-08-14T12:43:25Z

my card for cottoncandy_bingo!

Reading to someone	Roasting marshmallows	Lead / Follow	Needing / Wanting	Jewelry
Chocolate	Memorize	Fruit	Blind date	Watching someone
Graduation	Morning	WILD CARD	Meteor shower / shooting stars	Umbrella-sharing
Restaurant	Shower / Bath	Dealing with the gross times when loving someone	Locked out	Recipe
Belief	Night out	Late night	Clean	Afternoon

let's be honest, most of these are going to be filled with Sterek art (although I might actually write fic for the first time in months. help my last active fandom was horrible histories I've forgotten how to write anything that isn't cracky porn about historical figures??)

also, fat pony

2012-07-02T23:08:21Z

spn_j2_bigbang art! I signed up at the very last minute, because there was a fic that was loosely based on a Kate Beaton comic and it had Mounties and I literally couldn't resist. \o/?

Mountie Duck by glovered
Jared is a Mountie at a small border crossing. Jensen Ackles avoids his official hug.
IT'S BRILLIANT GO READ IT :D

on tumblr!

because SERIOUS FACE and a really fat pony pretty much sets the tone for the whole fic. ♥

♥!

klaine art!

2012-06-27T18:03:45Z

This is my art for kbl_reversebang!

also on: DA | tumblr!

The delightful ladyfoxhat wrote an absolutely awesome fic to accompany it: Overdrive
Ever since Burt was elected as a Senator, Kurt's been feeling a bit neglected, so he goes off the rails a bit. Who better to steer him straight than one Blaine Anderson? The two might not always get along, but when things take a turn for the worse, things start to change.

I had the pleasure of seeing it come together over the last few months, and it is so so good. Go read it! ♥

and another thing.

2012-02-21T19:37:45Z

Sherlock art! because I needed an excuse to stare at Benedict Cumberbatch for several days, obviously.

title: classical
rating: pg-13
pairing: gen (vaguely implied sherlock/john)
notes: this idea started in 2010, when i asked for prompts and was given Sherlock & 'violin' and sketched this - which i recently rediscovered and decided that clearly there needed to be more shirtless!violin-playing!Sherlock in my life. and then it needed a background and john wandered in wearing only a bedsheet?

also on: tumblr | deviantart

♥!

it's always time for femslash

2012-02-21T08:05:54Z

A couple of things drawn for the Porn Battle XIII! Both NSFW :D

title: distracting
rating: R
pairing: Gwen/Morgana
notes: inspired by the prompts dress and undressed, and this picture, which makes me go a bit wobbly.

also on: tumblr

title: shine
rating: R
pairing: Brittany/Santana
notes: inspired by the prompts sunlight and in love

also on: tumblr | deviantart

♥!

\o/!

2011-12-31T13:33:44Z

Yuletide! I received four (four!!) gifts, all for my prompt of Mary Poppins is a Time Lord, and they are all absolutely brilliant and I am the luckiest recipient ever, omg. I'm attempting to give proper recs beyond flailing about how brilliant and perfect and enjoyable and mine! these are, but that does apply to all of them :D

A Change in the Wind (2481 words)
Characters: Mary Poppins, Eleventh Doctor
Summary: Why does Mary Poppins have a bag that's bigger on the inside? Why, because she's a Time Lady, of course!
Rec'd because: Mary's voice is perfect, and there's discussions with Eleven, and it's fascinating seeing both how she operates as a Time Lady and how others view The Doctor. A perfect crossover!

A Family (1636 words)
Characters: Mary Poppins, Romana, Bert, Jane Banks, Michael Banks
Summary: After the Time War, Mary finds her own means of travelling.
Rec'd because: Mary is Romana! You don't need to know much Classic Who to understand (because I certainly don't, and this is still brilliant), and it covers all the magic things Mary does and explains them with Time Lord technology and technobabble, and it's glorious.

Hanging By a Moment (136 words)
Characters: Mary Poppins, Jack Harkness
Summary: Umbrellas are timeless.
Rec'd because: CAPTAIN JACK HARKNESS.

A Respectable Person Like Me (321 words)
Characters: Mary Poppins, Bert, The Doctor, River Song
Summary: In Which Mary Poppins is a time lord (of a sort).
Rec'd because: This is like an espresso shot of Time Lord awesomeness.

And then more recs! I've been dipping into the archive without any sort of system or plan and only a vague sense of avoiding the large fandoms and really long fic just so I can read as much as possible before reveals, so these are kind of all over the place.

Aladdin
(Beth CG Phoenix prompted the genius idea that Aladdin is actually set in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Fic ensued!)

The Hunt for Man-Yu-El (3003 words)
Relationships: Aladdin/Jasmine
Characters: Rajah, Genie
Summary: At sunset on the third day since the second water purifier had stopped, the city of Agrabah limped along in a state of controlled chaos.
Rec'd because: Jasmine is brilliant and clever and the greatest expert in the use of magical artifacts. Also, say the title out loud.

Passings (1922 words)
Relationships: Aladdin/Jasmine
Characters: Genie, Aladdin, Jasmine, Jafar
Summary: The genie has had many masters in his long life
Rec'd because: This explains how the world became a wasteland, through the eyes of Genie and the actions of his masters, and it's heartbreaking.

American Gods - Neil Gaiman

The Man in the Gaberdine Suit
Characters: Shadow Moon, Czernobog, Anansi, Easter
Summary: Shadow comes home.
Rec'd because: Oh. This expands on the book and ties up a few ends and it's brilliant and fascinating but really all I want to say right now is just, oh.

Community

Dallased (Intro to Dream Interpretation 101) (14858 words)
Characters: Abed Nadir, Troy Barnes, Jeff Winger, Britta Perry, Leonard Briggs, Dean Craig Pelton, Annie Edison, Pierce Hawthorne, Shirley Bennett, Neil, the Black Rider
Summary: "So this isn't a fake-out plot device. It's a cut-away fantasy sequence episode, where we feature a number of different unlikely sequences that provide a break from the regular format while still showing recognizable traits of the characters." Abed dreams about being the Inspector, and it starts a trend.
Rec'd because: ALL THE CROSSOVERS. And it's hilariously in character and the casting for every dream had me shrieking with glee and it's brilliant.

Hark! A Vagrant

I Never Said This Job Was Easy
Characters: Mystery Solving Teens
Summary: One person he'll tell he loves, and five he won't.
Rec'd because: Teenagers acting like teenagers!

Mystery Solving Teens Confirm the Obvious (1304 words)
Characters: Mystery Solving Teens, Nancy Drew, Vanessa, St. Francis, Birds, Foul-mouthed Duck
Summary: The Mystery Solving Teens land their highest-profile assignment yet. Will they crack the case...or fail to care entirely? The Shit Talker--the high school's most illustrious student newspaper--reports from the scene.
Rec'd because: Just look at that character list.

The Adventure of the Watson League (2996 words)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Summary: What happens when Watson meets Watsons.
Rec'd because: ALL THE WATSONS. And complaining about Holmes.

Blood Will Have Blood (1885 words)
Characters: Anne Bronte, Charlotte Bronte, Emily Bronte, William Weightman
Summary: Anne ~~doesn't~~ ~~does~~ doesn't actually like her sisters. Really.
Rec'd because: ♥Anne♥

Horrible Histories
(I'm not reccing The Big Gay Episode simply because surely you've read it by now? Here's a link in case you haven't. And another one, if you missed that just there. If you haven't heard Nobody’s Hortense Mancini by now then all I have to say to you is was, was, was machst du da?!)

Third Movement (9800 words)
Relationships: Beethoven/Mozart
Characters: Ludwig van Beethoven, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, William Shakespeare, Death, Cleopatra VII of Egypt
Summary: When Mozart and Beethoven are pulled out of the Annuls of History to appear at the Horrible Histories Prom, they decide to seize the opportunity provided to them to a)explore London, and b)explore what they could be to each other.
Rec'd because: This is heartbreakingly gorgeous, exploring Beethoven & Mozart's relationship in their own timeline and the one day they have in the present, and I cannot recommend it highly enough. The tension and the sweetness and the cameos from the other characters, it's aching and lovely and so beautifully written - and even if you don't know the fandom, it's accessible enough to still enjoy the slow-burn between them. Read it!

Terrible Top Gear (4673 words)
Characters: Jeremy Clarkson, James May, Richard Hammond, Charles II, Sotherby, Vikings, Top Gear Dog
Summary: Tonight on Top Gear: Jeremy Clarkson, James May and Richard Hammond suggest some Christmas gift ideas from their travels in history, Charles II is the star in the reasonably priced car, and we see whether Vikings are any better than Top Gear at building amphibious vehicles.
Rec'd because: What do you get when you cross the Top Gear team (with whom everything ends up on fire) with Vikings (who tend to set everything on fire)? Hilarity. (and fire.)

Merry Monarchs (1749 words)
Relationships: King Charles II/Queen Catherine
Characters: Charles II, Sotherby, Mike Peabody, Catherine of Braganza
Summary: Charles II and Catherine of Braganza are well-suited for each other, and even for being each other.
Rec'd because: Restoration crossdressing! and Charles and Catherine are perfectly adorable together.

Cranky Christmasses (2918 words)
Characters: Sam, Mike Peabody, Bob Hale
Summary: It's the twenty-fifth of December at the HHTV studios and the News at When team isn't in the best Christmas spirit. Sam is losing the battle with her sudoku, Mike runs into trouble on a historical field report, and Bob is convinced Santa is trying to kill him. Can the exchanging of gifts bring them some much-needed cheer? What is terrorising the interns in the kitchen? And will anyone ever think of the rats?
Rec'd because: BOB'S CHRISTMAS REPORT. And how lovely the HHTV team actually are together, when they're not blaming each other for everything.

Look Around You

Look Around You - Yuletide (1240 words)
Summary: A special Yuletide edition of the science program "Look Around You".
Rec'd because: (LOOK AROUND YOU FIC OMG) "Besides cleansing icebergs this time of year, tides also are useful for carrying waves of flanick. [The camera zooms in on the tidal wave, to see tiny green bottles floating in it, all labeled 'FLANICK' with red labels.]"
Note that down in your copybook.

Jane Austen's Fight Club

Elizabeth Bennet and the Pandemonium Undertaking (3418 words)
Relationships: Elizabeth Bennet/Fanny Price, Elizabeth Bennet/Henry Crawford, Henry Crawford/Fanny Price, Fanny Price/Edmund Bertram (Unrequited)
Characters: Fanny Price, Elizabeth Bennet, Henry Crawford, Catherine Morland, Marianne Dashwood, Elinor Dashwood, Emma Woodhouse, Louisa Musgrove, Edmund Bertram
Summary: People are always asking me if I am acquainted with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Rec'd because: It's Project Mayhem Jane Austen-style, and it's gloriously terrifying.

Misfits

Fluid Dynamics (1336 words)
Characters: Curtis Donovan, Simon Bellamy, Kelly Bailey, Nathan Young, Alisha
Summary: On their way out of the Job Centre, Kelly stopped by the side of a neatly suited, out-of-place looking man sat at one of the tables. She jabbed at some equations scribbled in the margins of the claim papers lying in front of him. “’S all right, but think about the fluid dynamics, yeah?
Rec'd because: Everyone is absolutely spot on (especially Nathan - I didn't realise how much I'd missed him in the last series until he started waggling his eyebrows and I could picture it perfectly), and it's the group together and talking about going to Vegas, and it's a delight.

Nathan Barley

How to Plan Your Funeral (4414 words)
Relationships: Dan Ashcroft/Jones
Characters: Dan Ashcroft, Jones (Nathan Barley), Pingu (Nathan Barley)
Summary: Dan Ashcroft vs. 2011.
Rec'd because: NATHAN BARLEY FIC OMG. It's a fascinating look at the future for these ridiculous, hopeless characters, where the major things may have changed but Dan's still a wanker and everyone else are still idiots, and it's perfect.

Newspaper Games Anthropomorfic

All squares filled, all letters in order (3489 words)
Relationships: Sudoku/Jumble
Characters: Sudoku - Character, Jumble, New York Times Crossword Puzzle, Cryptoquote, Spot the Difference (game)
Summary: Sudoku isn't particularly good with words. But he thinks he's finally puzzled it out.
Rec'd because: I decided to just read the first paragraph, just to see how cracky it was, and then I was half-way through and desperately rooting for Sudoku/Jumble and having no idea how that happened.

Portal

Test Subject Starter Kit (1146 words)
Characters: Chell (Portal)
Summary: The Aperture Science Bring Your Daughter to Work Day is the perfect time to have her tested.
Rec'd FOR SCIENCE. and fantastic Chell backstory.

Covalent Bonds (1261 words)
Characters: Cave Johnson, Caroline
Summary: In 1968, the United States Senate holds an investigative hearing on Aperture Science’s culpability in the alleged missing astronauts at their Enrichment Center facility. Cave Johnson and his assistant Caroline are in attendance.
Rec'd because: Cave Johnson. "Mantis-men astronauts will certainly make the Russians shake in their red skivvies."

Scott Pilgrim

Deserve Each Other (5318 words)
Relationships: Scott Pilgrim/Kim Pine, Ramona Flowers/Scott Pilgrim, Ramona Flowers/Scott Pilgrim/Kim Pine, Joseph/Stephen Stills
Characters: Kim Pine, Scott Pilgrim, Stephen Stills, Hollie, Ramona Flowers
Summary: In which Kim Pine has a weird-ass year.
Rec'd because: I'm in love with Kim Pine and this is why. (also, OT3!)

Spy
(this is a fantastic show and this story has been horrible overlooked! you should check out the show and then maybe watch the first episode and then the other five episodes and then read this fic! :D)

Codename: Sexuality (7519 words)
Characters: Tim Elliot, Marcus Elliot, Philip, Chris, The Examiner, Caitlin, Portis, Carl, Justine
Summary: "Tim couldn’t prevent the slouching, resentful walk taking over as he followed Philip. He had not foreseen being Marcus’ full time parent figure, resulting in daily trips to the principal's office."
Rec'd because: SPY FIC OMG. It's got the same sweet and hilarious tone of the show, and reads just like an episode, and everyone is brilliant.

Threadless T-shirt Designs - Zombies In Wonderland

everyone's dead here (1300 words)
Characters: Queen of Hearts, Mad Hatter, Alice, March Hare, Tweedledum, Tweedledee
Summary: the shirt.
Rec'd because: ZOMBIES. And children's stories being twisted into something terrifying is always delightful.

Twisted Disney Princesses

Immersion (3339 words)
Relationships: Beast/Belle
Characters: Belle (Twisted Disney Princesses - Jeftoon01), Beast (Twisted Disney Princesses - Jeftoon01)
Summary: This time, she reached the Beast too late. She would do anything to get him back.
Rec'd because: This is gloriously creepy and horrific and has a wonderful slow-burn that shows just how easily Belle could become so twisted. Wonderful! :D

You Say Party - Lonely's Lunch
(the fandom is a five and a half minute long music video! It's a bit sci-fi and a bit dystopian and basically you should watch it because I don't explain things very well.)

Resistance (3443 words)
Relationships: Savita Potdar / Abhilasha Manjakkil
Characters: Abhilasha Manjakkil, Savita Potdar
Summary: Savita couldn't remember the time before the ships.
Rec'd because: this expands on the scant canon we have and turns it into something even more fascinating. It explains things like the strange helmets and the tattoos and what the chip she's trying to protect actually is, while still fleshing her out into a real, flawed but strong character. Brilliance!

dear yuletide author ♥

2011-11-16T21:06:26Z

Firstly, if you love any of these fandoms, I'm going to love your fic. I've rambled on here in case you want more to work with, but optional details are very much optional and if you've already got a story in mind that you want to write, please go for it!

General things I love: Girls being awesome! Fairytale fusions! AUs (seriously, any of these characters, throw them into another universe and I will be beside myself with excitement)! Steampunk and all the charmingly ridiculous trappings that go with it! Happy endings, fluff that makes me cry, magic being an everyday thing, moral ambiguity, adventures and action and love not always being straightforward (but sometimes it is, and that's wonderful too).

I'd really prefer not to read non-con, non-canon character death, racism, homophobia or ableism, and I'd rather see characters interacting and having adventures and experiencing the world rather than something angsty and introspective, but it doesn't have to pure sunshine all the time. Creepy, atmospheric horror makes me clap my hands with glee just as much as ridic crack fic does, so please go with whatever inspires you!

Mary Poppins (1964)
If you're unfamiliar with the fandom but curious: IMDB link, & the whole film is on youtube :D

Mary Poppins is a Time Lord.

Or, if you're not familiar with Doctor Who/don't want to write that - anything about her life pre- or post-film, previous families she's worked for or visiting Jane and Michael when they're older, or maybe even what retirement for Mary Poppins would actually entail. Anything focused on her would be brilliant!

I really, really love her dimensions-defying bag and the way she views strange, brilliant things as entirely normal and her talking umbrella and her love of humanity and how fiendishly clever she is and especially "I never explain anything." Even if you don't want to go the Doctor Who crossover route, just seeing more of Mary would delight me! Seeing her with another family, or where the wind takes her between jobs.

If you want to write about her adventures as a Time Lord - again, anything, although I would prefer it if the focus was entirely on Mary and her life, rather than any overlap with the Doctor's (then again, the idea of them meeting up and having tea and discussing why they can't stay away from these humans is also wonderful, and I kind of adore the idea of her being Twelve). I'd love to see her time at the Academy or how she came to Earth and just how long she's been here (the legend of Mary Poppins throughout the ages could be fascinating!). Basically I'm just going to flail my hands and make happy noises about anything that involves Mary Poppins being from Gallifrey.

Bunny and the Bull
Stephen | Bunny
If you're unfamiliar with the fandom but curious: IMDB link, trailer, and it is available online :D

I would love to see Stephen/Bunny is some form, even if it's entirely in Stephen's head - but if you prefer gen fic (which is fine!) then any sort of surreal adventure with them, because that's why I'm so madly in love with this film. Seeing any of the other characters again would be a delight (I adored Eloisa, but optional detail is very much optional), and anything exploring their friendship/how they met/other times Bunny has drawn Stephen into something against his will.

I love the imagery, the patchwork, paper-cutout-world and the fascinatingly weird characters and the humour and the underlying darkness. Something in the style of the film, with Stephen remembering another adventure with Bunny while he's still in the house, or what happens on Stephen's trip back to Spain, or anything involving Eloisa, her life and backstory and Conchetta, would be wonderful! I would love to see more of her.

Gunnerkrigg Court
Antimony Carver | Katerina Donlan
If you're unfamiliar with the fandom but curious: it's a webcomic, currently on chapter 35 and if you've got a spare afternoon it's totally do-able to read the whole thing in one go :D

I'd love to see worldbuilding! I'm more curious about the Court than the Forest, just because I adore urban fantasy/sci-fi settings and it's so vast and full of things that have only been hinted at and I would be thrilled with anything that explored it further, like Kat and Annie having an adventure and solving mysteries and finding - well, anything. I love the robots and the mythological creatures and the ghosts, and I'd love to know more about how the Court fits in with the real world. Annie/Kat would be absolutely delightful, but I'm just as happy seeing them be awesome, adorable friends.

If you want to build on something already established in the comic, I'd love to see futher adventures of the Spacemonauts! or tell me what happened in Chapter 12a: Cursed Teapot Woes. A fairytale fusion or complete AU would also be amazing!

Any other characters you want to include would be very welcome (I started listing people but, er, basically everyone is my favourite!), or something that simply focuses on Annie & Kat's relationship (as friends or more) would be just as wonderful.

samdean_otp mini-bang art!

2011-10-10T07:10:25Z

this is for the brilliant Other Worlds Than These by mollyamory! Almost as soon as I'd read the summary I had an image in my head of Dean walking through this bleak, endless desert, everything dusty and scratchy and monochrome, and so I tried to create something kind of sketchy and gritty and almost surreal in it's emptiness. I don't usually do things so stylised, so this was a delight to play with :D

♥!

a girl possessed

2011-09-27T22:01:51Z

Horrible Histories fic! A de-anon of all my Charles II/Sotherby fic from hhanon, because this fandom has taken over my brain and I'm writing ridiculous amounts. what even. :D

heroes aren't born (they're built)
Charles II/Sotherby pre-slash; G
for this prompt: Iron Man AU. Charles as Tony. Sotherby as Pepper.

"Really, Sothers, this is not the worst thing you've caught me doing."

"Are those scorch marks?"

"Well, I couldn't let the blasted fire party on without me, could I? And the Royal Armourer, well, he hasn't had much to do and he rustled up this marvellous suit for me a little while ago - it's clockwork, look, it does the most splendid things, I must show you sometime - although the damn thing must have got a bit dented when that beam collapsed and, well, now I appear to be a little bit stuck."

"That- that metal man was you? Your Majesty, you could have been killed!"

"Yes, yes, but I wasn't, and more importantly a lot of my lovely subjects weren't," Charles dismissed it with a lazy wave, the staccato click of gears in the gold-plated suit turning the movement into something jerky and forceful. "Are you going to help me out of this wretched thing or not? It's rather starting to chafe."

"Right," Sotherby said, taking a step forward, and then another one, until he could reach a hand out to touch the metal plating covering Charles's shoulder. It was slightly warm under his palm. "You idiot," he said, suddenly, before he caught Charles's eye and inhaled sharply, dropping his hand. "Apologies, sire, I wasn't-"

Charles's gaze was soft, considering him, as he touched a gloved hand to Sotherby's arm. "I'm quite alright, Sothers," he said, quietly. "Now find something to prise this thing open, would you? I fear we have quite a lot of work to do."

Sotherby stared at him in open shock for a brief moment, before shaking himself and hurrying to the fireplace to grab a long poker. "Ah, excellent idea," Charles said, watching him. "It's the catch under the left shoulder plate, seems to be a bit jammed." Sotherby grimaced as he pushed the tip of the poker between the back plate and the dented sheet curving over it, wedging it apart enough to force the poker down and break open the catch. Charles grunted at the jolt, then hummed happily as Sotherby dropped the poker and tucked his fingers under the shoulder plate to pull off the entire metal arm, revealing thick leather padding over his skin and intricate clockwork woven through the armour.

"It is a rather ingenious system," Charles marvelled, before falling silent as Sotherby set his mouth in a hard line and diligently worked through the rest of the hidden clasps and fittings, pulling off the suit piece by piece as his hands quickly blackened with soot. "Although it may need a bit of redesign," he admitted a short while later, when Sotherby finally lifted the chest piece off and over his head.

"A redes-- you can't possibly be thinking of doing this again?" Sotherby said, his voice hitching. "Sire, I cannot allow you to!"

"Nonsense, Sotherby," Charles said, rolling his aching shoulders. Sotherby immediately started unlacing the thick padding that covered his limbs and torso, the leather worn and pinched - he brushed his thumb over a deep scratch too close to his neck and swallowed, a bubble of nausea settling heavy in his chest.

"Please, sire," he started, low and distraught, and then Charles had pulled off his glove and was curling a bare hand over the curve of his neck, forcing him to meet his gaze. There was a smudge of charcoal over his cheekbone, a sheen of sweat glistening over his pale skin, his eyes wide and bright and focused - he looked alive, sober and glittering with excitement.

"Really, Sothers," Charles said, softly, the pad of his thumb tracing the delicate skin over his pulse point. "You can't expect me to party on while my city is burning down, can you?"

Champagne
Charles II/Sotherby; PG-13
for this prompt: Charles has a rather intriguing, and sensual, encounter with a masked stranger during one of his balls
i used the ancient method of ipod-on-shuffle to quickly find a title for this. the second song to come up, out of over five thousand, was charles II: king of bling.

"Sothers, you must come. There's going to be all sorts of people who I'm sure are very important and I need you to keep them busy while I enjoy the party, otherwise it will be an utter bore while they drone on about... politics, or whatever it is they do, and expect me to listen, and dear Nell's going to be there tonight and really, Sotherby, I'm sure you have nothing better to do. Please come. Say you'll come."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Sotherby said, priding himself on the calm, level tone he almost managed to hold on to.

"Oh, and you can borrow something from the royal wardrobe, I've found these fabulous masks from Venice, everybody simply must wear one, and I'm sure those boring people will appreciate it if you make a bit of effort. Is there anything else in the diary for today?"

Sotherby glanced at the book briefly, knowing exactly what was there and exactly what the King would want to do about it. "An Irish diplomat has requested an audience, sire," he said, already making a note in the margin to rearrange.

"Bother. Tell him to come back tomorrow - or, no, hmm, the day after tomorrow. I fear tonight is going to rather major, you know how pointless it is to have me doing anything after a good party."

"Indeed, sire," he said, slightly distracted as he considered whether slotting him between the French ambassador and a lord's dispute would the best idea.

"Good Lord, Sothers, was that a smile? We'll have you dancing with all the lovely ladies in no time at all! Do make sure there's plenty brought up from the wine cellar, won't you?"

"... Ladies, sire?"

Charles swatted at his arm, chuckling. "I do like you when you loosen up a little. It was a brilliant idea of mine to invite you tonight. It's going to be marvellous."

"Very good, sire," Sotherby replied coolly, visibly straightening and schooling his previously fond expression into something more professional. "Will that be all?"

"What? Oh, yes, yes, fine, go do whatever you have to," Charles waved him off, already considering his grand entrance to the ball. "Do we have any doves handy?" he asked, but Sotherby had already hurried out of the throne room, and so Charles shrugged and went back to his planning.

The Grand Hall looked splendid. Everyone glittered in dresses and jackets of golds and scarlets and silver, twirling down the centre of the room in a lively dance or mingling around the edges as the wine and laughter spilled freely. The masks were universally beautiful, wildly decorated with feathers and sparkle or intricately detailed with fine gold leaf and masterful metalwork, all in a delicate white or the most sumptuous colours.

Charles was delighted with it all, happily tipsy and resting for a moment by the windows, watching the revellers with a wide, drunk smile - he did so love the air of anonymous debauchery the masks gave. He watched as a voluptuous young woman glided past, her mask a dazzling silver and her plump lips drawing up into a leering smile as she caught his eye and winked. Oh, hello--

"Your Majesty," a familiar voice caught him just as he was about to chase after her. He turned, frowning, and then the girl was entirely forgotten as he took in the sight before him.

"My, don't you look impressive!" Charles declared, glancing over the man's dark velvet costume and his black and gold mask, covering his face from his hairline to the tip of his nose. The stranger deliberately stood at an angle to the nearest candle, casting a shadow over his eyes.

The stranger smirked in reply, bowing his head for a moment. Charles clapped his hands in delight.

"Dark and mysterious! It must be my birthday. Tell me, have we met before?"

Charles looked him over again, trying to place anything familiar about him and catching on his hands for a moment, long fingers, before the stranger swooped close and nudged the corner of Charles' jaw with his lips, his tongue flickering over his earlobe before he whispered, "Follow me."

The man turned on his heel and strode across the ballroom. He paused at the entrance, his mask entirely obscuring any delicate expression but he caught Charles' eye and smiled, the twist of his lips something like a dare, or an invitation, before slipping out the door and disappearing.

Well. Charles was certainly never one to turn down something that might be exciting, and he wasted no time in dashing across the hall and through the door, pulling it shut behind him. For a brief, disappointing moment the hallway seemed entirely empty and oddly quiet after the ruckus of the ball - and then there was a sharp noise, like a boot tapping against a wooden floor, and he glanced over to see his mysterious man turn with a flourish down the corridor that led to the gardens.

He obviously knew his way around the palace, Charles noted. How intriguing!

Charles followed, as quick as his slightly unsteady limbs would let him, and soon found himself stepping out into the palace gardens, through a door that had been left slightly ajar. The night was clear and cold, and he could hear the orchestra playing faintly, the sweet swell of music enough to send him spinning down the path in a dance that possibly only existed in his head, full of sudden side-steps and arm waving, the stranger momentarily forgotten.

He stepped, and twirled, ducking through the shadows cast by a tall hedge and suddenly he was swept up into the arms of his mysterious man. "Oh, hello," Charles said, quite transfixed by the way the light was catching on the man's bottom lip. He draped his arms around the man's neck, slightly taller than himself, and gazed up at him.

A long, silent pause. The stranger seemed to be studying him, or perhaps coming to a decision, as finally the arms around his waist tightened and the man captured his mouth in a searing, crushing kiss, pulling him closer with a rough yank that had Charles gasping into his mouth. The stranger moaned, quiet and unbidden, and Charles grinned into the kiss before tilting his face and deepening it, licking into his mouth.

The kiss broke after an exquisitely slow minute of exploration, their bodies pressed impossibly close from chest to hip as the stranger splayed a hand over the small of Charles's back, their faces still a breath apart from touching, the man's mask digging into Charles's nose. His eyes were bright and colourless in the darkness. They stared at each other for an endless second, and then the man started trailing kisses from the corner of his mouth to his neck and Charles let his head fall back with a pleased sigh.

"Who are you?" Charles mused out loud, trailing off into a breathy groan as the stranger nibbled his earlobe.

"None of your concern," he murmured, with a low growl that was effective in both disguising his voice and turning Charles' insides to molten gold. The stranger guided his lips towards his own and plundered his mouth again, kissing him with a fierce desperation that Charles found absolutely fascinating.

"You're very good at that," he said, as the man pulled back for a moment. He just smiled in reply, those lips bruised and swollen and entirely unrecognisable, and Charles's eyes flashed with all the brilliance of a drunken plan. He rested his forehead against the stranger's shoulder for a moment, then shifted his face up to nuzzle against his neck, nipping lightly at the skin and delighting in the way the man shivered at that, going almost boneless at his touch, and then he latched his teeth over the skin and sucked.

The stranger moaned, a rolling vibration low in his throat that shot straight to Charles's cock, and then he yelped and roughly pushed him away, slapping a hand against his neck.

"Forgive me, sire," the man sighed, a low exhale of regret, before dashing off into the shadows and leaving Charles intrigued, confused, and most distressingly half-hard.

"I don't recall seeing you there last night, Sothers. Busy, were you?" Charles asked lightly, picking at some invisible lint on his knee as he sprawled on the throne. The late morning light was quite vicious against his eyelids.

"Quite, Your Majesty. Those very important people you were avoiding needed to be addressed accordingly. I ensured they were well cared for."

"I don't doubt it, Sotherby. Thank you."

Sothery glanced at him, surprised. "Just doing my job, sire."

Charles returned the look, studying him as he played with one of his rings, twisting it around his finger until suddenly, with a soft cry, he dropped it over the side of the throne. "Oh dear," he said. "Would you get that for me?"

Sotherby was good enough at his job to only raise an eyebrow after he had knelt down and closed his hand around the ring. He shifted his weight, leaning back onto the balls of his feet as Charles's hand suddenly curled over his shoulder, a clear command with the lightest pressure and said, "One moment, Sothers."

Sotherby froze, pressing the ring tightly into his palm. Charles reached over, tucking two fingers over the edge of Sotherby's high collar and gently tugged it down - just enough to see the small, distinct bruise blooming against his neck.

"Really, Sothers," Charles purred, brushing his thumb lightly over the mark and delighting in the way Sotherby shivered and closed his eyes. "You went to all that trouble for a kiss?"

Sotherby seemed rather lost for words, his lips slightly parted. Charles, for once, was silent, regarding him. "You did insist that I attend, sire," he eventually managed, his voice carefully steady, his eyes still closed.

"Indeed I did," Charles hummed, letting his hand slip round and begin massaging the back of Sotherby's neck, his fingertips light against his spine. "I do like it when you listen to me."

Sotherby swallowed. "Come up here," Charles commanded, soft. Sotherby rose slowly to his feet, keeping his head bowed, and then he took a deep breath and met the King's gaze. "Come here," Charles said, narrowing his eyes.

In an instant Charles was surging up and Sotherby was rushing down, meeting somewhere in the middle with a bruising kiss and then they shifted, Charles spreading his legs so Sotherby could rest one knee on the throne and tower over him, Charles grabbing him by the hips to yank him closer and Sotherby cupping his jaw gently, both letting the kiss drift to something a little softer, still overwhelming and brilliant and mad but a little less rushed.

"This mustn't change anything, you understand," Charles said, as Sotherby moved away from his mouth to nibble at his jaw.

"Of course, sire," he sighed, sounding somewhat distracted.

"This is just an excellent addition to our day," he declared. When Sotherby just moaned, Charles frowned and said, "Dammit, Sothers, why are you making me be the sensible one here?"

"Because your hand is in my breeches, sire," Sotherby whimpered, panting hotly against his neck.

"So it is," Charles said, and gave an experimental rub. Sotherby growled, and then Charles scrapped his teeth over the curve of his neck and Sotherby melted against him. “My, that might come in handy,” Charles mused, before Sotherby effectively shut him up with a kiss.

Never Having To Say You're Sorry
Charles II/Sotherby; NC-17
for this prompt: After the whole coronation mug debacle, Charles sulks. He sulks, and ignores Sotherby until he gets him something good.
the things mentioned in this are totally real: a wine bottle with Charles II's image and the Juxon chair! clearly i put far too much research into shameless porn :|

"You asked to see me, sire?" Sotherby said.

Charles, sprawled over the chair by his writing desk, glanced at him, before sniffing and turning back to the window. Silence reigned.

After a long pause, Sotherby gritted his teeth and said, "Sire, if you don't need my assistance I have rather a lot to do in order to prepare for your coronation-"

Charles huffed regally, and shifted so he was almost sideways in his chair and completely turned away, his back facing him. Another pause, as Charles tossed his head and started studying his fingernails.

"Is this about the mug?" Sotherby said, his briskness hinting at his annoyance - he quickly stomped it down, and cleared his throat.

Charles shrugged, pursing his lips.

Sotherby glared at the ceiling, allowed his face to contort into something frustrated and incredibly unprofessional for a brief moment, before taking a deep breath and clenching his hands, steadying himself. "Sire," he started, too sharply, before biting his lip and wincing. He tried again, softer, "Sire, if there's anything I can do to-" and he paused, because make it up to you sounded far too much like he should be the one apologising, "-to please you, you only have to ask."

Charles sucked in his cheeks, sneering.

An uncomfortable minute passed, as Sotherby mentally ran through the lists of the stewards he still had to brief and how much champagne they had in stock and how little sleep he was likely to get between then and the end of Charles’s reign. With a quiet sigh, Sotherby eventually said, "With your leave, Your Majesty, I have some rather urgent things to attend to."

"Sotherby," Charles said, just as he reached for the door handle. He pressed his lips together then turned around, his face calm and restrained.

"Yes, sire?" Sotherby said, finding Charles had finally turned around enough to see his profile, his chin raised and haughty, and he was looking over Sotherby out of the corner of his eye before glancing away again and sniffing.

"How about a portrait by Rembrandt?"

"I'm afraid he's rather busy at the moment, Your Majesty. We did try to get in contact with him but I believe he's currently working on something quite large in Amsterdam."

Charles huffed, pouting. "Blast. I don't see what's so difficult about all this, Sotherby."

"Well, I think a lot of our craftsmen are busy preparing Westminster Abbey and the streets for your procession, Your Majesty. There's a rather high demand at the moment."

Charles pulled a face. "Surely there's something you can get made that the people can remember me by? Something wonderful, of course."

"Of course, sire," Sotherby agreed, automatic and placating, and then snapped his head up, eyes wide.

"Splendid, Sothers! I knew you'd sort it out. Now do run along, I'm sure you've got lots to be getting on with," Charles said, suddenly beaming and shooing him out the room.

"Bugger," Sotherby said quietly, when he was on the other side of the doors.

"How about a wine bottle with your image on it?" Sotherby asked, gingerly holding it out.

Charles flicked his eyes up to his, his lip curled in disbelief, before taking the bottle and turning it over in his hands. "It's empty. You've given me an empty bottle of wine with a terrible painting of me on it."

"It's to commemorate the glorious day, Your Majesty," Sotherby said, wincing at the indelicate way Charles was holding it. "So your subjects have someth-"

The bottle thunked heavily as it hit floor, rolling for a second before it tipped over onto its side, entirely unbroken. "Oh," said Charles, watching it for a moment.

"Right," Sotherby said, knocking his fingertips together briefly before he bent down to pick it up. Charles sniffed and turned back to his desk, ignoring him.

"Has it got terrible reproduction of my face on it?"

"No, sire," Sotherby said, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Splendid! Well, go on, show me," Charles waved towards the mysterious covered thing sitting in the middle of the royal apartments, blocky and a few feet high and hidden under a thick dark cloak.

Sotherby straightened his shoulders and ran his tongue over the edge of his teeth, stalling, before he caught sight of Charles's raised eyebrow out of the corner of his eye and briskly crossed the few feet to tug the cloak off, revealing--

"A chair?" Charles said, his eyes narrowed, his lips twisted to the side. Sotherby's shoulders dropped.

"A throne for your coronation, You Majesty," he said quickly, picking up the velvet gold cushion and clutching it in front of him like a shield. The chair was gold and purple, a thick velvet seat surrounded by gold trimmings and with a matching footstool in front, plush and extravagant and surely impressive enough - but, he realised, looking it over again in the mid-afternoon light, there weren't any diamonds or rubies and it certainly wasn't encrusted with anything sparkly and oh God he was going to have to find something else--

"Sothers," Charles said, as Sotherby dragged his gaze away from the chair and up to his smirking mouth, his eyes bright and happy. "It's splendid."

"Oh," Sotherby said, his tone drenched in relief as Charles bounded across to him and flung himself into the seat, draping himself over it and beaming up at him. Sotherby stood by his side and grinned back, feeling almost giddy with the knowledge that Charles would stop sulking.

"My dear Sothers," Charles murmured, his smile softening to something quieter, more intimate. "I'm afraid I've been quite horrid to you recently."

"Not at all, sire," Sotherby said, enjoying the moment too much to ruin it by expecting an apology.

"Still," Charles said, his voice soft and thoughtful, and Sotherby only had a moment to be suspicious before he had jumped up and was in front of him, tugging the cushion from his stiff fingers and throwing back onto the chair before curling a hand over his shoulder and looking at him with wide, innocent eyes. "You would do anything for me, wouldn't you?"

"Of course, sire," Sotherby smiled, and Charles grinned back, before ducking his head and looking up at him through his eyelashes, his mouth twisting into something sly and teasing, and oh.

"It is most appreciated, Sothers," Charles whispered, close and warm and pushing himself up onto the balls of his feet as his hand slipped under Sotherby's wig to the base of his skull, tugging him forward as Sotherby sucked in a sharp breath, lips parted, and Charles caught his eye, his smirk widening to something brighter and honest. "Sotherby," he said, his breath hot against his mouth.

Sotherby swallowed. "Sire," he managed, and Charles wrapped his other arm around his shoulders and kissed him, pressing irresistibly close as Sotherby closed his eyes and clenched his hands, tense and solid and unmoving until Charles tilted his head, his tongue brushing along his lower lip before licking into his mouth and Sotherby groaned, powerless and pinned, and grabbed Charles by the waist as he pushed back into the kiss.

Charles pulled away an inch, beaming at him before unwinding his hands and grabbing Sotherby by the thick of his arm, guiding him swiftly to the side, saying, "it's simply wonderful, here, you must try," pushing him down by the shoulders and Sotherby suddenly found himself sitting on the chair, sinking into the soft cushions and blinking up at Charles's devious smirk.

"Sire! I can't possibly-" Sotherby tried to protest, tried to rise to his feet, but suddenly he had a lap full of royalty and Charles's smirk far too close, his eyes wicked and glittering.

"Mmm," Charles hummed, wrapping his arms around his neck, a moments warning before kissing him again. Sotherby sighed helplessly, kissing back even as he placed a hand either side of his ribs and tried to gather the willpower to push him away - thoughts of duty and treason and the insufferable way Charles tended to sulk until he got what he wanted, of the hand that was sliding down his chest and over his groin, delicious insistent friction as Charles moaned into his mouth and said, "I can hear you thinking. Stop it."

"Sire, the chair, we can't possibly-" Sotherby said, his tone entirely unconvincing and then disappearing under a choked gasp as Charles nipped at the line of his throat, working downwards until he could nuzzle in to the crook of his shoulder.

"Nonsense, Sothers," Charles said casually, tugging his collar away with one finger and flicking his tongue over the hot skin of his pulse point, delighting in the way Sotherby shivered beneath him, rolling his hips up into his exploring hand. "It's my present, I can do what I like with it, and with whatever is on it."

"Sire--" he tried to protest, but then Charles was slithering down out of his lap, slipping a knee between his thighs to steady himself as he began flicking open the catches of Sotherby's waistcoat, pulling it open to reveal the thin, plain shirt underneath. He brushed a hand over his chest, warm and trembling under his palm as his thumb stroked over a nipple and Sotherby gasped, a sharp breath that he immediately regretted as Charles flashed him a devilish grin and circled his thumb over the nub, stiff and sensitive even through the coarse fabric of his shirt. Charles pressed his tongue behind his teeth and marvelled at the way Sotherby moaned and let his head fall back as he rubbed two fingertips over the nipple, alternating light and teasing with rough and relentless strokes, Sotherby's hips almost imperceptibly jerking upwards as his erection grew and he desperately sought the friction of Charles's thigh, so tantalisingly close between his legs.

Delighted, Charles eventually slid down further, careful and utterly in control as he landed on the footstool, kneeling in front of him and looking up with wide, dark eyes and a rakish twist to his mouth. Sotherby watched him with a heavy-lidded gaze, too breathless to protest anymore as Charles deftly undid his breeches, biting his lip as he released Sotherby's cock: standing stiff and dark red and the sheath of skin covering the head flushed pink. Sotherby watched him run his tongue over his top lip, holding his gaze as Charles gently wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock and slowly, almost reverently, leant in to push his lips over the head, tasting him with a long swipe of his tongue over the top.

Sotherby threw his head back and groaned, an endless sigh of utter abandonment as his hands flew forward to settle on Charles's wig, not daring to drag him closer or tangle his fingers in the expensive curls, but Charles smirked anyway and drew back, just enough to make sure Sotherby was still watching, that he could see the shine on his swollen bottom lip and the dark glitter of his eyes as he slid his mouth down and down until his lips were touching his fingers, his cock entirely enveloped by his slick hand and hot mouth - with one strong suck Sotherby grunted, rolling his hips up without thinking; with another he bucked and Charles gagged, pulling back so he could give Sotherby a warning glare.

"Your Majesty, I'm so sorry-" Sotherby said, and then his eyes flew wide and his face blanched, staring down at the debauched picture in front of him - Charles with his cheeks flushed pink, his open mouth bruised and swollen and slick with saliva, his wig askew and his pupils blown wide and his breeches pulled achingly taut across his groin, looking wanton and ravished and desperately turned on and I did that, said a quiet, distant thought. "Your Majesty!" he started, panicked, but Charles darted up and covered his mouth with his own, swallowing down his protests as he carried on fisting Sotherby's erection with one hand and convinced him with his tongue, licking into his mouth with such fiendish promise that Sotherby looked quite dazed when he pulled back to study him.

"No more of that, Sothers," Charles murmured, kissing him closed-mouthed briefly before dropping back to the footstool, Sotherby's hands drifting from their grip on his arms to delicately touch either side of his jaw, staring at him in amazement. Charles, in return, watched Sotherby through his eyelashes; the way he bit his lip as Charles flicked his tongue over the head, his jaw falling slack as Charles sucked the tip into his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as Charles slid his mouth down and pressed the flat of his tongue up against the underside of his cock - Charles hummed, a sweet vibration low in his throat and Sotherby keened in response, trailing into a breathy gasp as Charles wrapped his hands tightly around his hips, his fingertips painting his skin white as Charles held him still and tipped forward, sucking most of his cock into his mouth. Sotherby cried out, his torso contracting as he suddenly came with a shuddering moan and spurted into Charles mouth, who worked him through his orgasm with light sucks along his length before pulling back and cleaning him off, lazily drawing patterns on his dusky skin with the tip of his tongue.

Sotherby's chest was still heaving when Charles glanced up from his delicate work, his gaze fixed unblinking on the ceiling, until Charles sat and did nothing for a few moments and Sotherby gathered the wits to look down at him in awe and surprise. "Charles," he said, lifting his heavy arm from where it was lolling over the side of the chair to brush his thumb over the corner of Charles's lips. Charles grinned, still bright and devious and achingly hard, pressing a quick kiss to the pad of his thumb before pushing himself up and clambering back into Sotherby's lap, pressing chest to chest with his legs spread wide, dangling over the side of the chair, and he pulled Sotherby in for a long, desperately slow kiss as he guided Sotherby's hand down to his breeches.

Sotherby's fingers were still quick and clever in his blissful haze, swiftly freeing Charles's neglected cock from the damp fabric and encircling it in his hand, the silky heat beneath his palm encouragement enough to quickly begin fisting it with long, measured drags. The slide of Sotherby's tongue against his own, the taste of Sotherby still in his mouth as he kissed him deeply, the friction and shifting pressure of his hand as he jerked him off soon had Charles gasping into his mouth and coming, spilling over his fingers.

They kissed as Charles came down from his explosive high, light and sloppy and utterly unable to stop grinning at each other. "Marvellous chair, Sotherby," Charles said, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

"I'm glad you think so, sire," Sotherby breathed.

"I'm sure no one will notice the stain," Charles said, casually, and seized his mouth in an intense kiss before he could even think about being scandalised.

love will never do what you want it to

2011-09-25T08:01:39Z

a couple of sketches, because glee is back and it's... problematic as ever, but then there's ♥BLAINE♥ and ♥♥QUINN♥♥ and everything's okay.

title: riotgrrl
rating: G
pairing: gen
notes: drawn when the promo came out and we saw punk!Quinn for the first time. all the sparkly hearts were in my eyes that day \o/

tumblr | DA

title: dreamy as ever
rating: G
pairing: Kurt/Blaine
notes: because of Darren's new photoshoot and Blaine's ridiculous/amazing outfit in 3.01.

tumblr | DA

♥!

a system of touch: art post

2011-09-07T06:36:04Z

My klainebigbang art, for the brilliant a system of touch by gingerrstar

This is an illustration of a moment fairly soon after Kurt and Blaine meet, where they're still just getting to know each other and they're all flirty and sweet and it's a lovely, lovely scene, but also I wanted to draw sun! sand! and ridic boys by the sea!, so \o/

tumblr | DA

i love the bbc

2011-08-22T23:20:48Z

because the Horrible Histories fandom has taken over my brain, and Doctor Who is back in less than a week, here's some art :D (although it is two separate pieces, not a crossover, regardless of how brilliant Elagabalus/Rory Williams would be.)

title: The Evil Emperors
rating: G
pairing: Gen
notes: WATCH THIS RIGHT NOW IT'LL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING. ♥♥THIS SHOW♥♥.

tumblr | DA

title: We'll Catch Up
rating: G
pairing: OT3 (or Eleven/Rory with pre-OT3, or gen...)
notes: this was meant to be a simple Eleven/Rory pic, but apparently I find it impossible to just leave Amy out -
so instead she's happy to let her boys entertain themselves while she's off finding adventure :D

tumblr | DA

i hope they have pudding

2011-08-07T20:42:41Z

some last-minute brittana art for the porn battle \o/

title: afterlife of the party
rating: r
pairing: santana/brittany
notes: for the prompts 'tender' and 'costume'. (Brittany's wearing the remains of her Luna Lovegood outfit. If Santana overheard anyone laughing about her Ravenclaw tie she threatened to claw their eyes out, and a wonderful time was had by all.

tumblr | DA

♥

and you named this one alexandria, didn't you?

2011-08-05T20:19:42Z

It's Porn Battle season! And there are Horrible Histories prompts oh my I wonder who put those there.

conquered the known world
Horrible Histories; Alexander the Great/Hephaestion
NC-17; the state of Skinnymandria is in question. A continuation of the two whole minutes of canon we have.

The meeting ends with Alexander (as ever) triumphant and Hephaestion (not uncommonly) tense and frustrated, and he allows himself a steadying breath before fixing his gaze on the far wall of the tent and, saying, with the clipped tone of years of military command, "I'll go check on the men," so it doesn’t feel like running away. Alexander doesn't seem to notice, and when Hephaestion is forced to glance at him he's staring at the map again. Right.

He leaves without another word, but he only takes three steps, around the table and halfway towards the tent flap before abruptly Alexander says, "Wait, no, hang on. We're not finished here."

"Aren't we?" Hephaestion sighs, but turns around anyway, and sometimes he forgets how stealthy Alexander can be as he's suddenly there, close enough to lay a hand against the plate of his armour and normally they would be no question of holding his ground but the gleam in Alexander's eyes is familiar and terrifying and he steps back without thinking, retreats and the twist of Alexander's lips grows sly.

"I was thinking about Skinnymandria," he says, his tone light even as his eyes are dark, and as he steps closer Hephaestion follows, keeping the thin space between them until he finds Alexander has backed him up against one of the wooden poles holding up the tent, solid and sturdy against his spine and all he can think is trapped and oh, Achilles, he knows that tone, the way Alexander gets when he wants something. Obedience is suddenly too dangerous a tactic to use against him, too much like surrender, but when Alexander doesn't press the advantage he's forced to prompt, "yes?"

"I think it's already mine," he says, not quite teasing and Hephaestion feels a dull roar of panic start to burn somewhere low in his chest.

"No," he tries, pre-emptive and pointless. Alexander holds his gaze. "Absolutely not."

"Right of conquest," Alexander says in a hot, harsh whisper close to his ear, swooping close and it takes a moment for Hephaestion wonder at how much sense his words actually make - Alexander's always been the one to push the tension between them but Hephaestion has always resisted for the sake of self preservation, there's never been any winner in this - "You didn't stand your ground."

"Strategic retreat," he counters, slipping into the familiar lines because this is easy in comparison to the overwhelming heat of Alexander bearing down on him. Except, of course, Alexander doesn't play fair, and his lips brush the hard stretch of muscle below his ear. Hephaestion swears.

"Alexander," he tries, a sharp breath as he nuzzles into the crook of his neck. Alexander ignores him, his mouth cool against his slick skin, barely moving as he just breathes him in, and Hephaestion corrects himself, "Alexander the Great. Stop--"

Alexander just hums in response, now mouthing at the hollow between his collarbones and Hephaestion has lost completely, tilting his head back and letting it thump against the pole as he grasps Alexander by the thick of his arms, his fingers digging in as he whispers, "Sir," in a shaky breath and Alexander bites into the flesh on his shoulder, tracing his tongue over the dents and saltsweet skin. "You can't just," he whimpers in a last-ditch attempt, trying to draw his shoulders back which only arches his spine and pushes them closer together, his hands tense almost to the point of shaking.

"Hmm. No, I think I can," Alexander says, exploring up the side of Hephaestion's neck before dragging his lips from the corner of his jaw to his mouth, slick with the heat. Hephaestion surrenders - lips parted, his head tilting forward at the insistence of Alexander's hand at the base of his skull, and Alexander claims him with the slide of his mouth against his, precise and reckless and devastating. He begins to unlatch Hephaestion's armour with one hand, pulling off arm shields and buckles and unravelling him with quick ease while kissing him deeper, swallowing his unsteady gasps as he licks inside his mouth. Hephaestion follows, loosening his grip on Alexander's arms to tug off their armour until they remain only in their tunics and the scant air between them is heavy and humid.

Alexander smiles then, tight and wicked and with conquest in his eyes, and there's the low answering tug in the seat of Hephaestion's stomach, the relentless call to battle. Hephaestion surges forward, kissing him again all the fury and desperation of months of restraint, of close quarters and comradeship and constant submission, and he can feel the curve of Alexander's grin against his lips and it makes him furious. He pulls him forward with rough hands around his hips, grinding closer and the ragged exhale Alexander gives against his mouth is the sweetest sound of victory, the crack in his defence and oh sod this, he thinks, I get enough of this talk when we're strategising.

"Be more naked," Alexander demands, oblivious, grabbing the hem of Hephaestion's tunic and tugging it swiftly off and over his head, shedding his own as he steps forward and Hephaestion finds himself completely bare and backed up against the pole once more, open and exposed, his shoulders pulled back as he lays his hands flat against the wood behind him. Alexander crowds close and kisses him, his teeth catching on his bottom lip as his hand slips down Hephaestion's chest, his fingers catching over his ribs and his palm burning hot, until Alexander holds him still with one hand, his thumb tucked into the hollow of his hip as his other (finally) grasps his cock and Hephaestion whines into his mouth, a breathless keen as Alexander shifts closer, chest to chest so he can feel every lungful, and brings his own cock in line with his, wrapping his fingers deftly around both.

"A good military leader always listens to his advisors," Alexander whispers, impossibly hot against his ear and Hephaestion hates him so much sometimes. "Anything you'd like to say?"

He briefly considers shoving him off and possibly murdering him in his sleep, but then Alexander shifts his hand, loosening and tightening his grip so he can rub his thumb over the tip of his cock and Hephaestion just moans instead, a low growl at the back of his throat, and Alexander keeps teasing with short flicks of his thumb, his hand perfectly steady, until Hephaestion acquiesces with a rough, "please."

Alexander kisses him again at that, swallowing his sharp sighs and the hard line of his mouth, and he starts to move his hand - still teasingly slow, the slightest changes in pressure, little enough that Hephaestion quickly growls and covers Alexander's fingers with his own, squeezing tightly for a moment that they both gasp and then he forces him to move, drawing his free arm around Alexander's waist and pulling him in so his knuckles drag against the hard plane of his stomach - all friction and fever as Alexander finally goes quiet, mouthing sloppily against the corner of Hephaestion's lips before he tilts his head and kisses him properly, tongues working in time with the pull of their hands, speeding up as Hephaestion's breath catches and Alexander moans, pressing closer so their hands are trapped, intertwined, and it's just heat and pressure and the sweet slide of their mouths as Hephaestion comes first with a strangled gasp, tense and arching and his fingers clench, clinging until Alexander follows with a snap of his hips.

It's quiet in the tent, just the muffled sounds of heavy breathing calming as Hephaestion rests his forehead against Alexander's shoulder and Alexander leans his cheek against the damp mess of his hair, his eyes closed and he can feel the thrum of war wearing off, draining down through his skin and muscle and bones and leaving behind heavy, sated exhaustion. "To bed," Hephaestion mumbles somewhere into his collarbone, and Alexander agrees without fuss, his tired limbs still strong as he leads them both through to his private quarters of the tent.

They settle on the cushions, Alexander pulling Hephaestion down so he sprawls over him, his thigh slipping between Alexander's but for the moment they just lie there, quiet and content.

"Alexander?" Hephaestion starts, and the soft hum he gets in reply is a small triumph. "You still need to stop naming cities after yourself," he says, content and bold to the point of listening to his military instincts, the beat to press an advantage at the propitious moment.

"Mmm," Alexander agrees, the hum a soft vibration against Hephaestion's cheek. "I think I will call this one Skinnymandria," he murmurs, and the resulting tussle swiftly falls into long, slow kiss as Alexander takes charge.

"Cheat," Hephaestion sighs, as Alexander presses his mouth against the underside of his jaw.

"Conqueror," he corrects, and kisses him again.

faberry art!

2011-07-10T15:58:38Z

I've been drawing so much in the last month or so that, by my standards, I almost feel downright productive. I'm also a massive dork who has Horrible Histories fanart in the works, however, so I probably shouldn't be feeling quite so accomplished.

title: likes girls
rating: g
pairing: rachel/quinn
notes: inspired by this wonderfulness from Dianna.

tumblr | DA

title: truce
rating: r
pairing: rachel/quinn
notes: drawn for the femslash_today porn battle!

tumblr | DA

comments and concrit are ♥!