#(it's almost tender to hate someone intimately enough to know every tiny thing about them)

[witsserviceablesubstitute]

Nie Huaisang is my favorite Untamed character because he's the heir to the biggest baddest warrior sect of them all but his best weapons are his mind, his theatrics, and his sense of dramatic irony.

[tenkasato]

I Don’t Hate You

Scenario: In which you and Levi come into terms of losing your child.

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x reader

Warning: mentions of fetal death, cursing, mild violence

You were just released from the hospital.

Everyone solemnly rejoiced for your survival. It had been a close call after all. You had a short dinner with Hange and the kids. Smiling at them as they tried to narrate lighthearted anecdotes was easy for you. You were used to it after all. However, not the same could be said about your husband who remained stone-faced the entire time. His arm was secured around your waist possessively.

When you finally got home and went into your room alone, Levi Ackerman’s well-crafted mask finally fell off of his crestfallen face. He quietly sat beside you at the edge of the bed, your arms touching.

You leaned on him, nuzzling your head unto his shoulder with an umpteenth sigh leaving your lips.

"You can tell me anything," he told you softly, angling himself to you so that you were lying on his chest instead.

You caged his torso with your arms. "I don't have anything to say, really."

He nodded in understanding as he combed his fingers into your hair and proceeded on kneading your scalp as gently as he could. The room was filled with silence that was too deafening for his taste, but listening to your shallow breathing kept him calm even with the storm brewing inside his chest. He didn't know what to do about that squeezing sensation in his throat. It rendered him breathless.

Memories flashed. Voices echoed.

Levi closed his eyes.

It was the most excruciating, ear-splitting sound he has ever heard, the anguish ripping across your whole being as you pounded on his chest. You hit him harder.

You howled and screamed.

"Stop it," he begged.

"Fuck you," you sobbed. Your entire frame shook violently. "Fuck you! Why? I told you I'd be fine, right? I told you I'm strong enough to handle it, right? I told you! I told you!"

"I'm sorry," he choked. Your eyes that he loved so much reflected a veil of total, severe hatred and disgust directed towards him.

The way you looked at him... like he was someone who had hurt you—no, murdered you in the most torturous way possible.

"You're sorry?" you asked, venom all mingled intimately with each syllable that you spat. "But you chose this, right? You didn't listen to me, right? You coward!"

Levi pressed his lips together to keep himself from crying. He grabbed you by your shoulders before you broke away from his grasp, jabbing a finger straight to his racing heart.

"When did you ever listen, anyway?" you hissed, mercilessly hurling every bit of repulsion to him. “You never listen to anyone but yourself.”

"I hate you," you snarled. Your hands shot to the sides of your face as you shook your head repeatedly. "You killed my son. You killed my son. You killed me. You killed me."

If he really had the choice, he wouldn't have chosen between the life of his unborn child or his wife.

If he could, he would've chosen to kill himself.

If he could take away your pain, every single drop of it, he'd be willing to die over and over.

Levi took a feeble step towards you and enveloped you, pressing you unto him as hard as he could, just to piece you back together even if he knew it was futile. He held you for so long, fought against you silently.

"I hate you," you wept.

"It's okay," he spoke, managing to keep his voice calm, mellow and soothing. "I won't ever leave you."

"I hate you."

This hollow wound where his heart was supposed to be. What was he going to do about that?

Opening his eyes, Levi swallowed with difficulty before looking up at the ceiling. If he was feeling this awful, what were you feeling? Losing your second child… no mother deserved that.

"Levi," you coughed, cutting him off his thoughts as reality came crashing back to him. He didn't know whether to be thankful or not to be ripped off from those haunting memories.

"Hmm?"

"I don't hate you," you told him like you had read his mind.

He actually chuckled at that. "I know you don't."

"I really didn't mean any of the things I said before," you started to clarify. "I was just so upset and angry about it. But I know it wasn't your fault. I understand why you did that."

He stopped massaging your head and gently tugged on your hair so he could look down at your face. "We talked about this already."

"I know."

"Then, why?"

"Because even though you knew I didn't mean it, I still hurt you."

Not knowing what to say about that, he merely looked at you, drinking every detail of your profile until his gaze rested on the dark circles under your eyes. He could see all the physical manifestations of the suffering you’ve been through in your face. They weren't there before.

Levi leaned down and brushed his lips lightly on the skin under your eye. He planted another kiss in between your brows, and another two at the two corners of your mouth.

"You forgive me, right?" you asked in a dubious tone, closing your eyes as he trailed kisses down your neck.

He twisted around and pushed you unto the bed, his two hands supporting his weight over you. How delicate. How ironic it was that this fragility was his sole source of strength. The force that kept his feet on the ground even though his whole body felt so weightless, to be blown away into nothingness by the winds.

"I forgive you," he murmured. "I will always forgive you, no matter how many times you hurt me."

You chuckled and touched his face. "You really are the submissive type."

He shook his head at your boldness. "That's a blatant challenge."

Pressing your palms on both sides of his face, you stuck out your tongue playfully. Levi swooped down to your mouth but you so wisely retreated your tongue and smiled teasingly at him instead. You shook your head in playful mockery.

Levi’s eyes flared with unbridled desire, proceeding on attacking your neck rougher than he did earlier.

"Levi," you said abruptly, gathering locks of his hair in your hand.

"Hm?" he asked distractedly.

You bit on your lip briefly before pulling him down towards you.

"I'm heavy," he said in alarm as he felt his body pressed on you.

"S'okay," you answered and encircled your arms around his neck. "I feel cold. I like your body warmth.”

You lifted your head to press your lips onto his slightly opened mouth in a feathery kiss, warming his insides as he returned the fervor.

Your lips parted, then you uttered again, "Levi?"

"What is it?"

You smiled—tender, sweet and heart-crushing.

"Levi, I want you to know that it's okay to cry, too."

And that was when he broke, the tiny pieces of weak bandages that held him together burning away as he succumbed to the overwhelming grief that was dissolving all the pretense of fortitude he had.

The saddest of smiles pulled at the edges of your lips as you reached to wipe away the tears that had blurred his vision.

In the middle of this torrid rain, he had almost forgotten to grieve for himself, too.

But you saw him.

Just as you promised you would.

Yes, I know there are medical inaccuracies. Please forgive me for the sake of angsty drama.

[daisybeewrites]

July — d.j.

for @dreamcxtcherr ‘s 3k writing challenge. congrats lena!!

word count: 1.8k

warnings: mention of car crash/death, mention of alcohol consumption, daisy cries, i think thats it lmk if not!!

ship: R x daisy johnson

okay y’all… first ever anggstttttt!!! i’m way too excited about it. if you want a fully immersive experience, i recommend listening to july by noah cyrus slowed + reverb

(gif uncredited on pinterest (ugh, i hate that. credit a gif if you use it!! im trying to find the owner)) update — found owner

It was another mission. Another nightmarish fire-fight where you almost lost a limb, almost lost a friend, almost lost your life. Twenty-four hours later and you’re back home, safe.

Well, as safe as you can be when your engagement is on the verge of breaking off.

You stare at the simple ring on your left hand. White gold band, a tiny amethyst set to the left of a diamond. There was a nearly identical one lying next to the sink, the only difference being the switched places of the glittering gems.

You know she didn’t do it purposefully. You had both been exhausted after what was supposed to be an in-and-out mission turned into a hostage situation. Daisy did what she always did as soon as you were home — take off her gauntlets, wash her hands in the sink, grab a snack, and hop into a steaming shower.

But you still can’t stop yourself from staring at it, eyes fixed, hands shaking, breath held and mind racing.

You used to join her. You would wash each other’s hair, ease each other’s sore muscles with delicate touches on tender purple-black bruises. She would lean into you, letting you braid her hair and falling asleep in your arms, drifting into a deep slumber. It was intimate, lovely; it was normal and perfect.

Taking a sip of your room-temperature beer, you slide off the cool granite of the kitchen island. You had a new routine after missions now, you just had to get used to it.

You hear the shower shut off, bare feet pad into your cosy bedroom, and the door shut with a loud creak. The minute squeak of the mattress tells you that Daisy flopped into bed.

A ghost of a smile lights your face. It looks more like a grimace, you think, as you check your distorted reflection in the green glass of your beer bottle. Chucking the empty bottle in the recycling, you run a hand through your dirty, salty hair. The comfy sweats you changed into an hour ago would need to be washed, the dirt still adorning your skin rubbing off on the black material. You exhale before heading down the hall towards the bathroom.

The tiled room is filled with steam, the mirror fogged up so that only a blurry outline of your silhouette could be seen. You are unrecognizable.

How fitting.

The quick, cold shower you take does nothing to ease your mind or body. You wipe the mirror in a circle, taking out a first aid kit.

With all your cuts bandaged and the proper creams Jemma had snuck to you and Daisy applied to your fresh bruises, you headed into the hallway in your towel.

Daisy is standing in the kitchen, lilac lounge shorts you bought her last Christmas showing off her tanned and scarred legs. She looks warm and soft, a very different Daisy than the superhero who had broken a mob boss’ legs just hours before. Her hair is wet and in braids. You frown. You always braid her hair.

If she hears you, she doesn’t turn around, so you take a moment to admire her. Ten seconds, that’s all you give yourself. It was a stressful mission, if you stare too long she might snap. From the back, you can’t see the dark circles you know are there, but you can see the tension in her shoulders and the slight tilt of her head as she ponders what to eat.

You say nothing as you go to the bedroom to change. You find a black pair of SHIELD sweats and an old, holey t-shirt you vaguely remember stealing from Fitz. A presence at the doorway catches your attention.

“Hi,” Daisy says tentatively. Your breath caught in your throat, your lungs holding the air captive until Daisy spoke again.

“I missed you.”

Your eyes widened. Maybe tonight wouldn’t end with one of you on the couch, clutching a six pack while the other cried as quietly as possible, tucked into cold, lonely sheets.

“Braiding my hair, I mean,” She clarified. Her fingers twisted together, rigid posture giving away her nerves.

The air felt humid, as if the open window had suddenly sucked all the AC out and let the mid-summer heat in. Your memory flashes to the last time you and Daisy had a normal, happy conversation.

The edges are fuzzy, but the pure joy in Daisy’s chocolate eyes is clear. Fairy lights strung haphazardly around the living room, a movie playing in the background, your lips on hers. Blankets make a ceiling over your head that shut out the rest of the world, this moment was only for you two. You played with the thin metal band on her ring finger, she ran her hands through her hair. Her matching ring scratched your scalp lightly. You both smile as you pull away. You whisper childhood stories, laugh at the funny parts and offer melancholic smiles at the not-so-lighthearted parts. You were happy.

That night you got the call — Lincoln Campbell, yours and Daisy’s best friend, had wrapped his car around a telephone pole coming off of a long shift at the hospital. His blood alcohol was almost .40.

Eggshells littered the house from the time you got back from the funeral. One wrong word, Daisy would snap and spend hours punching a bag until her fingers bled. You would fill those hours with whatever was closer — wine or your car keys. You pulled yourself out of your head, realizing you should answer her.

“I missed it, too,” You breathed.

Daisy made a small, unintelligible noise before collapsing against the door frame. You froze for only a second, your mind racing through possibilities. Was she bleeding internally? Was it her back again? Did she get shot and not notice until now?

You leap over to her, catching her as she crumbles to the hardwood floor.

A quiet sob wracks her chest. Your hands hover over her slouched back, unsure how to comfort her. At this moment, Daisy feels foreign. Her sudden vulnerability alerts you to how she’s been holding her emotions in for god knows how long.

“Daisy…” You start, hesitantly.

Daisy hiccups loudly, another wave of tears washing over her.

“Tell me to leave, I’ll pack my bags,” Daisy cried, “But I don’t, I-I don’t want to lose you!”

Burning tears gather on your lash line, threatening to fall at her words. You never could stand to see Daisy cry.

Your brows furrow slightly in confusion before you realize what Daisy is talking about. After Lincoln’s death, you two had fought increasingly more often until Daisy locked herself away or spent the night at May’s, and you went for drives until your car ran on empty. On those nights, bottles of wine disappeared from the cabinet without a trace.

Daisy sits up, stamping down her sobs, seemingly resigning herself to the fact that you aren’t going to say anything. Her trembling lip and red eyes pierce your heart. The astronomical distance between you two seems atomic now. You reach out quicker than lightning, shushing her cries and rubbing her back.

“Do you want to go?” You asked after a while. Your knees dig uncomfortably into the floor, your shoulder hurts from the ridges in the doorframe.

Daisy sniffles, her hair falling into her face as she looks away. You crane your neck down, carefully tucking her hair behind her ear.

“You know I’m afraid of change, I guess that’s why we’ve stayed the same,” You sigh, your chest constricting and squeezing the broken glass pieces of your heart.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself to continue, “But if you want to find a new life, someone who loves you better than I do, darling, I understand.”

Daisy is still frozen, stare burning holes in the floor. You’re glad that the two of you are at home, the poly-tectic adaptive materials hidden between the walls keeping the house from collapsing. By the slight groan of the foundation, you can imagine Daisy could bring down a mountain with the amount of pain she’s in.

Which can only mean one thing.

“I’m not enough,” You stated. It wasn’t a question. You glance down, a glint in the low light cast from the lamp on the bedside table catching your eye. She has her ring on…

Daisy finally, finally shakes her head ‘no’. You let go of a breath, guilt building every second that passes. She isn’t happy. You shouldn’t be happy that she’s staying.

“Feels like a lifetime, we’ve been trying to get by while we’re dying inside,” You say, gently.

Daisy snaps her eyes to yours, a desperation in them you recognize as grief.

“So much of the past year has been consumed by grief. We never took time off, we never talked about it. I’ve done a lot of things wrong, loving you being one,” She whispers.

You nod, there is no denying that you each had a part in getting to where you are now. Delicately, you grab her hand. She squeezes it, a rush of small vibrations traveling up your arm. Your chest flutters at the familiar affection.

“So have I,” You assure her. She gradually falls towards you, exhausted. You let her rest her head on your shoulder, her breath evening out as her arms wrap around you. You feel hot tears flow down your face, fall onto her hair. Slowly, you pull Daisy closer to you.

Hours later, the sun peeks over the top of the mountain range in the distance. You had adjusted the two of you sometime around two a.m., no longer able to feel your legs from how the floor cut off your circulation.

Sometime around three, you had gathered the courage to move Daisy to the bed, trying hard not to wake her. She had only turned over and not let go of your hand.

You haven’t slept at all tonight, thoughts spinning until you force yourself to pause and count to ten, only to repeat the pattern.

You know what you have to do. You know what’s best for the both of you. You’ll leave, pack your bags and find a place to stay until you can scrape up enough money to rent an apartment. You’ll go to therapy, learn to live without Lincoln, without Daisy. Eventually, Daisy will heal, too. You both have the team at your backs, no matter what happens. She would be okay.

But you know you won’t. The fear of losing Daisy, of losing your life, your home, yourself stops you. You can’t move on. You can’t move forward.

You know that the big changes it takes to heal could cost you Daisy. So, you stay the same. You give into fear. You’ll never be enough, never love Daisy right, never quite heal fully — and neither will Daisy. But you still stay.

You’ll always stay the same.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ahhhh how was it? did you love it? any feedback? want more? put any thoughts/feelings/questions/concerns in the comments or my ask box!! i really enjoyed writing this and i hope you enjoyed reading it even more!!

<<3

[batarella]

The Commander - Part 7 (Arkham Knight x Reader)

LISTEN IF YOU WANTED TO HURT YOURSELF TODAY, OR YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO GET YOUR HEART TORN OUT FROM YOUR FLESH. 

READ THIS

WORDS: 1832 WARNINGS: YOU’RE GONNA HURT YOURSELF READING THIS

Masterlist

THE COMMANDER - MASTERLIST

-----

The winds from their heights were stronger. But they were silent. And it was cold enough for one to notice. So quiet, there was not even the rustling of grass.

The Arkham Knight held the Commander’s face, hard at first, then his hold went lenient. His lips were nothing like she remembered. His kiss was soft, only slightly teasing her own, like a delicate little touch. Commander Y/N held his wrists out of the shock, but as his warmth sank in, her hands trailed down his arm, up his shoulders. Then there was the intimate seep of his tongue, his hands holding her still, she couldn’t move even if she wanted to. She didn’t want to. He’s never kissed her like this.

The Commander held him by the waist, not another thought surpassed the focus she had on his hold on her. It didn’t feel demanding at all. She didn’t dare pull away. Somehow she feared he would stop. But he didn’t. The Knight didn’t once bite her lip, nor cause her any pain. No one had touched her so gently before.

And in a daze, it was over too quickly. Her lips weren’t numb. They felt wonderful, in fact, like a slight sting or a buzz that never left. He held on to her even then. She would look at him and the first thing she’d notice are his eyes. The most beautiful pair in the world, a glowing blue that would match the shine of the clear blue ocean and an endless abyss that would push you into a never-ending fall at each glance. She could feel a sting deep in the pit of her chest when his stare felt like a knife being thrown into her physicality. His eyes where her favorite thing to look at.

But now as she stared at him with his eyes closed, she marveled over the other gorgeous parts of his face that his eyes would normally overshadow. His long nose, the scar near his blunt red lips, his jaw. Every part of him looked so perfectly placed, so much that the J on his left cheek did little to nothing to even make a dent in his perfection.

The Knight let go of her, breathed in her scent, then stepped back. He couldn’t even look her in the eye. He closed his visor and backed off, then swung a leg over his bike.

“Knight-“ He started the engine, yet was too silent, and it overwhelmed her. It didn’t look like he was going to wait for her. The Commander picked up her helmet from the floor.

She trailed closely behind him before he’d drive off and leave her. Somehow she expected him to do that. The streets were empty now, but nothing about her was silent. She didn’t exactly know what she was telling herself, despite her head causing so much noise she managed to ignore the drum of her bike.

A jet was waiting for them outside of town. They only had so much time. They reached the back alley. The Knight had already grappled up to the apartment before she could even park her bike. Slowly, she stepped into the window. His visor was on the desk, and he stuffed all he had into a duffle bag without so much as batting an eye at her.

“Can you not tell anyone about what you saw?”

His voice was raw, and he didn’t sound angry at all. It sounded more like a plea. She should say something. Anything.

“I won't.”

Then all she could stare at was him, when he kneeled down and folded the sheets discarded on the floor so neatly, she just couldn’t see him in the same light anymore. It didn’t matter what he wore, how his armor made him look dangerous.

The Arkham Knight was just a miserable, broken young man, hurt by someone he trusted with his life. He stopped with the sheets, kneeling on the floor. He stared at the black and let the emptiness consume him.

Y/N kneeled down next to the Knight, taking him by the wrist. He looked frightened out of his wits, so terror-stricken that he looked like he had just witnessed a demon out from hell. His eyes, looking just as dejected as they were afraid, looked wearily straight into hers. His hands shook so uncontrollably it was like he was shaking from the cold.

She didn’t know if she should ask or just hold him, all she knew was how warm his head was and the sweet smell of his hair when he leaned down on her shoulder.

For once, the Knight was the weakest one in the room. All his weight was on her, but she didn’t hesitate to immediately wrap her arms around his broad shoulders. Yet he still couldn’t bring to look at her in the eye. He fell into her, slowly.

Until today, all she could think of when she looked at him was his body. Every touch felt, every kiss, every thrust, she could remember like the back and front of her hand. It was maddening, how those thoughts could just barge into her mind’s backdoor and act as if they owned her, how much she’d lusted for him.

She’d often find herself in a daze, feeling of his lips against her neck, or when the tingle in her spine at the last thrust of his hips didn’t make her thighs press hard together.

None of that could compare to now.

None of those thoughts came to mind.

He became someone she didn’t want to get hurt anymore, someone she wanted to fight for, fight with, someone who made her want to ward of anything that comes remotely close to laying a hand on him, to destroy everyone who’s ever caused him pain. It was someone she wanted to protect, no matter how much the Knight would hate that.  

Y/N could tell he was holding back his tears, but before she could even touch his cheek, he slowly pulled away.

This time, their eyes met in the most intense, heated way possible. He looked so deeply into her that despite the dimly lit room, it wasn’t hard for her to still notice how blue his eyes were. She could compare his stare to a dagger, only each time it impaled her, she felt no pain.

She looked back at him with the same force, almost as if she was telling him to let her feel his lips again. But as he caught on and started leaning forward, her hand stopped him from going any further.

He stopped, a bit bemused at her reaction, and started to lean in again thinking it was nothing. This time she pulled her head back and whispered a tiny ‘no’ before she could change her mind.

All those nights of touching herself, wanting his body. And now he was vulnerable.

She can't take advantage of that.

She didn’t even want that anymore.

He backed off and looked down at her hand firm on his chest. She did too. Her calloused yet tender palm rested right where his heart was. His chest was warm, solid under her heated touch. Her breath caught in her throat and suddenly the air that stung from the cold breeze rushing through the broken glass of the window battled with the searing eminence of the tension of their two bodies being this close together.

She hugged him again. This time, he hugged her back. And his arms were warmer than she’d ever remembered. The beating of his heart started rapidly, so hard that it felt it was going to climb out of his chest. But the more he felt her warmth, how her cheek felt pressed against his neck, his heart slowed down as fast as it quickened.

He gave in to her. The nightmares he must have had, she thought, how traumatizing could they have been to break down even the strongest of military commanders.

She had her fingers around the strands of his hair, playing with them just to keep her hands busy. For a long moment, neither of them spoke a word or moved a muscle.

But just before she began pulling away, his voice started out with the most silent whispers.

“Jason.”

She pulled her head back, but he wasn’t looking at her in the eye. “What?”

“My name. It’s Jason.”

Jason.

Jason.

Jason. Jason. Jason. Jason.

Suddenly the air felt a little lighter and the shine of the bright full moon peeking through the broken glass seemed just a bit brighter.

His name. That was his name. Jason. The hurt young man in her arms. And she realized she knew everything about him.

The Jason who liked to bite his bottom lip when he was stressed out. The Jason who liked to scrunch and run his fingers across his dark hair to relax himself. The Jason who had a smile that changed his entire face, who smoked but could never finish a whole box by himself, whose burp could be heard from the next room after eating four whole burgers. The Jason who scratched his nose when he read and would accidentally forget his visor was in the way. The Jason who had the most beautiful eyes, ones she could never look away from. The Jason who didn’t think she’d notice when he stared at her for too long.

He was a young boy, living without his parents in an abandoned apartment, stole just to survive, then taken in as Batman’s young ward far before he was even given a chance at a life he didn’t have to fight for. And somehow, it turned him dark, and he never arose from the moment he fell.

Y/N never even realized she knew all those things about him, not even that she’d ever noticed all the most miniscule things no one else would’ve cared about. But she did, and it all flooded into her mind when he told her his name.

This wasn’t the Knight anymore. This was Jason.

Suddenly, so suddenly, he became real.

And it tore her apart, holding him so tightly in her arms, how she could just feel herself yearning for him.

It was slow, but she could feel it. More and more she wanted him. It was an agonizing, painful descent, but the abyss she fell into was so deep, so dark, she knew there was no going back. And it hurt all the more, because he doesn’t even know just how much she knows about him.

He lightened his hold on her, holding her wrists. Jason- Jason- pulled away. “Forget everything about today.”

He removed her hands from his neck, moving back. Y/N didn’t have it in her to react.

“Everything…”

Then he stood up, grabbing his visor and his bag. He disappeared out the window before she could even move.

She took a while on the floor, staring at the thrown-out pizza box and burger wrappers.

-----

THE COMMANDER - MASTERLIST

-----

Taglist: everyartistwas-firstanamateur  @sarcasmismyfirstlove @damned-queen-of-gotham @idkmanicantenglish @wunderstell @birdy-bat-riya @get-loki @everyday-imfangirling @comic-nerd-dc @multifandoms916 @icequeen208 @offendedfishnoises @egdolan @xemiefx @arkhamtoddler @elsenthal @mythicbitchx @supremehaunter @ burning-alive

[zombiesbecrazy]

a moment of truce

Summary: "Kite Man?“ A deep voice broke through his fuzzy thoughts. "Are you awake?”

AO3

Even before he opened his eyes he knew he had no idea where he was, which historically meant nothing good. He could feel that he was moving, probably in a car or in the back of a van or something, but he didn’t remember getting in a car and he definitely wasn’t in the driver’s seat.

Yay, abduction. He hadn’t been abducted in forever. It was almost an interesting change of pace if he didn’t know from experience that he was going to probably going to bullied into doing something that he didn’t want to do. He wasn’t that type of guy most of the time.

He didn’t want to be a bad bad guy after all.

Whoever was driving hit a bump. It wasn’t big, just enough to jostle him and his head gave him the sharp notice that it must have been hit pretty hard recently and it wasn’t super happy about that and he groaned at the pain.

“Kite Man?” A deep voice broke through his fuzzy thoughts. “Are you awake?”

“Kite Man?” Whoever was talking to him sounded familiar but it he couldn’t place it. It wasn’t one of the usual suspects who had a habit of trying to kidnap him for whatever reason. Definitely wasn’t the Joker in a tenor that deep, so things could be worse. “Hell yeah.”

“Hrh.” Now that was a sound that Chuck knew like the back of his own hand. Or the back of the man who said it’s backhand. He opened one eye to see the silhouette of sharp pointy ears from the seat in front of him, dashboard lit up in multicoloured lights and the streets of Gotham passing by the windows before he let it fall closed again. “You’re going to have a headache. Grade one concussion,” said Batman. "You should probably get medical attention.”

Headache was a bit of an understatement, stampeding elephants much closer to reality. “They’ll check me out in lock up,” he mumbled, debating trying to go back to sleep before he had to spend the night in gen pop.

“Lock up?”

“Aren’t you taking me in?”

“Did you do something for me to have to take you in?”

“I don’t… not tonight?” The thought about it for a moment, but things were a little fuzzy and his thoughts weren’t exactly what he could call clear. He had plans for the night but something had clearly interrupted them because he could still feel his detonators in his pockets instead of on the safe door that he had been planning on blowing up. “Don’t think I got the chance.”

“Then I have no reason to take you in.”

“Oh.” That wasn’t what he had been expecting because there were plenty of nights that Batman had caught up to him when he was minding his own business, just soaring across the city, and taken him down and dropped him off at the nearest GCPD precinct. It was rude, honestly, even if he did have incriminating contreband on him. “If I didn’t do anything, why am I in your car?” That is when something further clicked and he opened both eyes this time and looked around. “And why am I in the backseat and not in cuffs in the trunk?”

He was well acquainted with the restaint seat that popped out of the trunk of Batman’s car. They were old friends.

“I may have to escalate your condition to a grade two concussion.” Batman’s eyes flashed at him in the rearview mirror, gloves tightening on the steering wheel. “Robin’s grapple line snapped. I was too far away,” his words were clipped and rough. "You dove in and caught him. You hit the side of a building.”

“Oh.” It was slowly coming back to him. The kid had been swinging high above and Chuck had heard a loud snap, a terrified scream, a deep shout and saw the small body fall and he acted before he could think about it. He caught the kid, but he his speed and weight had caused them to go off course and then… he couldn’t remember anything else. He rubbed his head, hissing as his fingers brushing against a tender lump on the side. “Is the kid okay?”

“Fractured wrist”

“I’m fine,” said a young voice. The kid was curled up in a small ball in the front seat and Chuck hadn’t even seen him until he spoke. He was wearing a velcro splint on one of his arms. "Thanks. You probably saved my life.” The kid was putting on a good show, but his words were shaky, clearly shook up. Batman reached over and ruffled the boy’s hair and he leaned into the touch.

A part of Chuck’s stomach tightened at the sight and he had to turn away. “No problem.” Sometimes things just hit him. A reminder that was a punch in the gut and reopened the old wounds that were never really healed, just ignored the best they could be, which was not at all.

A few minutes passed in silence, Chuck staring out of the window at nothing, when Robin piped up again, turning around in his seat to look at him, smile big on his tiny face, clearly not bothered by his injury. He looked young, but maybe not as young as Chuck had originally thought now that they were so close. “Can we drop you off at home?”

This night just kept getting weirder, which meant a lot because his tolerance for weird in this city was pretty high. Part of him wondered if he was imagining the whole thing. Maybe he was passed out in a dumpster somewhere, having crashed to the ground, and his concussed brain was giving him a crazy coma dream because the alternative that he was sitting in Batman’s car with Robin talking to him as if this was part of some regular carpool situation, was bonkers. “Hell yeah.” Batman cleared his throat, head tilting in Robin’s direction, which made him chuckle. The kid could leap off buildings but apparently a third rate curse word was a step too far. “Sorry, habit. Yes, please.”

He was about to tell Batman to take the next right when he noticed that he was already turning in that direction, maneuvering the streets to Chuck’s apartment without him saying a word. He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing that Batman knew where he lived, but in all honesty he couldn’t really be surprised.

The car parked outside of Chuck’s dilapidated building, and Batman got out of the car, to pull the seat forward to let him out onto the street. Chuck grunted his thanks and started walking towards the door, but was surprised when Batman escorted him from the car. He unlocked his front door, but didn’t know what to do, because Batman was just standing there, staring at him, and it was eerie. He had the urge to cackle and a leap and unfurl his kite, but that was just silly at this point, and not only because it was on ground level and there was no wind; it would literally do nothing.

Something about Batman just brought that impulse out in him.

He was about to just keep heading inside, leaving the Bat alone in the dark when finally “Charles.” His voice was a little less dark and a little less echoed and Chuck wondered if this was what he sounded without the voice modulator turned on. “Thank you for catching him.” Batman tilted his head back towards the car where they could see Robin, his face lit up, probably playing with his phone. Kids. “Most wouldn’t have.”

Chuck knew what ‘most’ meant. He was talking about the villains of Gotham. The bad guys. The people like him. He held onto the door handle and stared down at his shoes. He didn’t always want to be a person like him. A person lumped in that group with them. Sometimes he just didn’t have any other options.

“He’s just a kid,” he said finally. "Kids don’t deserve to die. Especially not like that.” He sighed and looked back at Batman, into those unblinking glowing eyes of his mask. “Charlie loved Robin. He would have wanted me to save him.” It was true. Charlie had grown up in a city where Batman and Robin were a staple and while Batman’s costume had given him nightmares, Robin had been his favourite hero. Chuck had to bribe him with cookies just to let him put his Robin pyjamas in the washing machine every once in a while.

He vaguely wondered if Batman had the same problem.

“He would have wanted you to turn over a new leaf.”

“We’ll never know that, will we?” snapped Chuck without thinking and surprisingly Batman shook his head and raised his hands in defense. “I’m sorry. That was…” he trailed off and looked back towards the car. “Losing a child isn’t something you can get over. I understand.”

“You can’t understand unless you’ve had it happen.” He had hated that. The people in his life who said that they understood. They didn’t. They couldn’t possibly.

“I understand,” said Batman quietly and the words just hung there heavy in the air. It was a strangely intimate conversation for two men who had spent a lot of time punching each other in the face only now to bond over something so deeply personal.

“I… oh.” He didn’t know what to say with this mutual understanding they now had hanging between them. “Do you want to come in for a beer?” It was a strange thing to offer, but why the hell not? Maybe that is all Batman needed to lighten up; someone to offer him a hand and a little time to kick back and relax.

“I have to get Robin tended to.” Batman said, but there was a smile twitching on the edge of his lips. Of course he couldn’t leave a kid in the car when he goes for a drink with one of his regular baddies, that is just bad parenting, but Chuck had to wonder if maybe the circumstances were different perhaps the answer would have been different as well, even for just one night in a moment of truce. “You shouldn’t drink with a concussion.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot of things I shouldn’t do.” They both knew that he was going to have that beer anyway. And then redraw up his plans for breaking into that safe on another night. “Have a good night, Batman. I’m glad your boy is okay.” He pulled the door open and stepped inside. “Tell him he’s worth the headache.”

“He’ll be glad to hear it from someone who isn’t me.”

“Hell yeah.”

[spiders-hth-is-an-outlier]

13 Queliot recs 4/4

of places where you thought that love would be found by @margosfairyeye

I’m not much for soulmates, but that means that I’m often fond of stories that start off with soulmates and soulmate marks, then do something weird with it.  This is a great example of that subgenre; Quentin has a mark that’s unlike any other (a nice parallel to his canon problem of being a Nothingmancer for so much of his life); Eliot has Margo’s mark.  And yet, and yet, and yet.  Obviously this is one of those rewrite-the-stars stories; it’s not really full of surprises, but it’s lush and sensual and draws you in, laying out the longing and the edge of hopelessness and then the hope in a very visceral, intimate kind of way.  This one really could do almost anything and scrape by on sheer aesthetic quality, but I think what it does is exactly the right call.  It’s not terribly long, and I’d love to see sequels; I think it’s an interesting universe, and I’d like to see their in-universe nontraditional relationship unfold further.

* His name is Eliot, he says, and Quentin doesn’t think he knows a nicer name.  Quentin can’t stop looking at Eliot’s form, his long legs and the fabric wrapping closely against his chest; but more than that he can’t stop looking at his eyes.  Quentin remembers some cheesy quote about the eyes being the window to the soul. He thinks it might be less bullshit that he’d thought. 

Quentin watches Eliot’s eyes look him up and down, and he feels excited, and confused, and slightly nauseous.  He remembers something someone told him, recently, about how the first time they saw their soulmate, it was like being hit simultaneously with the flu and a contact high.  Quentin doesn’t feel dissimilar to that description. 

He tries to look at Eliot’s hands, his arms as they walk, but Eliot doesn’t give him a lot of time for study.  It’s presumptuous to ask someone what their soulmate mark says, most people consider it slightly personal information (with the exception of people like Julia who just give no fucks). But Quentin thinks that if Eliot has a picture, like his, he’ll be able to tell from a quick glance, and he can’t figure out a way to phrase asking that, anyway. 

He can barely contain how excited he feels as they walk, and have snippets of conversation, and his wondering grows into full-on hope.  Eliot opens a door and Quentin finally catches enough of a glimpse. It’s on the wrong side of Eliot’s arm for him to see clearly, but Quentin can definitely see a distinct letter ‘M’.  So not him, then.  *

press your love into my palm by @propinquitous

There are a lot of Mosaic stories in the fandom, many of which share the basic plot of “they have sex in the Mosaic timeline.”  And a lot of them are really good!  I picked this one because it’s a stand-out example for me; it really just picks up from the moment of That Kiss and just keeps going, so what you’re going to get is what you expect.  But I just think it’s so beautifully done, the sweet edges of humor, Quentin’s shivery, hopeful boldness, Eliot being so blown away at how much he’s sold Quentin short in his mind.  I love a story that could seamlessly be canon, and this is exactly that story -- no one can tell me it didn’t happen just like this, because I read it, and I am a believer.  Just a blue-ribbon, five-star, standing-ovation They Have Feelingsy Sex story.

* Eliot pulled him in without hesitation. In some former life he'd been embarrassed of this kind of tenderness, save for maybe with Margo. It was always in him, though, and Quentin had been tugging at its thread for years. He'd almost completely unraveled in the time they'd spent working on the mosaic; every night that Quentin spent curled against him, desperate to quell his fear and frustration, frayed his edges. By the time Quentin kissed him, Eliot felt as threadbare as the clothes he'd arrived in.

Then, after. The second kiss was less chaste, more everything else. Eliot opened his mouth against Quentin's and ran his thumb over his cheek, felt him go slack under his touch. He tested, bit at Quentin's lower lip gently and tugged at the shorter hairs toward his nape. Eliot curled his fingers over Quentin's and he could feel the slight shudder as the arm supporting Quentin buckled and threatened to give out.

"Hey," Eliot said again when he finally pulled away. He didn't sit back and he didn't take his hand from Quentin's face. Instead he breathed in Quentin's heavy exhales and leaned his forehead against his, watching and waiting until Quentin opened his eyes.

"Hey," Quentin finally whispered.

"This conversation is riveting," Eliot said. Quentin smiled then and, Eliot thought, looked almost bashful.

"Well, I mean," he managed to say before he pushed forward again and didn't stop, his mouth firm against Eliot's until he had pushed him back and straddled his lap.

"Should I keep talking?" Quentin asked, running his hands up Eliot's chest. *

Shine Through My Memory by PanBoleyn, @eidetictelekinetic

This is kind of two separate stories in one, covering all of season 4, beginning with the alternate Brian and Nigel identities as they meet and fall in love, vaguely aware that there’s more to their connection than they can make sense of, and dropping into an alternate Monster plotline.  I don’t always like s4 stories, just because -- all the reasons and all -- but this is a really good Quentin, stubborn and fierce and heartbroken, juggling for all he’s worth to keep the layered memories of Brian/Nigel and the Mosaic timeline and the current clusterfuck separate and under control before he snaps under the weight of them.  It’s a little heavy, but there’s one chapter left to go, and I’m really looking forward to the release of the ending.  You really can’t get a more balanced and sturdy combination of dark canon!fic and romantic fix-it -- it’s truly the best of both worlds.

* “Colored chalk on my hands,” Brian murmurs, tasting the vanilla-caramel-white chocolate of his latte but remembering the taste of plums instead. He doesn’t even like plums, which makes the whole thing weirder, because in this not-memory he does. “I don’t understand any of this. Tell me it’s as weird for you, because I -”  A long-fingered hand closes over his own, and Brian looks up into gold-hazel eyes that he knows/doesn’t know and sees - all of it, reflected back. “I don’t get it either,” Nigel says, voice soft. “But I think maybe I’m better at just rolling with the punches than you are, hmm?” “I don’t. Roll with, with anything,” Brian says, and his voice isn’t steady anymore. “I don’t know how, my life is a predictable bore and I like the predictable part if not the bore part. But I think you have to tolerate being bored to keep things predictable so. So I tolerate it.” Tolerates a job he hates because teaching is better than a cubicle at a 9 to 5, and because the paintings and the newly-begun manuscripts that are Brian’s only love won’t pay the bills. “I’ve dated the same woman off and on six times because neither of us care enough to say no the next time one of us is lonely enough to offer, there’s been a man or two in the off points but no one. Nothing like -”

My dreams make no sense, and I feel more in them than I’ve felt in years. It’s not something he can say out loud, though. *

Veins Fit to Bursting by @amagpie

It’s a Buffy the Vampire Slayer fusion!  It’s a REALLY GOOD SMART WONDERFUL Buffy fusion!  Everyone kind of maps onto BtVS characters in a clever way, but it’s by no means a remake -- they remain very much themselves.  BtVS is obviously deep in the DNA of The Magicians, in terms of layering worldbuilding on top of an essential bone structure of coming-of-age, and this story is just an absolute bullseye in terms of understanding that.  Quentin’s general depression encompasses but isn’t limited to his feelings of being the useless sidekick, and Eliot’s transformation from mousy nerd to the undead version of the Champagne King is not only very William/Spike, but it builds this lovely foundation of connection between him and Quentin, neither of whom are living quite the life they once imagined they would.  There’s a very quarterlife-crisis vibe to the whole thing, which is perfectly in harmony with both shows, and a light touch to the voice that suits this slightly lost Quentin perfectly -- honestly, it may be my very favorite version of Quentin’s inner voice.  It’s early days yet in this WIP, but it’s fully earned my confidence in the first few chapters, and I am 100% down for the ride.

* “Okay, so I guess you could maybe say I’m a vampire hunter. But it’s not like it’s my job or anything,” Quentin pushes out in a rush.

A slow smile spreads across Eliot’s face: scary and genuine. There seems to be real interest in his eyes. Eliot settles himself onto a bench, patting the seat next to him. Quentin settles himself on the very far end of the bench to put at least a few feet between them. He’s down for a chat, not to get murdered.

“So it’s an extracurricular?” Eliot prompts. Quentin chuckles with how close to the truth it actually is, looking away. They do have an official college club to make research sessions easier -  the Ancient Sumerian Culture Club . They have a budget and everything - which Quentin submits as treasurer - although it more often gets used for pizza and wooden pegs than flyers. 

“More like a duty. Or well, not exactly my duty.” Quentin furrows his brows. “Do you remember Julia?”

“I think so? Your friend, really tiny…?”

“Yeah, so, um, Julia is the slayer.”

Quentin looks back at Eliot to take in his reaction to the news. Eliot’s eyes widen, his hands tightening for a second on the bench beneath him. Something like pride coils up in Quentin. 

“Huh,” Eliot finally says. *

[pokeasleepingsmaug]

Mad Sweeney NSFW Alphabet

Here it is, the entire NSFW alphabet with Mad Sweeney. Tagging @alltheslashicanfind, who requested it :)

Aftercare: Mad Sweeney is many things, but tender isn’t one of them. The closest he comes is after sex in your bed, when the wildness in him is so small he seems almost tame. Sometimes he’ll hold you, but more often you end up holding him. For a being so old and powerful, vulnerable is the one thing he is sometimes that surprises you. There are times he just buries his face in your chest, his beard tickling your breasts as he wraps his arms around you. He’s seen so many mortal things waste away, he’s afraid of watching the same thing happen to you. The only thing Sweeney has ever attached himself to is his own life, and his hoard. Opening his heart to a mortal woman is something new entirely, and he hates the powerless way it makes him feel. For all his strength, for all the wild power that runs through his veins, he isn’t a god. He can’t slow the march of time. He tells himself that this was his choice, that a little heartbreak will go a long way to break up the monotony of the ages. It’s a lie even he doesn’t believe. He lays awake long after you’ve fallen asleep, his head still pillowed on your chest, listening to the steady beating of your heart. It is in those moments that he hates being immortal.

Body Part (favorite part of their body as well as their partner's): In general, Sweeney thinks he's a gift. If he had to pick just one part of his body that he loves above all others, it would be his quick, clever hands. They pluck gold from thin air, bring pain to his enemies and pleasure to his lovers. His fingers are long and blunt, his palms wide and callused. They're hard-working, honest hands, or at least as honest as a leprechaun can ever be. The arrogant bastard loves every inch of himself, but he loves his hands just a tiny bit more than the rest.

As far as his partner goes, Sweeney is a tits man. Of every shape and size, he doesn't care, he only loves to feel them in his hands. He loves the way they bounce, the way they peek out from low-cut necklines. He doesn't care if they fit easily within his palm or if they spill through his fingers, he loves them all just the same. And he's had a long, long time (and quite a few slaps across the face) to figure this out. Asses and thighs are tied for second, though.

Cum: Sweeney has a thing for seeing you swallow. Like most guys, he loves blow jobs, but he will never allow you to spit, even going so far as to hold your mouth shut to prevent it. Which would suck if you weren’t so fucking into the taste of his cum. See, it doesn’t taste like normal cum, no. It tastes like magic, and it’s a little different every time. The base tastes are always the same, but sometimes one is stronger than the other. Sometimes it’s more like sucking a gold coin, others it’s more like moonlight on mountain streams or wild woodland breezes. Sometimes the taste of rain is strong on your tongue, sometimes that’s overpowered by a taste crisp as winter in the hills. You asked him once why it tastes different every time, and he said it’s the essence of his being: gold and magic and Ireland. Once his cum tasted of blood. It was the only time he let you spit it out.

Dirty Secret: In order to have a dirty secret, you need the ability to feel shame. And when it comes to his long and epic love life, there's nothing he's ashamed about; not even that one night with the banshee and the hag. If that sounds like the beginning of a bad joke told on late nights at Irish pubs, well, it's because this night did, in fact, inspire a joke. Get enough whiskey in the wild leprechaun and he'll tell you all about it, proudly.

Experience: He's had ages and ages to practice, since the world was young and the sky clear. Sweeney would be absolutely mortified if someone doubted his ability to please a lover. Not only does he know his way around a woman's body, man's body is no mystery to him, either. He prides himself on the fact that he's able to please any lover he wants to, however they want him to do it.

Favorite Position: Having had millenia to try whatever he pleases, there is one position he keeps going back to. Sweeney loves doggy style. He loves being able to slam into his lover as hard as he pleases, he loves grabbing onto hips to really give himself leverage. He tends to be on the aggressive side when it comes to sex, and this position allows him to really be as rough as he wants.

Goofy (how serious are they in the moment?): He pulls coins out of thin air, how serious do you think he is? The answer is very serious. He'll tease you beforehand, he'll joke around with you after, but during? None of that. He has his pride to look after, can't have anything that might jeopardize his reputation as the greatest lover you've ever had. Plus, goofiness doesn't really jive with the sheer wildness of him when he takes you. He becomes something more primal, less human, during the act of lovemaking. That supernatural part of his being takes over. There is nothing funny, or sweet, or soft about him in those moments.

Hair (how well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes): Sweeney isn't particularly careful with his body hair. He doesn't trim or manscape. There's a bright red treasure trail from his navel to his crotch, the hair thick and curling. Of course it matches his hair. There's a thick patch of hair on his chest, too. He's something other than human, something a little wild, and unlike modern humans, body hair doesn't bother him. It's simply part of his body, he treats it like any other.

Intimacy (how are they during the moment, romantic aspect): Sweeney isn't romantic during sex. When those animal passions take him over, his inhuman nature becomes obvious. But after, he's a romantic. He likes sweet little things, like listening to your heartbeat and running his fingers through your hair. He's so gentle after his savage lovemaking, so much that he seems almost tame. It's like he feels the need to make up for his own wild nature. He isn't capable of being intimate while he's fucking you, but the tenderness he shows you afterward assures you of his feelings for you. He simply can't help his nature.

Jack off (masturbation headcanon): Mad Sweeney has needs, and he isn't ashamed of them. Though jacking off has nothing of the life-sustaining magic of sex, sometimes he just needs release. Unlike sex, when he masturbates it's a purely physical thing. There's nothing that becomes animal about him, nothing that makes it obvious he's a magical being. Sex sustains him, nourishes his soul and his body with that vital connection to another living being. Masturbating is none of that. It's only that sometimes his body feels hungry for strong physical sensations, and he can satisfy that himself. It always leaves him feeling hungry on a soul-deep level, though, always leaves him with an empty ache that no food nor drink, nor his own hands, can satisfy. Sometimes he does it purely out of boredom. When you've been around as long as he has, sometimes you just need something different to break the monotony of the days.

Kink (one or more of their kinks): He's a big fan of modern underthings. Mad Sweeney loves little bits of lace that really don't hide a thing, that cling to you like a second skin. He loves pulling them off with his teeth, ripping them to shreds with his hands. You're a feast for his eyes as well as his body, and those lacy little things are like the centerpiece on the table: not necessary to enjoying the meal itself, but it certainly adds a nice, elegant touch to things.

Location (favorite place to do it): Anyplace. He doesn't care about getting caught, doesn't care about any sense of propriety or shame. When he wants to do it, when he's starving for you, he'll take you anywhere. He loves to take risks, loves to do it in new places, and relishes the challenges that come with finding a new way to do the deed because of space or time constraints. Some of the places he's taken you or teased you include, but are certainly not limited to: the back of a movie theater, an alleyway behind a dive bar, in the back corner booth of a restaurant, a nature trail, the backseat of a filthy taxi, and a probably disgusting motel pool.

Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going, etc): Sometimes it seems like even Sweeney isn't sure what drives him, so it's probably something fundamental to his very being, some drive so essential to who and what he is that he can't spot it. Maybe it's magic, maybe it's life, maybe it's you. But on a more tangible level, what drives him is the reminders of your mortality, your youth compared to hisage-old life. There's a freshness to you, a spark possessed only by things that are doomed to have their life snuffed out, and he's eager to hold that spark in his hands before it extinguishes. He longs for it, sometimes, that mortality. He feels more alive, less unending, when he hears you scream for him, feels the heat radiating from the center of your being. You are so alive, so full of vitality and hope, that it's enough to crack even his cynicism sometimes.

No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs): Remember how we said earlier he has no shame? You've yet to discover anything he won't try.

Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc): While he will never pass up a blowjob, he actually prefers giving oral. He's very generous with his mouth, his warm, broad tongue and full lips. He consumes you like a feast, like the essence of your desire can actually sustain his life, like food or water. And maybe it can, even he isn't sure of it. All the both of you know is that he devours you like a starving wolf on an elk. It isn't anything he can help, the crazed way his mouth moves when he's going down on you, but it's something you would never change. If tenderness is lacking, as it always is when he's in the throes of passion, his skill makes up for it.

Pace (are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?): He's a savage, always fast and rough, not capable of anything slow or gentle. He asked you once, after, when he's capable of tenderness, of consideration, if his nature bothered you. He looked as small as someone who towers over six feet could possibly look, something that could only be fear in those flashing eyes of his. You could only shake your head and snuggle in close against his broad chest. He'd kissed your hair, brushing it back from your face, and only held you . “I promise I can try to be less.... Leprechaun, if that's what you want,” he'd rasped, gentle fingers on your chin tilting your head back to look into your eyes. “You wouldn't be you if you did that,” you'd told him, pressing your nose against his with a grin. Now that he knows it doesn't bother you, that less human side of him, he doesn't hold back on teasing you, on touching you whenever he pleases.

Quickie (their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc): Sweeney has no qualms with quickies, and in fact, sometimes the inhuman part of him gives him very little choice about that. When he gets too aroused, he struggles to hold himself back. It's much easier just to give in, to push you against the nearest wall and let his instincts take over. He can hold himself back, he can resist, but it seems to sap the strength right out of him. Sweeney loves quickies, but he treats them more like an appetizer than a full feast. They're merely a taste of what's to come. As soon as he succumbs and slides into you, you know that soon he'll be throwing you onto the bed, covering your body with a growl, and losing himself to the magic of lovemaking.

Risk (are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc): Sweeney is old so yeah, he’s definitely down to take some risks. As a matter of fact, he loves to switch things up. New places are always good, and he actually loves to take you in places where there’s a risk of getting caught. From fingering you in the back of a movie theater (he hates movies anyway, doesn’t see the point in them apart from this movie-related activity) to slamming you against the wall in the bathroom of a dive bar and everything in between. A particular favorite is grabbing your hand and guiding it to his throbbing cock under the table of a restaurant. He’s a leprechaun, dammit, he lives for the thrill of avoiding being caught. That extends to his sexual appetites. Whenever someone thinks they’ve caught you and they come rushing up to bust you and kick you out, all he does is give them a smug, lazy grin while you’re sitting there just trying to control your breathing. They always leave, shooting dark glances at you because they can’t prove anything, they didn’t catch you, but they just know. All in all, Sweeney’s a pretty crazy guy. How do you think he came to be called Mad in the first place?

Stamina (how many rounds can they go for, how long do they last) : Sweeney can go for a long time without sex, but to make up for that he seems to need marathons of it. There was a time you once went months without seeing him–he was busy doing whatever it is leprechauns do. But when he showed up at your doorstep, bloody and disheveled, he silenced your cry with a kiss that stole your breath away. He picked you up easily into his arms, closed the door behind you with his foot, and carried you down the hall to your bedroom. That night…. That night still overwhelmed you to think about it. He dropped you onto the bed and fell on you like a starving wolf on its kill, and he didn’t sop until the midmorning sun was bright and golden through the curtains.

On a night like that one, Sweeney is insatiable, he stops only when you beg for a break. Even on a normal night–one where you’ve been seeing him pretty regularly, Sweeney’s stamina is impressive. On those nights when he doesn’t seem to need it to survive, he stops when you’re sated and sleepy beside him, with an arrogant little smirk that leaves no doubts in your mind he could love you much longer, if you want him. Sometimes on those nights, you surprise him by rubbing him in the middle of the night, feeling his cock harden beneath your hand as he ruts against your palm. When he’s fully awake he rolls over onto you and sinks into you with a satisfied, sleepy little grunt, and seldom lets you sleep again until the first birds start singing.

Toys (do they own any toys, do they use them on a partner or themselves?): He doesn't own any toys himself, but he's never opposed to you bringing them along. He's particularly fond of your vibrator. He loves the sounds it draws from you, smirks wickedly down at you like some pagan devil as you're moaning. There are even some times when he wants to increase his own anticipation, deny himself the satisfaction of taking you, and when that's what he wants, he always asks you to bring the vibrator to bed. You're always happy to oblige. He was clumsy with it at first, but he's gotten the hang of it now, and he loves to use it on you. You love to watch the flashing of his eyes, the wolfish smile he gives you, and hear the growls and moans that simply watching you come can give him.

Sometimes he plays around with his own magic, too, making coins appear in your mouth and sucking them from you with his own. Running the cool, rounded edge along your skin, watching the goosebumps that rise in its wake. Sometimes he'll hold a coin between two fingers while he pumps them into you, and you have to admit that the coolness, the strange shape, is a surprisingly intense feeling. You never did like coin tricks until Sweeney came along.

Unfair (how much do they like to tease): When he’s in a mood that can only be described as playful or mischievous, Sweeney is an absolutely insane tease. He loves to see you squirm and pant, loves the way he can soak you by barely even touching you. His eyes always glint with amusement, a cocky little smirk on his face. He loves to see just how badly you want him, and your begging is music to his ears. He’s a filthy talker, whispering positively unholy things into your ear in public places, quickly squeezing your ass when he’s mostly sure no one is looking, sometimes even guiding your hand to palm his cock through his pants just to hear you whine from how badly you want him. He never makes you suffer for too long, though, because when he’s teasing it’s really just him warming you up for what’s to come–and he is definitely not above taking you in a place where you might get caught.

Volume (how loud are they, what sounds do they make?) Even when it’s in a place you could easily be caught, the madman can’t seem to be fucking quiet. He’s always gasping and moaning, although to his credit he’s at least quieter in public than in your bed. In your bed though, when he doesn’t have to hold back, it’s another story entirely. It’s still the gasping and moaning, but now you also get loud curses and Gaelic shouts of encouragement, he tends to slip back into the old language in the throes of passion. “tá, díreach mar sin” (yes, just like that), “coinnigh” (keep going). He switches between gaelic endearments and encouragements and modern English curses, claiming nó other word is quite so satisfying as “fuck.”

Wild card: Sweeney once told you it was his fantasy to take you in the woods, in the middle of a fairy ring. He was half-asleep when he told you that, and he didn't seem to remember mentioning it when he woke up. He was shocked, though, and delighted, the day you took his hand and led him deep into the woods. You'd spent days searching for one, and as soon as you'd found one, you knew you had to fulfill this fantasy for him. You weren't sure why this, of all things, was the one he dreamed of above all else.

He was quick to get you completely bare before him, but his hands were slow and gentle as he explored every inch of your skin. “They've magic in them, a muirnin, fairy rings do,” he murmured, his lips brushing over your neck. “They bind magic. I'll be able to be more, ah, gentle,” he continued, running his nose along your collarbone, his bright green eyes slowly closing. His thrust is long and slow as he sinks into you. It's the only time you get a glimpse of what he would be like as a human lover. There are days you long for that tenderness, but your longing for the mad leprechaun is stronger. You never search for a fairy ring again.

X-ray (what's going on in those pants?): He's a tall, broad man, with a cock that doesn't disappoint. His hair is thick and curly, the same wild red as his hair. He's every bit as proud and thick as you'd expect, with skin like flower petals that glows like gold in firelight in the right lighting. It only furthers your belief that for him there's something magical, something essential to his life, about sex. If that were untrue, why would his cock glimmer like a newly-minted coin?

Yearning (how high is their sex drive?): He can go a long time without it—he is immortal, after all, he doesn’t need much of anything to survive. That doesn’t mean his drive is low by any stretch, all it means is that he can push aside his desire to accomplish what he’s set out to do. But when it’s done and he finally has the time to satisfy himself, he’ll keep you up all night long. You aren’t sure if sex has the ability to sustain him, but he sure acts like he needs it to live. You imagine Sweeney loving you is like the way a camel drinks before a desert journey: they take all that they’ll need to make it to the next oasis, storing it away in the meantime so they can draw on their excess to sustain themselves. Certainly every time he sees you, he keeps you up until the wee hours of the morning, taking and taking all that you have to give. He loves you like a man dying of thirst, and you’re the only water he’s had for days.

ZZZ (how quickly does he fall asleep after?) He doesn't. Even if he's been loving you all night, like he does fairly regularly, he can't fall asleep soon after. It takes some time for the magic in his blood to relax, some time for him to be able to ignore the call of your body. And then once those things subside into something bearable, there's a terrible weight in his chest. He watches the rise and fall of your breathing, feels your heart beating beneath his cheek, and knows that someday you will cease to be, and he will continue in his endless existence without you. Nothing can chase these thoughts from him, nothing but your sleepy eyes and the way your fingers slide across his skin when you wake up. You sometimes wonder if he sleeps at all some nights.

[the-everqueen]

oh also! when Alex said he was "gone that one year" in the last ficlet, what was he referring to?

for reference, that’s this fic. i could have given a short answer, but instead y’all get the long and Sad one. fair warning: this is the Bad Summer. heed the tags.

Coming onstage to scattered applause, Alex bows to the dozen or so students and teachers in the audience before he takes his seat and launches into the Rachmaninov.

His mind wanders while he plays. A new trick, something to keep him from smashing the keys and screaming endlessly during lessons with Jefferson, or these masterclasses, one after another, people picking apart his every gesture. Crescendo more in measure ninety-two, don’t flick your eyes at that point, listen to the tone listen to the tone listen to the damn tone, as though the quality of that particular B-sharp will make or break his entire performance. As though they would care if it did.

He thinks of Eliza, always. Her lilac perfume, the saucy curve of her mouth, the softness of her skin at vital  points - throat, wrist, hip - and her voice going high and breathless when she comes. Maybe the tenderness he feels for her will come through the music, where he feels nothing. Like masturbation: get off on a fantasy. Except these days Alex can’t even find release; performing always leaves him drained, chasing the ghost of a feeling.

He should be with Eliza, he thinks, as he moves into the agitato section. Last summer she brought him to stay with her family at their lake house: the two weeks are a warm haze in his memory, full of her and lemonade and sun on the water. If he were there now, he would play for her: mess around on the Schuyler piano and write silly lyrics for her to sing along.

Instead he is here, at the Aspen Summer Music Festival. Because he needs the connections, because Jefferson told him it wasn’t optional. A nine-week carnival of masterclasses and seminars and recitals. Alex hasn’t stopped playing since the first day.

He is so tired.

He finishes the piece. Drops his hands into his lap. The guest pianist - someone famous from Peabody or Colburn, Alex doesn’t care - comes around to him and starts into his critique. What is your intent for this piece? How long have you been working on it? The usual questions and Alex gives short answers or non-committal grunts. Just let him go, send him offstage, shut up shut up shut up -

“Good work,” the guy tells him, and Alex escapes back into the audience.

He takes an aisle seat, next to a girl hunched over a black binder. IMSLP, he thinks, free sheet music online - the go-to for broke students like him. Jefferson hates the loose pages, so Alex had to sacrifice a hundred bucks for Urtext editions. At least he took first at that one competition; the prize money meant he could afford express shipping.

The next victim appears onstage. Alex leans over to the girl and murmurs, “You playing for this thing?”

She gives a tight nod, slides the binder over so he can see the score. Brahms sonata, F minor. Huge chords and leaps, but her long, narrow fingers ghost the plastic-protected page and he knows she doesn’t have any trouble reaching. The score is almost obliterated by pencil markings: jagged cursive spells out note names, circles dynamics, and - most of it is this - fragments of sentences, including what might be a Yeats reference and the words “like Orfeo descending to Hell.”

She’s watching him. Something about her feels familiar, the wariness in her eyes, the way she chews on her lower lip, a nervous tick.  

He hands back the binder. “You’re going to be fine. Mercer - you’ve seen him - he gets excited but there’s not really any substance. No reason to be nervous.”

She doesn’t smile, exactly, but her mouth turns up at one corner. "Thanks.”

When it’s her turn, Alex claps loudly. The masterclass is an informal event, but she’s wearing a red sundress that shows her bare legs and shoulders. Her loose curls slip from their ponytail, brushing the nape of her neck.

Alex tries not to stare.

She catches his eye as she bows to the audience, and he gives her his best encouraging smile.

She’s talented. Everyone here is, but she stands out. Her selection - the third movement, the Intermezzo - and her interpretation. It’s dark and harsh, a strange characterization of a transient movement; but then he remembers the last movement is a furious rondo, and the falling melodic line feels like a moment taken out of context, raw and inexplicable. While Mercer drones on about function and form, Alex digs through his messenger bag for the program, finds the girl’s name.

Maria Lewis.

Mercer gives her some vague suggestion and ends the class. Alex stands as Maria comes back for her purse.

“That was incredible.”

"It isn’t right yet. Almost there, but…” She shrugs.

"What are you going for? I mean, not like that, everyone asks that, but to me it sounded… Tragic.  Not sad, but - Shakespeare. You see the ending coming but you’re powerless to stop it.”

She stares at him.

Alex hasn’t rambled about music since Kings. Jefferson hates it, has rules about comments in forum. Everything written, two criticisms, one compliment. Alex used to cram his index card with tiny script, trying to get it all down despite the restrictions, but Jefferson called him out so many times it didn’t seem worth it after a while. Let Callander be sloppy. Let Madison be dry and inexpressive. Focus on your own rep.

He forgot he liked talking about music.

Maria probably thinks he’s a freak, though, so he opens his mouth to apologize.

She beats him to it. “That’s how I hear it, too.”

And that confirmation is the release he’s been craving. The words pour out of him, like she nicked an artery. "I think all Brahms is tragic, maybe because the dude had such a sad life - I mean, his best friend died in an asylum, Clara rejected him - but this sonata is another level. It’s like a symphony - you know how he idolized Beethoven? Tried achieve that legacy? But the piano is too limited, too intimate for a public statement and the F minor feels like it’s trying to crawl out of its skin. Wants to be something it can’t be.”

He keeps going, on and on, his hands making broad gestures, and he’s aware he is close to her, enough to see the green flecks in her eyes, the slight swell where her breasts curve above the neckline of her dress. He stops mid-sentence, distracted, and swallows.

She tilts her head, considering. “Could you maybe help me with the second page? I’m having trouble with voicing.”

“Yes,” he says immediately, and then backtracks. “I mean, not right now, I’m supposed to rehearse Shostakovich with Will, but tonight? You’re at the Federalist hotel, right? I think they put all of us on the same floor, trying to contain the musicians. Anyway, there’s a piano in the ballroom. It’s private, but bigger - more open than a practice room. Less claustrophobic.”

She nods. “Sounds good.”

He grins, relieved. "Maybe you can give me some ideas for the Rach.”

That gets a real smile out of her. Her eyes light up, the corners creased with amusement. “Oh. I had some thoughts about that.”

“I want to hear them.”

***

Eliza calls after the rehearsal, while he’s walking back to the hotel.

“Alexander,” she says, and something in him realigns, like a compass pointing north. “How was your day?”

The masterclass springs to mind, Maria and the tiny thaw he felt, the promise of spring after an eternal winter. But that seems wrong to mention, for reasons he can’t explain, so he says instead, “Will and I rehearsed the Shostakovich. First time run through, and he can’t sight read to save his life. I don’t even know how he’s getting his master’s in piano, he could play better with his feet.”

He meant to be funny, but she doesn’t laugh. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

“I miss you.” It bursts out of him. “I shouldn’t have come here, I should have told him no…”

“I miss you, too. But we’ll have other summers. And it’s just one more year.”

"Yeah.” He sighs. He hasn’t told her, how bad it’s been, though she must be able to tell. She always knows. “Tell me about your day. Please. Just talk.”

She does. Describes the aria she’s working on, tells him the funny things her students said in their lessons, muses over her theme for their recital. Any other day her voice would be a comfort, but today it just makes his skin crawl with want. He presses the phone closer to his ear. Maybe if he tries, really tries, he can reach through and she’ll touch him and everything will be fine.

He gets to the hotel as she concludes her day. There’s a pause, and then: “Mom and Dad want you to come over for Thanksgiving. I know you couldn’t last year, but…”

"I wanted to, Eliza, believe me.”

"I know,” she soothes. “And if you can’t, it’s fine. I just don’t want you to be alone. Also Mom insists you need her pie, says you could stand to gain some weight.

He breathes a laugh; it sounds more like a sob. "I’m fine.”

“You haven’t had dinner, have you?”

“It’s been a long day -”

“How many Red Bulls?”

“Just two, I’m fine.”

“Alexander.”

He steps inside the lobby. Maria sees him and starts walking over. “Eliza, I have another rehearsal, last minute. I promise I’ll eat something.”

“Dinner! If it’s from a vending machine it doesn’t count.” Her voice softens. “I love you.”

“I’ll call you in the morning.”

He hangs up as Maria joins him. "So, the ballroom is down this hall - found it on the first day when I needed some practice time and the kids in the music building wouldn’t stop their pissing contests. I guess they use it for big events but the festival has taken over so no one wants to book the space. Anyway, the staff don’t mind.”

He pushes open the double doors to reveal a spacious room with rows of chandeliers and linen-draped tables. The piano stands on a raised platform at the far end, a full sized concert grand, sleek and black and sexier than a sports car. He runs his hand over the inner curve and pushes up the lid.

“Might as well hear it,” he mutters.

Maria pulls out her score.

“You don’t need that.”

“But -”

“You can’t even see the music anymore. And the words are inside you.” He pulls a fold-up chair next to the piano. “Just start. Wherever you want.”

She’s tense, her shoulders rounded and her thighs clenching, visible as her dress rides up against the edge of the bench. She has to pause a few measures in. “Sorry.”

He bumps his knee against hers. “It’s just me. We’re peers.” A thought occurs to him. “You’re an undergrad?”

"Junior. Well, senior. In the fall.”

“Ah.” Beat. “You know, this is a hard piece -”

“Look, just because I didn’t go to Julliard or Kings doesn’t mean I can’t play piano. I’m here, aren’t I?” She inhales sharply through her nose. “Sorry.”

"It’s fine. I didn’t mean to - I came to the states on scholarships. No real training. So I get it, feeling like you’re on the outside.”

She closes her eyes. Rubs a bruise on her knee. "Yeah.”

“Do you want to try again? Maybe a different section?”

“Yeah.” She readjusts her skirt.

The second time is better. Alex can’t sit down: he walks around while she plays, and at one point he takes her hand - “try it like this” - and she tenses before she eases into it. He’s tactile, he likes demonstrations, and he poses her shoulders, her arms, her fingers, making adjustments to get the desired sound. She lets him, watching from under her long lashes.

He talks the entire time, explaining techniques Washington taught him and going on a tangent about the knock of fate motif in Beethoven. Maria is a fast learner: she makes changes after one or two tries, intuits meaning out of his rapid-fire nonsense. They go back to the first movement. She slams into the opening chords, making the piano shake with her force, and something uncoils in Alex’s stomach. He moves closer, talking faster, louder. A siren blares in the back of his mind, but he ignores it - the noise drowns out the darker voice that’s always there, worse since he left Kings, the one telling him you shouldn’t even be here.

He’s leaning over her shoulder, pointing out a note in her score, when she kisses him.

He goes still.

She flushes. "Was that not -”

In response, he presses her against the keyboard, mouth on hers. She makes a startled sound, moans as he deepens the kiss. She bites his lip, hard - good, yes, pain, make him hurt, he deserves it, he can take it - and his hands fumble at the back of her dress, grasping for the zipper.

“Table,” she gasps.

He swings her from the bench, takes her over one of the banquet tables. Her hands tug at his jeans; he abandons the zipper and hitches up her skirt. Lips, tongue, teeth - no thought, his brain finally finally quiet, all his focus on the white heat in his body and the sounds coming out of Maria’s bared throat.

Minutes later they’re back in their clothes, hair messy and mouths wet. It’s fine, he tells himself, nobody needs to know, they just have to make it to their rooms, it’s fine.

He doesn’t look at her.

Maria gathers her things. “I’m in room 791. In case you want to go over the Rach.”

She says it with a straight face. As though it would be perfectly acceptable for them to discuss the prelude and nothing else. Just two lonely people finding release. In the music, in each other.  

He should say no. The guilt is coming, too late - you bastard, you cheated on her, Eliza Eliza Eliza. He needs to make this right. Confess, apologize.

He should say no, but he doesn’t. Not that night, not any other night that summer.