#my posts are very subpar quality and i apologise for that

[somedaytakethetime]

Joe Burrow's hands appreciation post?

Joe Burrow's hands appreciation post.

[katie-dub]

The Devil's Doorbell

A while back @winterbythesea​ shared a post with this amazing description of the clitoris: “That's the devil's doorbell and if you keep pressing it, soon enough he will answer.” So Svenja shouted fic prompt, as is her wont, and came up with this:

Emma wanders into the path of a weird curse or eats something she shouldn't or picks up an artefact she wasn't supposed to touch (Regina did warn her!) and suddenly every time she settles in to, ahem, ring the devil's doorbell... he answers.

So I wrote the thing and am sharing it now for @cscocktoberfest​ - I hope I’ve done you proud Svenja. This is more banter and innuendo with a sprinkle of smut, but I hope you all like it. (And I’ve got another Cocktoberfest fic to come next Wednesday!) 

Thanks @initiala​ for organising this event, which gave me the nerve to actually post this. Cheers for reading this over for me @mahstatins​ and danke schön @distant-rose​ and @welllpthisishappening​ for chanting “post it!” at me ;)

Emma Swan was having a day. Or maybe a week. Possibly even a lifetime. It was one thing to discover after 28 years that she wasn't actually an orphan but a bona fide witch from outstanding magical pedigree, it was quite another to find herself expected to do something about it and take flipping magic lessons. Especially when her teacher was her sassy step grandmother who expected nothing less than total dedication at all times. Only today she had found her mind and her hands wandering resulting in such a sharp reprimand that she was almost glad that her entire family had been separated from her by a curse for her entire formative years.

(And, OK, maybe it was better not to touch strange magical artifacts that she had no knowledge or understanding of, but surely Regina didn't have anything actually dangerous in that vault of hers.. Right?)

Still though, the incident had left her feeling frustrated and full of pent-up nervous energy that she desperately needed to relieve. And what better way than with a little TLC?

She ran a deep bubble bath, downloaded the utterly ridiculous sounding trashy romance Manaconda to her kindle (figuring that if the erotica was subpar, it should at least be good for a laugh), and poured a glass of wine. She sank into the deliciously hot water and settled in for a night of fun.

It quickly became apparent that Manaconda, while hilarious, just wasn't going to do it for her. So she set her kindle to one side and closed her eyes, dreaming up a tall, dark and handsome man to help inspire her as her hands drifted down, stroking and teasing just as her fantasy partner did, before she moved to touch that one special spot...

“Well, well, well what do we have here?” Her eyes flew open and her hands shot away from her clit like she'd been burnt. She sloshed water out of the bath as she yelped, “holy shit!”

The intruder chuckled. “There's nothing holy about me, let me assure you.” She turned to look at him - god, he looked like her erotic fantasy come to life with his chiseled, stubble-covered jaw, lean but toned physique and perfectly mussed dark hair. He even had a perfect sultry voice with a British accent that really worked for her. Did her magical powers extend to wish fulfilment? Her cheeked burned at the thought. “Now why did you summon me - did you need a hand? Or perhaps there's another body part you'd prefer?”

She gaped at him. The man in her dreams was a lot less, well, annoying. “What the fuck?”

“Or do you simply need someone devilishly handsome to add a little spice to your fantasies?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and she felt inexplicably pissed. How dare her fantasy lover come to life and damn well mock her? She'd heard of kink shaming, but this was ridiculous, could you even be shamed by your own subconscious? She briefly considered Regina's face if she were to ask. Yeah, that was not going to happen.

She sighed deeply, totally exasperated by this experience. “Get out before I do something that you'll regret.”

(He was a manifestation of her deepest desires and she figured that meant she could justifiably murder him if he pissed her off too much.)

He gave a short bow, said, “as you wish,” and disappeared.

Emma wondered if she could discreetly find a book on magical mishaps before the next time she needed to show herself some love.

As it turned out she didn't have time to look up her particular problem before she felt the urge to touch herself again. All the day after she first saw her dreams come true (and honestly she never thought she'd think that was a bad thing) she felt on edge and needy.

So that night she went straight home after her magic lesson, stripped off her jeans and jumped into bed. There was no need for teasing or delicacy tonight, she was already wet and wanting. She stroked her fingers through the wetness and circled her clit. She groaned in blessed relief.

“Oh it's you again, Swan.”

Despite her embarrassment at her fantasy lover once again appearing when she had her hands in her panties, Emma was deeply puzzled by this. “You again?” she repeated, “you know, I'd have thought a physical manifestation of my desires would sound a bit more pleased to see me.”

“Is that what you think I am?” Her fantasy was positively smirking at her. It was infuriating.

“Yes, of course that's what you are,” she huffed, more than a little annoyed at the need to argue with her own subconscious. “It's like you stepped straight out of my brain. All the details are perfect. Except you're far less chatty in my fantasies - you focus on winding me up in the good way.”

He laughed at that - actually fucking laughed out loud. “I'm no fantasy darling, I'm a demon. I can understand the confusion, it must be hard to believe anyone this devilishly handsome could be real.” She narrowed her eyes at him, surely no one this maddeningly arrogant could be real? And yet, he was living and smirking in her bedroom. “But here I am, answering your summons, the name's Killian, feel free to scream it out when you get back to business.”

She reluctantly pulled her hand from her panties and finally sat up so that she could glare at him. “I didn't summon you.”

“Oh but you did, probably subconsciously from the sound of it. Do you have magic?”

She shrugged. “Um, yeah, I'm a witch or something.”

He nodded sagely. “That'll be it then, powerful witches don't require complicated rituals to call upon demons in their hour of need. So,” his voice dropped to a sultry murmur and he stepped closer to her, “what do you need from me?” He pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek and raised his eyebrows suggestively.

She pretended that it did nothing for her, even as she felt the need to press her legs together to dampen her desire. If anything, that made it worse. “I need you to get out.”

He quirked his head at her in disbelief, but nevertheless he said, “as you wish.” He vanished and Emma’s eyes closed. She deliberately focused on reliving a particularly excellent time with her ex Graham as her fingers got back to work.

“Ah. This is unfortunate. It seems you'll have to stop touching yourself if you want me to leave for good, Swan.”

Her eyes flew open at the sound of the British accent and she took in the unwelcome - and all too familiar - sight of Killian. “Why are you back?”

His eyebrows arched in amusement. “Well it would seem every time you - what do you Americans say - rub one out it summons me and I'm powerless to refuse the call. Now, how do you want me?”

“I don't!” she gasped, annoyed by the breathy quality to her voice. She tried to push herself upright, but her hand slipped and she ended up resting on her elbows awkwardly.

“I have strong evidence to the contrary. I can watch you if that's what you're into? Whisper sinful words into your ear? Provide manual assistance?”

Oh fuck a little hands on assistance would be incredible. She ignored the thought and hoped her body didn't betray its obvious delight at the idea. She feigned indifference instead. “Do you ever shut up?”

“I do find it's hard to talk when my tongue is engaged in more pleasurable activities.” His tone was matter of fact but the way he licked his lips and the look in his eyes was pure sin.

“Can you just leave?”

“And leave you wanting? That would be very bad form.”

“Yeah, I'm not in the mood anymore.”

“Shame. I'll see you next time, don't be shy about ringing the devil's doorbell if you feel the urge.”

“Did you just call my ...” Emma trailed off, lost for words in her disbelief.

“Well I answer every time you press it, seems fitting, don't you think?”

Emma's nose crinkled in disgust. “Just go.” It was going to be a long time before she even considered touching herself again. (Even if she did need a cold shower to help wash away the buzz of arousal and the tingle of disappointment.)

 The next day she was feeling more than a little desperate. She tried not to give into the urge to fuck herself stupid but it was starting to almost hurt. She couldn't quite believe that there were people who were actually into this whole orgasm denial thing.

She didn't even make it to her bedroom this time. She just stuck her hand down her pants the second her front door closed behind her. Her fingers touched her clit and for a brief second she it was sheer bliss.

"You rang?" Killian was leaning against her kitchen counter smirking at her with undisguised glee.

She hastily pulled her hand from her pants. "I did not"

"Oh, darling, you know I'm bound to come when you do." He sauntered over to her, moving in close and biting his lip with undisguised want.

She gritted her teeth. "Well, you're early."

"I do apologise. Bad form, that. It's not usually problem for me.”

“Is there really no way to stop this?” she whimpered.

He stepped back, his seductive demeanour gone and scratched behind his ear thoughtfully. "It's not an affliction I've encountered before. Perhaps you need to find other methods of loving yourself - there's a number of toys you can purchase?" His face was a picture of false innocence. She wanted to smack the look right off his face. Or maybe kiss it off. Or perhaps she could just sit on his face… but no, her thoughts were not going there.

"Shut up."

"No? Well how about less sexual methods? There's meditation, manicures, massage - avoiding the obvious erogenous zone, of course."

He thought he was so cute and it drove her mad. "Bite me."

"If you insist.”

“That wasn't an invitation!” Even though her whole body screamed at her that it really, really should be.

“Are you sure? I'd make it so good for you.”

“And you've just killed my buzz.”

“I don't believe that for a second.” His eyes swept across her body, no doubt her dilated pupils, full-body blush and stubbornly heaving bosom betrayed her lie.

Traitor, she hissed at her own body in her head, before fixing him with a bright grin. “I'm all good thanks. Begone demon!” He raised one eyebrow in amusement, but vanished, leaving Emma to once again climb into a cold shower.

 The next day she'd reached her limit. At the point where she seriously considered using a comfort break in her lessons to escape to the bathroom and make herself come she knew that she had to give into whatever weird curse she was under. She told Regina that she wasn't feeling well and wasn't surprised that she immediately suggested that she go home. She probably looked half crazed and she was damn sure it wasn't just her loins that were on fire, or whatever that stupid cliché was.

“Well hello.”

She was expecting him when she touched herself this time and she knew what she needed to do. “Turn around.”

“Pardon?” He looked genuinely affronted.

God, she didn't want to have to explain this. “I'm desperate, but that doesn't mean that I want you here, so just turn around and don't listen.”

He frowned at her. “It seems a shame to deny yourself the pleasure of my company.”

“And don't talk.”

“I can think of a better way for you to shut me up. If you would let me I would caress every inch of you with my lips and tongue. I would tease you, slowly licking my way closer and closer to that delicious bundle of nerves, drawing out every ounce of pleasure until you couldn't take it and you forced -”

“Stop talking.” Killian fell silent and she could almost tell herself he wasn't there. And that's how she liked it, because his little speech was definitely not causing her to shiver and little waves of arousal to run through her. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind and focused on making herself come. Except, nothing she did was quite doing it for her. She was doing everything right but since Killian had stopped his narration it wasn't enough. He was going to be insufferable. “.. Ok, I need it: tell me what comes next.”

His answering grin was wicked. “Darling, isn't it obvious? You do.”

 If Emma had thought that giving into her desires would break whatever spell she was under, she was wrong. If anything the desire and sheer need was worse now. Her head echoed with the rich and detailed fantasy that Killian had narrated for her. She could see them acting out his words, she could feel it, and she was in a near constant state of heightened arousal. She cancelled all her plans for the day and tried to take her mind off her throbbing clit. Several times she realised that she was on the verge of touching herself with no recollection of a conscious decision to do it. She was feverish with the need to give into temptation.

At last she admitted that her attempts to resist were falling flat. We need to resolve this for good, she told herself when she accepted the inevitable, I have to see him so we can make this stop.

(Even she wasn't entirely convinced by her logic, but this way meant orgasms and relief.)

“We really have got to stop meeting like this, love, I'll start to think that you're just using me - and you're more than welcome to.”

“What have you done to me?” she whined. “The need to rub one out is just overwhelming.”

“I tend to have that effect on people.”

“I'm serious. I just need to touch myself. Constantly.”

Killian looked unbearably smug as he replied. “They say the devil makes work for idle hands. You haven't upset my boss recently have you?”

She glared at him. “I don't believe we've met.”

“You angered an evil witch?” She shook her head. “Stepped on cursed soil?” She rolled her eyes. “Handled a magical artifact?”

“I - er - may have done that last one?”

“Good, we're getting somewhere, any idea what it was?”

Emma wracked her brain, what had Regina called it? “The horny afro ditty?”

“You mean the Horn of Aphrodite,” he said with a smirk.

Emma waved her hand dismissively though it was hard to deny the blush that had spread across her face. “Yeah, that's basically what I said. So you know how to fix this?”

“Do you want the good news or the great news?”

Her heart sank at his delight. “Why don't I like the sound of this?”

“The good news is I know the cure. The great news is you'll get to kiss me.” He bit his lip suggestively. She ignored the tingle of arousal she felt in response.

“That's it?” She had to admit she was expecting something a little more x-rated. After all the symptoms were hardly as innocent as a simple kiss.

“Were you hoping for more? Can't say I blame you, I know my way around a woman.”

She frowned at him, shaking her head at his ego. (Even if she fully believed that he would be excellent at kissing - and the rest.) “It's fine by me. Just seems a bit..”

“Chaste?”

“Well - yeah.” She shrugged, trying to convey that it was totally fine by her.

“Aye. Well, I can see that love has been all too rare in your life.” She opened her mouth to argue but he silenced her with a raised brow. “In those cases it's not uncommon for the effects to get.. Lost in translation. Your need for intimacy has been misinterpreted as physical desire.”

“You think I need you?”

“You said it, not me.”

She scoffed at him. “Please. You couldn't handle it.”

He cocked his head at her curiously - somehow that one tiny gesture felt like a challenge. “Perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it,” he said, tapping his lips.

He was goading her, there was no other word for it. He was goading her and she was uncomfortably horny and he was talking to her about physical desire and she never could back down from a challenge. That's why she wrapped her hands around the lapels of his jacket and pulled him down to her.

Several things happened the moment their lips touched. There was a burst of magic that seemed to pulse out of their lips. The all-consuming need that she'd been feeling eased, replaced by a pleasant tingle of desire. Her theory that he would be an excellent kisser was proved right - and then some.

The kiss was both soft and powerful, tender and passionate. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close and running his fingers through her hair. Somehow a simple press of his lips to hers felt more sensual and intimate and made her heart beat faster than all the teasing, innuendo, and dirty talk that they had traded. It felt more personal than all of that somehow, so much more than merely lips and tongues and teeth meeting.

When they broke apart to take a breath they stayed close. She hadn't let go of his coat, their foreheads were touching and they breathed in each other's air.

Until she remembered herself, then it was all too much. His cheeks were flushed and he was ghosting his lips over hers hoping for more. She pushed away and refused to look at him.

“That was -” he breathed.

“I think we broke the curse, or whatever that was,” she said brightly.

Her words seemed to snap him out of his haze. His eyes lost their sparkle and she felt bad immediately. “Unintended side effect - a magical mishap. ” His voice was flat.

“Like some kind of sexually transmitted demon?” she chuckled, feeling a little proud of the ridiculous joke, and hoping that it might bring back his mischievous demeanour, but he didn't react. She felt disappointed, but she decided not to dwell on it. This was just a magical mishap, as he said, one that she was happy to have resolved in such a pleasant manner. “Well, I feel nothing now, so that's good.” That wasn't strictly speaking true, but he didn't need to know that. “So, thanks for your help. Um. You can go now.”

“As you wish,” he said and vanished. She tried not to think about the fact that she probably wasn't going to see him again.

 It would be ridiculous to suggest that Emma missed Killian. She barely even met him a few times when she had needed to relieve some tension. It was true that he seemed to step right out of her fantasies, but that didn't mean that she actually knew him.

Still, the next time she needed to show herself some love, she summoned to mind his image to inspire her. And if she half hoped that she would summon him in the more literal sense, that was no one else's business.

It was two weeks to the day since she last saw Killian. She was lazily reading through a magical text, eyes glossing over slightly at all the descriptions of the Amulet of Something Significant and So-and-So’s Macguffin, when she saw it: The Horn of Aphrodite. Fitting name, she sniggered to herself, remembering its intense effect on her, it certainly gave me the horn.

And Killian, another voice whispered in her head.

The Horn of Aphrodite, she read. An ancient Greek artifact bestowed upon the hero Paris by the Goddess Aphrodite to unite him with his True Love. It is said that… It took Emma a moment to register what she'd just read. It united some dude with his True Love. Right. But that had to have been a one time thing she mused, feeling an uncomfortable prickly heat spreading throughout her body. It is said that all those who handle the horn, despite Emma's alarm at the implication of what she was reading, she still smirked at that particular description, will summon their own True Love to their side.

If this artifact summons a person's True Love and if touching it had summoned Killian, that meant… Well, fuck.

 “You're my True Love?” she blurted out the second he appeared.

“Believe me, I'm as surprised as you, my kind isn't exactly first in line for a happy ending. Well, not the fairytale kind at least.” He gave her with a lopsided wink and she rolled her eyes.

“Seriously? I'm having a crisis and you're making dodgy jokes?” She slumped into a chair in disgust. “Some True Love you are,” she muttered.

Killian sighed and pinched his brow. “What did you expect, love? I'm a bloody demon, not Prince Charming.” He looked at her earnestly. “I'm sorry that you have been landed with the likes of me, I'm sure you deserve better.”

Emma's heart went out to him - must be that whole True Love thing - and she patted the seat next to her. He sat down without a word. “Would it help if I told you that I always thought the prince was a bit of a dick?” He laughed out loud. “I'm serious! He's all romance and happy endings but how many princesses married Prince Charming?”

“You think it was the same Prince Charming in every tale?”

“All I'm saying is Charming is not a very common name.”

“You sound like a tough lass to woo.”

She shrugged. “Not really, just give me banging it out over a bouquet of flowers any day.”

“So shall we?” Killian turned to her, placing one arm on the back of the couch behind her head. He poked his tongue into his cheek and wiggled his eyebrows at her cheekily.

She twisted towards him. “What?”

“Bang it out?”

Emma answered him with a brief, bruising kiss. She pulled back and grinned. “I thought you'd never ask.”

 She had expected a good, hard fuck, not his tongue all over her, worshipping her, easing her into her orgasm. It was lazy and tender. She felt cherished and worshiped. Usually that would be enough to make her come and run, but it felt.. pretty nice actually.

 She felt a blissful calm running through her, she sleepily looked down at Killian between her legs. He was grinning at her, delighted at her obvious pleasure, it was a good look on him. She closed her eyes and relaxed back against the couch.

Dimly she was aware of him moving away from her, but it didn't fully register until he scooped her up into his arms. She squealed and flailed her arms, startled by the movement. He laughed and pulled her closer to him. “Relax, love, I'm just taking you to your room.”

“Hoping I'll return the favour?”

“I'm hoping to have you on your hands and knees while I shag you senseless and it seems like very bad form to allow my True Love to get carpet burn the first time we fuck.”

“How thoughtful.”

 “So what happens next?” They lay naked and sated in bed when Emma finally asked the question she’d been thinking about ever since she first read about the Horn of Aphrodite. Killian looked over at her and lazily quirked an eye at her. “With the whole True Love thing?”

“Oh, of course.” He turned on his side to look at her properly, licking his lips. “How does a lifetime of sexual bliss sound?”

She grinned in reply. “Perfect.”

[vivaciousyellow]

re: beyond embarrassing personal ramblings

dear victoria,

first of all, thank you for writing and sharing. i feel like i’ve been participating from a rather unusual kind of third party perspective, in a few very select snapshots of your uncle’s story through your posts. the way i’ve been able to see it to such an ultimate end from this vantage point has felt especially poignant and faintly unsettling.

so.

it’s taken me more than a month to finally put a response together.

which is mainly just, i have answers to exactly zero of your questions. i feel like when i first read your post and began reacting, i had things to say. but in the ensuing month-long, personal and  exhaustive, emotional rollercoaster ride - a particular thrill i’m still strapped into - and my concurrent journey of netflix binging to absolute denial (that little river in northeast africa doesn’t hold a candle to the lengths i will go through to keep row-row-row-my-boat-ing down my favourite psychological coping mechanism. i will die in this disgustingly polluted river of toxic, industrial-grade hormones and emotions. but not before first dying in this confusing and overdrawn parenthetical of metaphor and idiom. you still with me? cuz i’m not with me. #ImWithHerOrReallyJustAnyoneButHim), i’ve lost all my words. i apologise in advance for the intensely meandering nature of my authorial voice at the moment. and tbh the length and verbosity of my sentences are probably gonna be even harder to sludge through than usual, given my current modge podge vocabulary of a fifth grader.

what’s that they say? byelingual?

but rereading your post, the displays of grief that you described resonated with greater frequency (physics?) the second time around. i’ve been thinking a lot about performances of grief, as well as my own inability to pinpoint what exactly my tears are mourning. with each instance, i’ve become increasingly aware of how heavily and leisurely psychic tears move down my skin, and increasingly less aware of what a physical disturbance sobs are, the way each convulsion becomes the most unique ab workout, and the way they hack through the air in such a loud, clumsy way. honestly my lacrimal glands have pulled so much weight this past month and a half.

who says i don’t lift?

so, a shout-out to them. my most dedicated partners-in-crime. the crime of dramaticisms. of intensely gorging upon a neapolitan combination of guilt, shame, and self-pity day after day after day. which, by the way, are chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry, respectively. don’t ask me why.

my sister told me a few mornings ago, in a call that lasted 5 tissue packets, 62% of my phone’s battery life, 105 minutes of sobbing, and innumerable, patient assurances, something to the effect of, “to be able to feel so profoundly sad is something special.” i forget her exact wording, as i might have finally resorted to blowing my nose at this point, which has the power of expelling everything out through my nasal cavities, including my sense of hearing and dignity (i have found that, like peeing, snot comes out like a fire hydrant...in sometimes unforeseen directions, with unforeseen force…? that one conversation i had with hira two years ago truly left a ridiculous impression on me), but despite having to wade through the infinite cesspool of self-hatred that has become of my limbic system, that one expression of hers struck some resounding harmonic chord within me.

it was in c# minor, if you must know.

observing this “sadness” has become somewhat of an exhilarating experience (oh wait, already made this comparison, re: emotional rollercoasters). i feel like i’ve been steadily losing my ground and only just recently realised how it has completely vanished from under me. the proverbial magic carpet under which i have been sweeping things has disintegrated under the pesky gnawing of invasive thoughts.

and literal dust mites. i have neither cleaned my room or done laundry in weeks.

as i sit nestled at my unhygienic lowpoint, my sister suggested i write things down, so here goes some subpar, emo dear-diary-ing. hopefully my self-awareness acts as some kind of quality control but no promises. also everything will be in metaphor. sorry not sorry. but also really sorry. (there can be no end to the number of disclaimers, qualifiers, and apologies i need to say for posting all my feelings and thoughts on the internet.)

i remember complaining to david in early december that i felt so so homesick and i didn’t know what to do with it. i was complaining to a lot of people, compelled by some monstrous yearning and intense nostalgia.

my parents generously bought me a ticket.

to my utter surprise and complete delight, i only cried once. and brilliantly, mom and dad didn’t seem to notice. which is the always the biggest of blessings. or they’re just infinitely more intuitive and tolerant than i give them credit for. i also have to thank 姐 for that.

there’s a word doc i started the first day i step foot here and last edited mid-november that i was going to write for confessions of a mask (mishima yukio) and masks (enchi fumiko). not really addressing the actual material of either book, but rather just borrowing the titles. i wanted to do something with relating language, and language barriers, as a type of mask. something about my identity crisis as an asian-american. something about the genuine happiness amongst mixed feelings i felt about being mistaken as “nikkei.” something about the genuine envy amongst mixed feelings i felt when i heard my caucasian(-looking) cohort relate how she was mistaken as happa by the locals because of her conversational mastery over japanese. something about my own surprise, hearing from friends about the impressions i first gave off here.

once upon a time, long long ago, it all started with imposter syndrome…

to no one’s surprise...

anyway i think i need to end this post here. unfortunately however, this will most likely not be the last of my vague, emotional ramblings. something needs to come of this moment of my life. maybe if i record it, i’ll be able to figure out what i did that suddenly made everything feel so wrong.

i don’t know. i’m just so tired of treading the line between giving no fucks and giving all the fucks. more than anything, i hate that i’ve become such a cliched. but also i just wanna say, nihilism is overrated.

so i’ll probably look back on this in a couple months, or god forbid a couple years? and find all of this exceptionally mortifying. but in the meantime, while i’m stuck in this limbo where the future has become unimaginable and insurmountable, here are my fragile feelings.

love,

ying