#It's also on ao3 if that's easier to read

[olderthannetfic]

For AO3 readers, MUTING is the solution to a problem they may not have come across yet.

I just thought of an extremely functional solution for a problem with AI fanfiction that a friend of mine shared her worries about. You see, she was particularly worried that her experience as a browser and reader of fanfiction will start to decline as AI fanfiction starts clogging the Sort By Recent filter on AO3.

Ok, so it didn't occur to me right away, and that is why I think it justifies this long anon post, but I just remembered that AO3 already has a tool to help you weed out low effort sludge that I have successfully used even prior to the increase in AI works. It does require people to be logged in though.

The solution is Muting, which has been around since 2023. I've even used it before for specifically this precise problem. There is a particular rare pair I like, but the primary producer of fics for that pair is one very prolific author whose fics are egregiously low quality. Like, the author even admitted that she frequently just find and replaces the names of the characters when she moves on to a new fandom.

After muting her, it about halved the number of fics in that tag, which was great, because it relieved me of an irritation and also allowed me to find other works. Muting folk who post AI generated works will have the same effect.

Why this will work: The main problem with AI fics is not that they are low quality, after all low quality fics have always existed - it's that they are both low quality and trivial to produce. Therefore, even one person who feels entitled to produce ai fanfiction could easily flood any particular tag with their works. But each time you mute an ai producer for one bad fic, you will end up removing all of their fics from your view, in any of your tags and fandoms. With a little weeding and upkeep, you should be able to browse contentedly as you always have.

Problem: Not all AI fics are tagged as such. How do you tell if a fic is AI?

The hallmark of a fanfiction author who generates stories with AI will be that they are prolific producers of low quality works. Why? because generating stories with ai is easy. It is much easier to generate a bad story with AI than it is to write a bad story without it. Therefore a person who uses AI to generate fics will have a lot of works.

The problem of false positives. What if you mute an author who is just bad right now but could improve?

My friend, if a person is already a prolific author of bad quality fiction, and they haven't gotten better yet, they probably will not improve to your standards ever. So you haven't lost anything by muting them. The goal here isn't to name and blame people who use AI - it's to make your own personal browsing experience better.

The problem of false negatives: What if you read a story and didn't realize it was generated using AI because it was good and you enjoyed it? You read something that you enjoyed on AO3 for free. This is not a problem.

You can find the mute button on AO3 by clicking the authors name. It will be in the same line as subscribe and block.

--

[inc0mple]

🗝️ ”Keys Are People, Too” 100 Chapter Q&A ⭐️ (ongoing!)

(Last edit: 12/20 10:40 CST)

Hi! :) If y’all don’t know me my name is Inco (it’s not but shh) and I write a fanfiction for Cinderella Boy called Keys Are People, Too. It’s not finished, it’s ongoing and rapidly approaching 100 chapters XD (yes we are like four chapters away but shh rounding) (I PROMISE WE’RE ALMOST TO THE LAST ACT). So because of an ask from @isitamia and, we’ll say the 100 chapter milestone… tada Q&A??

I don’t know how many people are going to engage with this but that’s totally okay :) I love ranting about stuff and I’ve put a lot of thought into this story, so it would be cool to have an outlet to answer some questions where they don’t get forgotten in AO3 comments. And if you guys also have general questions about writing advice/things like that, I am not an expert but I do also like talking about stories.

So please ask! I’m not planning to close this at any specific time—I was thinking y’all could comment questions under this post or via reblogs (I might miss them in reblogs though) and I will edit this post to answer them, and also reply to you so you know your question is answered. This might get like 10 notes and that’s fine haha (I have zero idea how many people regularly read my story beyond the ones who leave comments), but if there are a lot of questions I’ll try to categorize them. Really just a place to drop info for fun :)

Q&A below ⬇️

I tried to make it organized. It's... kind of organized. Kind of.

Plot/Characters

"What key archetype isn't one of the siblings? Do we get to know their archetypes soon?" asked by @spookieee28 12/20

I'm not gonna say the archetypes at this point in time because it risks spoilers. You will find out by the end of the story and hopefully by that points all of the archetypes should be relatively clear. Some have already been mentioned like the chapter "Heralds and Thieves" for Jade and Cooper, I think (?) Cora has been mentioned as the Innocent archetype, etcetera.

"Which character do you struggle writing the most and which feels easier for you, if you have preferences?" asked by @isitamia 12/20

"Do you ever struggle with keeping Cinderella Boy's canon characters in character?" asked by @isitamia 12/20

I'll answer both of these together. Chase is pretty easy for me because I just channel chaotic gremlin energy and it seems to work. Buddy is OKAY although I am struggling right now making him vulnerable while still retaining him Buddy-ish-ness if that makes sense? Deacon is just Deacon... I am sorry, I feel like I don't really do anything to characterize him, he's just there as a sounding board XD I will say- I daydream situations for CB ALL THE TIME which gives me a lot of comfortability with the canon characters and considering what they would do and say and how they would react. I do have a little bit of difficulty characterizing the human keys so I just kinda went like "oh WELL that's because, UUHHHH, the key siblings don't match the keys exactly! That's it that's the answer!" because I felt like Silver wasn't quite Silver-ish and stuff. As for struggling writing the most I have two main answers.

BRONTE. For those who maybe haven't read this but are scrolling through it anyway, or aren't there yet, Bronte is the "human" version of Bronze and I kinda accidentally eliminated him from the story until like... the 80th chapte ror something like that. I had a lot of trouble actually writing his dialogue and scenes with Chase. It just did not have Bronze's snarky energy. So that was tough and I feel bad because I really feel like I did not do him justice :c

DUKE RAVENELL!!!!!! Ravenell hates me. He gives me so much trouble primarily because I just plunked him in at the beginning and didn't give him a real personality beyond a few vague notions. I've really had to sculpt his character as I went and it's especially difficult because Ravenell is intended to do a lot of plot device-ing. He perpetuates a lot of themes in the story and he is a HUGE character foil to Chase, because he often reflects the opposite of Chase's (and Idonea's) values and intentions. I want him to be morally grey and I am constantly fighting a BATTLE with this man to make sure he isn't too likeable or too hateable. I posted on Tumblr like a week ago really just asking for a diagnostic and the response made my day because people are all OVER the place about this man, some people love him, some will never forgive him, some are like "he's alright but there's something off about him and I can't help but distrust him" and others are like "I know he keeps making mistakes but I can't help but trust him" and I LOVE IT. Fortunately I think he's finally in a place perception-wise where I want him. I want the confusion. So badly. Only now I have to continue to fight this stupid tug-o'-war to keep him properly dividing until the end of the story XD

Behind the scenes

"How did you come up with the plot for KAPT? Was it just a little thought that popped up in your head one day, or did you have like inspiration or something?" asked by @xcitrix 12/20

"Did you have an idea for how you wanted the story to end when you first started writing or did you come up with more ideas while working on it?" asked by @lapileaf 12/20

I'mma answer both of these (and any others if they are asked) in kinda the same go if that's alright. In August I was wanting to write some fanfiction for CB, and one idea rotating in my head was, what if Chase went into a nonfiction book? Like he thought it the most effective way to study for a history project, or he saw a mention of Ex Libris, or something. So, completely directionless, I drabbled out the first chapter of KAPT where they find the book in the museum and... adopt it. And then it sat there in my Google Docs for like two weeks while I worked on a different fanfiction, Violets and Chains. I tried to return to it a little bit and got through the first anthology chapter where they're in the Chartesia battle, but that too did not have a plot behind it, I was like "myeh... trebuchets... uh... and now there's a guy... oh maybe they're PRISONERS..." And then brain did not work and I gave up. Eventually got myself together, BS-ed the rest of the scene, and then sat down and essentially ranted to myself about potential ideas until I figured out the plot.

More ideas have kept cropping up as I've worked on it. There are certain puzzle pieces that are foreshadowed in even teh first ten chapters that I didn't even mean to foreshadow because I hadn't thought of the yet - the plot was generally mapped out but has defintely been refined and added to as time goes on. Eventually you get into the flow of a story and everything just starts clicking into place, like you yourself are theorizing about an external work. Keep in mind that because I am publishing it as I write each chapter, KAPT is a first draft, and I have to hatch out plot points and main parts of the story as I write and make my best effort to recover any loose threads or things like that. It's a fun exercise!

"Do you plan to stick to the story you have already till the end or is there a possiblity you'll have to change some things if we get to know more about canon Ex Libris/Buddy lore while it's still ongoing?" asked by @iwikpines 12/20

There are some new bits of information that are kinda iffy for KAPT, but ultimately because KAPT takes place inside a book most of the Buddy/Ex Libris lore is not applicable. Regarding Buddy's situation I am going to go ahead like I was planning to originally, and I'll add a disclaimer when time permits. I don't think either way throws a wrench in the plans too much but I would rather be confident in the themes I've already set up as opposed to trying to hastily recover new lore in the last third of the story, if that makes sense.

"How did you come up with your ocs? I know some, like Jaime, come from another original story of yours ... but what about characters like Ravenell, Galeus, and Rose? What inspired you? How did you decide their personaltiy, their struggles? Did you take inspiration from yourself for anyone, similar to how Punko took inspiration from herself for Chase? Do you follow any specific process to come up with ocs, like follow a list, scheme, or coming up with hypothetical scneraios?" asked by @isitamia 12/20

A lot of the characters are cameos from a passion project I've been working on for years called IFI (no I will not tell you what it stands for) - Jaime and emma are from there, as well as several others including Alexei, Nishan, Mattheo, Kelitia, Indie (the Marchioness), King Aarius, and King Olivyn. So those are just plunked in and then Jaime decided to become part of the plot. As for the other original characters made specifically for KAPT, they just kinda got plopped in for one reason or another (I wanted Rose to connect to the Chartesia lore, Ravenell to have a foil for Chase, and Galeus because, well, there had to be a king) and then I slowly worked to build connections, themes, and character. Often times I don't specifically sit down and think "this character will be this way", it just emerges naturally from their dialogue, like I'm chiseling something out that was already in the stone like an archeologist, as opposed to carving my own new sculpture. I've always written that way and it makes it difficult when I am required to add structure to my writing or explain why I do things the way I do. I will say it is all VERY inspired from my own life and beliefs; Rose exists as a confidante in the story, and many of her more preachy dialogue pieces are things I'm getting out of my system. So yeah, not really a lot of structure to it, they just appear... and I figure them out as I go... most of my characters are in some way facets of myself or the way I percieve life. As I get more experienced with writing I'm sure I'll be more intentional with them, but for now, they are Athena and I am Zeus.

"How do you post daily" (kind of) asked by @isitamia 12/20

To give an actual answer for this because I know it's a lot to post a 2-4k chapter PER DAY - I am a student and have a LOT of downtime in class where I can't really do anything but write. That is how. Also, I have taught myself to be a prolific writer because that is the thing in my life I can always rely on when other things are unstable.

"How did you extend the story so far? I love the plot and it's kinda insane how you were able to develop it so much, at this point it's a full novel and I kinda live for it LOL. Also how long would you consider one act?" asked by @shyve3 12/20

Two parts to this question, I will answer them both;

I didn't mean to. I am really bad about being concise; I can't. When I write and get passionate about a story there's so much I want to stay and I can rarely fit it into what most people consider a pallatable length. I just get going and... idk... unstoppable force or something lol. And yes KAPT is at least the length of a typical trilogy XD ITS BEEN FIVE MONTHS

Regarding the act question, I ORIGINALLY said KAPT would be three acts, with the first ending when Chase goes down into Rose's "tomb" for the first time, the second ending with the Bronte part, and the third being the final one. It is actually more like four now, with the "second" act split into two at the masquerade ball. We are so close to being onto the actual final act, which should be a 4th of the total fic, so we have maybe 30 chapters left (?) (we'll see lol)

I don't have a specific length, it's just the way the story tends to ebb and flow if that makes sense?

General stuff

"Do you have any advice as a writer?" asked by @iwikpines 12/20

I AM SO BAD ABOUT THIS because I really do just go type type type and words appear. I know there's more to it than that but I've spent a lot of time writing and not a lot of time learning how to write so I have the experience without the actual education behind it. Write what you care about :) I mean NO DUH but like - your best stories will come from the heart. You will find prolificness (is that a word?) in PASSION. If I didn't care about Cinderella Boy or the themes I'm trying to communicate in KAPT would I spent my days writing a chapter a day ABSOLUTELY FRIGGIN NOT I'd be writing a different story. So yeah - write what you love and your audience will find you. What the world needs is a buncha people doing what they love really well because it's what they care about. Also, I didn't include your full comment here, but I am excited to read your fanfiction! <3 Please post it on Tumblr when you also post it elsewhere!

[04thz]

Migraines - an Analogical oneshot

Logan's had issues with migraines for a long time, but never told the other sides about it. During a particularly bad one, Virgil comes to check on him.

Mild TW for mentioned vomit/throwing up - this is based on my own experience with migraines, and I basically always end up puking so Logan does now too lmao

Word count: 2444

Also! Just a quick FYI, I have an AO3 now! This one and the two NaruMitsu fics I made recently have been posted there. Will potentially move my older fics there as well, so in case anyone wants to read more of my writing without having to scroll through the wall of random that is my blog, I am 04thz on there as well. Anyways, enjoy the fluff lol

It was just one of those days. Hardly the first Logan had dealt with, but they never got any easier. He squeezed his eyes shut as another jolt of pain went through his skull and rolled over in bed to face the wall, where less of the light creeping in under the door could reach him. The movement caused a swell of nausea, and he forced himself to take a few deep breaths to suppress the urge to vomit, pulling the marine blue duvet up to further cover himself. 

God, he hated migraines. Tension headaches weren’t all that uncommon for the logical side, nor were caffeine headaches, but those were usually manageable with water and a couple painkillers, and if nothing else he could at least work through the more subdued pain. Whenever he felt a migraine coming on, that was it for the rest of the day, he would most likely not be getting anything else done until it was over. If he was lucky, the pain would be gone within a few hours and/or after a quick nap, but sometimes – like today – he’d wake up with a dull ache radiating out from one or both temples, which would steadily worsen over the course of the day, until it felt like one side of his head was being repeatedly wacked with a sledgehammer. And as if the throbbing pain weren’t bad enough, it was more often than not accompanied by crippling sensitivity to both light and sound, full-body chills, and such intense nausea it was nearly impossible to move without throwing up.  

Logan never told any of the other sides about his problem. Not only did he not want to appear weak, but also as long as he kept up with his work it was unlikely they’d think it odd that he'd stay couped up in his room for a day or two every once in a while; that was hardly unusual for him anyhow. Besides, it’s not like they could help with his predicament, actually there was all likelihood they’d make it worse. When he felt the aura of an oncoming migraine, he’d simply excuse himself from any social situation and bunker down in his room with a water bottle, painkillers, and a large bucket, in case he’d fail to quash the relentless waves of nausea. This time there hadn’t been any social situations to excuse himself from; he never even made it out of bed, much less out of the room. After trying and failing to go back to sleep to avoid the issue all together, he’d simply taken a pill and steeled himself for the dreadful day ahead.  

He’d managed to eat a couple bites of the breakfast he summoned for himself, and even done some reading before the gnawing ache became too intense to focus on anything else. But when it came time for lunch, he’d barely gotten the first mouthful down before it violently came back up, along with his breakfast. With throat burning and eyes running, Logan was forced to admit defeat, and he’d spent the next few hours subsisting on small sips of water, while trying to block out what little light seeped into the room and willing the day to just be over already.  

It was in this state that Virgil found him that afternoon. The alarm clock on Logan’s nightstand read 17:15 when he heard soft footsteps in the corridor outside. The three quick knocks on the door weren’t loud, but nonetheless agonizing, and Logan had to grit his teeth to suppress a pitiful whimper that threatened to escape his still sore throat.  

“L? You in there?” 

Logan sighed and tried his best to keep his voice steady. 

“Yes, Virge, I’m here. What is it?” 

The brief reply had sounded more abrasive than intended, and a minute passed in silence before a hesitant question came through. 

“Can I come in?” 

Logan took a deep breath and weighed for and against before turning back towards the door. 

“Yes, you may, just... please keep your voice down.” 

The door was slowly pushed open and Logan had to put his hands up to cover his eyes as the room was suddenly illuminated by the bright light spilling in from the hallway. Virgil stepped into the room, hands buried deeply in the pockets of his hoodie and shoulders pulled up; Logan’s blunt manner had clearly put him a bit on edge. Logan pressed his hands against his face. 

“Shut the door, please...” 

Virgil used his foot to push the door shut and Logan sighed with relief as the room was once again shrouded in blissful darkness. He lowered his hands and pulled the covers tighter around himself. Virgil leaned against the door, looking at him uncertainly as his eyes quickly adjusted to the dark. 

“Everything okay? Haven’t heard from you all day, and you don’t look so good.”, he said quietly. 

‘Not so good’ was rather an understatement. Logan had caught glances of himself in mirrors on better days and knew all too well he must look terrible; pale and shivering, hair a mess, eyes hazy, these kinds of days typically made him look like he was half-way to the grave. Not to mention his pajamas – consisting of indigo flannel bottoms and an old, faded Doctor Who t-shirt – were in desperate need of a wash. Reluctantly he reached for his glasses, sliding them on and looking at Virgil tiredly, though he could hardly make out more than a silhouette. 

“I have a migraine. Nothing to worry about, just... highly unpleasant.” 

The last two words came out as a sigh. Virgil tilted his head, taking a step towards the bed. 

“Oh, I see.” 

He slowly made his way over, pausing for a second and wrinkling his nose as he was hit by the rancid smell from the bucket on the floor. He looked at Logan, who wearily motioned for him to sit down on the bed. Virgil carefully sat down at the edge of the bed and started fidgeting with the drawstrings on his hoodie. They sat in silence for a while, until Virgil started finding it intolerable and softly spoke up. 

“Do you uh... need anything? Like an ice pack or something?” 

Logan went to decline the offer, mostly wanting to be left alone, but stopped himself. 

“That... would be great actually.” 

Virgil nodded, summoning an ice pack and a small towel, handing them to Logan. 

“Thank you, Virgil.” 

He gingerly placed his glasses back on the nightstand before laying the towel over his forehead and placing the ice pack on the side of his head that was throbbing the worst. He exhaled slowly, finally feeling some blessed relief as the chill of the ice somewhat dulled the burning pain. Virgil watched him, a small smile creeping onto his face. 

“Did that help?” 

Logan nodded ever so slightly, gently shutting his eyes underneath the towel. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

Virgil looked around, having no problem seeing in the very faint light from the door, though he’d know the room like the back of his hand even if he couldn’t see it. Out of all the other sides’ rooms, Logan’s was probably the one the anxious side had spent the most time in. If he’d had a nightmare or just couldn’t sleep, it wasn’t unusual for him to make his way over, and Logan was typically happy enough to let him in. For all he harped on about circadian rhythms and healthy sleep schedules, it was not uncommon to find the logical side sitting by his desk or reading late into the night. Sometimes, if he was feeling especially anxious, like after a bad nightmare, Virgil would ask Logan to read aloud to him from whatever book he was currently working his way through. Many nights he’d fallen asleep listening to various detective stories and scientific theories, curled up under the large, galaxy print blanket on Logan’s bed. Logan was a constant, a steady presence in Virgil’s life, even more so than the other sides, and seeing the normally - at least outwardly- unshakeable man in his current state was honestly a bit unnerving.  

“... Do you get migraines like this often?” Virgil asked softly, turning to look at Logan’s half-covered face. 

“Once or twice a month at most. They aren’t always this bad.” Logan replied tiredly. 

The anxious side chuckled quietly, mostly to himself. 

“Just bad luck today huh?” 

He could just about make out the slight movement of Logan furrowing his brows under the towel. 

“Wouldn’t call it ‘bad luck’ exactly. I have admittedly exceeded my own limitations by quite a large margin over the past couple weeks, it’s hardly surprising it would end like this.”   

Logan wasn’t sure if it was the pain, the drowsiness or just the fact that it happened to be Virgil sitting on the bed with him that made him inclined to share “unfavorable” information like that so freely, but he had to confess it was rather nice to not keep it all to himself for once. He was aware he was working on an unsustainable schedule, despite his best efforts to keep Thomas and his fellow sides from doing the same, and it felt – yes, felt – good to say so out loud. Like giving the thought some sort of external presence was a step in the right direction towards amending the issue. Virgil returned to fidgeting with his hoodie strings, watching Logan’s chest slowly rise and fall for what seemed like an eternally long minute before breaking the silence: 

“You haven’t been taking care of yourself?” he said, concern apparent in his voice.  

Logan sighed and moved the ice pack slightly to the left, before he let his hand fall to his side 

“I suppose not, no. There’s been so much work to do lately, everything else sort of got left by the wayside, so to speak.” 

“L, you can’t do that. You have needs too, you can’t just work and work and ignore them. That’s not healthy.” 

Virgil moved a bit closer to Logan, turning his body so his knee just barely touched Logan’s outer calf. The latter shifted slightly, somewhat unused to physical contact of any sort.  

“I know that, Virge. I am trying to find a better balance, but it’s easier said than done.” 

Virgil placed a hand on Logan’s knee, resting it lightly so that the other man may move away from his touch if he so pleased. Logan didn’t move his leg away, instead he slowly lifted a corner of the towel off his face, looking at Virgil questioningly, though the anxious side knew he probably couldn’t actually see him in the dark and without his glasses. Virgil bit his lip softly and ran the fingers of his free hand through his bangs.  

“I care about you, Logan. I know you hate the feelingsy stuff and all, but I really care about you, and I don’t want you pushing yourself like that. I’m worried about you, dude.” 

Logan drew in a breath, slightly taken aback. Virgil usually wasn’t much more forward about this sort of thing than himself. And that word; Worried. Virgil was worried about him. He noticed that Logan didn’t leave his room that day, he cared enough to come check on him and at least attempt to help with his splitting headache. None of the others typically even noticed he wasn’t present unless it happened to be for an extended period of time. As much as he hated to admit it, that hurt, and the fact that Virgil had sought him out and expressed concern for his wellbeing meant more to him than he knew how to properly verbalize.  

“Thank you, Virgil. I... appreciate that.” was all he could muster up through suddenly knotted vocal cords. 

Virgil gently rubbed Logan’s knee. There was, as always, an implicit understanding between them. Even if Logan didn’t know how to say it, Virgil understood that his concern was important to him. 

“I mean it. Just... I’m here for you, okay? You can always talk to me if something’s going on.” 

He was half expecting the conversation to be over at that point, and was just about to leave Logan alone to sleep off his headache, when the logical side spoke up again: 

“Virge? Could you maybe... read to me?” 

Virgil stopped in the middle of getting up, sinking back down on the mattress. Logan shifted the towel back over his eyes and continued: 

“I was reading Murder on the Orient Express earlier, but I didn’t get past the first few chapters before my migraine got the better of me.” 

Virgil smirked playfully. 

“Again? Don’t you have it memorized by now?” 

Logan scoffed, rolling his eyes despite the agony it caused. 

“I am too tired for musical references right now.” 

“Sorry, couldn’t resist.” 

Virgil snickered and reached for the book on the nightstand.  

“Can I lie down?” 

Logan nodded ever so slightly, and Virgil carefully nestled himself in between him and the wall, leafing through the book until he came across the ornate bookmark Roman had gotten for Logan’s appreciation day a few years previous. He smiled; half convinced Logan would have gotten rid of it by now. He cleared his throat and began reading. Though he wasn’t as big a fan as Logan, Virgil did enjoy Agatha Christie’s writing, having heard both Murder on the Orient Express and a couple of her other books read out multiple times, and he did find some pleasure in being able to return the favor after being read to restful sleep so many times. A few chapters in, he glanced over at Logan and noticed that he’d drifted off. He put the bookmark in place and carefully returned the book to its spot on the nightstand before removing the thawing ice pack and wrapping it up in the towel. Propping himself up on his elbow, Virgil watched his companion’s relaxed face with an adoring smile, and soon found himself dozing off to the slow, almost hypnotic rhythm of his breathing.  

When Logan woke up in the morning, finally free of the excruciating migraine, and found Virgil sleeping with his hand resting on Logan’s chest, he couldn’t help but smile to himself. Careful not to wake the other man, he got out of bed and put on his glasses. Before leaving for a much-needed shower, he made sure to tuck Virgil in properly and – much to his own surprise – gently stroked his cheek with the back of his hand. Virgil smiled contently in his sleep, and Logan quietly left the room with a warm, pleasant feeling in his chest.  

[clockwork-ashes]

Shake the Frost - Part II

Read on Ao3

Summary: Elain’s visions lead her to the human lands where she seeks answers from the one male she’s been avoiding—Lucien. As the two of them work together, the walls built between them begin to crumble.

Note: this is for the lovely @zenkindoflove for this year’s @acotargiftexchange <3 a HUGE thank you to those organising the event, i had the most fun!!!

Elain POV 

Elain stared at the paper in front of her, the pen hovering over the blank sheet until a drop of ink fell and scattered onto it. 

Blood dripping onto a fresh blanket of snow. 

“Lovely,” Elain muttered, setting the pen aside and crumpling up the ruined paper. She wasn’t able to focus on the task at hand, despite her efforts the last few days. It had been a week since she’d left the Night Court, and every letter she had penned had been filled with more of the same vague reassurances. 

Everything is fine. 

I’m just taking some time for myself. 

Don’t worry, and I’ll be back soon.

The words had all felt hollow when she’d read them out loud, and each of the letters she had written and signed had all been promptly tossed into the fireplace in the sitting room. 

Elain sighed, rubbing her eyes as the latest of her visions crept up on her, sharp and unwelcome. It was the same one she had shown to her mate when she’d first arrived at the manor, flashing in her mind like the briefest glimpse of a shooting star. 

Eris Vanserra, handsome in a cloak made of the finest silk, a crown of flames adorning his scarlet hair. 

Lucien handed a dagger to his brother, one made of Illyrian steel, blood on the silver edge. 

Ravens scattered into the air, their wings black against the grey sky. The cold scent of copper filled the air, mingling with the scent of something burning…

Elain gripped the edge of the table, forcing the vision out of her mind much easier than she had expected. She knew she couldn’t ignore the message it was trying to send, but she was glad all the same when she was once again simply staring at the kitchen tiles. It usually took a lot more of her energy, fighting the constant flood of images that pressed against her consciousness, but being near Lucien seemed to make it better. 

At first, Elain had thought it was mere coincidence, but after laying awake in the evenings only to sleep dreamlessly for seven nights, even she couldn’t deny there was a bit of magic to the bond between them. Lucien’s presence was like a quiet balm against the chaos, anchoring her in reality and pulling her out of any spiraling visions. While it still wasn’t enough to stop them entirely, the effects of the mating bond has not gone unnoticed by her. 

Elain tapped her short nails onto the wood of the table, looking at the remaining blank sheet of paper and the discarded pen she had borrowed from Jurian. With an exaggerated sigh, Elain slumped in her chair, defeated. 

She had started writing to Feyre, and every word had left a bitter taste in her mouth. Performative and insincere, she couldn’t find a way to explain her actions in a way that wouldn’t make them all worry about her.

The sound of a chair scraping across the floor interrupted her thoughts, and Elain straightened in her own seat. She glanced up to see Vassa, the sharp heels of her booted feet loud as she settled next to her. The other woman paused, one brow raised, her face a near impossible mixture of curiosity and disinterest.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice steady. 

While there was no concern lining the words, Elain could admit that there was also no judgment. She let out a heavy breath, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. “Everything,” she mumbled, exasperated. She combed her hands through her tangled curls, a small, frustrated noise escaping her lips.

Vassa clicked her tongue, a sound that almost made Elain smile. There was a teasing edge to it, the kind that could easily break through the weight of Elain’s frustration. “Are you always this dramatic?” Vassa asked, her dark eyes glinting with amusement, her question a friendly challenge. 

Elain laughed weakly, shaking her head. “If I write to my sisters, they’ll tell me to come back.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. She knew Feyre and Nesta would demand she return to them, back to the safety of their circle, back to the comfort of Velaris. While they might be willing to help, Elain was certain they would also be the first voices telling her to stay behind. 

Sometimes, Elain had to remind herself that her sisters behaved that way only because they cared. 

Vassa tilted her head, her expression shifting to something far more curious. She scrunched her nose, clearly considering Elain’s words. “You don’t have to, though,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of someone who was used to giving orders instead of following them. “You can do as you like.”

Elain gave her a small, rueful smile. “I’m guessing you don’t have sisters?” she asked, her tone playful. She was surprised at how easy liking the human queen was. 

Vassa snorted in response, the sound louder than Elain had expected from someone of her status. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t be obligated to listen to them.”

Elain laughed quietly at that, the sound lighter than it had been in days. The simple words made her feel a little less alone, a little more understood. Vassa was right, of course, and Elain didn’t necessarily owe anyone explanations. 

“You don’t have to listen to me.” Vassa’s expression softened as she stood up slowly, tucking her chair in gently, giving Elain some space. “But the Cauldron gave you a very powerful ability, and I think that means something. And I think your sisters should trust you,” she said, her tone unexpectedly earnest.

Elain’s throat tightened at the reminder. She had considered being a Seer a curse for so long, a blessing and a burden. The Sight connected her to the world in ways that were both beautiful and terrible, and her visions could be lovely and vicious in equal measure. She frowned, her lips pulling downwards as she stared at her hands. 

Vassa didn’t wait for her to respond. With a soft shrug, she turned and left Elain alone at the table, her boots clicking daintily along the floors. Elain didn’t immediately return to her letter. She let the silence settle around her, the quiet that filled the space where Vassa had been. The weight of her words lingered in the air, like a promise.

Elain closed her eyes, the faint pull of the bond to Lucien humming in the background of her mind, soothing and grounding her. While it annoyed her slightly that a man was the cause, the reprieve it brought was enough for her to ignore the more bitter thoughts she usually had around the bond. 

When Lucien was near, it was as if she could finally breathe. 

No sooner had she relaxed, she felt the vaguest of chills along her spine. A vision creeped along her eyes, the kitchen disappearing from her sight. 

Blood scattered onto snow. 

Eris gripping a dagger, golden rings flashing. 

The gentle sound of whirring, a final click, before the dagger cut through flesh. 

Elain’s breath caught in her throat, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the image, but it clung to her, sharp. Blowing at a strand of hair, the world sharpened back into focus. 

Elain grabbed the pen again, her hand shaking just slightly. She trusted her sisters, and a part of her believed that they trusted her too. She scrawled across the paper, her hand moving swiftly, though the words were no less difficult to find despite her new found confidence. 

Nesta and Feyre… 

Elain paused, her mind swimming in a sea of visions, and she sighed, feeling the pressure of the words she was about to write.

I’m fine. I promise.

LUCIEN POV

Lucien’s fingers hovered over the chessboard, nudging a knight forward with a sly grin. “Check,” he said, leaning back in his chair, russet eye gleaming.

Jurian didn’t flinch, his face a mask of concentration as he moved his queen with quiet precision. “You’re getting better, but not that good,” he teased, raising an eyebrow as he surveyed the board.

Lucien laughed, taking in the sight of the human general, wondering if he was still as sharp and quick-witted as he’d been on the battlefield centuries before. Their banter filled the room as the game continued, but it wasn’t long before a soft sound caught his attention, the light creak of the door opening.

Elain stepped into the room and his heart stuttered once in his chest. She had her cloak wrapped snugly around her shoulders, the dark fabric catching the flicker of light from the nearby hearth. The fire’s glow danced over her, but it was her presence that struck him the most. Her beauty was undeniable, and tonight, it seemed to have intensified. The dim moonlight filtering in through the arched windows made her eyes seem endless, there was a depth to them that pulled him in. She was staring directly at him, and for a heartbeat, he couldn’t look away.

“I’m going for a walk,” Elain announced, her voice quiet but resolute, a slight blush staining her cheekbones as she looked between him and Jurian.

Lucien’s gaze lingered on her, sensing the unspoken invitation in her words. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Jurian cut in. Still looking at the board between them, he said, “Sounds lovely, I’ve been meaning to stretch my legs.” 

Elain’s lips parted, her blush deepening. The sight was both endearing and exasperating. She looked at Lucien, as if expecting him to speak and intervene on her behalf. She tugged at the bond between them, like a rough yank on a string tied to his rib. Lucien’s breath caught in his throat as he glared at his friend, golden eye clicking into place. 

Jurian raised a broad hand, a rook between his fingers. “I’m kidding,” he added with a grin. 

Elain laughed awkwardly, the sound a mix of relief and embarrassment. Lucien rolled his eyes, offering her a long-suffering look as he stood up, giving her a small smile. “Let me grab my coat.”

The moment stretched out, and without a word, Lucien stepped into the hall, pulling on his boots before he took hold of his jacket. He could feel Elain’s eyes on him as he shrugged on the dark wool coat, the familiar weight of it grounding him. He turned back to her, holding the door open, his chest tight with an emotion he didn’t want to name.

Elain stepped past him, her breath coming out in small clouds as she elegantly stepped down the stone stairs of the manor. The night was still, save for the soft crunch of snow beneath their boots. Lucien kept a glamour up, a faint shimmer around them to let her know he had done so. 

There was a part of Lucien that was glad they would remain hidden from view, a feeling that was as though the world beyond the spell didn’t exist.

The air was crisp and cold, the faintest touch of winter biting at his skin no matter how warm his blood ran. He kept his gaze ahead, but he could feel Elain’s presence close beside him, her steps matching his pace in the quiet of the night.

It was his mate who broke the silence, her voice soft, but the words still sharp with meaning. “Can you help me send a letter to the Night Court?”

Relief washed over him, knowing that the sooner Feyre and Rhysand knew where Elain was, the less trouble he would have explaining himself. 

“Who should I send it to?” Lucien asked, his voice steady, although his mind was already working through the necessary steps he would have to take to make her wish a reality. 

“Nesta,” Elain replied without hesitation. Her tone was firm, as if she had made her decision long before she had even asked for his help. “If you can get it to Nesta first, I’m sure she’ll show it to Feyre.”

Lucien nodded, understanding. He glanced at her, taking in the way she tucked a curl behind her pointed ear. The vision she had shared with him weighed heavily on his mind. He had tried not to dwell on the fact that she was able to show others what she saw, but he was very impressed that she had learned how to manipulate her magic without help from others. 

“If we can also send a letter to Autumn?” Elain’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Lucien furrowed his brow, the scarred side pulling uncomfortably as he glanced at her. “Who would you need to speak with in Autumn?” Even though he already knew the answer, he might as well hope that she’d change her mind. 

Elain looked up at him with her full lips pressed into a firm line. There was a silent challenge in her dark gaze, as if to say that he already knew the answer. 

Lucien ran a hand through his hair, holding back a small smile. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, his voice soft and determined.

Elain took a slow, steadying breath, a perfect little cloud in the cold night. She grabbed his hand, a gentle tug, just enough to stop him in his tracks. She was wearing gloves, a barrier between them despite the contact. She turned her head to look at him, her eyes warm despite the chill in the air, and the moment felt as if time had stretched itself thin.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice low but sincere.

He felt a rush of warmth flood through him at her words. “Of course,” Lucien answered instinctively, before realizing how hollow the words might have sounded to her ears. 

Before he could say anything more, Elain surprised him again. She linked her fingers with his own, pulling him as a reminder to move so they could continue to walk. 

Elain didn’t let go of his hand, a ruby blush staining her cheeks. She held on tightly, and Lucien dragged his thumb across her knuckles, letting her lead. 

[kiwiana-writes]

that bookmark script you shared is magic omg and i guess i know what im gonna do this sunday!! i wanna ask if you have a few more magic scripts you can share that's gonna make ao3 better? thank you so much!!!!

I do! First of all I honestly just highly recommend browsing GreasyFork specifically for AO3 scripts, because everyone uses the site differently, but apart from the bookmark maker I already shared, here's the ones I use:

AO3 floating comment box: this lets you enable a little… well, floating comment box that you can copy/paste particular lines from the work into as you read if you want to leave those amazing 'quote a line and scream' comments a bit easier

AO3 Word Count Script: this one adds word counts to chapter links on AO3 Chapter Index pages and in stats on each chapter page. I actually use this more for bookbinding than for reading, because I am an 'entire work on by default' sort of reader lmao.

AO3 Rekudos Converter: this one's fun! If you click the 'kudos' button on a fic you've already kudosed, it will give you the option to instead leave a random comment from a selection of comments. You can confirm that you want to leave the rekudos comment, but you DON'T get to pick or edit - it will just automagically post it. I believe the default rekudos comments are "Extra Kudos<3", "This is an extra kudos, since I've already left one. :)", "I just wanted to leave another kudos<3" but you can customise that list, and I have haha.

AO3 Display what chapter a comment is on in inbox: This also does what it says on the tin and in your AO3 inbox, will show which chapter a comment was left on (if it's a oneshot, it will show 'chapter 1'). Great for comments on multichaps and especially if you're a co-writer looking to only reply to comments on the chapters you wrote lol (I know at least one friend who uses it for exactly that purpose)

I also have one I use as a writer which is one I coded myself (so isn't on GreasyFork sorry!!!) which activates on the new work page, and does the following: sets the rating to Explicit, archive warnings to No Archive Warnings Apply, fandom to RWRB bookverse, category to M/M, and relationship to Alex/Henry (because let's be real, that's most of what I write); adds a template to the summary and beginning author notes fields; adds the link to my tumblr in the ending author notes fields; sets the language to English; sets commenting permissions to guests and registered users; sets the skin to my default work skin that includes EVERYTHING. I can always go back and change any of those things if I want to, but it's just a bit of a time-saver! During Kinktober I also added a bit to this script to also add the fic to my Kinktober 2024 collection, because that's all I was writing that month anyway lmao.

[stealingyourbones]

Hi 👋 I’ve seen some of your writing on TikTok and I absolutely love them! Do you have an Ao3? I’ve been trying to look at more of your writing on Tumbler, but I’m having a hard time sifting through all the posts (I’m sure there is an easier way to do it than just keep scrolling but I’m not sure how)

Hi! Yeah my blog is quite hectic. You can check out my pinned post for an incomplete masterlist of all of the prompts I’ve made. That or scroll through my #bones replies, #bones submissions, or #bones prompts tags and look at the replies to check out all of the round Robin posts! You can also look at the #and the thick plotens tag that’s for round robin replies I like :D happy reading!!

My ao3

[bimboamyrose]

Unfamiliar - Ch. 17: (Dis)trust

Artwork by @mmm-asbestos ☆Read Ch. 17 on AO3☆ Previous Chapter ☆ First Chapter☆

[sidesteppostinghours]

ok. question.

ortega ended up hallucinating sidestep after they "died", but sidestep doesnt know about that. they know it got bad, but never the full extent of how their death affected them. so if your sidestep Did learn, if they found out ortega looked for them in every little piece they could, would that change anything for your sidesteps? would their relationship with ortega be any different?

[hailsatanacab]

Your Favourite Author's Favourite Fic

in no way is this me sneakily trying to get fic recs out of people, but here's my new tag game!

Rules! When tagged, reblog with the fic you've written that you love the most

Not the fic with the most kudos, or the most comments, or the most hits, but the fic that you're the most proud of. I'm talking about the story that kept you up at night, the one that you still think about, the one that you wish more people would read

So, it's time to show off! I strongly encourage - in fact, I demand - that you give yourself some compliments, a well-deserved pat on the back, and tell us all the reasons why it's your favourite!

Then tag five people and make them go through it, too 🥰🩷

I'll tag @wolfjackle, @tourettesdog, @gilbirda, @die-erlkonigin6083, and @thewritingowl to get us started, please and thank you!!

[iwanttobepersephone]

Okay, you know what. You know what. I wanna know. I've had plenty of people ask me to write fanfics, and every time I say I can't. BUT! I CAN write movie-script esc "fanfics". And I wanna know if people would actually be interested in that? If they are, I can try and figure out how to use A03 if people would rather read on there than Tumblr. But if nobody is interested in "fanfics" that aren't really... stories, just. Descriptions of scenes and emotions. Then I won't bother lol.

I'll have examples below the cut, and also tag a couple people I think (EMPHASIS ON THINK) have asked me to write a fanfic in the past

@permettez-moi (or @golden-bubblebee ? Idk which one you prefer to be tagged for) @solarishashernoseinabook @ragingadhd @dragonslovecoins @rangertessadarling @ranger-tater @reine-du-sourire @biggestqiblifan

The quality WILL be better if it's an actual fanfiction, less references to the reader and more immersed and stuff, but the general writing style/pov probably won't change

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 9 - Obsession

title: oddly enough, i seem to be alive

fandom: empires smp

TRUST AU!!!! (it's super long jsyk warning on opening the readmore)

cw: graphic self-harm

~

"Hey," Pix says, softly.

When Jimmy doesn't respond, Pix clears his throat. "Jimmy."

Jimmy just watches, entranced, as the scrape on his arm slowly heals black up, blood pulled back in and skin melting together.

It had been an accident.

He'd been lugging a large branch, and it had slipped and scratched down his arm. There was no way he would have done that on purpose.

But staring at where the wound had just been, Jimmy kind of wants it to happen again.

"Jimmy."

He blinks, looks up. Pix is watching him, brows furrowed in an expression that Jimmy can't quite read.

Jimmy waits, and after a long moment of studying him, Pix gives a little decisive nod. "I'll stay another day," he says, readjusting the branch in his arms.

"I—I thought you were just staying—"

"To finish one hut, yes, but I was just thinking—it's very possible that your first recruits will be injured. They may not be up to constructing anything. We'd better build two, just to be sure."

Jimmy nods. That makes sense. He understands that.

"How are the wounds feeling?" asks Pix a couple of moments later, after Jimmy has laid the branch in the pile, ready to prop them all up leaning against each other like a tent made of branches.

"Good," Jimmy says, too quickly. "They don't—they don't even hurt."

They don't, that's true. But if he thinks about it too hard, he can still feel that sword carving its way down through him and he wants to vomit.

So he doesn't think about it. Easy-peasy.

"And your ear?"

Jimmy's ears twitch on instinct, the movements of the left one cruelly limited.

He remembers, so long ago, fWhip touching that ear, thumb tracing over the delicate spines, his hold so terrifying that Jimmy did everything he said to avoid injury.

Then, he'd been afraid of a tear in the fin. It would have been almost impossible to stitch it back together straight, leaving an ugly scar.

He hadn't even thought of the possibility of half of it just being slashed off.

The cut has healed over, but he's missing half of his ear, most of the fin chopped away. Sound echoes in a strangely muffled way on his left side, and walking makes him a little nauseous. He doesn't think there's a way to fix it, though. It doesn't really hurt, it just unbalances him a little.

"It's fine," he says, rubbing the back of his neck a little self-consciously. "I'm fine. Thanks."

Pix is watching him again, he realizes as he looks up. Jimmy shrugs, looks away.

His desire for Scott to be here hasn't changed. But Pix had said something about how there's no way to contact Scott without it being seen by fWhip's spies, and his work here is more important.

Sure, he wants to rescue his people. But he doesn't see how that's so important that he has to stay hidden in the woods of the No Man's Land outside the Cod Empire's borders. Wouldn't it be better to go to Scott or Lizzie and get their help to free his lands?

But Pix saved him—somehow—and Jimmy will trust that he knows what he's doing.

That night, Pix lays out in his bedroll by their little campfire and tells Jimmy that if anything happens or he needs to sleep before his watch is over, to wake him.

And after Pix is long asleep, Jimmy sits by the fire and stares into the embers, fingers itching and every nerve jangling.

With a sudden rush of energy, he reaches into the fire and plucks out a charred piece of wood, which he holds to his forearm.

It burns—quickly, painfully, his fingertips and his arm, but Jimmy's no stranger to pain and he holds it there until it becomes too much to bear. When it does, he tosses the piece of wood back into the fire and watches his arm.

His skin is bubbling up angrily, red and blotchy, his finger and thumb black with soot and stinging. 

But after an agonizing couple of moments and a splash of water, the blisters start to sink back into his skin, fading away with every passing moment, until quite some time later, his arm has little more than a tiny red mark, sure to vanish in time.

Jimmy rinses his finger off with some water from their shared waterskin, finds the pads of his fingertips normal.

His heart is beating too fast. Is he breathing too fast? He thinks he is. He remembers the way the pain felt, but he can't feel it at all anymore. There's no sign of it. There's nothing to prove that he even felt it.

He died. He stopped breathing, and his heart slowed and eventually stopped, and he died, no matter what Pix said.

And what does he have to show for it? A thin scar on his back? A missing piece of his ear?

He just burned himself, badly, and now he can't even feel it.

Jimmy takes in a shuddering breath, pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes. This can't—this can't be right. Nothing about this is right.

He stares again into the low fire, heart jumping at the possibility of doing it again. No one would even know.

He doesn't do anything, almost stuck there in indecision. And when the moon passes the predetermined point, he forces himself to stand and shakes Pix awake. Then he stumbles off to the pond to sleep, and just hopes that his head will be a bit clearer in the morning.

-

His old scars are beginning to fade.

He'd noticed it this morning, drying himself off after sleeping in the pond. There had been one, a nasty raised one on his forearm from when Joey broke his arm and it burst through the skin. Now it's faded into his skin, visible but not as dark as it had been, and his skin there is almost smooth.

There are others. The jagged one on his upper arm is nothing more than a thin line, the small brown scar on his ribs entirely gone. They're all slowly fading, some more like vague marks along his body rather than the ugly scars they once were.

He should be happy. He should be excited that his scars are fading, that his skin is clearing.

He isn't.

He panics, actually.

Jimmy used to look at himself in the mirror and hate his appearance. He would wish idly for his scars to miraculously vanish, if only to annoy Sausage. He would always wear a long-sleeved tunic to various meetings, ashamed of the many marks that a ruler oughtn't have.

But what he went through was torture. Torture, for several years, and then death.

He was tortured for years, and he has no proof.

Without even thinking, Jimmy grabs his new knife and carves carefully along one of the scars on his ribcage, pushing the knife in deeper and deeper as he can bear it.

He bites his lip to repress any noise, digs the knife in a bit further before yanking it out. There. That should do it.

Blood spills down his stomach, and Jimmy just stares at it, relishing the aching sting of the cut.

It hurts. It hurts a lot, actually.

But it feels so good. It feels like he's alive.

He makes quick work of his other scars, tracing the lines with the blade of his knife. And when that's all done, and his head feels a little woozy but his mind feels clearer than ever, sharpened by the pain, he stares down at his murky reflection in the pond.

He's absolutely covered in blood. It washes down his torso (and all over his body, really, the tally marks under his knee among others carved out), and Jimmy can really only feel glad that he hadn't put on any clothes yet. That's a sure way for Pix to find out what he's doing. Blood-stained clothes is a dead giveaway that someone is bleeding.

He's not really sure why he feels he needs to hide this. He just has some sort of idea that Pix wouldn't be all too happy about it, after all the effort he went through to make sure Jimmy survived.

It is a lot of blood, though, and Jimmy's fairly sure it isn't stopping soon, so he takes the scrap of cloth he has to wash himself with and wets it, runs it over his body.

It's water, apparently, that mostly fosters this new healing power. He can heal without it, but not very efficiently, and it will definitely scar. A damp rag should just act as a clotting agent, right?

It does—every cut scabs over, and Jimmy feels like something tight in his chest loosens as he looks down at himself, at his new old scars.

Perfect.

"Jimmy? Are you decent?"

Jimmy curses under his breath, dashes away the few tears that have gathered in his eyes. "No, no—um, give me one second!"

"All right, but hurry up, please—we've got another hut to set up, still, and I started designing a lean-to of sorts last night, so I might try that out. Also, are you all right if I come back later in the week with some tents? It might be more convenient to set those up in case of an influx of people."

"Yeah—sure, whatever," Jimmy calls in Pix's direction, pulling his tunic on over his head. "Sounds great."

"I was also thinking—I know we were talking about going for Bobsill first, but it may be best to go through farmhouses or hamlets on the border before trying to go to a larger village. That way, if Mythland has already reached Bobsill, it won't just be one man trying to infiltrate an army."

"Mhm," Jimmy says, probably not loud enough for Pix to hear. He cringes as his freshly-scabbing wounds stick to his tunic. Hopefully if he gets a bit of blood on his clothes, Pix won't notice it amongst the bloodstains already there.

He's come to hate these clothes, stomach turning every time he pulls them over his head. He died in these clothes, after all. He's washed them since, but the blood doesn't come out.

Pix had mentioned getting him something new to wear. Jimmy can't wait for that.

Then he just has to tug his boots on, and he can join Pix in building the next hut. His clothes chafe against his scabs, but that's more than okay. It reminds him that he's alive.

And the next morning, after Pix hugs him and leaves, Jimmy carves right back into his already mostly-healed scars.

-

Scott asks him, once, why his scales seem to be perpetually growing in. Jimmy panics, just shrugs and mutters something about scars.

He doesn't know how to say that he pulls them out in front of the mirror every morning.

It's a little like pulling a nail from the nailbed, but over the past month or so Jimmy's gotten good at wiggling them out quickly without making any sort of pained noises.

He only touches the scales that are trying to push through the scar tissue, of course. Those scars—the scars left from the Void—don't disappear. They don't fade with every swim, the patchwork marks stubbornly remaining on his face.

He doesn't mind that those ones don't fade. He doesn't want to have to stick a knife into his face every day.

But he does tug out the scales trying to grow in, every morning in the mirror (after re-scarring his body), before pinning his veil on and heading out for the day, holding himself carefully and hiding the winces at every touch from Scott.

By the evening, when they retire to their quarters, Jimmy has pretty much healed enough that the pain isn't an issue. He'll run a bath, then just rinse himself off enough that there aren't any scabs or lingering patches of dried blood, before he returns to Scott, looking as close to as he always did before.

It's exhausting, but it works perfectly. He spends every moment tired and pained, but the pain clears Jimmy's head and reminds him that he did suffer, that it was real. He won't let that fade away.

It works perfectly.

That is, until it doesn't.

One morning, Jimmy's in the washroom as he usually is, tongue sticking out a bit between his teeth as he digs his knife a little deeper into his side.

There must be some moisture in the air today or something, because his body keeps stubbornly healing this one wound. Jimmy wipes away some blood with a cloth, trying to get a clearer view of it.

It's already begun to heal again, the skin sealing up by itself. It's like his body is trying to tell him something. 

Something that Jimmy is resolutely going to ignore.

He pulls the knife out, blinks away a tear, and shoves it right back in—a little harder than intended—

Too deep, too deep—he knows instantly that he's gone too far, because his vision goes double and his stomach turns unpleasantly.

There's a knife, almost hilt-deep, in his side.

It's not the first time he's accidentally gone too far. He did it that first morning after they won—while his whole country prepared to kick out the occupying soldiers, he was passed out on the floor of the washroom, his body slowly healing itself until he was able to wake up and crawl into the bath.

He'd done it again a week later, while preparing to visit Rivendell. He'd gone too deep on his thigh, pierced that same artery that had made it such a dire wound in the first place. Again, he'd passed out until his body healed just enough for him to get in the bath.

And now here he is, knife way too far into his body, and he didn't even start any water running before cutting into himself.

Jimmy's fingers grasp the handle of the knife, but it's slippery with blood and he can't get a good enough grasp to do more than wiggle it a little, which does nothing but make him gasp out in pain.

Okay. No need to panic. He just . . . he just needs to. . . .

His knees buckle and he falls onto his other side, biting his lip as it jostles all his other wounds. This has happened before. He knows this has happened before. He just has to get some water.

His damp cloth is out of reach, hanging on the edge of the sink basin. The bath is out of reach of his trembling arms, and he doesn't think he'd have the strength to turn the faucet, anyway.

Jimmy's just thinking it might be best to just sleep here a moment, let his body do a bit of healing with whatever moisture is already in the air, when the door opens.

"Sorry, I—Jimmy!"

He blinks, sees three—two Scotts, looking down at him in horror.

"Hng," he slurs, attempting a greeting.

In an instant, Scott's beside him, right hand frantic as it lightly touches him all over.

"Is someone in the palace? Who—Jimmy, the knife—I won't let you die, it's all right, I just need—I need a healing potion, or something, I need—"

"W'er," Jimmy forces out past his heavy lips. "Jus' . . . jus' w'er."

"Water! Right, right, er—I am going to have to pull this knife out, sorry—I'll put pressure on it, and—I'll start the bath first, don't move—"

Jimmy, of course, doesn't move. He just lies there, beginning to feel a bit cold.

Being cold isn't his favorite thing in the world. There are a lot of better ways to be.

Then he cries out, because suddenly Scott is right there again, yanking the knife out of his side.

"It's all right, I'm going to lift you into the bath now—"

His world tilts and slides together, and Jimmy bites the inside of his cheek to keep from vomiting—

Then there's water—crisp, cool water, all around him, enveloping him. Jimmy sighs a little, shifts—oh, he's in the tub. Right. That's disappointing. He likes swimming.

No. No, he has to stay focused. He was . . . he was cutting himself, he was fixing his scars, and then Scott—

No. Scott can't see this, he can't know about what Jimmy has been doing because—he wouldn't understand—

Jimmy sits up, ignoring the pull of his various wounds. He's going to be normal, act normal, and just hope that Scott didn't notice anything.

A hand pushes on his chest, and he looks up to see Scott, worry creasing his face.

"You aren't anywhere near done healing, lie back down," he says, something terribly sad in his voice. "We'll talk after."

Oh. He doesn't like the sound of that.

But Jimmy lies back down, anyways, his head sticking out of the water, and watches as his wounds slowly seal back together.

-

"So."

Scott looks at him, eyes crinkled sadly. "So."

Jimmy shifts uncomfortably in his spot on the couch, his scabs rubbing against his tunic.

He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to know what Scott thinks. He just wants to pretend this never happened, so he can go see his Rivendell tutor before heading home and leading his country.

There's a plate of food on his lap, eggs that Scott had scrambled for him. Something about protein being good for blood loss.

Jimmy stares down at it, pushing the eggs around with his fork. He's hungry, but he doesn't really want to eat. He's scared of what Scott will say.

It's kind of messed up to recarve his own scars every morning. It's really messed up. Which means that Jimmy's really messed up in the head, too. What kind of sick person cuts themself every day to make sure they don't lose reminders of pain?

"How are you feeling right now?" Scott asks after a moment. Jimmy's stomach lurches; he grips his fork a bit tighter.

"Fine," he manages.

Scott sighs.

Scott’s going to break up with him. Jimmy knows it, suddenly—who would want to be with someone who purposefully hurts himself?

Tears gather in his eyes. He doesn't know what to do. He can't fix this.

"How long," Scott says, voice carefully unwavering, "have you been . . . hurting yourself?"

A tear spills free onto his cheek. Jimmy opens his mouth several times, can't speak for the lump in his throat. Instead, he shrugs, scoops up a bite of eggs and shoves into his mouth, forcing his jaw to chew when all it wants is to open wide in a sob.

"Okay," Scott says, sounding almost maddeningly calm. "More than just today?"

Jimmy forces himself to nod.

"Since before everything?"

He shakes his head.

"That's good to hear. And, er, it's all right if you don't know, but . . . why?"

Another question that Jimmy can't answer. He thinks he could answer it, if he had asked himself in the mirror, but here, with Scott waiting to break up with him after he hears how terrible of an answer it is?

Jimmy swallows his mouthful of egg and valiantly tries not to cry.

"Well, darling—I want you to remember that I love you. Nothing that you say will make me hate you. I just want to help."

That's what Scott thinks. He doesn't know the thoughts that go through Jimmy's head every time he digs a knife into his body. He doesn't know that in some sick way, Jimmy wants the scars, wants the memories of all the hurt.

A cold, pale hand lays itself on his own hand, stilling his anxious jiggling of his plate.

"Look at me, please."

Reluctantly, Jimmy looks up, meets Scott's eyes.

Scott doesn't look angry. He doesn't look disgusted.

He just looks sad.

"I want to help you," Scott repeats slowly. "I can't help you if I don't know why you're hurting."

Jimmy can't say it. He can’t, he can’t face the way Scott will look at him—

"If you would prefer, you can talk to Lizzie or Joel about it," Scott offers, and. . . .

Jimmy's automatic reaction is to refuse, because Lizzie's his sister (and a terrifying twelve-foot sea monster) and Joel is his best friend, but then it strikes him that if he tells one of them, they could tell Scott, and then Jimmy wouldn't have to see his reaction.

Which is how, only two hours later, Jimmy's sitting on the same sofa beside Joel, the same plate of eggs still in his lap.

He's wearing his veil, now, so at least if he starts crying again, Joel won't see it.

His scars are itching to be reopened, just to make sure they don't heal over too much. He doesn't usually take a morning bath, so they've probably healed more than they should have. He wonders if he can excuse himself for the washroom, take a knife to some of them before talking to Joel. It always clears his mind, too. Then he could have this conversation without losing track of it.

Then he remembers that Scott took the knife when he helped Jimmy out of the bath, and to get another one he would have to go dig through his drawers, and that would be suspicious.

"Scott told me a little bit about what's going on," Joel says quietly, interrupting Jimmy's thoughts. "He says he walked in on you . . . uh, hurting yourself? Do you want to talk about that?"

No. He doesn't want to talk about that at all. He would, in fact, prefer it if everyone forgot it happened so that he could go back to his routine in peace.

But Scott is worried, and now Joel is worried, and Jimmy owes an explanation.

He also knows that if he won't explain to either of them, they'll bring in Lizzie, and he doesn't want to worry her, too.

Joel lets out a breath. "Okay. Cool. Well, was that a one time thing? Or have you done it before?"

He can answer that. That isn't a difficult question.

"Since—every day," Jimmy forces out, voice barely above a whisper, his throat constricting against his will. "Every day since I, uh, woke up."

He feels the sofa go still under him as Joel's knee stops bouncing.

"Sorry—every day since—Jimmy, that's got to be three months ago, or more! Why didn't you talk to anyone?"

Jimmy cringes. This is why he didn't tell anyone—he doesn't want people to freak out over his personal issues. "It's not a big deal," he mutters.

Joel laughs incredulously. "Not a big deal? You—you—what, trying to kill yourself isn't a big deal?"

"I'm not trying to kill myself," Jimmy argues, turning to properly face Joel.

Joel looks—not quite angry, but definitely heated, hands curled into fists and a bit red in the face. If Jimmy were any less stubborn, he would have cowed, returning to his cold plate of eggs and his half-hearted shrugs.

But Jimmy's stubborn, and a moron, and he doesn't like false accusations.

"Right, then what are you trying to do, huh?" Joel asks, hands spreading wide. "Because when Scott calls crying about how he found you covered in blood with a knife hilt-deep in your ribcage, you start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, your idiot brother-in-law and best friend just tried to commit suicide and nobody even knew there was a problem!"

"I'm—I'm not suicidal!" Jimmy sputters.

"You sound pretty bloody suicidal to me."

Jimmy takes a deep breath, hot tears prickling at his eyes. He didn't want to worry anyone with his stupid problems, and now everybody's worried.

"I'm not, okay?" he says. He grips his long robe in his gloved hands, twists the fabric between his fingers. He doesn't even try to stop the plate when it slips off his lap, falling to the carpet with a muffled thunk.

"It's just—look, it's hard to explain."

"Start at the beginning, maybe," says Joel irritatingly, crossing his arms.

Jimmy swallows. "Okay. Um, so I died, right?"

"I do remember giving your eulogy, yeah. I also seem to remember you telling us that you didn't actually die."

"I basically died," Jimmy waves. "My heartrate went down too low to register as alive, so I died. And—and suddenly I'm awake, in—in a ditch, and just start limping my way across fields in the middle of the night as I feel my internal organs just sloshing about—"

"Gross—"

"—and Pix found me, and I almost died again, and I learned that I could heal in water."

Joel nods wisely. "Being a terrifying sea demigod, and all that."

"I didn't know any of that yet. But the longer I spent in water, the more healed I got—and then, the next day, I noticed my—my scars started to fade."

He pauses, not entirely sure how to proceed. Joel doesn't say anything, just waits.

"I couldn't let them fade," Jimmy says eventually, and his eyes slide away from Joel's face and down to the floor. "I—I know, it's messed up, but it was like—the only proof that I had been hurt was disappearing before my eyes, and I couldn't—I couldn't let that happen. So I—I started carving my scars. Every morning. To keep them from going away."

Silence.

"Why," Joel says slowly, "on this great bloomin' earth, would you do that?"

Jimmy cringes. He sounds angry. It's usually pretty funny when Joel gets angry, but it's definitely not something Jimmy can handle right now.

He doesn't even know how to explain it. He doesn't know how to put reasoning to his terrible actions. He's a ruler, and a good thousand years old or more—he ought to know better!

"Because," Joel continues when he doesn't answer, "I know that is not the way Lizzie raised you."

"You weren't there," Jimmy points out.

"Yeah, well, you can't even remember it, so let's assume I'm right. My wife wouldn't encourage you to hurt yourself because you feel some sick need to have scars—"

"I was gaslit for years," Jimmy interrupts, standing. Joel doesn't understand—nobody understands— "They convinced me that all the stuff I went through was my fault, and the only reason someone realized it wasn't was because of my scars! The only proof I have that it wasn't my fault is on my body, and I can't let it just fade away!"

"So you mutilate yourself." Joel stands as well, eyebrows low in a glower.

"I don't—" Jimmy pulls at his hood, wishing it was his hair. "It's not—"

He can't focus, he can't do this, his head is all twisted around and he's tired, tired from already having to practically heal himself back to life this morning, and he just knows that some of the scars are more healed than they should be at this time of day so he ought to cut into them just to make sure—

"I have to go," he mumbles, because that's all he can think of, he just has to get away to somewhere private and quiet where he can cry and cut in peace.

He starts to leave, but Joel catches him around the chest. "I don't think we're done talking! We need—"

"I have to go," Jimmy says again, and now there's tears gathering in his eyes and he can't do this—

He pushes past Joel and out the door, into the hallway, and from there he makes a break for it, running, robes flapping around his ankles, down as many confusing corridors as he can until he finds himself in some kind of cellar, barrels lining the walls, a cozy light flickering from bracketed torches.

There's nobody else here, as far as he can tell, so Jimmy curls up in a corner beside an empty barrel and buries his face in his knees.

He cries for a while, veil sticking to his cheeks, just letting out all the terrible feelings of getting caught and having to explain and being so twisted in his mind, all the shame and guilt and disgust. And when he feels that all his tears are gone, he digs his sharp nails into a shiny pink scar on his forearm, watches as blood beads up then streams down his arm with a growing calmness.

This is sick. He shouldn't find peace in hurting himself. He shouldn't have to do this to feel like he's actually alive, and not some undead creature.

Footsteps.

Jimmy pulls down his sleeve as quickly as he can, tugs his glove back on. And when the shadow of someone rounds the corner, he sees Scott.

Scott offers him a smile, he can tell. Even with the veil on, with the teary red eyes, Jimmy can tell he smiled.

Scott sits down beside him, far better at sitting gracefully with a skirt on than Jimmy will ever be. He sits there, quiet, their knees just barely bumping against each other.

"Your arm is bleeding," Scott says after a couple of long minutes.

Jimmy, fully knowing that his arm is bleeding, looks down. Sure enough, there's an ugly splotch of red against the pale green of his sleeve.

"Oops," he says dully, word a little distorted by his stuffed-up nose.

He's kind of beyond caring, at this point. Nobody understands. Why would anybody see this wonderful healing magic as a curse, like he does?

"I talked with Joel," says Scott cautiously.

Jimmy waits.

Scott waits, too.

Historically, Jimmy is not a very patient person. It usually takes about thirty seconds for him to give in when Scott is waiting.

But his mood has swung from terrified and upset to numb and indifferent. So he doesn't say anything, and after a bit, Scott continues.

"I'm going to be having a long talk with him about handling matters of mental health," Scott says, anger suddenly bursting from him in a wave of cold air. "He went about that in entirely the wrong way. I'm sorry for the hurt he's caused."

Hurt? Joel didn't really do anything, he just . . . he just responded in the way a normal person would. He didn't understand, and that's exactly right. Nobody should understand something this horrible. Some days Jimmy doesn't even understand it.

"I want you to know that I love you," says Scott. "I'm not going to stop just because you're struggling. I want to help you."

He'd said something similar this morning. Jimmy just shrugs. He's not willing to hope that Scott would actually be willing to help. Not if he knew the full story.

"Joel said something about you trying to stop your scars from healing?"

Right. He'd better explain, then, let Scott know upfront everything that's wrong with him.

"My body heals, right?" he says quietly. "And—and my scars were healing. And it scared me. I didn't want them to heal."

"You hate your scars, though," Scott puts in. Jimmy doesn't look at him, keeps his eyes trained on the floor. "You told me that you—that you're ashamed of them. Why did you feel like that?"

Jimmy bites his lip, searches for whatever it was that he'd told Joel.

"They hurt me for a really long time," he decides on eventually, and he's frustrated when tears start to burn behind his eyes. He literally just finished crying, he doesn't need to do more. "And I thought it was my fault. Until you told me it wasn't, and you only knew that because of my scars."

Scott makes a small humming noise. Jimmy looks up, makes eye contact briefly (he sees nothing but grief and love) before turning back to the floor.

"If they fade, there's nothing to prove that I went through any of that. And I know that's stupid, and messed up, but I couldn't—I couldn't just let that go. So I started . . . re-carving them. Just enough every morning that it would scar over again, and then by the next morning I could do it again. I'm sorry."

"And this morning?"

Jimmy shrugs again, idly wipes away a tear. "Accidentally went too deep. It's happened a couple of times. Not fun, of course—" he shudders, remembering the burning pain and the cold and the blurry vision— "but nothing that won't heal itself. I'm usually very careful about it."

A burst of cold from Scott, one that almost feels like fear on the back of Jimmy's tongue.

"Is that all?" Scott asks, voice trembling just the slightest bit.

Is it all?

Jimmy certainly wants it to be all. He doesn't want to have to cause Scott any more heartache.

And he remembers, vaguely, that first night conscious, Pix fast asleep, and how he held a hot coal to his arm just to watch himself heal. He remembers how the pain made him feel alive.

And just now, his fingernails digging into his arm to calm himself.

"I think so," he says.

Then he's utterly taken aback when Scott leans over and wraps him in a hug.

"Tell me if this hurts, okay?" Scott mumbles into his shoulder.

It does, a little bit. But Jimmy just puts his arms around Scott, awkward as the leaning hug is, and holds him close, as his instinct dictates.

He loves Scott. He loves him so, so much. He can't wait until they're married.

If they get married.

After a good minute, Scott pulls back, readjusts so that he can lean against Jimmy. Jimmy, naturally, lays his head atop Scott's.

"I'm not upset with you," Scott says, sounding a little like he's crying. Jimmy doesn't move to check, his heart leaping at the words. "I'm not mad at you. I love you so much, okay? I'm making a promise every day to stick with you, and I'm not breaking it."

Jimmy's breath chokes in his throat.

Scott isn't going to break up with him, probably.

And Jimmy is going to do everything in his power to make sure he never does. Even if that means stopping cutting. He'll do whatever it takes to be good enough for Scott.

"I have elves that work in mental and emotional health," Scott says. "I can get you in for an appointment today."

Does he want that?

There's something wrong with his head if he actually wants to cut himself (like he does right now, healed cuts itching to be reopened), and he wants to be better for Scott, so he probably should see someone who's actually trained for help.

But he doesn't really want to. He doesn't want to talk to anyone else about this. He doesn't want to lose his scars.

"Maybe," he hedges. Scott gently takes his chin, moves his head a bit further away to face him.

Reluctantly, Jimmy looks up into his eyes, the rest of his face obscured by the veil.

Scott's eyes are their normal, beautiful ice blue, lovingly soft yet determined.

"That is not a 'maybe'," he says firmly. "That is non-negotiable. You are going to try to get better, and I am going to help you, but you aren't going to stay like this. So I'll get you the appointment, and then we can treat the rest of the day like it's normal, if you like. But right now we're figuring this out."

That sounds like a lot of hurt.

But somewhere, deep down, he's really sick of stabbing himself.

"You're mean," grumbles Jimmy, resting his head back on Scott. "I've never done anything like this to you."

"You literally made me hug you that one time," Scott says drily. "Remember?"

Jimmy forces a laugh. "What, when you were afraid you were gonna freeze me?"

"And you knew that I could do anything if I put my mind to it," continues Scott. "Including control my freak ice powers. And I know you can control this, all right?"

Control is an interesting word, but. . . .

Jimmy nods. He can . . . he can try.

And for now, he leans on Scott, and wishes everything was just a bit easier.

-

It's hard.

It's hard to let go.

"Jimmy, what are you doing?"

Jimmy bites his lip. His health advisor told him to ask Scott for help when he got self-harm urges, and here he is with blood running down his torso and a knife held over his collarbone.

What's he supposed to do?

His health advisor also told him to not lie if he cut.

He didn't ask Scott for help, so he might as well follow the second rule.

"Jimmy?" Scott asks again, knocking on the closed bathroom door. "What are you doing?"

"Um," Jimmy says, looking down at himself. "I'm cutting?"

"Jimmy, unlock the door."

Jimmy sighs, guilt rising in his throat. He's not trying hard enough. He really isn't.

He doesn't want to be better.

He crosses the room to the door, pauses for just a moment to dig the knife into the skin above his collarbone, hissing between his teeth as it smarts. He pulls up a little chunk of skin as he withdraws the knife, rubs the blood from his hand onto some unbloodied patch of skin on his stomach, and opens the door.

Scott's waiting there, arms folded, and Jimmy can see in his face the way his heart breaks when he takes in the violent scene that is Jimmy's body.

"Sorry," Jimmy mumbles, face heating with shame. "It was a rough morning."

Which is true. He'd woken up with the itch under his skin, and then he'd had to message Joel and tell him he was fine after being entirely out of contact for the past week, which had been terrifying and made him feel out of control somehow, and then he saw that the scar above his elbow that had once been so gnarled and raised was nothing but a brown mark on his skin, and he hadn't been able to hold back the urge any longer.

Which is how he found himself here in the washroom, shirtless and veil-less and trousers rolled up above his knees, covered in blood as he'd slowly quieted the buzzing of his mind by cutting into himself again and again.

"Oh, darling," Scott says mournfully. He heads toward the sink basin and Jimmy's wet cloth there. "Let's get you cleaned up, all right? Then we can schedule an extra appointment with the health advisor."

Jimmy doesn't move when Scott beckons him to the sink, though. He just stares down at himself, at the blood leaking from the six or seven deep cuts he's already carved.

"Jimmy?"

It's terrible. It's absolutely horrible, and Jimmy's insides twist awfully when he says it, but it's all his mind is stuck on.

"I wasn't finished."

Scott tilts his head. "What?"

Jimmy flexes his fingers on the knife hilt. "I—I wasn't done. I can't just, just stop in the middle."

Scott looks at him. Just looks at him, eyes scanning Jimmy's body in a way that makes him want to squirm and shy away.

"All right," Scott says eventually, and he leans against the basin. He waves a hand. "Continue."

Jimmy blinks. He didn't expect Scott to agree. He kind of expected him to forcibly take the knife away and send him straight to his health advisor.

He waits, knife poised above his sternum, ready to make a quick, long cut. Scott doesn't even move.

Well, he isn't going to do it while Scott is right here. That's—that would be awful.

"Um. . . ." He looks at the door, then back at Scott. Scott folds his arms.

"I'm not leaving," he says, settling in a bit. "Either cut in front of me or don't do it at all."

He can't do that. He isn't going to hurt himself in front of Scott.

But it's the only option if he wants to finish re-carving his scars.

Jimmy lifts the knife again—at some point it had fallen to his side—and sets it on his sternum, ready to drag it down.

He tries not to look at Scott, but he sees him flinch out of the corner of his eye—

He lets the knife fall back to his side. He can't do it. Not with Scott here. He can't make Scott watch that.

He knows why Scott won't leave, but it seems stupid. Why can't he just let Jimmy finish cutting in peace?

"Sure you can't leave?" he tries half-heartedly. Scott raises an eyebrow.

Right.

He can agree, give Scott the knife, pour some water on his wounds; or he can get angry, yell at him, run out and finish cutting in peace.

The second option, while certainly appealing, is quite possibly relationship-ruining. He's always done his best to rein in his stubbornness with Scott, and he's learned in recent months that it's frequently better and safer to not fight.

Even though he twitches toward the door, even though the knife feels so right against his skin, even though there's nothing stopping him, he chooses the first.

He isn't going to do it happily, though, and he levels a glare at Scott (who just raises his other eyebrow) before stumping across the washroom and holding the knife out, hilt-first.

"Here," he grumbles. "Hide it, or whatever you did with the first one."

Scott takes it, a smile playing on his lips that's some combination of relieved and self-satisfied. Jimmy rolls his eyes.

It drops quickly, though, as Scott picks up the washcloth and sits Jimmy down on the side of the tub, cleaning his wounds one by one.

"I thought you were supposed to come to me when you felt urges," Scott says quietly, pulling back the cloth as the cut on his collarbone begins to slowly mend itself. "I was just in our room. You wouldn't have been bothering me."

Jimmy sighs, purposefully drawing it out so that Scott knows just how annoyed he is. "I dunno. Just needed to fix my scars. Didn't want you to stop me."

"I'm sorry. I don't know how hard this is for you, but I need you to come to me even when you don't want to. Or—if not me, someone. Your advisor, or Lizzie, or someone. All right?"

He's right.

Jimmy doesn't want him to be right. He wants him to be nice.

It isn't Scott's kindness that makes him want to marry him, though. It probably isn't one of the first qualities that anyone would associate with him. He may want Scott to be nice about this, but he's far more likely to be right—which is, sometimes unfortunately, one of his prominent qualities. He always seems to be right.

"Okay," he says begrudgingly. "I'm fine, though. It doesn't actually hurt me."

Scott scoffs. "Right. It doesn't hurt to cut? At all?"

"Well, yeah, it hurts, but not permanently—"

"Just because you heal well doesn't mean damage isn't permanent," Scott tells him, frowning at a wound that won't close. He reaches into the medicine chest beside them, pulls out a bandage. "I would say this has been very hard for you emotionally. For others, too. And you can't tell me that almost dying every so often is healthy."

Scott is, again, right. Regular and severe amounts of pain are bad for the psyche, according to his health advisor.

Jimmy sighs again, less intentionally obnoxious. "Why are you always right?"

Scott smiles, gives him a little kiss on the cheek. "It's my job as your future husband. Somebody has to take care of you."

"I'm still not happy with you, mister, but . . . it's good to know one of us knows what he's doing."

"I'll keep doing my best," Scott declares. "But you have your moments, Jimmy."

Jimmy snorts. "Right. Honestly, if I looked at the two of us for help, I'd definitely choose the savior king who took down a demon over the guy who died a couple months ago."

"You're forgetting that I basically died, too," says Scott. "We're both just that guy. And you're a demigod who single-handedly kept an empire alive, so don't sell yourself short."

Jimmy lifts his arm when Scott taps it, lets him treat a cut on his side.

"I don't know if you know, but you're kind of a local hero," Jimmy jokes. "Kind of hard to measure up to."

Scott chuckles. "Yes, I think I figured that out when Katherine showed me the new line of Smajor dolls at her local toy shop. Or maybe when Gem told me that her students were dying their hair blue? Or maybe when I was issued an official apology from the citizens of the Grimlands. There, all done. You can start getting dressed, I'll clean up in here."

Jimmy stands, grimaces at how stiff his wounds already feel. He would offer to help—that is his blood on the floor, after all—but he always feels a little lightheaded after cutting and it takes him long enough to get dressed, anyways. Better to let Scott take care of this, and that way Jimmy won't accidentally pass out while leaning over to clean the washroom floor and he also might be ready to leave right when Scott is.

He heads toward their shared closet, hand hovering over his favorite green tunic (he usually belts it over a brown long-sleeved piece to keep in line with the betrothal modesty laws) before choosing one of Scott's favorites, a sky-blue robe with gold leaf trim and wide sleeves, which Jimmy chooses to wear over his brown long-sleeved shirt, knowing that they absolutely won't match. Scott will be embarrassed and annoyed at Jimmy for wearing his clothes in public, and Jimmy's definitely still feeling like acting obnoxious.

Sure enough, Scott glares at him all through the political breakfast of that morning, when the elven lords and ladies eye Jimmy and barely restrain giggles.

And Jimmy ignores the itching of his scars and smiles.

-

It's only two days later, and he's about to cut again.

The itching is so strong, and Jimmy, though avoiding mirrors for now, catches a glimpse of his reflection in the pool that morning and can't help but notice how light his scars are.

He has a knife socked away behind one of the never-read books on his shelf. He's taken to hiding any knives he can find (there's at least three in his room, in various hiding places) and he goes so far as to pull out the book and stare at the knife there.

He made it an entire week, and now he can't go two days?

He's stronger than this. He needs to fight this urge. He doesn't want to, but he also, logically, does not want to cut.

Which is nice, actually. He's been craving it for so long; it's nice to genuinely not want to cut. Even if it's just because he doesn't want to let Scott down.

So how on earth is he meant to deal with this, when he's supposed to be studying in their quarters for the next two hours and he can't stop thinking about the knives he has?

Scott's in a meeting about rebuilding assistance with a representative of the Undergrove, so Jimmy can't just go hang out with him. It would be both illegal and improper to have an unallied ruler present at such a meeting.

He'd come up with other such solutions at the insistence of his health advisor, in case Scott wasn't available at any given time. But none of those options are very feasible right now, either—he could take a walk but would just end up returning here, still needing to do his studies. He could call Lizzie, but then he would need to explain the situation and he still hasn't found the guts to tell her of the matter. He could instead do work for his empire—he and Scott are going to be returning there in just a couple of days—but there's not really anything remote that he can do that hasn't already been done. And his last option is to take a nap, but he doesn't think he'd be able to sleep with this pulling at his brain.

Whatever he does, he can't stay in this room, Jimmy decides. It's too much of a temptation. He'd be much better off somewhere else, somewhere people are watching and he has to act normal.

It's almost physically difficult to make himself leave, but Jimmy grabs his books on the history of musical tradition in Rivendell and his study journal and leaves the room, wandering the palace until he finds the meeting room where Scott currently is.

He sits outside the room (a servant pulls a chair into the hallway for him, despite his insistence that he didn't need one, that he was fine on the floor) and does his best to study while he waits for his fiance to have a break.

After about an hour, he's startled by the door opening, a guard leading the Undergrove representative into the hall and away, followed by others from the meeting.

Jimmy waits until all the official-looking people have filtered out, muttering to each other and shuffling papers. Then he pokes his head in, finds Scott sitting in his grand chair at the head of the table, Ilphas at his side. They're murmuring with each other, examining papers before them, and Scott rubs his eyes and lays his face in his hands.

Jimmy doesn't say anything, but Ilphas looks up, raises their eyebrows, and stands, patting Scott lightly on the shoulder.

"You'll cheer him up," they mutter to Jimmy as they pass on their way out. "The meeting is on recess, you have fifteen minutes."

Jimmy nods, sidles into the room. Scott looks up when he gets close, lines around his eyes softening.

"Hi," Scott says as Jimmy takes Ilphas's vacated seat. "How has studying been?"

Jimmy thinks of his time in the hallway, trying desperately not to roll up his sleeves just to scratch at his arms, or head back up to his room to fix his scars. It had been a constant struggle, and he hadn't gotten more than page read, the words blurring before his eyes.

He hums noncommittally, taps his gloved fingers on the table before him. "How was the meeting?"

"Good, I think," Scott says, glancing down at his papers. "Just difficult. Our alliance with the Undergrove is about as strong as it can get, which is always good. The problem is, I have an empire of my own that was under enemy rule to take care of, and we're spread thin enough with other allies. We're trying to figure out what Rivendell has spare of that the gnomes could actually use. There are at least five other people who need to be present for this, though, so it may go on for several days."

"Hm." Jimmy shifts a bit, ready to preemptively wince when his stomach presses against the table, but there's no wound there.

He hadn't carved it open, after all.

Instantly, Jimmy feels his entire body break out into sweat, the itching becoming a hive of ants crawling under his skin.

He needs to fix his scars. He needs to cut, or else they'll disappear and they're already starting to disappear and he can't stand it.

He isn't supposed to be cutting. He's supposed to distract himself.

But Jimmy's doing all of the right things! He left the room with the temptations, he tried to focus on something else, he found Scott. He did exactly what his health advisor told him to do, and it didn't work. He just needs to fix his scars, he needs to leave the room and go get his knife and lock himself in the washroom—Scott would never know, he knows how to hide it, he could just get it done—

"—entirely confidential, of course," Scott is saying distantly. "But basically, Shelby's afraid that—"

"Scott," Jimmy interrupts, voice too loud. Scott looks up from the table, and Jimmy just knows his eyebrow is raised, even if he can't well see it. "Yes, darling?"

Right. He isn't even going to think about it, because if he thinks about it, he'll chicken out, he just can't let Scott down.

"I am about to cut myself," Jimmy says, detached and calm. "There is a knife on my bookshelf, second shelf behind the red book on the left. There's another one between my mattress and my bedframe. Could you please remove them?"

Scott stares at him for a moment, before shoving back his chair. "I—yes, of course—are you all right if I leave you here?"

"Maybe leave me with Ilphas," Jimmy forces himself to say, despite the way his head screams at him. If he's alone, he can at least scratch himself with his sharp nails. "I—I shouldn't be alone."

He should be letting Scott rest during this break, not bothering him with his dumb mental issues. He should actually be a normal adult for once and handle his own problems.

But Scott taps his shoulder as he passes by. "Thank you for coming to me," he says seriously. "You did everything right. I'll see you in a moment, and I'll send Ilphas in here."

Then he's gone, and a moment later, Ilphas ducks back into the room.

"Milord," they nod to Jimmy. Jimmy nods back, tugging his gloves up a bit from where he'd started to subconsciously pull them off.

Jimmy doesn't speak. Ilphas looks awkwardly between him and the hall, then, with the uncomfortable air of forcing a conversation, says, "The music of Rivendell? How do you find yourself enjoying it?"

"The—the music itself, or, uh, the study?"

"The study," they clarify. Jimmy chews on his lip for a moment.

"It's strange, studying music," he says. "I guess I didn't think about the fact that people must do it."

"How did Cod music come about?"

Jimmy shrugs. "I don't know. I think I pioneered it, though."

Ilphas tilts their head. Jimmy does not elaborate.

He does vaguely remember tying two clam shells together to make a noisemaker, one that had quickly spread in popularity and he still sees as a percussion instrument in Cod culture. Why study Cod music when he was there for its development?

"How old do elves get?" Jimmy asks suddenly as the thought occurs to him—are there elves here who might have seen the development of their culture, as Jimmy had seen his own?

"One thousand and two-hundred is the oldest an elf has lived to be," Ilphas says, sounding weirdly proud. "We are among the longest-lived of the species of the earth. Even the fae tend to live for under four hundred years. The gnomes have a lifespan slightly shorter than humans, and the inhabitants of the ocean and the Codlands—do correct me if I'm wrong—do not commonly live longer than one hundred and fifty years, and often shorter, depending on the breed. Which is why elves have historically kept to themselves, and rarely married outside their own—there is no one who can match our lifespan."

It almost feels pointed. "Well, you won't have that problem with me," Jimmy says offhandedly. He so badly wants to tear through his sleeve, stab his pointed nail into his upper arm. He can't stand this, he has to go fix his scars, he has to stop Scott from taking his knives.

He takes in a long, slow breath. He can control this urge until it passes.

He blinks, and realizes that Ilphas is frowning at him.

"Pardon my asking, milord, but is the Cod lifespan not typically under a hundred years? Lord Smajor will likely live to be over a thousand, praying all goes well in his reign."

Oh. Right.

"I'm . . . I'm kind of older than I look," Jimmy says awkwardly. "I'll . . . I'll probably outlive him, honestly. If all goes well in—in my reign."

"Outlive Lord Smajor?" Ilphas sputters. "Perhaps, if he were already well-advanced, but he is barely an adult! Aeor willing, he will—"

"I'm back, thank you, Ilphas," Scott says, entering the room. "Apologies, it was urgent. Do you mind if I have a moment alone with my betrothed? And," he adds, as Ilphas inclines their head and moves to leave, "give us ample warning before entering again. Five minutes alone?"

"Five minutes," Ilphas agrees, casting one more confused look toward Jimmy before leaving and closing the door behind themself.

Scott barely hesitates. He crosses the room like he has an urgent mission and sweeps Jimmy up into a hug.

Jimmy can't help it; he smiles, throws his arms around Scott's neck.

"I'm so proud of you!" Scott says, and he lets go of Jimmy only for a moment to release the clips on both their veils, letting them slip down.

Scott isn't kidding—his face is positively beaming, as tired as he still appears. Jimmy's really not sure why. He hadn't even done anything, except want to hurt himself. "I didn't do anything special," he mumbles.

"You came up with a plan, and you stuck to it," says Scott. "You took initiative by asking me to remove dangerous items from your room. You fought your addiction to get help. That's incredible, Jimmy!"

But it isn't. He didn't do anything.

And he doesn't like that word.

"It's not an addiction," Jimmy says, looking away. "It's just me being dumb. Don't—don't call it an addiction when I could stop at any time, I just keep choosing to mess up."

Scott frowns. "Jimmy, you came in here because you were fighting an urge to self-harm and you needed me to make sure you didn't. Do you want to cut?"

Does he?

To some extent, he does. He wants to check on his scars, make them dark and ugly again, tug the shimmering scales out of his face and from his knuckles. He can't lose this.

But Jimmy's so tired of hurting. He doesn't want to be trapped in this endless loop of nearly killing himself every morning for the next however-long he lives.

He feels like a child, trying to lug around a wagon of useless rocks, each one collected from a meaningful place, but useless all the same.

"I don't know," he whispers. "I don't think I want to."

"You don't have to call it an addiction," Scott says gently. "It's an alarming word. But when you're repeatedly hurting yourself and you don't want to, it isn't normal."

He says something else that Jimmy doesn't understand as he turns his head to check the door, Scott's voice becoming distorted in his bad ear. When he turns back, Scott's smiling softly.

"You're two days sober," he says, voice bursting with something like pride. "And you're already taking all the right steps."

"Two days," Jimmy groans. It feels like it's been weeks already, his scars constantly nagging at the back of his mind. And he has to be clean from self-harm for—for forever?

He isn't strong enough for that. He doesn't want to be strong enough.

"Three days tomorrow," Scott encourages. "Three days is enough. And then four days after that. One day at a time."

Scott is too perfect for him. He's such an excellent person, and Jimmy just can't measure up.

One day at a time.

"I can try that," Jimmy says. Scott smiles, one gloved hand coming up to rest on Jimmy's jaw.

"I'm right here, okay? Every day."

And then, at Jimmy's little nod, Scott closes the gap between them and kisses him.

Scott's a good kisser, if Jimmy does say so himself. He's responsive, and tends to let Jimmy lead, and Jimmy really wants to lead right now.

He lightly scrapes one of his sharp lower teeth against Scott's bottom lip, smiles against Scott's mouth when his partner actually moans a little, lets his lips fall further open. So ridiculously sensitive, his lover is.

Jimmy's about to go a little further—he really does love kissing Scott, it feels like taking care of him in some odd, protective way, it makes him feel like he can do something right—when a knock on the door startles them apart.

The door opens a crack, and Ilphas calls in, "Milords, it's been seven minutes, so you had really better make yourselves decent if you aren't."

Jimmy blushes; the blood drains from Scott's face.

"Just one moment," Scott calls over his shoulder, standing up straight from where he'd been leaning back on the table.

He fixes both their veils, and Jimmy cracks one last smile at him, hidden by the thin green fabric.

Then he's being ushered out of the room, and many more people are being ushered in, and Jimmy has to return to his studies for another half hour before heading off for a walk through the gardens.

The itching under his skin quiets just a little.

And Jimmy lives one day at a time.

-

It's about a year later when he relapses.

Jimmy's had a bad day—he's been in meetings all week, trying to see if the House Blossom Alliance can be reformed, and it's been stressful all around. And then today, in one of those meetings, fWhip had made it clear that he believed Jimmy had entirely invented the years of torment at the hands of him and Sausage and Joey.

It had been a moment where Jimmy had floundered. His hands had clenched into fists, bile had risen in the back of his throat, he'd stared hard at the table while Katherine called for fWhip to behave himself.

And now, arriving home in Rivendell, Jimmy can barely hide in his room fast enough.

fWhip's right, there's no proof that any of it ever happened—there's no way to verify it, no way to show that Jimmy had been through everything because none of his scars are more than faint lines now except the ones from the Void, and those ones have a clear origin that isn't necessarily fWhip—and Scott doesn't count as an eyewitness because he's Jimmy's husband, he's biased, he could be lying about seeing any of it because Jimmy doesn't have any way to corroborate his story and everything itches under his skin and it's so bad—

Moving almost by instinct, Jimmy stumbles up from where he's collapsed on the floor, up and over to his bedside rug. He pulls up a corner of it, and there the knife is.

It's been hidden there for at least a year, its oiled sheath still showing Jimmy's fingerprints from when he'd last touched it to hide it.

He barely thinks for a moment, his stomach going all cold as he realizes what he's about to do—he's been clean for a year, he can't do this he doesn't really want to does he?—but he thinks more about where he's going to start and how to keep himself from being interrupted than he does anything else.

He locks himself in the washroom, strips off his brown leather waistcoat and green tunic and surveys his torso for a moment.

There used to be a scar, long and thin, right down his sternum. He traces his skin there lightly with the tip of the knife, hair standing on end.

Then he pushes the knife in.

It hurts. It hurts a lot more than it used to, he thinks—it's been a while since he was properly injured, and it's hard to think when there's a knife in him.

After the first cut, he falls back into the routine as if he'd cut just yesterday. His hands find the vague spots that were once twisted scars and carves them out by muscle memory, stabbing the knife deeper and deeper as his hands shake and his knees go weak.

And then he reaches the scales on his face and his hand falters.

He's covered in blood. He's absolutely soaked in it, his face stark-white against all that red.

He relapsed.

The knife slips from his numb fingers and clatters to the floor. Jimmy feels himself sway, the sight of so much blood making his head woozy.

He sits down, hard, on the floor, the world tilting a little. He isn't going to—it isn't that bad. He's definitely done worse to himself, even if it's been a year.

A year. He was clean for an entire year, and all of that is now gone.

He kind of doesn't want to clean up. What's the point? He might as well keep cutting and never stop, seeing as he's already lost literally all of his progress.

But he doesn't, for some reason. He doesn't touch the scales on his face and hands, fully grown in now when he'd never let them before.

Instead, he follows old routine. He gets his wet cloth from the basin and wipes down his body, watching the wounds slowly scab over until no more blood is seeping out. Then he pulls his tunic back on over stinging wounds, leaving the waist coat for another day, and rolls his trouser legs down.

Now what is he supposed to do?

He wants to keep it hidden. That old itch that had been a quiet background noise for many months now is roaring for attention, pushing and pulling at his mind.

He can't tell anyone about this, or else they'll make him stop.

Which—he wants to stop. He literally wants to stop, but he can't stop thinking of ways to hide it, to keep his knife as his own and cover the marks he's made.

He isn't going to do that. He isn't going to hide things from Scott anymore.

So Jimmy sits on their bed and gets out his communicator, tapping out a message to his husband with trembling fingers.

I need help. if you're busy don't worry about it it isn't urgent :)

Jimmy tosses his communicator across the bed, hugs his arms around himself. Why did he send a smiley face? That was dumb. Then Scott will turn up later and think that it isn't an actual issue, even though Jimmy relapsed and everything is suddenly so bad.

But he can't bother him by telling him it's important, because Scott is currently in his weekend planning meeting to prepare to go to the Codlands for the next week, and that's very important and if Jimmy interrupts it Scott might not be able to go home with him this week.

So he waits there, hugging himself, his cuts hurting just a little too much for him to forget them.

He doesn't cry. When he used to cut, it would disconnect his emotions. His head would clear a little more with every dig of the knife, and he would finish feeling numb with a buzz of satisfaction.

The satisfaction feels more sickly than anything else. He sits there, stewing in the feeling, staring at nothing.

He can't act normal. He's not sure how he thought he would be able to pretend that nothing was wrong. He can't even do that while alone.

Jimmy waits there, feeling rather small, curled up on the end of their bed. He doesn't move. He doesn't even readjust when he feels a cut on his side pull open and stick to his tunic. Shame. He liked this tunic.

He's not sure how long he waits before the sitting room door opens and he hears Scott take off his boots. He knows it's Scott, instinctively—Scott always turns the doorknob when shutting the door so that it closes softly, and Jimmy knows exactly the sounds it makes when Scott pulls free the laces of his boots and sets them on the wooden rack.

Sure enough, Scott comes through the bedroom side door, offering Jimmy a soft smile before unclasping an official-looking cape of sorts (his wings shake themselves a couple of times) and laying it on the back of his desk chair, setting his crown on the desk.

"I got your message," Scott says. "Sorry I took a little while, I only had a few more items of business to take care of before it was all finished. How was your meeting? How's Katherine doing?"

Jimmy stands, twisting his hands in the fabric of his shirt, carefully not looking at the cut across his lower palm that he'd made just earlier.

"Um, she's good," he says, not quite meeting Scott's eyes. "The meeting didn't go the best."

Scott clicks his tongue, lifts a necklace off himself and sets it on the desk beside his crown. "I should've been there. I don't like it when you have to talk to any of them without me there."

"Gem and Katherine and Pix were there," Jimmy says. "He wasn't going to attack me. He just . . . he said some stuff."

"I'll kill him," Scott says instantly. "I'm the Champion of Aeor, I can take him, easy."

"And I'm a thousand-year-old demigod, we all could take him," Jimmy reminds him. "But that's not really . . . that's not what I need help with. But it's related, I guess."

"What, did fWhip do something?"

"Not . . . not exactly."

A frown creases Scott's face. He crosses the room, sits down on the bed, and pats the spot beside him.

Jimmy joins him, almost reluctantly. It would be easier to just tell him from the doorway, then take off running before Scott can get angry or sad. But he sits beside his husband and does his best not to flinch when Scott's wing comes to settle around him.

"You're upset, darling," Scott says, tone careful and soft. "What's wrong?"

There's no tears. Not yet. Only a feeling like he's going to throw up.

"I relapsed," Jimmy manages, voice barely above a whisper. "I cut myself. I relapsed."

"Oh . . . oh, love. . . ."

"I didn't mean to," he adds. "Just—fWhip said some things and I couldn't get them out of my head."

"I'll kill him," Scott says again. "I'm actually going to kill him, he made you feel like that and—"

"Scott. . . ."

Scott stops at Jimmy's small, pleading word. He pauses, then takes Jimmy's hands in his own.

"I love you," he says seriously, and Jimmy's heart flips at the reminder. "Whatever fWhip said means absolutely nothing to me, okay? You are incredible, darling. Now, do you need any medical attention? How bad is it?"

Jimmy's about to wave him off, say that it isn't bad at all. He's never liked to admit to pain.

But he's learning how to be better. He doesn't want to lie to his husband.

"I'll be fine," he says carefully. "It was pretty bad, though. I—I really messed up. I basically just, uh, stopped short of my scales."

Scott breathes in and out, slow and steady. Then he looks Jimmy hard in the eye.

"I'm glad you're okay," he says, face determined. "I'm sorry you went through that. Do you have anything that I need to keep safe?"

"Knife," Jimmy says. "It's in the washroom, on the sink. I cleaned up, so don't worry about . . . anything."

Scott nods, squeezes Jimmy's hands before slipping away, through the sitting room and into the washroom. After a couple of moments, he returns, smile a little tight around the corners.

Jimmy swallows back that horrible ill feeling. He was an entire year sober, and one little mocking statement from fWhip sent him right back to day one.

“I failed,” he whispers eventually. Finally, tears burn at his eyes.

He failed. An entire year.

“You didn’t . . . that doesn’t change your worth,” Scott tells him, once again weaving their hands together. “It doesn’t change anything. You just keep trying.”

“Yeah, but—it does, really, because—”

“Failing doesn’t mean you’re worthless,” Scott says strongly. “It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. It only means you try again.”

Scott knows that. Jimmy knows how deeply Scott struggled, those weeks living in the refugee camp, with feeling like he was anything but a failure. Scott’s worked with those feelings for a very long time—Jimmy still remembers from the other month how Scott held him so tightly and almost cried over that first time that he was late to answer Jimmy’s messages, so long ago, how badly he felt he’d failed him.

Scott knows how it feels to be a failure.

Jimmy’s pretty well-acquainted with it too, to be fair. He’s felt like a failure for most of his short memory.

But that’s okay.

“I’m a loser,” he tries half-heartedly.

“Don’t say such things about my husband.”

Hearing Scott call him his husband releases some of the tension Jimmy’s holding in his chest and he collapses onto Scott, his wounds twinging. Scott huffs out a laugh, falls back against the bed, pulling Jimmy down with him.

“The urge is a lot stronger, now,” Jimmy warns Scott, voice partially muffled by his husband’s tunic. “I might . . . I might fail again.”

The last words come out small, shameful. Scott hugs Jimmy tight.

“Okay,” he says simply. “I wish I could fight it for you, but I’m here to support you, no matter what.”

That’s all Jimmy needs.

He can do it, he thinks.

“One day at a time, darling.”

“One day at a time.”

[hsslilly-blog]

if i were to post my writing (high school story/hollywood u), would you prefer it if i posted it directly on tumblr or would it be better if it were posted on ao3? or maybe, a third, less categorical option: should i crosspost it?

[non-un-topo]

I realize I've been so flaky with responding to asks, finishing my drawings or fics I promised, etc. I've kind of been drifting in and out of tumblr without interacting much. Real life just finally started, and I need to build up a ton of motivation and find time before I can work on a fandom project. Just wanted to say that I'm still here and still working on stuff, just slowly.

[tenthousandyearsx]

Smut game

Thank you for tagging me, @maraudersaffair and @crazybutgood! I loved reading yours. ❤ I'm going to do 10 smutty dialogue quotes instead because I'm not feeling any of my first lines and I'm curious to see what you all choose.

Rules: pick any ten fics, select some smut or pre-smut dialogue, and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, feel free to share anyway!

These are all Drarry.

ㅤ

Keep your hands on me (E, 21k)

“They just… they want to satisfy an itch, Potter. It’s not… It’s not really the same.” Harry pressed a kiss on Malfoy’s lips. “They don’t want to wreck you like I do, you mean.” “Yes.” “Do you want to be wrecked, Draco?” “Fuck, yes,” Malfoy groaned. “By me? Or by anyone?” “By you.”

Just a trial run (E, 9k)

“You had a fantasy about paying to have sex with me?” Potter asked, frowning. Draco snorted. “No, just having sex with you in general. Potter’s eyes glazed over. “How – How old is this fantasy?” Draco took a sip of his drink. “Quite old.” “You wanted to fuck me at Hogwarts, Malfoy?” Draco’s eyes were on him, appraisingly. “Isn’t that what that was all about?”

Trouble with your tie, Potter? (E, 6.7k)

Harry’s face grew warmer, his heartbeat picking up. Malfoy reached out and put his hands on Harry’s hips, pressing against him, his front to Harry’s back. “I bet –” He kissed Harry’s neck. “I bet I could turn you around, tug your tie just slightly, and you’d fall on your knees for me.” Harry shut his eyes, not even bothering to hide the small noise that escaped him. “Yeah,” he said. It was true anyway. He tilted his head a bit, baring his neck for Malfoy, and Malfoy’s hands tightened on him. “I’d do that.”

Truth be told (E, 2.3k)

Malfoy smirked. “Really, Potter. I should have guessed you just wanted to be fucked.” He slid a hand under Harry’s shirt and a moan escaped Harry’s throat. “You do, don’t you?” “Yes,” Harry groaned. “I thought we’d already established that.” Harry was on bloody Veritaserum, had just spilled his guts in a room full of Slytherins, and it was all Hermione and her stupid inter-house parties’ fault.

At wand point (E, 2.8k)

Harry’s mind went hazy, sluggish. “Blackmailing me, Malfoy?” Malfoy smirked. “It’s not blackmailing if you offer, Potter.” He leaned in slightly, lips almost brushing Harry’s, and murmured, “You are offering, aren’t you?” Harry wanted to pull him into a kiss, wanted to drop to his knees and mouth him through his trousers right there and then. Instead, he said, “What if I am?”

Imperio (E, 3.8k)

Malfoy caught Harry’s hair and yanked it back hard, still panting against Nott’s cheek. “What is it? Tell me.” “I don’t like it when you kiss him,” Harry said obediently, because he didn’t, even though he was too turned on and blissed out to find it really upsetting. “Oh?” Malfoy said, sounding delighted, and then laughed and pulled Nott into a furious snog again, Nott’s cock brushing Harry’s parted lips. Harry swallowed at the sound of their moans. “Like this?”

Good (E, 300)

“So good,” Draco murmurs, stunned and a little breathless, lips dragging over Harry’s jaw. “Are you always this good, Potter?”

Why (E, 100)

“This is fucked up,” Draco says, and Harry bites down on his thigh. “Why?” “Fucking hell, Potter,” Draco whines. Harry adds another finger. “Yesterday, we weren’t even on speaking terms.”

Under the Invisibility Cloak (E, 100)

“Shhh.” Draco flicked his thumb. “You don’t want them to hear you, do you?”

You can, now (E, 100)

“Like that,” Ginny murmured. “Open your mouth. You’ve wanted this for so long.” Harry whimpered. He let Ginny guide his head forward, let Draco’s cock slide past his lips. “You’ve wanted him all along, haven’t you?”

Tagging @orange-peony, @magpiefngrlrl, @nv-md, @ladderofyears, @makeitp1nk, @sweet-s0rr0w, @roseharpermaxwell, @wolfpants and anyone who feels like sharing smutty goodness!

[snickerdoodlles]

regarding posting extra fic content that is not fic, but being worried about notifications... i have no idea how user subscriptions for pseuds work on AO3, but would it be a viable option to post those extra things under a pseud and then you can make it a related work to the fic in question?

it doesn't work! :( anyone who's subscribed to my main 'snickerdoodlles' username will get notifications for everything i post on AO3 that isn't anonymous because the pseuds still tie back to it. which is actually really convenient for me in every other case, but ajkfdjh.

right now i'm mostly considering building up a queue of tumblr posts that i'd want to copy over to AO3, then making a specific story post that's in my anon collection as i move stuff over. i can link all the story stuff together in the fics themselves, then take them out of the anon collection after i've finished uploading everything so that it's just one email notification at the end. my only hesitation rn is that moving a bunch of stuff over sounds very boring and i'm procrastinating it lol, but that's the only method i can think of atm that won't drive me completely nuts? i also don't really want anyone getting AO3 notifications from me to become associated with "not fic" either oof, i will cry if that happens 😂

[cannibalisticskittles]

first times - ch. 1

For the past few weeks, you’ve been plagued with thoughts of Pen. Thoughts that are… decidedly less than chaste. But really, who could blame you? You’ve got eyes. And needs. And you’re certain that Pen could meet those needs. That is, if you ever get around to acting on these thoughts, instead of just sitting around and fantasizing. 

And Pen – he has his duties, sure, but when your interest in him is brought to light… well, there’s nothing that says he can’t have a little fun while he’s here, right?

…which is definitely, unquestionably, 100% the only reason why he’s increasingly drawn to you. The sudden temptation of attention, admiration, and affection holds no sway over him. But… as Sandrock’s premier protector, he wouldn’t say no to some long-overdue appreciation directed his way.

(or: you are awash in horny nonsense. feelings ensue.)

[builder/pen]

One thing you’ve learned about Pen is that he has an uncanny knack for finding you when you’ve stayed out far too late in the mines, or gathering supplies in the desert, and you wind up falling asleep somewhere you shouldn’t. 

It’s a handy skill, really, given how often you push yourself beyond your limits. At this rate, you can’t even count the number of times you’ve woken up safe in your bed, knowing the only way you could’ve gotten there was if Pen brought you home. 

The trouble with that is – sometimes you swear you can smell him when you wake. Sand and a faint hint of what you assume is his hair gel, but mostly sweat, lingering in the air as if he’s only just tucked you into bed; as if you could call out for him and he would appear in your doorframe.

Sometimes you do call out – though you tend to do so after slipping a hand into your underwear as you imagine him there with you, and – well, the details change from there.

You’ve seen… quite a bit of him, thanks to his insistence that you take the time to really soak in the details of his physique and admire how fantastic his pecs look after his latest workout. 

Arms. Chest. Thighs. Glistening with sweat from yet another punishing self-improvement session – self-perfection, more like – that you have, mercifully, so far prevented yourself from darting forward and tasting. His exercise attire leaves little to the imagination – and you are happy to let your imagination fill in the gaps. And as all of him is big – you have to assume his cock is no exception. You wonder sometimes if you’d really be able to take him with the ease that you do in these daydreams, but that thought never lasts too long, pushed out by far more important thoughts of how good you’re sure it would feel.

Sometimes you imagine Pen engulfing you, his broad chest pinning you to the mattress as he fucks into you, filling you completely. 

Sometimes you imagine his large hands wrapped around your wrists, setting a lazy pace just to hear you whine for more and chuckling as he prevents you from moving against him and speeding things up.

Sometimes you imagine him fucking you with no restraint at all, panting and grunting above you with that beautiful voice of his as he fucks you like an animal. 

Sometimes you switch it up a little and imagine bouncing on his lap, your nails clawing marks up and down his back.

Often, you imagine him murmuring lowly into your ear, filthy things about how wet you are, how desperate, how ready for him. 

In all these fantasies, his smile is nearly always present, smug and self-satisfied – and why wouldn’t he be? He’s not even here, and he’s made a whimpering mess of you with just the idea of him. Light, he’d love that if he knew, wouldn’t he? Love to know how desperate you are to see him, taste him, feel him. How the thought of him leaves you trembling. It’s not as if his ego needs feeding, but if he knew what you thought when you looked at him – 

Fuck. He’d be smug about it, unquestionably. His ego would grow to an unprecedented size. You know he thinks quite highly of himself; rather than be flattered he may just take it in stride – his dues, as it were. 

And yet. Maybe he’d be… interested in these fantasies of yours. Maybe, maybe he would… reward you for it. 

And the thought of him looking at you with hunger is – delicious. Overwhelming. That’s the thought you fixate most on, as all your senses fill with thoughts of him, him, him –

And then you come to with your fingers in your cunt and your underwear soaked through and realize you have lost yet another morning to fantasies of Pen. 

By the time you drag yourself out of bed, clean yourself up, and finally, finally get ready for the day, it is far later than it has any right to be – close to midday already. How much of that is from your body catching up on all those hours of lost sleep, and how much was spent tangled up in thoughts of Pen, you cannot say for certain. What is clear is that you’ve managed to waste no small amount of time. 

There goes another morning…

Because – this isn’t the first time this has happened, has it? Far from it. 

You… might have been deliberately staying out too late sometimes, just so he’ll find you and carry you home, and… okay, maybe this is the third day in a row that you’ve done that – and that’s just accounting for this week. How many times has this happened last week? And the one before that?

It… might be time to admit you have a problem. 

Right. No more dawdling. First things first – you’re going to make up the time you lost today. There is work to be done. The bridge to the Eufaula is coming along well, but several tons of steel cables and frames do take time and effort to put together – two factors which you have been sorely lacking lately.

No more. Today, you catch up on the projects you’ve let fall by the wayside. And… this time, no midnight forays. As disappointing as that feels. 

You’ve finished your designated part of the project, but there’s still more to do. Smaller tasks to help speed things up. So, off to the guild you go. 

You ignore Yan’s yammering in your ear about being late to pick up commissions; like he would know anything about that. As far as you can tell, he’s been riding the coattails of legitimate builders for as long as he’s been in his position. Even with… distractions… you’re outpacing him by a mile. But you’re a practiced hand at tuning out the buzz of his voice at this point.

Heidi’s been busy; even with signs that the board has been picked over, with several commissions already taken by Mi-an or Athena – or both – there’s still a fair amount left over. Frames and beams and raw materials needed for the base. Yeah, you can handle that. 

From there, you fall into a familiar pattern. Load the recyclers up with a new heap of scrap, fill furnaces with ore – which reminds you, you have got to find some way to thank Pen for carrying not only you but a full bag of ore, too. …and now you have got to stop thinking about being carried in his arms. Focus. Pop out to the scrapyard for extra materials, dip down into the ruins to top up on copper ore, head back home, reload the machines, sort the excess into storage. Only then, with the last of these tasks done, do you concede that it’s time for a break from the heat and dip inside to cool down.

You take stock of what else still needs to be done as you make your way to the fridge. Don’t you still have some pressed sandberry juice left over? That sounds like a good idea right about now. 

You can always use more materials – ore mostly; you should make sure to set aside an afternoon to go mining soon – but as far as today’s commissions go, once the furnace cools, you should be able to put everything together relatively quickly. 

You nudge the door of the fridge open with your hip and scan the shelves. Ah, there’s the pitcher, at the back of the lowest shelf. You bend to reach it. 

The frames will be easy enough to transport, as will the various rods and pipes Heidi asked for, but the beams… once those are built, you might need to ask Pen for some help hauling them over to the bridge worksite. Difficult for you to handle moving them, but surely no problem for him.

The mental image of Pen lifting iron beams with ease hits you just as your fingers brush the pitcher’s glass handle, and you pause. 

…maybe he’d be willing to extend the favor and lift more than that.

Nothing too heavy, just… your hips. As he bends you over much like the position you’re in now. His breath warm against the back of your neck, his hands pushing your underwear aside as he spreads you open with his fingers and prepares to–

The sound of your name and the sensation of a hand on your back pulls you from your reverie, and you yelp as you jolt, inadvertently bashing your head against a shelf in the process.

“Augh, who–?” You blink through the pain as you straighten. “–Athena.”

A Sister from Meidi, your fellow builder, an excellent listening ear – and also, very possibly the most gorgeous woman you’ve ever met, which you’re sure many others in Sandrock would agree with – is now standing in your kitchen.

She’s clearly been hard at work, if the faint smudges of dirt on the sleeves of her bright yellow toga and dotted across her hands are any indication, but she still looks radiant, which doesn’t make you feel much better about being caught with your ass sticking out of your refrigerator, mid-fantasy.

Athena normally wears an expression of serene tranquility, but there’s a slight frown on the taller woman’s face as she pushes back a strand of her long, white hair and then extends a hand towards you. You lean towards her obligingly, letting her gently probe at the point of impact. You hiss as her fingers make contact, but it doesn’t hurt too bad. 

“No blood,” she says, “but it’ll likely bruise. Are you alright?”

“I – yeah, I’m alright, it just stings a bit. You startled me.”

“I knocked, but there was no answer and no one’s seen you all day.” Her frown deepens. “You know you left your door unlocked?”

“Yeah, I’ve… been doing that,” you say. Hard to go in and out as often as you need if you have to fiddle with locks all day. …and hard for Pen to bring you home if you leave it locked, too. “What’s, uh – what’s going on, though? Did you need something, or…?” You were kind of in the middle of something, and much as you adore Athena, it was just about to get good. 

She regards you silently for a moment, her frown softening into a look of puzzlement. You resist the urge to shuffle on your feet under her scrutiny. 

“...we were supposed to finish filling the planters around town and tend to the greenery on the northeast side of the desert this afternoon,” she says. “You never came.”

“Was that today? I thought–” And, wait, ‘this afternoon?’ It can’t be that late, can it?

You glance out the window. It’s dusk. 

Shit. 

You groan, swiping a hand across your face. All thoughts of returning to your interrupted daydream fizzle out. …well, most of them do, anyway. You’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t be able to jump back into them in a heartbeat, if given the opportunity. “I’m so sorry, I lost track of time, and the days, I guess, and I…” You shake your head. “I’m sorry. I was… distracted.”

“You’ve seemed distracted a lot, recently,” she notes. “I’ve hardly seen you at all this week, and you’ve seemed frazzled every time. And I’ve heard you’ve been passing out far too often lately. Didn’t you say you were going to work on not doing that anymore?”

“I did,” you admit, and the reminder of that promise comes with no small amount of shame. “I just… I…”

What could you say – that taking care of yourself has seemed far less appealing than hoping your reckless actions will somehow bring you closer to him – not that you’ll even be awake to appreciate it if it does? That your head’s been so full of fantasies you barely have room for anything else?

“Hey.” Athena’s voice is gentle. “What’s on your mind?” She practically radiates understanding – something about the set of her eyes and the way she regards you suggests you could spill all your secrets to her and she would be a stalwart protector of them all. You wonder sometimes if that came after those years of service with the church, or if she’s always been like that. Regardless, maybe it would help to talk to someone about this. 

“It’s…” You sigh. “…you want something to drink? Let me get you something. And, uh… feel free to take a seat. Get comfortable.” 

Feels strange to start dumping all these thoughts on her when you’re both just standing in your kitchen. …not that it’s likely to stop feeling strange once you’re sitting, but it’s worth a shot. And having some sandberry juice as you chat might help to collect your scattered thoughts.

As you grab the pitcher and a pair of glasses, you ruminate on how to explain this in a… delicate way, but you remain at a loss. By the time you mosey over to the table where Athena is waiting patiently, you have failed to alight on some neat, perfect explanation that leaves out any potential for embarrassment. No, you’ll have to be honest about this, won’t you? Mortifying as that may be. 

You fill both glasses and take a seat. “So,” you say, pushing one of the glasses towards Athena, “lately I’ve been… preoccupied, it’s true. I’ve been thinking about… Pen.” You tap your nails on your glass. “I can’t stop thinking about Pen. He’s–” Your face begins to burn. Is there not a way to do this that feels less – soul-baring? “...very attractive, and I am… not immune to his charms, and lately I have been… drawn to him more and more.”

“Mmh.” Athena takes a sip from her glass. “I’ve noticed.”

“You… have?”

“You have a tendency to stare when you see him. Constantly.”

“Oh. I do?” Shit. You haven’t noticed, but then, when Pen’s around, he is all you think about, so it’s… certainly possible.

“Mmhmm. And you’ve been giving him what I can only describe as bedroom eyes.”

You blanche. “No. I – have I?” 

She nods. “And you’ve picked up a habit of sticking out your chest around him, and it’s like you go out of your way to find something to put in your mouth so that you’re constantly sucking on something.”

“That’s – a complete coincidence, that’s not–”

But Athena continues, counting off each new observation on her fingers as she goes. “You find reasons to be near him and some of your excuses are extremely flimsy, you get tongue-tied, you bite your lip so often it’s a wonder it isn’t perpetually bleeding… and you bounce sometimes. Like you’re thinking about–”

“I – I just like to move!” you protest. 

“Mmhmm. And it just so happens that you always feel compelled to move specifically while you’re looking at his… ‘belt?’”

You bury your face in your hands. “Fucking hell,” you groan, “I’ve been that obvious?”

“Enough that I didn’t think you were trying to keep it a secret,” she says. 

You drop your hands, though you cannot meet Athena’s gaze head on. “Yes. Yes! Alright! It’s — I mean, I didn’t know I was announcing it to everyone, by the Light, but yes, I’ve been–”

You push back from your chair and stand so that you can pace. Feels better to move. Feels better to not look at her right now, and see the judgment that you fear might be there. Instead, you run a hand through your hair. 

“–unendingly horny about Pen,” you finish. “Athena, he’s so hot, can you blame me?

But it’s – it’s constant. I pass him in town and I start thinking about him picking me up, carrying me into one of the alleys, and fucking me against a wall. I – I sit next to him in church, and, Light, those thighs, and I just want him to bend me over a pew, sermon be damned.”

Athena grimaces slightly at this blasphemous scenario you’ve conjured up for her. “I understand,” she says, and it seems as though she has more to say – some advice, perhaps, but how can she advise you when this is something you’ve never experienced with such intensity?

So you – sorry, Athena – cut her off. 

“I don’t think you do, because I don’t even get how it can be this bad, it’s – Athena, I don’t even need to see him, sometimes I just hear his voice and I imagine what he might say as he – talks me through taking all of him. It’s so much worse than it’s ever been and it feels like it’s getting worse day by day.”

“Really,” she insists. “I understand. …not about Pen, specifically, but – it is possible to be this… intensely horny even without having had experiences like that before, you know. Your… situation, isn’t so unheard of. Many could understand, and it’s not some damning edict. Even with it affecting your day to day life.”

You groan. “Sure feels damning, but… thanks. If you think so, maybe there’s some hope for me after all.” Hard to imagine anyone else making such a massive fool out of themselves the way you’ve been doing, but you suppose it’s more likely than you being utterly unique in this horny torment. And then you process more of what she’s said and your focus shifts. “Wait, are you saying you–?” Because it sure sounds like she’s including herself in that ‘many,’ and that is interesting. The devout Sister from Meidi, inexperienced but wanting? This bad?

But Athena shakes her head. “No.” Her voice is firm, though not harsh. “We are… focused on you, and your predicament right now. We can talk about nuances that may or may not concern me, later.”

You certainly will. But she’s right – you’re the one letting all this… pent up desire interfere with, well, everything.

“Right,” you say, “okay. So – maybe this isn’t so strange and you do get where I’m coming from. But if experience factors into this, I’m ��� I’m not – I do have experience.” You run a hand through your hair. You don’t love how insistent that came out. Like you’ve got something to prove. It’s really not that big a deal – honestly, it isn’t even noteworthy. “I mean… I’m not exactly virginal, y’know?”

Athena stifles a laugh. “I’ve gathered. You’re not quiet about some of your past… exploits.”

“Right,” you say, “yeah. About that. The thing is, I have had partners before. And I’ve done… some things. But there are… some other things, I… haven’t. Yet.”

Your pacing brings you to the wall near one of the windows currently letting in a gentle, warm breeze, and you lean against it, considering how best to mention this… tiny, insignificant little detail. 

“Like… penetration.” You wince as soon as the word leaves your mouth. Could you have chosen a more awkward way to phrase that? Doesn’t seem like it, but it’s too late now. “From someone else, anyway,” you hasten to add. “There are some really marvelous devices sold at a shop in Tallsky that’ll do the trick for some solo stress relief – in fact, I could hook you up with their contact information if you’re interested in trying them out?”

But from the way Athena’s eyebrows are raised, she’s not taking the bait, and you have failed to distract her from this bit of information.

“You’re saying you’ve never…?”

You groan again, swiping a hand across your face. “Rub it in some more, why don’t you?” you grumble.

“Oh, no, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she assures you, “I’m just… a little surprised to hear that from you, given that you’ve always made it sound like you’re… well…”

“...a massive slut?” you suggest. 

“Not what I was going to say.” You laugh. She wouldn’t say that, but that’s probably the core of it. “And… hold on, you mean to tell me that you’ve never gone all the way – and yet you’ve been getting Burgess to watch Old World porn with you to ‘show him the ropes?’”

“Yes, and I’m doing you a favor, honestly,” you say. “When you finally get around to making a move, you’ll thank me, because it’s clear that his sexual education has been woefully neglected thus far, and someone needs to teach him the basics.”

The both of them have been dancing around their feelings for ages now, which is ridiculous, given that they’re clearly smitten with each other. But, as a friend to both, you are sworn by sacred Friend Code to not reveal their feelings to either of them until they’re ready to do it themselves. Even if it feels like it’ll take forever at this rate. 

…but that won’t stop you from doing your best to make sure that when one of them finally cracks and confesses, there’s nothing in this world that could prevent them from celebrating an end to that agonizing wait with some earth-shattering orgasms. 

Hm. Actually, if you’re right about what Athena was alluding to earlier, she might also benefit from some good old fashioned porn watching. 

“And that someone needs to be you?”

“No one else is stepping up to the plate – unless you want to volunteer?” 

There’s a faint flush to Athena’s face at your words, and she exhales sharply through her nose, but she does not deign to grace your suggestion with a response. 

“Seriously, though, don’t worry. I vet the vids first, and nothing too weird makes it in. Just ones that’ll give him a better sense of what to do when faced with, y’know, someone who happens to be into him.” Like her, of course. Her face flushes ever so slightly more at the implication. “When I’m done, he’ll fuck like a champ, guaranteed.”

“Something that you know so much about?”

“Hey,” you say, “I am more than qualified to teach Burgess some tricks. I may not have gotten dicked down before–” Is that better than ‘penetrated?’ “–but I do have some wisdom to pass on. I’m aces at oral, for one. And I happen to know quite a bit about what not to do that’ll help him out – keep him from following in the footsteps of those who have tried, and failed, to deflower me.” And then you pause. “No, nope, scratch that, I hate that. Blech. Should not have said that, even as a joke. Ew. Basic point still stands, though – drilling the importance of foreplay into dear Burgy-boy’s head is vital.”

“That’s still not–” Athena shakes her head and sighs. “This is an argument for another time.” Though her tone makes it clear that these are not empty words, and you should be prepared to pick up this discussion at some later date. That’s fine, though; you know you’re right. You’ll sell her on the idea eventually. “And it’s besides the point. So, you’re inexperienced. That’s not a big deal.” 

“No, especially since I have had sex before, just not–”

“–penetration, I get it.” There’s a soft sigh at the end of that. 

“Right,” you say. “Still, shouldn’t that help me here? Shouldn’t I be… not this uncontrollably horny, since it was never this bad before, with previous partners? It shouldn’t be like that.”

“Mmh.” Athena considers you carefully. “It doesn’t help to worry about what you should be feeling, because you are feeling that way.”

You resist the urge to respond with a sullen pout. For some reason, a logical response like that isn’t what you were looking for.

“Yeah, but Athena, this is–” You shake your head. “It’s not just the constant fantasizing. It’s the fact that I feel… ready? For it at all. For…” You roll your shoulders as though to preemptively ward off the ick of what you’re about to say. “...ugh, penetration? And that’s crazy, right? We’re not even – dating. How’s that make sense, huh? To not feel ready with anyone I actually dated, and then suddenly be so sure I’m up for it now? What the fuck is with that, huh?”

“Maybe because they’re just fantasies?” Athena suggests. “It might feel… safer to imagine doing some of these things than it did to be faced with the possibility of actually doing them.”

“Could be,” you say. “But I’m not a stranger to dirty thoughts. And my, y’know, fantasy self can be down for whatever I want her to be, so I have imagined… some of these scenarios in the past, and yet. This still feels different.”

“...what was it like before, with those previous partners?” Athena asks. “What made you feel… not ready then?”

You consider this. 

“Well, one wouldn’t have known what foreplay was if it bit him in the ass – and yet hated the idea of lube, and no way was I letting him try and do it dry. One kept claiming to be allergic to condoms – not to whatever material any given kind of condom was made of, mind you, not latex or any of the alternatives. To condoms. Wanted me to trust his pull-out game, can you believe that? He was not hot enough to risk single motherhood. Told ‘em both ‘no,’ of course.”

Athena clicks her tongue sympathetically. “I’d say that’s a normal response.”

“Right? What is this, the Age of Darkness? We’re not ‘fucking to survive’ anymore, damn.” You shake your head. “There were others, but they weren’t much better. I really know how to pick ‘em, I guess. Anyway. I’ve… been fingered before. I've given oral – I mentioned I’m great at that?”

“You did.”

“Worth repeating. And… one of ‘em tried oral on me, which was – ugh.” You shudder at the memory. Like being caressed by a warm, dead fish. “Beyond that, I… always ended up dipping out before anything else happened.” You drum your fingers on your arm. “...a lot of the time, they were – I dunno, rushing things? Like everything else was just a roadblock towards their ultimate goal of getting their dicks wet? And it turns out it’s hard for me to get into it when I feel like I’m just being seen as a hole. Who knew, right?”

“Also very natural,” Athena says. “It makes sense that you wouldn’t be comfortable if you felt like your partner was just using you for release, and it also makes sense that you wouldn’t have much reason to even fantasize about going further with anyone like that. And, with experiences like the ones you’ve had, I can imagine that you may have been… put off from envisioning scenarios that remind you of them, too. So – if you’re doing that now, what’s different?”

“I mean… it’s Pen,” you say. “Pen… existing is the only change. But why?” You groan. “And why now, when there’s so much to be done that I can’t do because I’m thinking of him?”

“Now, that is a question that only you can answer.”

“Back to square one, I guess,” you grumble.

“Not necessarily,” she says. “If it wasn't like this right away, and you say you feel like it’s been getting worse recently, then something happened. Do you know when this started getting really bad?”

Hmm. Can you pinpoint the moment this went from ‘occasional flights of fancy’ to ‘constant and debilitating?’

“I’ve been attracted to him the whole time, of course,” you say, “I mean, he’s gorgeous, like really ridiculously handsome, and… yeah, that time he carried me home my first week here was – maybe fodder for a daydream or two, but for a long time, it was just an occasional thing. Manageable. Definitely didn’t start ramping up until after the bridge was destroyed. Which was also when I started asking Pen for help with moving some of the structural support for the new bridge, and… since then, he comes by to help me out in my workshop and I’ve been seeing him more often. But – it still wasn’t that bad, at least not right away.”

You frown. When was it, then? Seeing him lift beams and trusses with such ease did have an effect on you, but you still managed to get through a whole slew of commissions. Then there were a few days where you’d finished the bulkier parts of your commissions and didn’t need his help, and the next time you saw him was because he sought you out, and – yeah, that’s about when you started losing yourself to daydreams pretty consistently. At least, you think so. Which means –

“It was after he tried to teach me how to Space Punch,” you breathe. When he’d casually revealed that he’d never had a friend before and that you were his first. And when he said he knew everyone was waiting for him to fail. “Oh, shit. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Athena gives you a knowing look.

You’d – discussed the moment with her afterwards, naturally. Though Pen had sworn you to secrecy, you figured that was primarily in regards to his supposed ‘failure’ to impart his knowledge to you. You’d needed someone to be a sounding board to vent your agonies to – his first friend? Ever? The unbearable loneliness of that thought was too much to bear alone – and Athena would never go around gossiping or spilling his secrets to anyone. Plus, if you glossed over the Space Punch thing, said you just weren’t ready to learn such a powerful technique, that still fulfilled the spirit of the promise you made to him, right?

And if these thoughts intensified only after he told you all that, that means… 

“...I… I’m so horny because I care?”

“You’ve been seeing him more often and it's showing you how much he’s not like your exes. How much you don’t think he sees you as a means to an end.”

“Well yeah, of course not. I mean… he comes by to help out sometimes without me even asking, and it’s not like I’m paying him for his help, so I have to assume he likes being around me. Plus, I have apparently been extremely obvious about my interest and he hasn’t even tried to make a move, so he can’t be rushing me–”

You grind to a halt as you realize what you’ve said. 

“…oh, shit. Athena. Athena, what if he’s not interested, what if – oh, fuck, if I’ve been as obvious as you say, he must have picked up on it, so – shit, shit, he’s not into me like that and I’ve been parading around like a fool and–”

“Hold on,” she says, “There’s no need to spiral over this. You’re very much interested in him, and yet you haven’t made a move. Not an official one, anyway. Maybe he hasn’t said anything for the same reason you haven’t.” And then she chuckles. “In fact, I’d wager it is.”

“And… what reason is that?” you venture. “Because I’d kind of figured the biggest factor in not jumping his bones yet is that most of my fantasies feel like they’re pulled straight from some bottom-shelf porno, and that doesn’t tend to work so well outside of that.”

“Yes,” she says, “but if all you wanted to do was jump his bones, you… probably would have done that by now. Porno premise or not. I’d guess that you haven’t done anything because you’re nervous about changing things too much – or, you’re worried he won’t feel the same.” Athena’s voice is patient – despite the wry smile pulling up the corners of her lips. “You’re emotionally invested. …don’t make a face, that’s not bad. The strongest relationships start as friends versus simply going straight to romance, how else is one supposed to know if you’re compatible? And, despite Pen’s… whole situation, it’s likely he’s thinking the same thing.”

Whatever blithe comment you were going to make dies on your tongue. “...you think so?”

She nods. “I do.”

“…what makes you so sure?”

“I’ve… noticed things,” she says. “You’re not the only one being obvious.”

“Well?” You push off from the wall and return to the table in a few short, quick steps, then take both of her hands in yours. “What are you waiting for? Spill.”

She laughs. “He always seems to be looking in your direction, for one. And he somehow gets even more puffed up when you’re around – like he needs to show off somewhere you can see him.”

“How often? And – and since when?”

“About as often as you stare at him? And… I really couldn’t say. It wasn’t something I was looking out for, exactly.”

“Oh. Yeah. …still, I can work with that. Though – shit, what do I do?

“Talk to him?”

You make a noise like a strangled duck.

Athena stifles a laugh. “Yes, talk. What else would you do?”

“I mean – yeah, no, I definitely have to talk to him, just – woof. Daunting. Lot of things that could go wrong. Lot of ways I could stick my foot in my mouth. But I guess I’m going to have to... put on my big girl pants and do it,” you grumble. “What’ll I say…? Because I should probably come up with a better opening than ‘Hi Pen, could I interest you in fucking my brains out?’”

Athena snorts – and at the same time, there comes a thump from outside. 

You jolt. “–the fuck is that noise?”

You hurry over to the window nearest the sound, push it open, and stick your head out to peer around. The sun has long since set, and it is completely dark outside. There’s nothing abnormal that you can see – certainly no sign of whatever made that noise. 

Huh. Honey ant getting too close again, maybe? They keep wandering over from the scrapyard lately, trying to mess with some of the storage bins. After another moment of scanning around in the dark, you pull your head back inside and shut the window as you do so.

“Y’know what,” you say, “I’m gonna go take a quick peek outside and make sure everything’s okay, but after that… you’ve listened to me bitch and moan enough, and I think we’ve pretty much sussed out the root of my problem. Whaddya say we crack open a bottle of wine, get some painting done? Eh? Another paint n’ sip session?”

Athena considers this for a moment. “I think I could be tempted by that.”

“Hell yeah!” you crow. 

Alright, good. You wasted a decent chunk of time this morning but the day’s not a total wash. You have… well, it’s not a plan, exactly. It’ll take some time for you to think through the right way to go about this. 

But in the meantime, it seems like a good idea to blow off some steam in a less risqué way than you’ve been doing lately, and hey – maybe in the process, she’ll loosen up and spill some details about some of those dirty thoughts you now know she has. And maybe, if you’re lucky, they’ll be about her and Burgess. Might give you some new ideas for how you can nudge them together. 

And you’ll… come up with some plan to… confess to Pen, in time. 

Without fucking it up. 

…you hope.