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subeteaishite · 9 months ago

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🍎🦌 Ascensionsim 🍎🦌

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Pairing: Alastor/Lucifer

Rating: E, for explicit

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary:

Alastor revels in watching the King scramble for every crumb of attention he gives, and revels even more in the pain and heartbreak in Lucifer’s eyes each time he realizes the Radio Demon will never love him back.

Songfic for “Ascensionism” by Sleep Token

Notable Tags: NSFW, emotional manipulation, all hurt and no comfort, top!Alastor, bottom!Lucifer, heavy sadism and masochism, biting, blood drinking, blood as lube, wing-fingering, anal sex, scratching, mentions of cannibalism, and Alastor being a terrible person

Minors DNI

{Cross-posted on Ao3, show me some love there!}

Who made you like this?

Who encrypted your dark gospel in body language?

Moans permeated in the air, hanging heavy like the drunken haze that had overtaken the two bodies entangled on the luxurious, four-poster bed.

As a general rule, Alastor didn’t let anyone touch him, nor did he touch others if it could be avoided. The sensation of hands against his skin had always been laced with abuse, leaving his body haunted with the ghosts of pain well into his afterlife. Those specters played into his own motivations for touching others, a well-taught lesson in how to inflict that same abuse, but with far greater tact; how many people and demons alike had he killed with a feather-light caress of his lips or the back of his hand, the effortless movements the nectar that lured them into the maw of the pitcher plant? Mortal souls were so predictable. At their weakest, they always wanted the same thing: connection, affection, adoration. All things that Alastor never cared for, but was more than happy to exploit in others for his own personal gain or his own twisted enjoyment. There was nothing sweeter than watching that easily-fostered security wilt away into terror and regret, self-hatred for falling for the light of an anglerfish.

Even immortal souls shared the same vices, leading him to make such a rare exception to his own rule against touch. After all, the King of Hell was so downright vulnerable, it was delicious. Alastor was a simple sinner, with simple desires; desires to wound and rip into the flesh of anyone who dared to consider themselves superior to him, dared to be superior to him. Lucifer Morningstar was superior—he held a level of power, a command of sorcery, that Alastor knew he would never hope to achieve, and he hated the king for it. Resented him, tremendously. It wasn’t as though he kept that information a secret. He addressed Lucifer with outright hostility, seeking to undermine him at every turn, to flip the power dynamic of any interaction they engaged with to get the upper hand, to render him subordinate. Their encounters filled Alastor with a hunger, one that could only be sated by hunting the king as a predator would his prey, to corner him and taste that divine flesh for himself. It wasn’t as though Lucifer was oblivious to this; truthfully, he seemed to admire it, taking every opportunity to goad Alastor further, driving his appetite to spiral. It was almost like he was flirting, and Alastor was certainly the type to see an opportunity when it presented itself and use all manner of tools at his disposal to seize it.

Nobody better than the perfect enemy

Digital demons make the night feel heavenly

Lucifer knew better, yet here they were.

The sight below him was almost too much to bear as Alastor leaned up, cleaning the rose gold blood from his fingers with his tongue. The fallen angel was disheveled, to say the least; his golden hair tousled, his white blouse unbuttoned and bloodstained, his pants bunched up at the center of his thighs, just above his knees, underneath a cacophony of deep, oozing bite marks he’d left there. Alastor grazed his palm across his handiwork, digging a razor-sharp claw into one of the welts left by his fangs. Lucifer cried out in agony, but his face betrayed an opposite sentiment, glowing with ecstasy. He was a masochist, which paired far too well with the sadism all but written into Alastor’s genetic code. “More!” he whined, pleading with the sinner through half-lidded eyes. The deer happily obliged, twisting his wrist and exacerbating the incision, reveling in the way Lucifer’s body jerked, his hands grabbing onto Alastor’s fully-extended antlers for purchase, cheekbones illuminated by the faint, red glow of his eyes.

They only played in their purest demonic forms; it would be a pointless exercise otherwise. Their monstrous visages were the most accurate representations of who they really were, of the madness that lurked beneath the masks they tried so hard to maintain in mixed company. There was no need to keep up a pretense behind closed doors, not when they craved to indulge in the absolute worst of one another. Alastor pulled his finger from the wound, now made twice the size it had been previously, and smeared the blood across Lucifer’s lower lip. He leaned down to lap it up, his prey whimpering and inclining his head forward to make it a full-blown kiss; not that Alastor minded. It gave him the perfect opportunity to worry the man’s lip beneath his pointed teeth, drawing more of his sweet, practically addictive blood.

The Radio Demon’s hands whispered across Lucifer’s cock, the fallen angel twitching and gasping with each tiny caress. He was so sensitive when he was vulnerable like this, his stare betraying an emotion Alastor knew was there, but Lucifer would never speak into full form. It made him want to laugh as he thumbed at the slit, smearing precum across the head; to think, the King of Hell had fallen again, for someone so far below his status. How poetic, how predictable. It wasn’t the first time he’d fallen in love with a human soul. Alastor wrapped his hand around the shaft, laying each digit against the fevered skin one by one, so agonizingly slowly that Lucifer’s hips bucked with each moment of new contact. He tightened his grip, flicking his wrist as he languidly moved his hand up and down at the perfect speed to make the king begin to fall apart beneath his palms.

These trysts had become so common for the two of them in the past few months. From the second they laid eyes on one another in the hotel, they believed they saw past each other’s charade. Lucifer, pretending to be a caring father—like he hadn’t spent the seven years since his wife left him wallowing in self-pity, not giving his daughter the slightest ounce of his mental energy, only getting in touch with her to slake off his responsibilities. Alastor, pretending to be a well-intentioned, civil hotelier—when in reality, he was only around to manipulate Charlie and everyone in her vicinity for his own selfish gain, a monster who found his greatest joy in watching others suffer, particularly those tried endlessly to do the right thing, only to fail. Their mutual disgust and disdain for one another had become a game of preying on each other’s weaknesses; Alastor’s gluttonous need to relish in the agony and flesh of others, Lucifer’s need for physical contact and emotional intimacy. They each came to the table thinking they were going to win, but Alastor knew he was the only one equipped for victory.

Tell me you met me in past lives, past life, past what might be eating me from the inside darling…

Half algorithm, half deity; glitches in the code or gaps in a strange dream?

Humans and angels both were made in the same mold, made to be images of a God who knew nothing but love—a love that Lucifer had muddied with his fingerprints and a few sets of bite marks on an apple. If Alastor could fill a human with infatuation, make them go against their better instincts to follow him to their final resting place in a shrouded wood, a fallen angel would be just as simple to manipulate. After all, they were modeled after the same Creator; there couldn’t be too many differences. He knew, the moment he agreed to this arrangement with the king, that after months of these encounters, Lucifer would fall in love with him; and he did, just as Alastor had predicted. Oh, he loved being right. It was truly intoxicating, stringing along someone who was in love with him. Watching them come to the realization, over and over again, that those feelings would never be reciprocated, but unable to prevent themselves from desperately accepting any shred of attention Alastor gave them, was a high unlike no other—a sumptuous feast of agony that, every so often, slaked his need to consume, consume, consume flesh and bone alike.

Alastor dragged the sharp point of his index finger around the base of Lucifer’s cock, down across his perineum, down even further to circle against the tight ring of muscle there. The disgraced seraphim bucked his hips downward, almost far too eager to indulge in carnal sin. The Radio Demon laughed, enthralled by how such a simple action could make the king squirm, make his mind start to go blank with desperation, lust, unadulterated desire. What a thing to experience—Alastor wouldn’t know what that was like, and he knew he never would. He didn’t want to, lest he end up vulnerable and exposed, writhing beneath the hands of someone as poorly-intentioned as himself.

“Please, just put it in—“

“Shut up.” Alastor withdrew his fingers, shoving them in Lucifer’s mouth with enough depth and force to make him choke; Alastor adored the feeling of the king’s throat convulsing around him. He briefly fantasized about those being the final twitches of the angel’s life—but if they were, would he ever have so much fun again? There would be no one else for him to play with that met his criteria, no other prey that would leave him truly satisfied—no one strong enough, no one with a high enough social station, for this weakness to be enthralling instead of pathetic. “You know you won’t get a thing otherwise.” He pumped his fingers in and out of Lucifer’s mouth, pleased with the way submission reflected in Lucifer’s demonic red eyes. He continued with that until he was content with the former seraphim’s demeanor, dragging his fingers across the king’s formerly pristine skin, now marred by the deep lacerations he’d left there with his teeth.

Alastor’s hand continued its slow crawl downward, blood gathering around his fingers, until it found that ring again, circling twice before beginning to press his middle finger in—more abruptly than any sane person would, not caring a bit for Lucifer’s comfort; the fallen angel wouldn’t like it if he did. He was providing far more compassion than in past encounters. Blood wasn’t the most effective lubricant, but it was better than nothing, more than he felt Lucifer even deserved. Lucifer seemed to enjoy the abrupt, thoughtless intrusion anyway, bucking his hips like a wild bull just to make that finger go in deeper, thrust faster; Alastor stilled the king’s movements and tore a scream from his throat all at once by adding two more fingers without warning, giving Lucifer a brief taste of blissful pain.

“Fuck! That—“

Alastor rolled his eyes; he hated the sound of Lucifer’s voice when those pretty lips formed words. He curled his fingers, the pointed tips of his claws grazing against a small bundle of nerves that completely cut off anything the angel was trying to say. He glanced up at Lucifer’s face, pleased to see that the simple motion had made his eyes cloud over with mindless lust, dragging him deep into a submissive headspace. He knew from previous experience that the king wouldn’t be speaking much anymore, at least coherently or in full sentences. He repeated the movement again, letting the pads of his fingers do the work this time, each stroke making Lucifer’s needy whine jump a few notes higher; the sound of Lucifer falling even harder, promising Alastor the continued entertainment of heartbreak and misery.

Alastor removed his hand, smoothing it across the litany of bite marks decorating Lucifer’s skin, smearing ichor around like paint on a canvas. Oh, how he wanted to bite in to that slight musculature, to pull and cut through muscle and sinew, down to the bone. Taking Lucifer apart emotionally was just a means to an end, foreplay for the event he truly wished to indulge in—literally, physically tearing Lucifer apart. It would occur in time, though he wondered how many more of these meetings it would take; how deep in love would the father of lies have to fall before he willingly gave up his flesh? As the question bounced around, repetitively, in Alastor’s mind, he pressed the tip of his member against Lucifer’s entrance, giving him only the slightest warning of what was next before he forced himself inside; only halfway on the first thrust, but even that was enough to make Lucifer’s spine arch so high off the mattress that Alastor was surprised it wasn’t followed with the beautiful percussion of snapping bone. A second thrust, a third, a fourth; Alastor was finally enveloped in the tight, white-hot warmth of his favorite prey.

Alastor stayed still, the head of his cock applying a constant pressure to Lucifer’s sweet spot, reveling in how the king himself twitched and convulsed around his length. His inky, black hands reflexively clenched and unclenched the bedsheets in the futile hope of keeping himself from falling further into subspace, past the point of no return. Lucifer was restraining himself, and Alastor wasn’t going to have that. He needed the king to fall harder for him, to inflame the torturous agony of unrequited love, to encourage him to give Alastor everything—his body, his flesh and bone; he withdrew from Lucifer’s shaking form only to immediately slam himself back in at full force, with enough momentum to fucking bruise the angel’s prostate. Lucifer screamed, leaving Alastor giddy as he watched the final flickers of rebellion fade away from his ruby eyes, replaced by a dazed, hazy look of unadulterated submission.

Tears welled in the corners of Lucifer’s eyes as Alastor established a rhythm that was brutal, punishing even. With each snap of the Radio Demon’s hips, the king’s moans grew lower and lighter, more infrequent, the angel so overstimulated he was rendered practically mute, at least momentarily. Good. The further Lucifer’s mind fell into that liminal space, the further he would fall into those insipid feelings of love; the further he fell, the sooner Alastor would get to use his teeth to rend and tear, to make Lucifer suffer physically just as he suffered emotionally. He closed his hands around the king’s throat, craning his neck down to lick away the tears that had begun to track down his cheeks, salt and pleasure and sadness intermingled into one. “What a good boy you are for me, cher,” Alastor growled, his brows knit together as a result of his own pleasure, eyes half-lidded and watching Lucifer with equal parts hunger and nefarious intent. “So talented at debauchery, so willing to embrace sin—it was your finest creation.”

Lucifer’s eyes snapped open, leveling a stern glare at the demon hovering over him; the comment had clearly pissed him off, and he was able to maintain that fiery annoyance despite the way Alastor was able to make him see stars with every collision of his cock into his prostate. “It—ahhh, fuck—it wasn’t sin,” he argued. “Th-that’s what—oh, god, please—that’s what y-you shitty humans—ahhhh!—chose t-t-to do—“

“What’s the matter, can’t use your words?” Alastor goaded, like he was paying no attention at all to what Lucifer said. “That’s alright, you’re much cuter when you can’t speak.” The fallen angel looked slightly wounded at the comment, once again acknowledging how Alastor didn’t want to hear his voice, didn’t care in the slightest what he had to say. It must hurt—being in love with someone and knowing they prefered you when you were silent. Alastor pressed down harder on Lucifer’s throat, acutely aware of how the king’s pulse thrummed invitingly beneath his palm; he wanted to rip apart the thin flesh above his jugular and bathe in that sickeningly sweet ichor. He pulled out of Lucifer, the tip of his cock resting slightly against that ring of muscle, and commanded: “Flip over.”

The king was wholly obedient, immediately gathering his wits about him enough to do as Alastor ordered, rolling onto his stomach and bracing himself on his hands and knees—even though it was difficult, even though he was trembling so hard, he wondered if he’d be able to support his own body weight when Alastor chose to re-enter him. Lucifer gave Alastor a sultry look over his shoulder, but the sinner didn’t even notice; he was more transfixed by the six diagonal, narrow slits that ran down Lucifer’s spine at the center of his back, three on each side. Oh, how he wanted to dip his fingers into those crevices and pull, but he wouldn’t. Lucifer would have to beg for it, eventually; Alastor was damned and determined to drive him to that point. He ran a single, long finger between those openings, summoning a thin rivulet of blood. As he leaned down to lick up its length, he roughly slammed back into Lucifer and the angel howled.

The new position allowed him to fuck rougher, deeper, and Alastor could hear that Lucifer’s moans had turned into tearful sobs of ecstasy. Reaching forward, he grabbed a fistful of Lucifer’s hair, twisting harshly to keep his head at an awkward, uncomfortable angle, looking over his shoulder so Alastor could admire the mindless expression on his face. Alastor’s mouth watered, black drool dripping from the corner of his mouth as he watched the angel cry in rapture, wondering in the back of his mind if this was the same expression he would make as Alastor tore him limb from limb, savoring the taste and texture of his divine flesh. The thoughts alone sent the deer into a frenzy, his hips pistoning at twice the pace; Lucifer’s brain seemed to short-circuit and switch off behind his glowing red eyes, and he whimpered and moaned as he could think of nothing but the pleasure being given to him. Alastor could read the emotion behind his pupils, as he’d seen it multiple times before; love. If he wasn’t so preoccupied with driving himself to completion, or fantasizing about how orgasmic it would feel to finally consume the king below him, he would have cackled in sadistic glee.

The hand in Lucifer’s hair violently shoved his face into the mattress, while the claws of his free hand fingered the slits where Lucifer’s wings emerged. The former seraphim’s entire body spasmed around Alastor’s fingers, around his cock, tensing so tightly that Alastor feared he might lose himself posthaste. But he reigned himself in, if only to dive his fingers in and out of those small openings to make Lucifer cry out in an addictive mixture of pleasure and pain. “St-sto—“ Alastor dug one claw in deeper, and Lucifer’s word was cut off with a wail. He repeated the movement again and again, deducing by the way each of Lucifer’s whimpers grew higher in pitch that he was close—and Alastor didn’t even have to touch his cock to get him there this time.

“That’s it, cher,” Alastor purred, maintaining the tempo he’d set with his hips and his hands. “Lose yourself for me, Lucifer. Fall for me.”

Alastor’s urging was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Lucifer gripped the bedsheets so hard he tore them, just like his orgasm tore through him. The Radio Demon laughed this time, unable to suppress the humor he felt at seeing the King of Hell so vulnerable, so debauched, in absolute shambles beneath him. Lucifer had tightened impossibly further around him when he came, and it only took a few more fast, hard thrusts before Alastor reached his peak as well. Unlike Lucifer, though, he didn’t emit a single sound, retaining his composure even through the high of his orgasm; he didn’t want to be as affected as the man below him, he did want to show how truly in control he was, after all. The two stayed there, twined together, for a brief moment, until Alastor pulled out, watching with the slightest hint of pride as his seed dripped out of the fallen angel. It was as though he was claiming his territory, an indication that this man would be his next meal—if he ever finished toying with him.

The Radio Demon was quick to extricate himself from Lucifer. He snapped his fingers and his shadow came forth with a towel, allowing him to clean himself off well enough to start redressing in seconds. Alastor offered no such courtesy to his bedmate, who laid half-catatonic on his sheets for a few seconds before trying to right himself into a sitting position. The deer had already started pulling his jacket back on and re-straightening his tie when Lucifer asked, “Um…Alastor? Would you, ah, like to stay the night?”

Alastor laughed, the sound full of mockery and derision. “And be caught leaving the King’s palace in the morning? Mm, no, I think not.” He picked up his microphone with a flourish of his wrist, stealing a glance at himself in Lucifer’s dresser mirror. Despite everything that had just happened, he still looked impeccable, as though he hadn’t just spent the last two hours of his afterlife railing Lucifer into his mattress, fighting back his own primal urges to turn his fuckbuddy into dinner. All good things came to those who waited, after all.

Lucifer’s face fell, disappointed. “Oh, I…I see. Yeah, you’re probably right…” his voice was forlorn, clearly upset by Alastor’s unwillingness to stay. No one ever stayed, and that was an insecurity Alastor would be a fool not to play with; it made the times he did come around even more effective, breadcrumb by breadcrumb. “It would get people talking…”

“Splendid!” Alastor chirped. “You’re a smart man, I knew you’d see it my way!” His smile widened imperceptibly with joy and entertainment as he watched how Lucifer’s heart seemed to crack behind his piercing, red eyes. The fallen angel gave him a sad, desperate look as Alastor faded into the shadows, and he knew it wouldn’t be long until Lucifer gave him what he wanted—the last bargaining chip he had to make the Radio Demon stay.

So I’ll take what I want and leave.

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nullcanary · 9 months ago

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songfic tag game!

Thank you @lamortwrites for the tag!

tagging: @fenharael @wraith-caller @no-braincells-inc @nnairdav if you feel like playing! If you want to join in, go ahead and tag me :)

Pick a song to accompany each of your fics or as many as you like. This might be the fic's inspiration or just pure vibes that you'd like to share with readers. Tag as many people as fics you feature (or do as you please!)

took me a moment to get to this, but it's been on my mind since you tagged me! while I've only publically posted one of my fics, I've still got several in my WIPs folder that I'm polishing up to post one of these days. I love finding a new song, listening to it on repeat, and diving into an hours long writing spiral.

The Night House (bg3, gortash/durge, explicit, dominate person/throat fingering/blood pacts, m/m, 4.9k)

title: Paranoic Intervals/Body Dysmorphia by Of Montreal

Counting wolves in your paranoiac intervals

Nobody's leaving, nobody is off the beat

You shouldn't try to unpeel my Pavlovian bells

You should be fucking with no one else

Anyone but me is an antipathy

Anyone but me is just your enemy

Only I see you the way you want to see yourself

You should be fucking with no one else

[bonus song]

title: Up To No Good by The Hoosiers

Don't get too comfortable with the man who has no history

Shadows climbing walls hide cracks we don't want other eyes to see

You tell me to shut my mouth, you love the mystery

So he tells you love you now?

Driving you crazy how

Fingers on lips, allow his hands on your hips

You know you shouldn't do this

But there's no turning back

Doctor's Orders (dos2, loshe/doctor|adramahlihk, explicit, possession/masturbation, m/f, 1.9k)

title: Mx. Sinister by I DON'T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME

Oh you never seem to notice

That my heart beats for you

So I'll open you up

And make yours beat for me too

And I'll get you yet

I've got to make you mine

Worst Impressions (elden ring, varré/tarnished, explicit, gore/torture/drugging, m/f, 2.8k)

title: Flip by Glass Animals

Here's to the one with the smoking stare

Running through my head with a bolo knife

Chopping up the threads made up from looms

Of love and blood and hate and some empty tunes

Mechanics of Affection (bg3, dark urge/gortash look-a-like, explicit, vivisection/masturbation/crisis of faith, m/f, 2.5k)

title: Mongrel Heart by Broken Bells

Would it be wrong

To clamp down on your racing heart, Love?

And if they'd known, what sifted down to be found out?

It's not what you deserve

Love is turning you out

Sliding worry round

I try to warn its waiting game

To bring that specter down

Letter to an Old Friend (bg3, gortash/durge, angst/reunions/memory loss, 1.5k)

title: The Opposite of Loneliness by foyer

I can tell you all the ways that it goes wrong

I can fill you in on everything since you've been gone

Hold your shadow next to mine the shape that you outgrew.

Bootlicker (bg3, tav/gortash, explicit, bootlicking/desk sex/dubcon, m/f, 3.6k)

title: Hatefuck by The Bravery

What would they say now if they saw you in this place?

Naked and breathless, could you live with this disgrace?

Could you live? Could you live? Could you live with this?

And there will be no tenderness, no tenderness

When the Coat Drops (bg3, gortash/durge, angst/loss/emotional breakdowns, 2.9k)

title: Through Me (The Flood) by Hozier

The unemployment of the mouth

The waking up, having forgotten

And remembering again the full extent

Of what forever is

With each grave

I think of loss and I can only think of you

I couldn't measure it

The Black Hound (bg3, gortash/durge, explicit, a/b/o, knotting/praise kink, m/m, 3.5k)

[ this song is so goddamn hot and I will apply it to every ship forever until the end of time end tweet]

title: Fever Moon by Kevin Devine

You're quick sand

And every morning say I won't get stuck again

I work and fight but just sink deeper in the end

But by nightfall baby here I always am

I tie myself in knots

You come and shake me loose

I'm bound up in you

We push til you're through

Lit up with the proof

#songfic tag game #thank you for the tag!#lamortwrites #tag game

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thefanficmonster · 4 years ago

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Never Satisfied [Chapter 3]

Corpse Husband x Original Female Character

Warnings: Language

A collaboration between Vy & Ashens 🖤

“I can’t tell if this is a date or a debt collection“

“So where do you want to eat?” Corpse murmurs, sitting in the same car with the same girl he’d been in only a few days ago. His seatbelt clicks and he tilts his head to peer at her from his peripheral vision. She’s buckling up and getting settled in the passenger seat where no one but her has sat in for months. His cheeks turn pink when she turns to look at him, catching him staring which brings a grin to her face.

“I’m buying you food, bud, you pick.” She answers simply, leaning back in the old seat.

Corpse sits frozen for a minute or two as he contemplates what the best option would be.

Nowhere? Could I get away with that though?

His anxiety is starting to creep up again - the dark demon of his existence. The everpresent rain cloud over the parade of his life.

What if I make myself look like an idiot. What if I picked something she doesn’t like? Would she think I’m weird? What if whatever I get makes me sick and I end up embarrassing myself!

Wait, she’s a klepto. What if she robs me?!

“If you can’t think of a place, there’s a little bistro about ten minutes down West Colt avenue that has some pretty bangin’ Greek food.” She suggests calmly, taking his silence as indecisiveness. She’s good at picking up subtle cues, he’s thankful for that. She seems to easily be able to get along with anyone despite her wild personality. She may have a wild spirit, but she’s got the ability to tame it when needed. She’s the only one with that power from what it seems.

Corpse takes a moment, nods and puts his car into drive to head in the directions she mentioned.

He isn’t completely sure how she’s perceived his indecisiveness though, which is bothering him - was she annoyed by it and wanted to put an end to it or was she just trying to be helpful and prevent him from getting himself worked up? His mind spirals so easily, he hates it. Even in a calm and casual - ok, as casual as it’s gonna get with this girl - scenario, his head is spinning with nothing but the worst outcomes and possibilities. That’s anxiety for ya, it’s a fucking bitch. Either way he appreciates her stepping in like that, saved him quite the bus load of anxious pondering, so the least he can do is offer her a quick smile.

Don’t make it weird, Corpse!, he scolds himself.

She’s looking out the passenger side window, fingers tapping calmly and rhythmically against her knee, seemingly not bothered by the loud silence in the vehicle. He, however, is not so at peace with it. He’s usually the one to enjoy silences, unless he finds himself in these kinds of situations - in-closed space with another person. He tries to ask himself what would other people do to put an end to the quiet that feels almost like a physical presence. Small talk? That’s one thing he’s never been good at. Music? That’s the key here, however he can’t be sure how to properly use it to his advantage. He can’t just play whatever and expect it to be fine. He appreciates taste in people - he knows he’d be mildly offended if people didn’t respect his taste, that’s why he always pays attention to the favors of others. Especially when it comes to music.

That’s why, before turning the car radio on, he pauses to ask: “What kind of m-“

“Anything. Really.” She says quickly, cutting him off mid-question before laughing in a certain way Corpse can’t quite place...nervously? Could that be it? That’s a sound he never expected he’d hear from her. Is that feeling even in her specter of emotions? Her? Nervous? - sounds more impossible than him being confident.

“Anything?” He’s curious now. She’s managed to intrigue him so easily. He smirks, switching from the radio over to the CD he has placed in the stereo. It’s a compilation of several bands he enjoys listening to, songs that help relax and soothe him. Bonus points for the effect they have on his anxiety - they always manage to suppress it even the slightest bit. Many of his favorites are on there, a lot of genre mixing as well: rap, punk, industrial. But there are also a few mellows on there, even a couple foreign songs that she might not have heard before.

Much to his relief, a little glow appears in her eyes at the sound of the tunes that fill the car, burning brighter than the reflection of the midday sun that’s already present in them, “I’ve always loved music...haven’t found anything I don’t like.” She tells him, voice traveling softly as she closes her eyes for a moment before opening them and allowing her grin to widen, “So...my choker, huh? Thought it suited ya?”

Corpse laughs a little, low and timid as the car comes to a slow stop at a red light. “I thought it was mine, I swear.” He admits, shrugging slightly. “I go by a C name on the internet so…thought it was a product of my bullshit sentimentality or a shopping spree I can’t recall.” He swallows hard, contemplating whether mentioning he’s online was a bad move or not.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to have acknowledged it, as she promptly speaks up again, “You do look good in a collar, you have that bad dog kind of vibe. If it didn’t have such sentimental value I would’ve let you keep it.” She laughs, a sound so light, almost like a glow you can see more than a voice you can hear. It’s contagious too and he can’t help but chuckle with her, blushing again.

“You would look good in one too I bet.” He says but cringes right as the words leave his mouth. He’s quick to regret what he has said, his tongue burning with a bitter taste as he tightens his grip on the steering wheel and clenches his jaw.

Fuck! Stupid! Stupid! Why the fuck would you say something like that?? She’s going to think you’re a fucking creepy pervert who’s imagin-

Corpse’s mental anguish is put to an abrupt pause as something warm covers the fingers of his right hand. He lets his tunnel vision focus on his hand to find hers curled over it.

“Hey…you still with me?” She asks carefully, thumb touching one of his rings. “You don’t have to worry about offending me. It takes a lot to do that, if you can’t tell. Besides, you seem pretty cool and you’re not a narc so that’s a huge plus.” She squeezes his hand before wiggling her fingers under his palm and pulling it from the steering wheel so their fingers could intertwine. “If you need it, you can always grab my hand any time and squeeze until you don’t feel nervous. Although, you never need to be nervous around me. Consider me your personal human safety blanket. Or a….what to call it?... - A checkpoint! If everything or everyone else makes you anxious, I’m your checkpoint person where that anxiety should evaporate. Sounds good?”

Corpse stares at this literal stranger in his car. A stranger holding his hand and promising to be there for him when his anxiety overwhelms him. Letting him rely on her whenever his chest tightens or his heart speeds up. He feels so much while looking at the sight she is. Gratitude and confusion take over though. “Why would...you-..” He attempts to mutter, but she’s quick to cut him off yet again.

“Because I know what it’s like to be anxious and I wish I had somebody to help me when I was feeling that storm in me.” She replies, shrugging her shoulders with nonchalance and gives his palm another gentle and encouraging squeeze. “Even if this is a one time hang out sesh between strangers, you can count on me until we go our separate ways.” Confidence radiates from her like waves of warmth and safety.

Her aura’s reaching out to his, offering him reassurance and comfort. And so, he decides to accept.

Corpse finally brings himself to squeeze her hand back. “-...thanks.” He murmurs, lips quirking up in a smile.

But I don’t want this to be a one time thing…I might actually have a friend. I may have just clicked with someone like I haven’t in so long.

She releases his hand so he could continue driving, nodding her head as if to tell him she’s still there despite the loss of contact, reassuring him that he could reestablish that contact whenever he’d like or need to.

He now feels more comfortable in the car, more relaxed than he can even remember. Music plays from the speakers but it’s overpowered by their voices singing along to the songs they recognize. Corpse can’t help but note she sounds nice, singing like that - so carelessly. She’s by no means a Utada Hikaru, or a Mariah Carey but she knows how to hold a tune and he can appreciate that. He’s no BONES either after all.

He doesn’t want this drive to end, he doesn’t want this bubble of comfort and leisure to burst. He rarely gets the luxury of finding himself in a state like this one so peaceful yet so chaotic. So familiar despite him not having experienced it before. It all feels so natural despite how out of place it is. It’s so many things contradicting each other and it’s beautiful to him. It’s comfort, it’s happiness. It’s the absence of anxiety - a feeling he wants to enjoy for as long as possible. He has Cora to thank for this, for managing in less than a full day of knowing him what people who’ve known him for years haven’t been able to do. He’s aware that this is temporary, this car ride can’t last forever and neither can this outing. But he knows that when they step out of this car, when they leave this bubble, her hand will still be within his reach. And when this hang-out sesh is over, he’ll be able to make another one happen. There is always this big step of overcoming his anxiety he has to face whenever he wants to invite people within his proximity and in his life, but with her, that step disappears. It’s erased from existence by the simple touch of her fingers. The oddly powerful grip of her small, gentle hand.

Corpse is not one to believe in fate, but there are some things that are inevitable. Things that are special and always happen with a reason and a message. He’s not blind either - he knows what he’s got here, with her, falls in that category of special.

@fockingwhore @vixenl @annshit @wineandionysus

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darkurgediary · 3 years ago

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Two Worlds, Two Hearts: Chapter Five

Summary: News of Jareth's disappearance affects Sarah in ways she didn't expect, and brings on a new wave of conflicting emotion.

Warning(s): complicated relationships, creepy nightmare (which is all italicized so it'll be easy for anyone to skip over), and Ludo tears! If I missed anything please let me know!

-------------------

The Labyrinth was crumbling.

Jareth was missing.

And now Ludo was crying with such an intensity the ground started to shake.

Hoggle didn’t know how much more of this he could take. The dwarf wove his way through withered hedges till he came upon Ludo, the great beast brought to his knees, thick tears streamed down his face, and a pitiful cry lurched from his throat. Sir Didymus stood before him with tiny paws rested on Ludo’s forearm. Uncharacteristically quiet in the face of his brother’s pain.

“Sarwah,” Ludo’s lower lip wobbled and he tried desperately to pull a string of snot back up his nose, when such an attempt failed, he instead wiped his face on his left forearm.

Hoggle grumbled to himself but still decided to ask, “whats tha matter with'em?”

Sir Didymus perked his ears, looking to Hoggle with a defeated express, “Sir Ludo claims to have seen young maiden over that way.”

The dwarf glanced in the indicated direction, just as he'd thought, no one was there. Hoggle even approached the area and walked around it. Like he was trying to prove to Ludo that his eyes had played a cruel trick on him. Hoggle understood it though, to a degree. Ludo claiming to see Sarah became a common occurrence over the years. Each time, it was harder and harder to explain to Ludo it wasn't real.

“If she ain't been back already then she ain't never comin' b-”

A whisper carried in the breeze and cut him off, “Ludo...”

Curved horns raised from the ground as brown eyes widened, and basset-hound shaped ears desperately searched for the sound.

Sir Didymus behaved in a similar manner, his bushy tail swishing side to side in a blonde blur, “My lady!”

Hoggle whirled around, eyes wide as dinner plates. He stumbled back and fell into the dirt. Gazing up at the translucent image of a woman standing over him. Tall, with long black hair, and pale-green eyes. Hoggle rubbed his eyes but still, the haunting presence lingered like a ghost in a graveyard.

If he’d been by himself he would have discredited it easier. With Ludo and Sir Didymus in his company, not even he could deny the sight of the specter before him.

“S...S'it really you?” desperation clung to his words, along with a loneliness he'd kept buried deep.

The image of Sarah looked around, confused at first, and then she saw him.

Hoggle tried to swallow the knot in his throat as he extended a shaky hand towards her. The thin image of her flickered, and upon contact, Sarah disappeared again.

-----

“Sarah?”

She didn’t look up from the floor, focused on the arguably-ugly patterned carpet like it offended her. Sarah was at her wits end. First she had a Spriggan to deal with and now a Fiery of all things! She didn't even want to think about Jareth, Toby's claim of him missing affected her in ways she didn't understand.

Her name was called again, “Sarah.”

The tick of a clock brought her senses back one by one, slowly, she raised her head. Tired eyes shifted to the old fashioned clock nestled on the corner of the wooden desk. Sarah set her sights on the coffee table next where a teacup sat in front of her. It's contents long abandoned, the liquid just as cold as the blood in her veins.

“You drifted off,” a melodic scratch of pencil against paper mixed with the question, “where did you go just then?”

Sarah studied him for a moment, Dr. Zakar looked more like an Oxford Professor than a therapist. His brown suit was freshly pressed and his shoes polished. Red hair slicked back save for the few strands hanging just about his brow. Black, thick framed glasses obscured his eyes so she couldn't look directly into them.

A lie would do little for her, yet Sarah couldn't find it in herself to give him the truth. Not the whole truth anyway. He would call the whole incident a wild hallucination.

“I don’t know,” She admitted. Leaning forward to drop her head in her hands with a sigh, “I’m sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

He set aside the notepad, giving her his full attention, “Another nightmare?”

“No,” Sarah managed to compose herself. Without realizing it, she started to gnaw on her thumb nail.

“Remember that my job is not to judge you, Sarah. I am here to help encourage you through your struggles. You already have everything you need to conquer them,” Zakar explained calmly, recognizing the anxious habit. “That being said, I cannot give you any guidance if I don’t know the root of the problem.”

He had a point, she couldn’t deny that. As the events of the previous night played in her head like a broken record Sarah wondered where to even begin. It all spiraled out of control in a way she could barely process.

“Last night I found out someone I knew was…” the words trailed off into tense silence. Did she mention the Spriggan and the Fiery or leave it at that? “Missing. He went missing and honestly? I don’t know how I feel.”

“It sounds as though this person left quite an impact on you, I take it you were close?” His inquiry was laced both with concern and caution, showing his condolences but not wanting to further upset her.

“It was complicated, and it was a long time ago. We were different people then. I knew him without really knowing him,” Sarah clenched her hands tight in her lap, “some part of me feels like I should be worried, like I should run through every worst case scenario. What if something bad happened? What if he’s hurt? But...”

Zakar tilted his head, “another part says otherwise?”

“It’s been fifteen years since we last saw each other. I wouldn’t even know what to say if I saw him again,” Sarah rubbed her temples and groaned, dark brows pulling together.

The clock on his desk chimed twice.

A frown pulled his features, “It seems we’ve reached the end of our session. Though I want you to know, Sarah. You will overcome this grief. Nothing has to be resolved tomorrow, there is a lot to process, and even more to work through. Go home and paint your frustrations, or write them down. Anything to get them out.”

As Sarah left the office she noticed the air felt significantly lighter than it had before she went in, Dr. Zakar’s parting advice stuck with her. She hated how much she thought of Jareth. Even before the news of him missing, the Goblin King often dwelled in a dark corner of her mind. If Jareth wasn’t in the Underground then where else could he possibly be? Sarah started her car and focused on the road ahead.

Upon return to her apartment, the last bits of anxiety washed away as the sound of whimpers and nails against hardwoods echoed behind the door. Sarah didn’t realize how much she missed having a dog till Gwendolyn came into her life. “Hey pretty girl,” Sarah cooed once the door opened Kneeling down to greet her three legged companion. Gwendolyn was a five year old pitbull with a coat the color of caramel and big brown eyes. Sarah’s heart went out to the pup, who came from a hard life on the streets. She felt like she couldn’t leave the shelter without her.

Sarah scratched behind her ears and paused as she set her keys down on the kitchen counter. She stepped towards the half finished painting, the one she’d done the instant she woke from her dream. At first she’d been in the forest with Hoggle, Ludo, and Sir Didymus in her company. Then the forest fell into a sea of white and silver. Sarah shuddered as the details haunted her:

She descended into a broken ballroom. Once pristine chairs and tables were thrown to various parts of the room, scuffed, bent, and broken. Shattered glass and glitter covered the floor, save for a bare circle where Sarah stood in the center of the room. Dawning the white princess dress she’d worn fifteen years ago. Frantic eyes took everything in as her head whipped around. Dancers laid sprawled over one another like puppets with their strings cut.

Except for him.

His name left her tongue barely above a whisper, “Jareth.”

Rather than address her, the Goblin King stood frozen. The dark mask with twisted horns remained against his face, hiding his eyes from her. In an unusual motion he reached a hand out for her. Though he didn’t move in the same fluid, captivating way he had before. Instead Jareth moved like an old toy being wound up for the first time in forever. A crystal appeared in his hand, and his last words echoed around her.

“I ask for so little.”

He stepped towards her.

“Just fear me,”

Another step.

“Love me,”

Sarah retreated with each advancement, eyes wide, and skin white as a sheet. Whatever defiant remark she had ready to shout at him died on her tongue. Jareth loomed over her now, her back flat against the wall. She had nowhere to run.

Forced to look into vacant eyes as he sounded so defeated.

“Do as I say and I-”

Gwendolyn whimpered beside her, gently butting her head against Sarah’s leg.

Black curtains cascaded down her back as she turned to look at her companion, Sarah gave her a sad smile and smoothed a hand down her neck, “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

Sarah looked back at the expression she’d been so desperate to capture. Why should she be worried about Jareth? Why did her heart absolutely ache at the thought of him cold, alone, and hurt? Her hand started to reach for his half painted cheek but something stopped her. Sarah bit her lip in wonder as the idea of calling him raised to the surface.

With a small shake of the head, Sarah covered it, and tried to bury any other thoughts of him away for the time being. She had other things to focus on. The Spriggan, the Fiery, and Toby’s growing obsession with the Labyrinth. She took one final glance at the painting, “Where are you Jareth?”

———————

Previous | Next

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Taglist:

@faeriexqueen

@tangentasilem

@withinthecrystal

@purplesigebert

#labyrinth #labyrinth fanfiction #labyrinth fic #labyrinth fandom #sarah williams #jareth the goblin king #toby williams #ludo #hoggle #sir didymus #my writing #writers on tumblr #two worlds two hearts

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itcantbe · 3 years ago

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Zelink Week Day 6

We're nearly to the end of @zelinkweek2021! Today's prompt is "abnormality: malice/timeline alteration." I focused on the timeline alteration (in a roundabout way), though I suppose malice is in there a bit as well. The last two days of Zelink Week 2021 will be the last two chapters of "Under the Boardwalk." I've been so thrilled with how much excitement I've seen for this story and the great comments everyone has left here and on ao3. I appreciate it a lot! Today's chapter takes place during the events of chapter 2. It's a bit of a short one, but I promise I make it up to you in the final chapter.

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Read on ao3

Under the Boardwalk: Down By The Sea

The past few weeks had been wonderful. And weird. And horrible. And frustrating.

After that first night, when their “date” had gone so horribly wrong, after Link had figured her out, after she had broken his heart, they had reached a sort of understanding. He answered any question she might have about park operations, Ganondorf, what went on in the castle. He helped her sneak around the park at night after it closed a few times: photographing broken rides, missing caution signs, and anything else she thought might be useful. Her pictures had gotten much better once she didn’t have to hide what she was doing.

And, since he didn’t have a car, she’d take him home. Or they’d grab a bite to eat together, and she’d pay because she was thanking him for his help. It wasn’t a date.

But they talked, since sitting in awkward silence was unpleasant even if Link did hate her. If he did hate her, that was fine, since she hated herself for lying to him. For still lying to him. Their conversation had been stilted at first, the specter of her deception hanging between them like a dark, heavy curtain. But over the course of a few weeks, it settled into something comfortable, something easy. Her lie still hovered in the back of their every interaction, but it became less noticeable as the days passed. At first they only talked about her investigation, and made plans on how to gather more information. But soon they started to talk about more, and started sharing about their lives.

They talked about school. She talked about how it had been hard to prove herself in journalism school since she was the daughter of the editor in chief of the Hyrule Star Fragment. How she didn’t want to coast on name recognition, but despite how hard she had worked, no one took her seriously. He talked about how hard school had been. How he had been trying so hard to juggle school and work that he ended up failing at both, quietly admitting to her one night that he had gotten fired from his job and dropped out of school. How he still wasn’t sleeping well because the anxiety and stress of it all kept his mind spinning, even now.

“I guess I’m glad the park didn’t seem to care when they hired me.”

“How do you mean?”

Link shrugged, swiping a french fry through the mess of ketchup on his plate before popping it in his mouth. Zelda watched each movement and may have stared at his lips for a few moments longer than necessary. He had such a nice mouth, with full lips that she briefly imagined pressed to her own. He finished chewing and swallowed, and her imagination followed, her lips traveling from his mouth, across the line of his chin and down his throat, and then down, down, down … A blush rose to her cheeks when she realized she was ogling him like a drooling creep. Instead she pulled her gaze up to meet his eyes. His beautiful eyes, such an unusual shade of blue, that she could easily lose herself in all day.

Thankfully Link continued to talk, pulling her out of her increasingly lascivious thoughts.

“Yeah, they hired me on the spot. Barely asked any questions, just told me when to come in and who to report to.”

“Wow, that’s …”

“Lucky, right? And I get paid right away, they just give me an envelope of cash at the end of the week.”

“Wait, what? Did you fill out any forms, leave any references, anything?”

He shrugged again, hitching one shoulder up before dropping it down again. Zelda thought about sitting in his lap, running her fingers over that shoulder and down his back. Digging her nails into that shoulder as he … Goddess, what is WRONG with you? she asked herself.

“No, just left them my name and phone number.”

“No tax forms? They don’t take anything out of your wages for taxes? Link, that’s illegal! That’s tax fraud!”

She hauled out her notebook and wrote down what he’d told her, as well as some questions to ask.

Look into Gdorf tax records Research Hrl/C-Town employment law Proof of tax fraud????

“So this helps? You can use this for your story?”

Zelda looked up from her notes, the hopeful look on his face going right to her heart.

“Oh, this is the best angle yet! It could be difficult to pin Ganondorf on these other issues, but if anything would get him shut down and investigated, it’s tax fraud!”

Link’s face lit up at her words, as if she’d handed him a gift of the thing he wanted most in the world. She wanted to shove the table aside, tackle him to the floor and kiss him all over.

“I’ll need to visit the municipal tax records office tomorrow. I could use your help … if you’re not busy. I’ll make it worth your while!”

He looked at her a moment, as if considering his answer. She kept her eyes on her notes, trying to look as if his response either way didn’t matter to her. Making it worth his while meant buying him food. The boy loved to eat, attacking his food with relish, delighting in every bite he took, in a manner that always sent her imagination spiraling off into heated territory. Zelda wished making it “worth his while” meant burying his head between her thighs and digging her fingers into his hair as she moaned his name. She shoved the image aside before she could go much further and squirmed in her chair uncomfortably. She needed to get home before she did something she regretted and drove him off for good.

Lunch. She would buy him lunch.

“Uh … yeah, I’m free tomorrow. I can help you.”

She gave him a brilliant smile, relieved that he wanted to help, that he was willing to spend more time with her. Zelda greedily concocted reasons to spend time with him, claiming she needed his help, that she couldn’t do any of it without him. Which was true, despite her desire to shoulder it all on her own so she could prove herself. His help made it all so much easier, so much more pleasant. Almost fun.

And she could revel in the occasional shy smile Link gave her before he remembered that he was still upset with her, in the heat and electricity that seemed to shoot between them every time they accidentally brushed together. The way he helped her organize her notes. The way he suggested new places to look for information, or new angles to approach the story. The way she could pretend they had something more than a working relationship, that she might have a chance to enact some of the fantasies she seemed to almost drown in whenever they were together. The way she could pretend she hadn’t treated him like crap from the beginning, hadn’t lied and led him on.

Then maybe they could have dated for real. Maybe she could have kissed him in every way she had thought of in the past few weeks. Maybe she could have had something meaningful with him. Or maybe she could have done the work herself, being honest and approaching him as a source and nothing more. Maybe then he wouldn’t have gotten as involved as he did. Maybe then she wouldn’t be watching Ganondorf dangle him by the throat over the mouth of the most dangerous slide ever built, Link’s legs and arms held together by zip ties so that he couldn’t do anything to help himself. Maybe then Link wouldn’t die because of her.

Zelda had planned to take Link somewhere a little nicer after they broke into Ganondorf’s office, to dig through the file cabinets and desk drawers. She had planned to tell him her true feelings. Maybe he would have forgiven her, and they could start over. Maybe she could have held his hand again. Maybe they could have been anywhere but here.

Zelda screamed as Ganondorf let Link go and he disappeared into the black depths of the slide. Nothing mattered any more except Link; not her reputation, not her story, not shutting down the park. Only making sure Link was okay, that he lived, that he didn’t regret the day they’d met, and every minute he’d spent with her after that.

She didn’t take time to think, or try to escape her bonds, or to call for help. She just acted, adrenaline surging through her as she counted every minute that passed as one less minute of Link’s survival. All she did was note how close Ganondorf was himself to the entrance to the slide, and how all it would take one good shove to send him down.

And she attacked.

#zelink week 2021 #legend of zelda #zelink #my fic #my writing #breath of the wild #zinkwink2021 #legend of zelda fanfiction #zelink fic #under the boardwalk #theme park au #I'm sure I forget tags each time

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kelyon · 5 years ago

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Golden Cuffs 37: The Woman

Cover art by @paradigmparadoxical

Rumbelle Dark Castle BDSM AU

Belle and Leona get to know each other

Read on AO3

Belle trailed behind as Rumpelstiltskin lead Jefferson and Leona through the castle. The couple walked arm in arm and chatted with Rumple, while Belle stayed back, silent and watchful.

She didn’t want to appear unsociable, but everything had become so much that it overwhelmed her. Over the course of the evening, Belle had become aware of herself shrinking back, becoming smaller in how she acted and reacted to the others around her. Everyone else here seemed so much bigger than her, older and more experienced. Jefferson and Leona had none of her trepidation. Rumple was playing his role so well she couldn’t say that he was pretending at all. That unnerved her more than anything else. Did she know him at all anymore?

Leona looked over her shoulder at Belle. “Everything alright back there? You don’t mind bringing up the rear?”

It was a perfectly reasonable question, but Leona’s cheeky grin meant it was supposed to be a joke. Belle pulled her mouth into a smile. “I’m fine.”

A furrow appeared between Leona’s eyebrows and she frowned. “No, you’re not.” Reaching back, the other woman took Belle’s hand and brought her up to walk between herself and Jefferson. The three of them linked their arms together, while Rumple sauntered on ahead. “What’s wrong, sugar bug?”

Belle looked between Leona and Jefferson. There was no point in hiding her inexperience from them. “I’ve never done anything like this before, not really.” Not willingly, she thought but didn’t say.

Jefferson put his palm over Belle’s hand. “The first time you do anything is nerve-wracking,” he said. “But if you don’t try, you’ll never know how much you might like something. You just gotta do the brave thing.”

“And then bravery will follow,” Belle murmured. She knew that. She had known it all her life! She didn’t used to be afraid of things. She used to trust Rumple, trust that he would keep her safe, that he would care for her no matter what. She used to think that she was too valuable for him to ever put her at risk. Now she knew better.

If only she could say that the change had come on gradually. If only she could act like the dissolution of her bond with Rumple was inexplicable. But Belle knew what had happened. She knew the specter that hung over her, why her mood had become despondent: The last time she had been with anyone but Rumple was when he had given over to Regina and Maleficent. The last time she had trusted him, he had allowed her to be tortured and raped.

Her throat closed up. It was hard to breathe. Gods, how she hated this! She didn’t want to keep thinking about it, about Regina and Maleficent and the fact that Rumple had let it happen. She didn’t want to think about how she didn’t trust him now.

Ever since she had gotten back, Belle had denied that fact, even to herself. But she couldn’t pretend anymore: She didn’t trust Rumple to protect her from harm, and she didn’t trust him to care for her after she had been hurt. He had done well in the immediate aftermath--tending her wounds and making sure she was physically safe. But after that, he had avoided her, distanced himself from Belle and her troubles. She couldn’t talk to him about her fears, which only made them all the more daunting.

Even this night with Jefferson and Leona felt dubious. Surely there was more happening here than Rumple let on. What did he have planned for the evening? What was her place in this group? Belle had known the couple only briefly, but already she had more faith in their good intentions than in Rumple’s. What did he really want from all of them?

He had told her that he wanted to give them to her, that taking other lovers was for her benefit. But didn’t he desire Jefferson for himself? Hadn’t Leona fascinated and intrigued him? He had only fucked Belle earlier that day because he was excited by the thought of seeing them. Was adding more people a way to have less of her? Did Rumple want her at all anymore? Did he like her at all anymore?

As Belle’s thoughts spun, Rumple lead them up a flight of spiraling stairs. She didn’t recognize this place, but she knew it was another tower. So many important things in Rumpelstiltskin’s life seemed to be in the towers of this castle. His safest room was in a tower, and so was his work room. Even the library he had given to Belle was a tower. And now this tower held the room where he would bring three lovers at a time.

Stopping at the door, Rumple turned around to face them all. “Before we begin, I want it clear what my expectations are.”

Warily, Belle raised her eyes off the ground. Would he give her the answers to her questions?

Leona Ogg put her free hand on her hip. “And your expectations are the ones that matter?”

“Yes,” Rumple said matter-of-factly. “But it’s quite simple: I expect the two of you to do things for Belle that I cannot.”

Belle blinked. Her mouth opened, but Jefferson spoke before she got the chance.

“What can’t you do, Dark One? I thought nothing was beyond your reach!” Beside Belle, Jefferson shifted and fidgeted, practically bouncing from foot to foot. His body was as wound-up as a mechanical toy about to let loose.

Rumple’s smile did not meet his eyes. “Among other things, I make a very ugly woman. So, Leona, I expect you to give my girl every possible pleasure that a woman can give another woman.”

Leona snorted. “But you only asked us to stay one night!” She grinned at Belle and Belle tried to smile back. She did her best to focus her mind on the pleasures she would have with Leona. They would enjoy each other. She would make Leona happy. It would be good. Everything would be good.

Rumple licked his lips. “And I understand that you brought some of your… accessories.”

“I’m holding those,” Jefferson pulled at the leather strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. “But Leo is the best with using them.”

“What accessories?” Belle looked back and forth between the other two, and then at Rumple. They all seemed to know something that she didn’t, like they were finalizing a plan that she was just now learning about. What were they talking about? What were they going to do to her?

Leona squeezed Belle’s silk-draped arm. “I’ll show them to you, luv. Don’t be scared. My toys can take some getting used to, but I’ll warm you up first and we’ll go nice and slow.” She ran her hand down Belle’s arm and laced their fingers together. “I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

Soothed by Leona’s touches and words, Belle breathed. She had to keep reminding herself that these were good people. They had proven themselves from the moment they had met. Leona and Jefferson wouldn’t hurt her. They weren’t going to press their advantage over her. And they liked her as much as she liked them. She was safe with the two of them.

Belle didn’t realize that Rumple had been looking at her until his eyes shifted to Jefferson. “My boy,” he said. “Your task is to want Belle. You are a handsome, healthy human man. You are young and good--”

“Though just enough of a bastard to be worth liking,” Leona interrupted, and Jefferson grinned, playing at being abashed.

Rumple went on. “You are the kind of man Belle deserves. Your task tonight is to make her know it, without question or caveat, to give her the complete physical certainty that she is the most desirable woman in the world.”

Jefferson looked first at his wife--who gave an almost imperceptible nod--and then at Belle. It took her a moment to realize that he was waiting for her response, that he was giving her a choice in this matter. Jefferson wasn’t going to take her just because Rumple had told him to. He was waiting for her approval too.

The knowledge brought a soft glow into her heart, warmth and light filling her spirit. Together, Jefferson and Leona had offered her a candle flame--friendship and kindness to warm her gently before they all succumbed to the hotter fires of lust.

When Belle nodded, Jefferson gave her a wide smile. “Treat Belle like the most desirable woman in the world? Shouldn’t be hard.”

“No, it should be plenty hard or else it won’t fit!” Leona cackled at her own joke. Then she looked at Rumpelstiltskin and smirked. “But how will you come with all of this, Mister Dark One? Don’t forget, you and I made a deal.”

Rumple regarded her evenly, looking from her face to her body and then back again to her eyes. “I never break a deal, Mrs. Ogg. Don’t worry about that.”

Jefferson lowered his arm so that he held Belle’s hand just like Leona did on her other side. “Is there anything else you want, Belle? Most of tonight is going to be about you and your pleasure.”

Belle felt herself blushing. She looked shyly at Rumple. “It doesn’t need to be. About me, I mean.”

Rumpelstilskin looked back at her, his face softer than it had been in some time. “None of this would exist without you, my dear. The three of us would have no reason to meet if it weren’t for you. You have served me so well, and suffered so much. I want to repay you, as much as that’s possible.”

Even as she smiled at him, Belle clenched her jaw to shut out the words she wanted to say. When would Rumple learn that not everything had to be a deal? When would he know that he didn’t have to pay her? Would he believe her if she told him that she would be his no matter what? When could she tell him that her love didn’t come at a price?

Never. Rumple didn’t want to hear any of that. So she knew she would never say it. Her love was just another emotion that she couldn’t trust him to care about.

Still, Belle nodded and silently agreed to his plan. Satisfied that everyone understood their instructions, Rumpelstiltskin opened the door.

The room inside was small and warm. It seemed designed to be a place of intimacy. A fire burned in the hearth, and candles illuminated the walls. Like all the tower rooms, this place was a circle--though smaller than any other tower Belle had been in.

Above their heads, a glass dome sheltered them from the night sky. It seemed to be the twin of the dome in Rumple’s safest room. Belle’s heart lifted at the memory of sunlight pouring into that room. How it had bathed their bodies in golden light, the very first time she had seen Rumple’s skin. They had lain together in the sun, both of them naked and honest with each other for the first time. Now Belle wondered if that had been the last time she would have such intimacy with Rumpelstiltskin.

“Call me mad, but I was rather expecting a bed,” Leona’s voice broke through Belle’s thoughts.

Looking down from the dome, Belle saw what Leona meant. There was no furniture in this room, except for a table and three chairs off the side of the fireplace. In the center of the tower--where one might have expected a bed--there was a pit, sunken into the ground. It was full of luxurious pillows, soft cushions, and blankets draped over everything.

“Now, Mrs. Ogg, I thought you were a woman of the world,” Rumple teased. “Surely you know how crowded a bed can be once there are more than two? This arrangement will allow us to spread out in comfort.”

Leona’s mouth screwed up as she looked down into the pit. Belle tried to see what she was seeing. A cushioned bench lined the edge of the pit in a circle that was only broken by a small staircase that lead up to the floor. The pillows and cushions were arranged in the center of the pit, on a plush surface that was as big as two beds put together.

“I can see the use of this,” she announced.

Jefferson had already descended the steps into the pit. Though he was normally the tallest of the four of them, when he stood in the center, his head was at the level of Belle’s waist. When he took a step up and placed his feet on the plush cushions of the bench, his face was directly in front of Leona’s expansive bosom. For a moment, the couple’s eyes locked on each other, Jefferson looking up at his wife in utter adoration and Leona reflecting and magnifying his love.

“Oh yeah,” Jefferson smiled. “I like this setup.”

Belle held her arms over her belly, feeling suddenly empty inside. She made herself focus on the pit. She tried to pull her thoughts together to say something new about this sunken playground.

“It reminds me of a nest,” she tried. Her voice wobbled, but at least she wasn’t silent.

After a glance at her husband, Leona left him and went over to Belle. She wrapped her arm over Belle’s bare shoulders. “That makes sense,” she said. “It is a safe place for little chicks to flap their wings and learn to fly.”

To her mild irritation, Belle blushed. “I’m not that inexperienced, you know. I have done things.”

“And had things done to you, I can tell.” Leona’s fingers trailed down the scars on Belle’s back. “There’s no shame in it, chickadee, I promise. Doing or not doing or having been done to--none of it has to make a difference in who you are in your heart. Not unless you want it to.”

Belle looked down. “I don’t know about that,” she said, too quietly for anyone else to hear. “I have changed. For the worse, I think. And I know I didn’t want to.”

Leona put her hands on Belle’s face and gently lifted her gaze. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Jefferson told me the sorts of things that happens in that woman’s kingdom and I’m so sorry that you had to go through anything like that. We’re going to try to make you feel better. If you need anything, just tell me. If you need to stop anything or slow down, please tell me.”

Belle bit her lip, closed her eyes against tears. “Rumple wouldn’t want me to stop.”

“That lizard-man is a damn fool if he thinks you can go and go without stoppin’. That’s why I’m telling you to talk to me if you need help. Clearly, that one isn’t doing his duty by you.”

Belle looked up sharply at those words. How could Leona say that? What did she know about how Rumple treated her? Belle looked around the room for Rumple. Had he heard that accusation? What would he say if he knew what this woman was saying about him?

But Rumpelstiltskin was crouched over the fire with his hands extended into the flames. It looked like he was controlling how hotly they burned. As far as Belle could see, the task was occupying all of his attention.

“You’re wrong.” She kept her voice low, so he wouldn’t hear. “Rumple saved me from the ogres. He saved everybody. That was his duty to me. That was all that he needed to do to have me belong to him forever.”

Leona wrinkled her nose. “What a man does to get a girl and what he does to keep a girl are two different things.”

“He doesn’t have to do anything to keep me.” Absently, Belle fidgeted with the cuffs on her wrists. “I made a deal.”

“Yeah, you said,” Leona said softly. “But it’s still true that people with power have to watch out for people without power. That’s the duty. You’d think Mr. Everything-Comes-at-a-Price would remember that.”

“He… watches for me.” Belle’s voice died halfway through the statement. She knew that she was fooling herself, even before she saw Leona’s disbelieving raised eyebrow. Why was she defending Rumple? She knew that he was treating her shabbily. Her own thoughts had been so recently consumed with the fact that she didn’t trust him as well as she used to. It felt like a reflex for Belle to insist that he wasn’t as bad as he could be, that she was happy and satisfied with the deal they had made. That may have been true once, but it wasn’t now. And Leona could see it.

“You give him a lot,” the other woman said, more seriously that Belle had ever heard her. “He needs to give back, especially to a woman who loves him as much as you do.”

Belle gasped, and Leona pulled her in to a close embrace so she could whisper in her ear.

“Remember, my mum is a witch,” she said. “She taught me the ancient and eldritch art of Seeing Things That Are Right In Front Of Your Bloody Nose. It’s a useful skill and apparently a rare magic in these parts.”

Gripping her wrists so she could get her small arms all the way around Leona’s body, Belle hugged the other woman tightly. “Please don’t tell him what you know.”

Leona squeezed Belle right back. “If he don’t know by now, nothing I say will convince him.”

Giddy with relief, Belle giggled and rocked in Leona’s arms. It was so good to be understood, to have her heart be known without shame. She breathed, a deep and full breath--as though a friend had just freed her from a constricting corset. There were tears in her eyes, but she wasn’t crying. For the first time in ages, she didn’t feel the need to hold in her emotions. For the first time in ages, her emotions were happy.

Holding Belle’s face in both hands, Leona Ogg wiped away her tears. “How are you, luv?”

Belle nodded, and couldn’t stop smiling. “Good,” she said. “I feel very good.”

“Good,” Leona said gently. Then she looked into Belle’s eyes, every bit as lovingly as she had looked at Jefferson. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” Belle whispered, without even the thought of hesitation.

Leona’s kiss was soft and wet. Her hands started on Belle’s cheeks, but they soon shifted to hold her neck, and then her shoulders. It was a watchful kiss, almost wary. The woman seemed ready to stop in an instant, if Belle gave even a hint of discomfort.

But there was nothing uncomfortable about kissing Leona. Her mouth was warm and inviting. Belle slid her arms around Leona’s wide waist, feeling for a way to fit her body against her soft curves. They might have kept on kissing forever, but they were interrupted by a high-pitched whistle and the sound of clapping.

“Excellent start!” Jefferson cheered from his place in the center of the nest. “But if we’re gonna do this right, we should probably start taking clothes off.”

Leona turned her gaze away from Belle to laugh at him. “You first!” she called down.

“Don’t have to ask me twice!” Jefferson grinned and began to loosen his cravat. He pulled the patterned silk away from his neck and tossed it to his wife. Undressing exposed the collar that he wore, black leather with an iron ring, exactly the same as Leona’s.

As Jefferson removed his hat and coat and trousers, Belle stayed focused on the collars. Leona’s looked so natural on her that it seemed like a piece of jewelry. Belle hadn’t even remarked on it before now. What Leona wore was almost a choker, the way Belle’s cuffs were almost bracelets. But it was odd to see a man so adorned. A simple strip of black leather gave such definition to Jefferson’s body. It would draw anybody’s attention. It marked him, even when he was otherwise naked.

“Your husband is a fine figure of a man,” Rumple came up behind them. He had been silent while Jefferson had stripped down, and even now he was subdued and still. A shiver went up Belle’s spine at that stillness--and what would come when he finally did make a move.

Leona looked Rumpelstiltskin over. “I’m looking forward to seeing your figure.”

His smile was tight. “Ladies first.” He gave a little bow and gestured to the two of them.

Leona shrugged. “House rules, I suppose.” She turned around, so her back was to Belle. “Would you mind, luv? This dress don’t come off without help. Good thing help is never hard to find!”

Belle giggled as she undid the laces on the back of Leona’s gown. It was the same copper-colored silk she had worn on the night of the party. The cut was very fine and the color contrasted nicely with Leona’s creamy-pink skin. Helping the other woman out of her stays and her shift, Belle got her first look at Leona Ogg.

She was beautiful. Leona was larger than any person Belle had been with before, and all the more wonderful for it. From her round shoulders to her dimpled knees, Leona’s body was expansive and welcoming--like a home. It made Belle aware of her own smallness, but that didn’t trouble her. Leona’s size was a comfort. She was like a fertility goddess, a symbol of abundance and power. With this incredible woman caring for her, Belle knew that she would be safe.

“You’re gorgeous,” Belle whispered as she extended her hands for Leona to take.

“The view’s pretty good from behind, too!” Jefferson called up to them from the center of the nest. Leona snorted and waved him off.

There were shining marks on her breasts and belly and thighs, signs of motherhood that Belle would never know. Leona’s body jiggled when she laughed or moved, blushing pink flesh rippling like waves across a pond. What would that body look like in the throes of passion? How much power would there be in Leona’s orgasm? And what could the mind behind those winking dark eyes do to pleasure Belle?

Behind her, Belle heard Rumpelstiltskin’s footsteps. His hand touched lightly on the egg-blue silk that wafted around her arm. He grabbed the fabric in his hands and ripped it away from her body.

After the softness of her time with Leona, that sound was so sudden and so loud that it felt obscene. Instantly, Belle felt her heart race and she gripped Leona’s hands for support. Was it fear that made her react this way? Or was it desire? All Belle knew was the feel of Rumple’s hands on her, Rumple ripping off the dress he had made her. Every second, she was more naked, more entirely his creature.

Her back arched as he tore the dress away from her body, and she leaned in to Leona. The other woman looked confused, perhaps she was going to object. But Belle’s mind had become too hazy for her to object to anything.

“There,” Rumple said casually, when the silks and satins were a pile of rags at their feet. “Now, Mrs. Ogg, you may have your way with my girl.”

He jumped down into the nest and beckoned Jefferson over to him. Leona guided Belle over to the steps, making sure to hold her hands to keep her steady as they descended.

“Are you alright, sweet pea?” she asked when they stood together in the center of the nest.

Perhaps Belle’s nod was a little too loose and enthusiastic, but she couldn’t help the light-headed joy that came over her when Rumple used her properly. If he ripped off her clothes more often, then perhaps they wouldn’t have had to call for Leona and Jefferson in the first place.

Leona tilted Belle’s chin up and looked her in the eyes. “Are you ready for me to make love to you?”

Make love. Belle almost scoffed at the phrase. She had fucked plenty, and had gotten fucked too. She had pleasured herself and others, and been pleasured in return. But when had love ever been a part of it?

Her eyes gradually focused as she looked over at Rumple. He had changed into a dark gold dressing gown and now lounged on the bench with Jefferson’s head in his lap. Jefferson lay perpendicular to Rumple, his long, muscled, naked body on full display. One of Rumple’s hands toyed thoughtlessly with Jefferson’s collar. Both men had their eyes on her and Leona.

“Hey,” Leona said softly, getting Belle’s attention back. “If we do this, it won’t be for them. I want to make you happy, Belle. I want you to know how much love you deserve to get, and how much love you are capable of giving, if you choose to give it to me.”

After a deep breath, Belle nodded. “I want that,” she said finally. But how to begin? “Do you want me to kiss you?”

Leona smiled like her heart was breaking with love. “Yeah,” she breathed.

They kissed. And they touched. And they embraced. Leona’s hands got tangled in Belle’s thick hair, while Belle’s fingers ran smoothly through Leona’s silky yellow tresses. Smiling, the two women pulled away from each other.

“You’re so soft,” Belle marveled.

“You’re so smooth,” was Leona’s answer. “Even when I was as young as you, I was never as skinny as you!” Her hands slid down Belle’s narrow waist and she playfully lifted her off the ground.

Kicking up her heels, Belle laughed and tightened her grip around Leona’s neck. For a moment, Leona’s face was buried in between Belle’s small breasts. The warmth of Leona’s breath on her nipples made Belle gasp with sudden desire.

“Perfect,” Leona sighed as she set Belle back on her feet. “You’re perfect.”

“So are you,” Belle whispered. She made herself comfortable, lying down on a collection of pillows on the ground. Leona joined her and the two women lay side by side. They kept kissing, gently exploring each other’s bodies with their hands and mouths.

Belle knew that Leona was holding back. She allowed Belle to set the pace, let her make the first move whenever possible. It was Belle who moved her kisses from Leona’s lips to her neck. She nibbled on her earlobes and mouthed the soft slope of her shoulders. Leona kissed back at whatever flesh was made available to her, but she took no liberties, and did nothing that Belle had not done to her first.

They weren’t together long before Belle gently rolled Leona onto her back. She straddled Leona’s waist and began to caress her breasts. They were pink and round and heavy in Belle’s hands. She could feel the tissue inside them, large and dense and wonderful. Under Belle’s touch, the area around Leona’s nipples tightened and puckered. Leona gasped and shut her eyes in delight. Her body seemed so fascinatingly complicated. Would that make it more difficult to pleasure her?

Without warning, Belle’s mind filled with thoughts of Regina and Maleficent--of their breasts and their bodies, and their demands that she satisfy them. Her breath caught in her throat, and her chest tightened and--

“Hey.” A quiet voice, a soft hand on her face. Leona. Sitting up and looking at Belle. “Come back to me, little dove.”

Belle breathed. She looked over at Rumple, who was still sitting with Jefferson on the other side of the nest. He had leaned forward, though, as if he were about to stand up and go to her. Jefferson was also watching her with intent concern.

“I’m alright,” Belle tried to smile at them all. “Really. Th-thank you. ”

Rumple leaned back and said nothing, his face deliberately expressionless.

Leona smoothed her hand over Belle’s hair. “Do you want to keep going?”

Belle nodded. “We barely got started before I ruined things.”

Leona put her fingers over Belle’s lips. “Stop that,” she said, gentle but firm. “Sex that can be ruined by honest emotions isn’t sex worth having.” She gave a pointed look at Rumpelstiltskin before she moved her hand away from Belle’s mouth.

Belle felt her heart pounding in her chest. Had she ever met a woman as amazing as Leona Ogg? Sitting up on her knees, Belle put her hands on Leona’s thighs.

“I’ve used my mouth on women before,” she said. “I didn’t like it then. But I think I would like it if I did it for you.”

Leona’s smile was sweet and broad. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to finish the job. Fingers work just as well, or I can take care of myself.”

Belle licked her lips. “I fucked a mermaid once,” she said. Why not tell Leona everything? “I made her come by sucking on her breasts.”

“Oh, that is nice.” Leona looked slyly at her husband. “That’s Jefferson’s favorite thing to do with his mouth on a woman.”

“Don’t pigeon-hole me,” Jefferson called over to them. “There are a lot of things I like to do with my mouth! On a woman or a man or anyone else!”

Still smiling, Leona opened her legs. Belle knelt in between her thighs and licked her lips. The hair between Leona’s legs was short and neat. It looked like it had been trimmed with scissors. Belle reached out and touched the soft curls, already feeling some on her fingers. Where Leona’s hair began, Belle’s thumb brushed against a long, straight line in her skin.

“What’s that?” Belle asked.

Leona strained her neck and sat up to see what Belle meant. “Oh, my scar.” Her fingers met with Belle’s to trace the line of it. “When our Grace was born, she didn’t come out right at first. That got a little scary, but we managed. My mum had to cut me open, pull the baby out, and then sew me back together.”

Belle looked up at Leona. “You survived that?”

“Well that’s the whole point of scars, isn’t it? To show what you’ve survived. Of course, I’m lucky Mum is the best midwife in the world. Otherwise my story might have been a sad one.” Leona swallowed, her smile fading just a little. “But I’m here. And I’ve got my family, no matter the pain it took to get there. And maybe I’m fit enough to help other people with their pain, hmm?”

She touched Belle’s face, and Belle found herself blushing. It was hard to imagine Leona in pain, hard to believe that she was ever frightened or unsure of herself. Harder still to imagine that this incredible woman wanted to help her, to make her happy and share the strength that seemed to come to Leona so naturally. Belle bent her head, put her lips to the scar, and kissed along the line that marked Leona’s suffering and survival.

After that, it was easy enough to trail a line of kisses down her thighs, to circle around the folds of her flesh, and to finally dive in to Leona’s pleasure. She was wet and warm and wonderful. Leona even tasted wholesome and comforting--like a bowl of soup, and warm, doughy bread. The only thing Belle wanted more than to pleasure this woman was to consume her. How lucky that she could do both.

Belle wrapped her arms around Leona’s thighs, like vines clinging to the branches of a mighty tree. She braced herself against Leona’s sturdy weight, and plunged in. She licked and sucked and kissed and lapped up Leona’s wetness. She ground her nose and her chin against all the spots that made the other woman shriek and moan.

If Belle’s mind wandered to think of the last time she had had a woman in her mouth, she could quickly exchange the memory for the reality of what she was doing right now. She wasn’t fucking Regina and she wasn’t fucking Maleficent. She was fucking Leona. Belle could focus on the realness of Leona’s body the same way she focused on the solidness of the objects near her when she had an attack. Leona was real. Leona wanted nothing bad for her. Leona would make her feel good, and Belle wanted to pleasure her.

As much as she could, Belle told her senses to focus on Leona. The soft and wavy texture of her skin, the high-pitched, girlish sounds that Belle elicited. She concentrated on the taste and the smell of Leona--unique and different from any other body she had ever known. In the darkness, when Belle closed her eyes, she would forever have the memory of the close, clenching heat of Leona Ogg’s cunt.

Leona came slowly, but with a force that Belle envied. She had read a book once, about far-off islands where the mountains spewed fire into the sky and poured out molten earth that could destroy whole cities. That was the power of Leona’s orgasm. She shouted out her pleasure and drenched Belle in her hot wetness. The intensity was so much that Belle felt her own insides clenching, just from being so near it.

She shook and convulsed in an endless dance of ecstasy, and Belle did all she could to keep up. Gasping for breath, Belle plunged in again and again, desperate to give Leona every pleasure her body was capable of. This was the love Belle could give. This was the act of love that Leona deserved.

With a final, shuddering gasp, Leona fell back onto the pillows, loose and boneless. After a moment, she began to laugh.

“You have done things, haven’t you, duck?”

Belle beamed at the compliment. Her jaw ached, but it was a small price to pay for Leona’s pleasure. She crawled up to face her, and they kissed, Belle’s face still sticky with the other woman’s juices.

“Oh,” Belle said after a moment. “I didn’t get to do much with your breasts.”

Leona put her hand on Belle’s hip, stroking her like a cat. “Well, I’m not out of bed yet--or not bed, but whatever this setup is called. Point is, they’ll be plenty of time for more later. Right now, I’d like to return the favor you gave me.”

Belle clenched again, and bit her lip to contain her smile. Leona wanted to pleasure her! How wet would she find her? How good would she make her feel? How well would Belle be able to come for her?

They switched positions. Belle lay on her back and Leona sat between Belle’s legs. Propped up on pillows, Belle was directly opposite Rumple and Jefferson.

Had she actually forgotten that they were there? She had been so intent on pleasing Leona and enjoying this time of womanly affection that the men in their lives had fallen by the wayside.

Perhaps that was what Rumple had planned. Even now, his eyes were on Belle, but his hands were on Jefferson--one hand playing with his tousled hair, the other smoothly gliding over his muscled chest. Seeing that, Belle squared her shoulders and stared right back at Rumple. If she was being selfish for thinking only of Leona, then he was certainly just as selfish for monopolizing Jefferson. She wouldn’t let herself feel guilty for doing exactly what he was doing.

She kept her eyes on the men even as she felt the warmth of Leona’s mouth on her cunt. She saw Jefferson’s smoldering desire as he watched his wife work--his cock was dark and full between his thighs. Rumple refused to show any expression at all as Belle gave her body over to another person. What was he thinking? Was this what he wanted? Would he ever let her know what was going on in his mind?

All thoughts flew out of Belle’s head once Leona began in earnest. At first, the pleasure had been slow and subtle--the gradual lightening of a sunrise in Belle’s body. But now, the daylight had become fire intense enough melt Belle into a puddle.

Toes and fingers curling, Belle arched her back and moaned. She felt Leona’s face slipping around in her wetness. The other woman lifted Belle off the pillows to hoist her legs over her shoulders as she dove in to her center.

“Oh, Leo!” Belle cried. Pleasure rose up out of her, filling her body with jerking passions. Belle grabbed on to the edge of the bench to keep herself from flopping around like a rag doll. Her knuckles went white and she moaned and screamed--over and over.

When did one orgasm stop and the other begin? How would she know when she was done? Belle’s body shuddered and tried to curl up, but another swipe of Leona’s tongue and Belle was splayed out again. Would she ever be done? Every time she thought she had come to the end of her pleasure, Leona found another way to fuck her senseless.

With her last measure of control, Belle made herself look at Rumple again. His hands were still now, resting on Jefferson’s naked body. His face didn’t move, but he no longer wore disinterested mask. His lips were parted, his jaw slack. His eyes as he looked at Belle were warm and full of longing.

As soon as she read his face, Belle began to clench again. He did want her. He wanted this for her. Every pleasure she was feeling was exactly what he wanted her to have.

Eyes closed, Belle ground her hips against Leona’s face. The other woman dug in deeper--how was she even breathing? Her hands reached out to Belle’s chest and she blindly grabbed for her breasts. One squeeze and Belle was done for. She arched forward with a final, ragged cry and burst.

For a moment, Leona rested on top of Belle’s stomach. They breathed together, and rested in each other. It was only when Leona had caught her breath, that she scrambled over to Jefferson.

Through a haze of pleasure, Belle watched the couple kiss. What an odd picture it was, to see a man lying on top of another man and kissing another woman’s fluids off of his wife’s face. How odd, but how lovely too. Their lips smacked hungrily as they clung to each other. Jefferson slid off of Rumple’s lap and joined his wife on the floor, his long arms encircling her wide body. Clearly, being with other people had only inflamed their desires for each other.

“Belle, you’re delicious,” Jefferson sighed when he broke away from Leona. “May I taste you next?”

Before Belle could nod, Leona patted her husband on the cheek. “Her pussy is a little worn out, if I do say so myself. Maybe you should start somewhere else.”

“An excellent idea, madam.” Rumple looked down at Leona first, and then at Jefferson. “Where would you like to fuck her, my boy?”

#Golden cuffs #rumbelle fic #rumbelle #mad gold #ouat

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myssamyss · 5 years ago

Text

Sand, Swords, Scars, and Other Things I Won’t Tell My Cursed Wolf Therapist: Part 4

The final part

Part 4: Confrontation

Legend approached the waterfall. The swirled etchings on the cliff face seemed to gleam brighter in the moonlight. The crash of water commanded his hearing, drowning out any additional screams.

As he crept closer, he could see pitch blackness behind the waterfall where no etchings gleamed. Spray from the water misted his face as he inched his body along the cliff face to peer behind the waterfall. A dark, hidden cave lurked behind the curtain of water. Of course there’s a damned cave, he hissed to himself. He took a resigned breath and entered.

Legend stood in a large rocky cavern beneath the falls. Its empty stone walls were barely lit by moonlight. The roar of the waterfall echoed through the cavern as Legend’s eyes swept over bare stone.

The cave suddenly grew absolutely dark and silent. He twirled around and found that the entrance had disappeared into blackness.

Well, he thought to himself, at least I still have my weapons. And I’m not a bunny.

A woman’s scream split the silence, loud and close. Legend dropped into a crouch.

“Alright, Magic Cave,” he called out into the darkness, “I know you’re working hard to be spooky, but I’d really like to go back to sleep. Can we just get this over with?”

A pale, sourceless light began to illuminate the cave. Appearing out of the darkness ahead of him stood a petite, shadowy figure. The edges of the figure spiraled like dark smoke. The shadow coalesced, sharpening into a familiar girl with long auburn hair. The hem of her pale blue dress fluttered among the twisting darkness.

Legend felt his fists curl. Heat rose in his chest.

“Oh, Link,” the figure called to him with a sickening, sing-song voice.

Legend couldn’t help wincing.

The sugary voice continued. “This is just a passing dream. Come with me. We can run away into a new dream. We can explore the world together!” the shadow called.

The imitation was terrible. Legend groaned in frustration. “I’ve already made this choice,” he called into the cavern. “Is this the big test? Well surprise, I’m not that sentimental!” he cried.

He pulled his bow without hesitation and shot an arrow through the very center of the shadow’s forehead.

The shadow dispersed, then curled back in on itself. It was swirling and reforming, building a new apparition. The shadow grew taller and began to take on a wickedly familiar visage.

“Oh, it’s you, kid,” the shadowy figure intoned deeply. “Guess your addict mother isn’t here to save you this time. How’s the head?” At his words, Legend felt the first small flutter of fear in his stomach.

The mean-faced man.

He was impossibly big, bigger than any actual Hylian, dwarfing Legend in comparison. His face was just as flushed and cruel as Legend remembered from his nightmares. Legend stretched his right hand reflexively.

“Maybe this time I’ll pull that arm clean off,” the shadow drawled.

Legend forced his unease to morph into laughter and his confidence grew. “Please,” he rolled his eyes. “I’m not a child anymore. And I’m not afraid of you.”

He drew his sword and slashed out at the specter in one confident, fluid motion.

His slice tore the shadow in two and the darkness dissipated. Legend waited for a tense moment, staring into the cavern. The shadow had disappeared, leaving nothing but the stone floor. The cave was empty once more.

Legend scoffed, then he turned on his heels and started back into the darkness where the cave’s entrance had been.

He froze halfway through stowing his sword when another, softer voice called out to him from where the shadow had stood. 

“Link,” the voice whispered.

Legend spun around to find himself facing his mother. 

He sucked in a breath at the sight of her. She was wreathed in billowing shadows. Her hair hung pale and lifeless around her gaunt, distorted face. Her eyes were without pupils, just large white orbs set into her skull.

Legend’s hand stayed at his sword, ready to pull it in a moment’s notice. But she didn’t attack him physically.

“I always hated you, Link,” she spat. “Such a worthless brat. You’re lucky I kept you alive.” Her harsh words resounded through the cavern.

Legend’s face twisted into a scowl. Of all the loathsome things this hinoxson of a magic cave could come up with...

“You disgust me,” his mother’s long-dead voice continued. 

Anger reignited in Legend’s chest. Everything in this cave was wrong, like a melodramatic play done by an unskilled troupe. He didn’t appreciate the mockery of his trauma.

“You think this is scary?” he shouted upward into the cavern. “You think this is what keeps me up at night? Please! This is what I WANTED her to tell me,” he yelled. “This would have made things easy!”

“A boy who wants his mother’s hate? You must know exactly what a pathetic child you are,” the shadow taunted in response. 

Legend shook his head. It would be easy to plunge his sword through the creature’s chest once more, but he was beginning to suspect it was no use. If the shadow was going to keep regenerating, Legend realized he needed to change tactics.

But did he really want to? Slaying monsters was easy, he could stand all night in a damned cave cutting down shadows. Facing enemies in combat no longer required much courage from him after years of experience. Emotions, on the other hand…

“This isn’t her,” Legend said more calmly than he felt. “Show her to me.”

He moved his arm from his blade and let his trembling hand fall to his side. He began taking slow, deliberate steps toward the shadow. 

As he walked, the shape of his mother seemed to shrink in on itself. With each step she grew smaller, more pathetic. Her hair grew blonder and her face filled in, becoming less twisted. Her pupils reappeared as small, round dots within her deep blue eyes.

Finally, he was less than a meter away. She tried to look at him, but her eyes seemed to slide past him. She was a beautiful husk.

“Link... I wanted… to love you,” she told him disjointedly. She tried to raise a hand up to his face, but her movements were clumsy and lacked warmth.

He shuddered at her touch. Standing before him was the truth: someone so helpless that she couldn’t resist the pull of passing comfort and a quick high.

Legend choked on his words. “I know you loved me, mom,” he said as hot tears escaped down his cheeks. That’s the worst part, he thought to himself. 

His words kept coming. “It wasn’t enough. You loved me, and you still left me to starve and bleed. You were a terrible mother,” he whispered.

His words were pure and true, from the depths of his being, and she had no rebuttal. The shadow was completely still and silent. Waiting for his judgement. Because this was his true test, he could feel it in his bones.

Courage, now.

“And I forgive you,” he cried out as his voice broke into a sob. A dam of emotions burst inside of him.

Legend raised his arms to embrace the shadow, but she dissolved into the air.

He was truly alone in the cavern. 

Legend sunk to his knees, threw his face to the ground, and wept. 

***

Legend felt two strong hands lifting his shoulders off the ground. The waterfall thundered in his ears. He opened his eyes to see light filtering through the cascading water. He was still in the stupid cave, he realized.

“I’ve got him!” sang Twilight’s voice near his head.

“No one can hear you in here,” Legend muttered.

Twilight glanced down. “Oh good, you’re awake. What the hell happened to you?”

Legend propped himself up with an elbow. “Uh, I went for a nighttime stroll?” He rubbed his eyes.

“Mhm, yeah, sure. Legend, it’s nearly midday,” Twilight countered. “Everyone’s out looking for you.”

“The rocky ground here was just so much more comfy than my bedroll,” Legend replied.

“You loosed an arrow, it’s over there in the corner of the cave!”

“Yeah, sometimes I like to practice my archery in caves!” Legend told him pointedly.

Twilight glared. “Fine, don’t tell me, but if we’re in danger I want to-”

The two men blinked as light filled their vision. The sound of the waterfall was gone. They were now in the midst of a large, grassy field lit with bright sunlight. They had been transported to yet another new place.

Their heads whipped around. The other seven heroes were scattered throughout the field at various distances. Legend realized they must have split up back on the beach to look for him.

“Legend! Twilight!” Time called out across the grass, sounding relieved at the sight of them.

Legend shot Twilight an insolent look. “See, we’re not in danger,” he replied. “Let’s just be glad that we’re off that goddess-forsaken island.”

Twilight held out his hand and helped Legend to his feet.

“No one ever said it was an island,” Twilight pointed out.

Legend didn’t respond. He brushed himself off and pushed his hair back from his eyes. The two men walked through the tall grass toward their companions.

“Look, I know you’ve been through some serious shit,” Twilight told him. “And I know you don’t like to talk about it. But if anybody could understand, it’s one of us. Sometimes talking makes it better.” Twilight shrugged.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘the deepest wounds are unseen’ and ‘let it all out’ and all the rest,” Legend replied sarcastically. “I’m ok, really.” He gave Twilight a meaningful look that betrayed a seriousness his words had tried to cover.

He glanced up and saw his friends running toward him in the sunlight. They were excited to find him, Legend realized. They wouldn’t leave him to face things alone. Not like his mother had.

His early years of neglect at her hands scarred him and haunted him, and for ages his heart had screamed for retribution. But this sad woman in the cave? Legend saw that she was just a person. A person who failed to love and care for him as she should, but a person all the same. Besides, he considered, she was beyond the grave without a chance to redeem herself to him, and maybe that was punishment enough.

Legend was grown now, and no longer alone. He was loved and wanted by his friends both here on his quest and back home in his Hyrule. The shadows of his past were sharp, but he didn’t have to carry them wherever he went. He could forgive, allow old wounds to close, and keep on living.

Legend stared up at the bright blue sky stretching over the bountiful field like a protective cap. For the first time in a long time, he really did feel ok.

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu #hero of legend #Sand Swords Scars #link #link's awakening #Legend of Zelda #LoZ #oh hey a happy ending #fin

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lumiereswig · 6 years ago

Note

I hear our favourite candelabra needs prompts--here's one suggestion: Belle messing with magic again finds one that puts the universe into reverse (i.e. heading alarmingly fast toward the big bang. Could be kinda crack-y.)

“Dammit,” hisses Belle. “Why did I put that down? Silly idiot.”

“What’s wrong?” asks Adam, looking over the breakfast sandwiches.

“I put the wrong thing in the crossword—it’s not ‘rabbit,’ it’s ‘iguana'—”

“Can I ask how you came to both of those from the same clue?”

“In a minute. I have to, um, do something. Check on my hair. Powder my nose.” She gets up from the table, bang out the door, clatters up the stairs.

It occurs to Adam a few moments too late that his wife never checks on her hair.

“You could just use white-out,” says Stanley, standing awkwardly in the royal bedroom while Belle lays out books and pens and far, far too many candelabras. He tries not to get unnerved by the presence of a goat.

“Shh! I’ve been dying to try this spell for a while—don’t tell Adam—and anyway, it won’t hurt. I’m just sending us back in time to ten minutes ago, before I wrote down the wrong answer and spoiled my crossword. This time I’ll write iguana, and then we’ll go on merrily like this never happened. Which it won’t, because we won’t be doing this, because I’ll have got my crossword right in that timeline.”

Stanley blinks. He hates abstract thought.

“You need to be here because I can’t do the spell by myself,” says Belle. “You’ve got to stand there and do as I tell you—I’ll be busy giving the incantation my best shot, and waving these candles in a particular pattern.”

“But Belle, I need to go talk to LeFou—I think he wants to break up with me, he’s been so strange and distant lately—”

“I’m so sorry, but we’ve got to do this now. I need to save my crossword. Ready? Great.”

Ignoring that Stanley was absolutely not ready, Belle began reciting.

“Time’s wheel spins ever on anon, An axel round a broken frame—here, Stanley, spin in a circle, that’s right—a word awry can break the song and help us tell the time again—raise your arms, quick! Good, now spin counter clockwise—do pick up that goat, he’s supposed to do it with you—break the time and tell us all, how to play the game aright—hold that quill, Stanley, I’ve already dipped it in the ink for you—write the wrong and bind it tight, while backwards and backwards do we fall. Now, Stanley, now! Write ten on that paper, big as you can, and dot it at the end.”

Stanley, blanched, puts pen to paper, scrawling out a sign.

Immediately, all the candles in the room go out. It’s dark as hell.

“There we go! Bit darker than I expected, since it was only morning when we began…but I’m sure it’ll pass in a moment.”

It doesn’t pass. If anything, it gets darker.

“You quite sure you wrote ten, didn’t you, Stan?” says Belle, trying not to sound a little scared.

“I can’t write,” says Stanley bleakly. “You didn’t tell me when this started that it would involve WRITING.”

“What!” Belle grabs the paper, holding it to the blackened window to make out the scrawl. “What did you—oh, no, this should be all right! You did write a ten—oh, no.”

“What?” cries Stanley.

Belle holds the paper up. At the top sits Stanley’s lonely, shaky “10"—and unfurling below it, in endless curlicues and damning spirals, are more and more “0"s.

"You didn’t dot it at the end, did you, Stan?”

“No,” he squeaks.

Belle tries to dot the paper now, but the pen springs off, with a singing smell like lightning. The zeroes keep going. So, too, does the dark.

“Well!” says Belle. “All right. This is fine. This is absolutely fine. It can’t keep going back through time forever—and after all, nothing bad has happened yet, so maybe it didn’t take.”

The sun sets, backwards, behind her.

“Evening, Belle,” says Adam, jauntily getting out of bed, where he wasn’t a moment ago. “Ready for tomorrow’s crossword? I know you wait all week for the Sunday ones.”

“But today was Monday…”

“Hello, Stanley, you here as well? How’s LeFou?” Adam, somehow walking backwards without looking, puts on his slippers.

“Um, fine—how are you…?”

“Glad to hear it. He was telling me a few weeks ago how sad he’s been, he’s noticed you haven’t said ‘i love you yet’ and he wonders—what are you staring at me for, Belle?”

“Do you always spit, then brush your teeth, then put the toothpaste on—in that order?”

“What are you talking about? Nice long day we had, though, wasn’t it?”

“What?”

“Yes, I think so too. I’ll go to bed in a few minutes, I haven’t brushed my teeth yet—” And, still yammering on with all the exhaustion of a happy evening, Adam left the room—still walking backwards.

“Quick,” says Belle, “get the candles and the goat back out, maybe if we do this spell in reverse we can stop it.”

“They’ve all disappeared!” says Stanley. “They weren’t here last night, were they?”

“Damn, no, I only put them in here this morning—though it’s actually yesterday evening now—moving rapidly into yesterday afternoon. Drat! And where’s the spell book?”

“Wherever it was yesterday, I suppose.”

“All right, okay.” Belle breathes deeply. It’s already looking alarmingly like morning outside. “We just run and get the book from wherever it was yesterday—I think the library—and look for a spell that gets time moving forward again.”

“Please. I hate this.” Stanley watches, horrified, as the crown prince of the land shuffles back in, yawning and evidently very much still asleep, and pours his cup of coffee back into the pot.

“Right, library, quick as you can,” says Belle, prodding Stanley. “It’ll be the day before yesterday before we know it.”

“You’re up early,” Adam mumbles, slowly dragging himself back into bed. He’s already sleeping by the time they’re running off.

Throughout the palace, Stanley and Belle have to drag each other quite frequently past the interesting sights invading the palace’s sense of time. Cuisinier unmaking a steaming pot of soup, chopping its ingredients into whole onions and carrots and transforming a boiling liquid back into a pat of butter—Mrs. Potts carefully ruining her made bed, rumpling the covers and wrinkling her pillow cases—Chip sliding up the banisters.

“We’re nearly to the library, quick, the days are going faster,” pants Belle. “I just saw Father start a painting he finished days ago. We must be several days back now—”

“I just think maybe he doesn’t love me!” says LeFou’s voice, shockingly close.

Stanley hammers to a standstill, ignoring Belle. “Come on, Stanley, we have to go!”

“We haven’t kissed, or anything,” says LeFou.

Stanley dashes into the next room, Belle fast on his tail. They plow in too quickly; the game of chess Adam and LeFou were busy in topples to the floor, its pieces rolling and bouncing.

“Oh, hello, Stanley,” cries Adam. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Did you really say you don’t think I love you?!” cries Stanley to Lefou.

“Didn’t you say you talked to LeFou about this weeks ago?!” cries Belle. “How fast is time moving?”

“When did I say that?” say Adam and LeFou, both sounding shocked. And rightly too; LeFou hadn’t said anything to Adam about Stanley yet—not until the end of their chess game, which now stood perfectly laid out on the table, only one pawn moved.

“Stanley, we’ve got to go, a few weeks have passed and I thought it was only days,” whispers Belle. “You can talk to LeFou when we get back!”

“He thinks I don’t love him, he told Adam! I do love you—”

“And it won’t make any difference now, they’re going backwards and wouldn’t remember anything we told them anyway!”

“Should we play chess, your Highness?” asks LeFou, gesturing to the unpacked box of chess pieces. “Oh, hello, Stanley, I didn’t see you here, when did you come in?”

“Come on,” says Belle, yanking Stanley out the door.

They reach the library, somehow, though how they do it—around Plumette waltzing backwards, between an argument of Cogsworth’s and Lumiere’s that begins with agreement and ends with a fight, and through Chapeau playing a cacophony that might, right-way-round, be a gorgeous sonata—seems too impossible to reason with. They find the library, at least, and Belle snatches up her book.

“Quick, quick!” says Stanley. “I don’t like the look of things.”

“You don’t like the look of things?! I’m trying to find a spell, working practically in the dark! Where’d the light go, anyway? It can’t be night again already—”

“Um,” says Stanley. “I think it’s worse.”

Belle looks up from feverishly scanning the index. “Who set the books on fire?!!”

A chattering, screaming mob, running backwards, quickly takes the fire back onto their own torches. Yelling, they retreat into the darkened hall, where the sounds of a sentient wardrobe launching upwards to the upper balcony can be heard.

“We’re back into the days of the curse?! No!” Belle runs her finger down the page. “We’ve got to solve this, quick, before it gets any more horrible—”

“Yes! Yes, we do,” says Stanley decisively. He stomps out to the hallway, throws the door open. Ignores the specter of himself standing up on the upper landing, resplendent in a bright pink dress. “LeFou! LeFou. I see you, under that harpsichord. And I want everyone to know that I. LOVE. YOU.”

Even the mob, intent as they are in traveling back in time, stop to gape at him.

“That’s all very well,” mutters Belle, “but I think a good spell might help out the words of true love right now—”

But before she can say another word, everything creaks—and groans—the sound of a mighty wheel is heard, turning and turning despite its broken frame—and suddenly the castle is sprouting with life, ringing with bells, and life is moving very quickly forward.

Stanley and Belle stand back as a hatstand transforms into Chapeau, as a dance is held in the main hall, as Belle marries Adam, as Maurice finishes his painting, as Chip slides down the banister right-side-up. LeFou and Adam play a game of chess; LeFou tells Adam how content he is with Stanley, how proud he is of him for making his affections so clear at such a pivotal moment. Somewhere, Cuisinier is baking bread for tomorrow’s breakfast. Adam gets ready for bed.

“Evening, Belle. Hello, Stanley, you here as well? Nice long day we had, though, wasn’t it?”

“Long in more ways than one,” says Belle, watching Adam brush his teeth.

“Yes, I suppose so. Ready for tomorrow’s crossword? I know you wait all week for the Sunday ones.”

“Yes, though—oh, no! Stanley, do you think time will let me off ten minutes early?”

The sun sets. The sun rises. There is a goat and candelabras.

Stanley grabs the spell book and throws it into the fire. With a great big sizzling thump, time stops—and then starts again, the candles glowing, the goat gnawing on the quill pen, everything at exactly the right pace.

“Damn, we’re back where we started. Good thing I had you along, though, Stan, wasn’t it? If it weren’t for you proclaiming that you love LeFou, we’d still be going back in time.”

“Yes, I guess true love does break all spells.” He sees Belle’s look. “And no, that does not mean I’ll accompany you next time you do magic, just so I can save your ass by screaming ‘I love you’ at just the right moment.”

“Fine,” says Belle. “Can you fetch the white-out?”

“Sure, I—”

But Stanley is interrupted from his task by LeFou coming in, smiling radiantly. He embraces Stanley, pecking him on the cheek, adjusting his shirt affectionately.

“Hello, Stanley! You look wonderful when you blush.”

“Do I really?”

“Oh, yes. It reminds me of that other blush-filled time…..when you yelled to the whole village how you loved me! In the middle of a battle! My hero.”

“Am I?” If he wasn’t blushing before, he sure is now.

“Oh, yes—it was so romantic—I’d never heard those words before, before you said them.” He kisses Stanley, softly. “I love you, too.”

Stanley and LeFou leave the room, arm in arm, glowing. Belle surveys her damage.

“I guess I’d better get this goat back to the village….”

“Belle!” Adam sprints into the room, breakfast sandwich still in hand. “Belle, you’re not doing magic, are you? As soon as you left I realized—checking your hair, what a silly lie—oh, no, thank goodness. I must have caught you before you could do anything. It’s only been a few minutes, anyway!” He laughs in relief. “So you couldn’t have done anything ridiculous.”

Belle smiles and wipes the sweat off her face. “Nope. Nothing ridiculous at all.”

#lmao this is crack #beauty and the beast #batb 2017 #batb #stanley #lefou #stanfou #belle #adam #adelle #lumiere #cogsworth #chapeau #cuisinier #mrs. potts #batb fanfic #crack

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doctormctiddy · 6 years ago

Text

merry christmas, frens!!

(listen, i know its still november. but you cant stop me.)

anyway, this is a fic i found buried in my drafts that i started writing.... last year? And i finally finished it. So yay!

Brief summary: Julian, who doesn’t celebrate Christmas, asks Gloria, who does, if she has any Christmas stories to share, as he had previously done with her. Though she has no memories to tell stories of, she does have one story that she can show off using her magic...

Enjoy! ♥

( A Christmas Carol belongs to Charles Dickens. )

It’s a simple cold night in Vesuvia, and while there’s no snow to be accounted for, the chill that rattles those that step outside is unmistakable. Thankfully, the warm fire roaring in the corner and the blanket over top of her and Julian kept her warm enough that Gloria forgot about the cold. The comforting smell of snickerdoodles lingered on him, and she was glad for the silence.

Until Julian moved his head to speak.

“Gloria,” he begins, “I don’t believe I’ve ever asked you, but…” she raises her head from his chest to meet his gaze, and suddenly his words fumble, face flushing red, “Um… do you have any favourite Christmas stories?”

Gloria cocks an eyebrow. “Christmas stories?”

“You know, like…. stories with your family from around the holidays,” he continues, and the corner of her lips lift in a smirk.

“Oh, like your story of how you set your cape on fire lighting the menorah with Portia?”

“Of course you remember that story,” he chides, rubbing her head, and she bursts into giggles… and then she falls silent, biting her lip in thought.

“Well…. I mean….” she hums, scrunching her face, “I don’t remember my family, and I can’t think of anything involving Asra…. but I do know a story, related to Christmas.” Scooting closer to his warmth, she lifts her arms from the blanket. “If you wanna hear it, that is.”

His soft smile told her the answer to that.

Julian always loved when she told stories, and tonight was no exception. Gloria’s face broke into a grin, leaning up to give him a quick kiss before returning her attention to her arms.

“This is a story of a man, who’s ideals were completely changed over the course of one Christmas,” she begins, “But this isn’t your typical Christmas story.”

“Why not?” Julian asks, watching sparkling, golden light fall from her fingertips.

Gloria smirks. “Because it involves ghosts.”

His eye widens as the light starts to take shape into what he assumes is the main character of the tale. A hobbly old man, donning a top hat and cane, wearing a flowing coat, barely five inches tall, glowers at Julian’s close gaze, before lifting his cane and whacking the doctor’s beaked nose with it.

“Humbug!” he squeaks, shaking his cane. Julian rubs his nose, retracting his face, and Gloria giggles.

“Hush now, Ebenezer,” she chides him, and the figure puts his hands on his hips, “Julian, darling, be careful with him.”

“He should be careful with me,” the doctor responds with a frown, and Gloria giggles again in response.

“Anyway… Julian, Ebenezer Scrooge. Mr. Scrooge, Julian Devorak. Now, be a good old man.” Little Scrooge’s frown deepens, and Gloria waves her hand again, setting the scene. More golden light shapes and forms, until Julian is looking out over a bustling street, stuffed with brick buildings and snow, decorated from head to foot in Christmas-y glory.

“We start in a northern town, on a little island known for its finery, many years ago,” Gloria begins, “It’s Christmastime, and the air is filled with excitement. People are merry, the shoppers bustle through the town, others come home to their families…” and she starts laughing, seeing a small group of carolers made of gold light start singing something in Latin, “and songs fill the street from every corner!”

“It’s beautiful, dear,” Julian smiles, turning his head to look at her, “You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

“Thanks, Julie.” With a wink, however, she added, “but you’re not getting a kiss until after the story is done. Helps me focus.” When he gives her a joking pout, she lightly punches his arm and returns her attention to the scene, waving her hand again. The street whirls around in a shower of sparkling light, until it shows the inside of a counting house. Little Scrooge sits hunched over a desk, counting coins in tiny golden towers, while another little person sits at a smaller desk, furiously scribbling away with his quill. With a start, he turns and waves at Gloria and Julian, who wave back, before Scrooge snaps.

“Cratchit!” says the old miser in a high pitched, nasally voice. Cratchit, shoulders slumping, returns to his scribbling.

“Mr. Scrooge is the embodiment of all things anti-Christmas,” Gloria continues, “the absolute worst of them all. Hates everything to have to do with the season.”

“Why?”

“No one knows for sure. However, even he keeps Christmas in some happy remark, for it was on this very day, seven years ago, that his former business partner, Jacob Marley, died and left him the counting house. More money for him to have, you see. And Bob Cratchit is someone who works for him- a good man, working to earn a meager salary to support his family.”

Julian watches the door to Scrooge’s counting house open, and a younger man enters, jovial in his high pitched voice.

“Scrooge’s nephew Fred,” his love explains, “nearly the complete opposite, invites Scrooge to Christmas dinner. The miser declines,” Scrooge does so, “calling Christmas a-”

“HUMBUG!” Scrooge squeaks out again as Fred exits the store. Gloria gestures to him.

“... Well, you know.”

Julian listens in as two more men, seeking donations for the poor, enter the shop, only to be dismissed in a similar fashion by Scrooge, before a small bell chimes. Cratchit and Scrooge rise, and start to leave, as Gloria changes the scene again.

“It’s Christmas eve, you see,” she explains again as the light whirls up and around, “one of the few nights that Cratchit can take off of from his job a little early. But Scrooge still wants him there the next day, bright and early, like normal, despite the Christmas festivities.”

“What an ass.” Julian interjects.

“I know!” she agrees.

Finally, it settles on Scrooge sitting in his bedroom, dressed in nightclothes, eating. Before taking another bite of what Julian assumed was soup, the old man looks up and frowns at the pair.

“Young love,” he chides, “bah! You both should be doing something useful with your lives!”

“Can I please squash him?” Julian begs with a wince, “He’s starting to sound like Lucio…”

“No, you are not squashing Scrooge!” Gloria reprimands, watching the small man suddenly bolt behind his wingback chair. “Look at that, you spooked him!”

“It wasn’t old bird beak over there!” Scrooge calls, before pointing a gnarled finger at the now shaking door in his room. The magician jumps suddenly.

“Right, right! Anyway, it was Christmas Eve, nearing closer and closer to midnight, and Scrooge was about to have a visitor.” Julian watched her grin turn nearly evil, and he had to squish down the desire to kiss her right then and there. “A visitor of the supernatural kind.”

Suddenly there was a high pitched wail from behind him, and Julian turned his head sharply, only to duck as a small golden specter flew right for his head, chains rattling and boxes dragging behind him.

“Whoa!”

Gloria burst into laughter as the ghost floated around above the set, only pausing for a jolted moment to wave at her. “Hello Mr. Marley. Nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you, Miss Morgenstern!” And then he continued on his wailing journey, before bursting through Scrooge’s bedroom door.

“That’s Marley?” Julian asked, raising his head.

“Well, he has been dead for seven years at this point.” She says with a shrug of her shoulders. Turning back to the story, she goes on, “Marley arrived from beyond the grave to warn Scrooge about his otherworldly fate. If Scrooge didn’t change his ways, he would be doomed to eternity to be just like Marley- covered in chains and boxes as a wandering spirit.”

“I wear the chain I forged in life!” Marley calls, “Do you know the weight and length of the chain you bear, Ebenezer?”

“And with that, Marley says that he will send three spirits to help Scrooge on his journey of self discovery. But first, he has to be a dramatic little bugger about it.”

Marley looks up at her first, hopeful, and Scrooge follows, eyes wide with fear.

“May I?” Jacob asks, and Gloria nods.

“Julie, you may want to duck.”

“Again?” The doctor asks, “Not more ghosts-”

Suddenly Marley wails again, and several more spirits made of Gloria’s golden light- all wearing chains, each different in appearance, come from behind, and Julian yells, ducking down, before the spirits swirl around him. A little lady ghost even whacked his nose with a mirror on her chain, before floating over to Gloria.

“You really can pick ‘em!” She says, before floating off to the set. And suddenly, Julian laughs, seeing an all too familiar tiny ghost floating around, wrapped up in chains, bearing a false, shimmering golden left arm.

“They’ll never survive without me!” cries tiny Ghost Lucio, rolling around from his wrapped up chains. “They’ll never forget me! Untie me!”

“Never on your life,” says another gentleman ghost who floats by, “you’re awfully rude.”

Lucio inchworms down to the set, and the other ghosts, with Marley in tow, begin to spiral around Scrooge, who screams and makes a break for it, diving into his bed- and with a glittering golden poof, they’re gone.

“And the bell tolls one,” Gloria says, satirically sollem. Julian snorts, watching little Scrooge shake in his bed. The candle on the table in front of them suddenly started to glow and mold, until, emerging from the wax, came a spirit in what appeared to be a ballet costume of some kind. They were thin, with curly hair that hung just below their ears, with a halo of gold on their head. More lit candles adorned this halo, and three lit candles were attached to each of their arms. As they twirled around, more wax dripped from the edge of their tutu. Scarily wide eyes glowed like open flames, but the spirit themself seemed kind. With a noise akin to bells chiming, they floated up between the pair of lovers, bowing gracefully.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” they said, rising. “Apologies if I startled you.”

“No need,” Gloria says, “It’s good to see you again, Past.”

“This isn’t Asra…” They realize suddenly, floating closer to Julian, who blinks owlishly. “Who are you?”

“J-Julian.” He responds, going cross eyed to see the little ghost.

“My boyfriend,” Gloria whispers excitedly, and as Julian blushes, Past’s aura glows a bit brighter.

“In that case, I simply must put on a good show!”

As they float away towards Scrooge, Julian looks back at Gloria. “D-did you just call me…”

“Yes,” she reaches up to kiss his reddening cheeks, “because it’s true.”

“Darling, if you do that again, I don’t think I’ll be able to listen to the rest of the story…”

“Alright, I’ll stop the story, if it’s what you want.”

“No, keep going. I want to find out what happens. I… I can wait.”

“Good choice!” exclaims Past, and Julian jumps, “I don’t want to go away yet! I just got here!”

“Get on with it!” Scrooge interjects from under his bedcovers, and Gloria snorts, rolling her eyes and turning back to the set.

“My apologies. Anyway…. As the bell tolled one, the Ghost of Christmas Past,” said ghost did a sudden, perfect pirouette, “appeared in Scrooge’s bedroom, rousing him from the meager amount of sleep he had managed to achieve.”

“Take my hand,” Past said, offering one wax coated hand to Scrooge, who, reluctantly, grabbed it. With a giggle from the ghost and a cry of fear from the old man, they took to the sky, and Gloria waved her hand again, watching the scene change. The two flew around the shop, nearly running into everything. Even with Scrooge on their hand, Past managed to perform a little ballet routine near perfectly, with Scrooge’s long, old legs stumbling behind. Julian laughed at the display, before the scene set in front of them again. And with each word Gloria spoke, the characters complied, and the scene changed- much like a little theatre.

“To help Scrooge grow in his character, they visited past Christmases- his past Christmases, in fact. Scrooge had been neglected as a child, and had a little sister, who died at a young age, but not before she had a son.”

“Then that Fred fellow was her son, I take it.”

“Yep.” A small pause to wink at him for getting the answer right, “And then, years later, Scrooge became apprenticed by a man named Fezziwig, who was a jovial old chap, and at one of his parties… he fell in love.”

The scene set before them, however, was of a high spirited party. A rotund man spun what Julian assumed was his wife around, and the audience clapped and cheered as they danced. A mad fiddler worked his bow strings furiously with a small band, and people laughed and drank.

“You want to dance, Julian?” Gloria asked suddenly, and he laughed.

“We wouldn’t fit!”

“Yes, but we can still hear the music.” Suddenly grabbing his arm, she pleaded, “Please, Ilya?”

Oh God, not the Ilya card. She always pulled that to weaken his resolve, and he was always weak to it… of course, the cries from the small party crowd of “Dance wit her, man!” “C’mon, y’ old haggard!” “Le’s see if them long legs o’ yers are good fer more than bein’ tall!” weren’t helping either, and finally, he sighed.

“Alright, alright.”

Gloria brightened, giggling and rising from the blanket they had engulfed themselves in, and Julian followed. He heard Fezziwig clap his hands, and the little band started their tune up again. With a sudden devilish grin, he grabbed Gloria by the hand, pulling her in close and twirling her around. The magician squealed and laughed, her feet dangling at his shins as he lifted her, one arm around his waist and the other in his hand. The little crowd cheered, and suddenly between the taller two floated Christmas Past and Scrooge, who were dancing on their own- Past more enthusiastically than the old miser, who was once again forced to stumble behind, shouting bloody murder at the top of his lungs. They both laughed, dancing along to the small band’s song, until it began to slow, and so did their dance, until it stopped, and they both stood there, gazing into each other’s eyes. Julian moved first, laying his lips over hers, his hand sliding to hold her face, and Gloria’s other hand moved to hug his waist.

“No mistletoe required, huh?” she laughs when he pulls away, and he rubs their noses together.

“It never is, my darling.”

With a dreamy sigh, she regrettably slipped out of his arms, sliding down to hold his hands. “C’mon. Before they all start yelling at me to get on with it again.”

As the two settled back on the couch, Julian was shocked to find a dizzy Scrooge leaning on Christmas past, watching a different scene completely unfold.

“I release you, Ebenezer.” said the girl sitting in front of the desk of the young Scrooge. And with a whirl of her dress, she was gone.

“Oh… right.” Gloria clears her throat, settling the blanket back on top of them. “Ebenezer had managed to fall in love, but as the years waned on from that, money became more important. Eventually, money became the only thing that mattered to him anymore.”

“I don’t wish to see more of this!” Old Scrooge called out, and with a sad look, Past snapped their fingers, taking to the sky again. As the scene set back to Scrooge’s bedroom, the ghost floated up to the couple, bowing again.

“You did beautifully, Past.” Gloria praised, and Julian swore he saw them blush at the compliment.

“Yes, indeed,” he added suddenly, “it was a lovely performance.”

“Thank you both, very much!” And with a wave goodbye, they burst into flame, vanishing. The clock stuck again, two this time.

“And so the clock strikes two,” Julian speaks again, with the funny solemnity of Gloria earlier. She giggles.

“Don’t steal my job along with my heart, darling!”

Suddenly, Scrooge’s room expanded, and fading into view was a mound of food. Christmas carols played on a small orchestra rang out, and a booming laugh, though still high in pitch, echoed through the set. A man came into view, wearing a green robe, and bearing an immeasurably long amount of ginger hair, which floated up around his head like a halo. A single candle floated in the middle of it, and holly decorated the entire ponytail. He had a cheerful, lined face, and his robe reminded the doctor of the white shirt he was currently donning.

“A bit of a low cut for a ghost, is it not?” Julian teased, and Gloria grinned.

“I can’t help what he wears.” They watched the spirit grab a staff of oak wood and garland, where a single emerald glowed at the top, and she waved. “Hello Christmas Present!” “Merry Christmas, Miss Morgenstern!” He called, waving back. “Good to see you again!”

“Good to see you too!”

Scrooge entered the room then, and Gloria began the narration.

“The Ghost of Christmas present,” she said, “there’s a new one every year, supposedly, but this is the one that always works with me. To help Scrooge better himself, he takes the man around to Christmases currently happening.”

“Touch my robe,” the spirit said to Scrooge, and the old man does. Much like they had with Christmas Past, the two rose into the air as the set spun around, before it settled on a little house, hardly bigger than the main room of Asra’s shop.

“Oh!” Julian exclaimed as Scrooge and Present settled into the set, and more characters started appearing. “Isn’t that Cratchit?”

“Yea! This is his house,” Gloria explained, “And this is his family.” She leaned in suddenly, cupping a hand over his ear and whispering, “And you see that tiny kid with the crutch? That’s Tiny Tim. He’s important, so pay attention.” As she drew away, Julian nodded vigorously.

“You have my word.”

“Great.” Cracking her knuckles, she settled into the story again. “Bob Cratchit’s family isn’t the best off, Scrooge notices first. And with a little help from Christmas Present, he realizes that poor Tiny Tim is destined to die if he doesn’t get the help he needs.”

“I see an empty chair by the fire,” speaks Christmas Present solemnly, “and a small crutch, carefully preserved.”

Suddenly Julian whips around to Gloria, who furrows her brows, “He doesn’t die, does he?”

“Hush, love! You’ll find out.” With a wiggle of her fingers, the set changes again. “The Christmas party of Fred, where they catch the household making fun of Scrooge. Not much happens here, only Scrooge realizing he could’ve been a better Uncle. And then….”

Another set change, and Christmas Present, once jolly, now looms over Scrooge, melancholy. Scrooge watches, horrified, as two small, scraggly children emerge from Present’s robe.

“Are they yours?” he asks, fearful and wide eyed.

“They are mans,” says the spirit, “this boy is ignorance, and this girl is want. Beware them both, but especially the boy.”

“.... Now I can see where this wouldn’t be considered a Christmas story,” Julian says, squinting down at the kids. Ignorance takes a swipe at him, and he keens, scrambling back to Gloria.

“I told you to be careful, Jules.”

“I’m just curious…”

Suddenly the two children lept at Scrooge, and the scene goes black for a moment- and rises, seeing Scrooge cowering alone, arms over his face, as the clock strikes three. The man slowly lowers them, before looking up behind him. Julian and Gloria look up too, and on a shadowy part of the wall, out melts a black, hooded finger, surrounded by black smoke… though, less intimidating, as they were about seven inches tall. Gloria grips Julian’s arm excitedly as the spirit descends upon the stage.

“This is my favourite part,” she whispers to him, as the Ghost cranes their head to up the couple. “Hi Christmas Future! Good to see you haven’t changed.”

There was a beat, and the Ghost raised a single skeletal hand, waving slightly, before turning their attention back to Scrooge.

“The Ghost of Christmas Future, or Christmas Yet To Come,” Gloria narrates again, hand never leaving Julian’s arm, “The final spirit of the night, here to show Scrooge the consequences of his current actions. This is the real climatic part of the story, just you wait.”

Rather than taking to the air, Christmas Future raises a single, boney hand, and points to the other side of the scene, which melts away, golden light turning into black and white.

“The Ghost shows Scrooge visions of uncaring gentlemen talking about the death of someone supposedly important,” Gloria continues, “Along with a joyous Fred, the Cratchits saddened by the death of Tiny Tim-” Julian gasps, bringing a hand over his mouth, and she squeezes his arm, “and Scrooge’s old maid selling off things to a pawnbroker. Along with… something else.”

The scene is completely black and white now, and the only thing on it, aside from Scrooge and Future, is a gravestone.

“That’s not…”

“It’s not Tiny Tim.”

“It can’t be… does that have Scrooge’s name on it?” Julian’s uncovered eye widens, and Scrooge suddenly cries out, lamenting to the Ghost before him.

“Scrooge begs to change, pleads with the Ghost. Christmas Future only points intensely at the grave as Scrooge grovels, until suddenly, as Scrooge falls into the grave….”

The scene swirls in a black shadow, until Gloria’s golden light takes over again- and there was Scrooge, tangled on his bed in the sheets, completely alive.

“... He awakes in his room, a changed man.”

Little Scrooge leaps up suddenly, dancing around his room and throwing on his coat and hat over his sleepwear, and running off. Gloria grins.

“And he really did change, you know,” she finishes, as the entire cast takes to the scene, “helping Tiny Tim being one of the first things he ever did on his changed path.”

The cast starts to bow, and Julian claps at them all, and with some final waves, the scene and characters vanish completely.

“What a lovely story,” Julian finally turns to face her, and she blushes.

“I know it’s not what you had in mind, but…”

Without hesitation, he leans in, wrapping his arm around her waist and drawing her lips to his, a pleading noise echoing from the back of his throat. She retaliates, reaching up to cup his face. After several kisses, he finally pulls away, touching their foreheads together.

“Sorry… I couldn’t wait,” comes his sheepish grin, “But…. you don’t need to worry. It was perfect. It showed what Christmas means to you, much like what Hanukkah meant to me whenever I told you my stories. And I couldn’t be happier, my darling.”

“Thank you, Ilya.”

#the arcana #the arcana game #julian devorak #fan apprentice #ace apprentice #gloria/julian #my writing #fanfic #ace ♠ reads the cards

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ohnoboho · 6 years ago

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ghosts in the flesh 1 (let’s meet our lovely contestants)

Dear reader, welcome to part one of my newest punk!Sanders multi-part fiction. A few of you voted for it, so here it is! @asofterfan‘s fantastic punk!Sanders Sides boys are going to go ghost hunting, eventually. For now, they are just going to be sassy at lunch (also a little glimpse of what’s to come for poor Virgil). It’s been a struggle to say the least with this, but I hope you will enjoy.

much love, boho

Virgil watched the beam of the flashlight twist and spiral lazily as it fell through the air below him. The light swept over the decrepit walls of the shaft, deceptively slow. Only the deafening rush of air by his ears gave away how fast he was really falling. And something else, a voice hazy between the wind and his own blood pounding noisily in his throat he couldn’t quite make out.

Below him, the flashlight finally made contact with the floor, the beam of light violently flailing as it bounced and rolled around the debris. Virgil squeezed his eyes shut and let the terror run swift and frigid through his veins; one raw, guttural shout echoed off the metal walls before the ground rushed to meet him. He knew he was going to regret going that night.

Two weeks prior...

It had started off much the same as any of their other adventures, with a friendly argument.

An offhand comment during lunch hour from a passing student calling Roman a ‘banshee’ for his excessive wailing at the tragedy of dropping his bag of chips sparked it really. After the soda can Virgil had hucked made contact with the back of the offending student’s head and sent the group scurrying off, the punk grumbled something under his breath.

“What was that, Virge?” Patton looked up from his backpack. He tossed Roman a spare bag of cheez-its; the other boy caught it with a thrilled gasp.

“He was just stating that it’s incorrect to call Roman a banshee, because he’s not female. The term banshee translates literally to ‘fairy woman’ and he is neither of those things. Although….” Logan glanced up from the homework he had been working on with a smirk, locking eyes with the other boy. It took only a moment for Roman to catch on to the joke. The two actually laughed together.

“Roman would be a specter or a wraith.” Virgil continued, sliding back into his seat after retrieving the empty can. “I mean really, if he were anything, Roman would be an incubus. A very confused incubus, who’s shit at his job.” Patton and Roman exchanged puzzled glaces as Logan and Virgil elbowed each other cheekily.

“I don’t know what the hell that means, but since you villians seem to find it oh-so amusing, I’m guessing I should be offended.” The steampunk pouted as best he could between fistfulls of cheez-its.

Patton leaned forwards and rested his chin in his hands. “Gosh, Virgil, sounds like you know a lot about spirits and stuff! What would I be?” Virgil had to stop himself from laughing at the juxtaposition of the pastel punk’s very serious expression with his delicate sipping on a juice box.

“I think you’d probably be a brownie.” The punk fiddled with his hoodie string as he spoke, shifting uncomfortably as his stomach let out an audible growl.

“oH MY-”

“He’s not referring to the fuckin’ baked good, Patton.” Logan cut off the boy’s cheery giggles, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “Brownie used here refers to a type of house gremlin.”

“Gremlins?” Patton cocked his head with a frown. Without looking, he plunged a hand into his backpack again and fished around. “Aren’t they usually mean?”

“In some cultures, but not brownies.” Virgil explained, absently accepting the orange Patton slid across the table to him. “They are little fae that pick a family they like and live in their house. They help out around the house with chores and shit and the family leaves them treats and toys to say thanks.” The dark boy kept his eyes on the orange as he carefully pulled at the peel and shrugged casually. “Seemed like a good fit to me.”

The pastel boy cooed, clapping his hand together excitedly. “Awwww, I love them!” Tucked under his hood and his bangs, a small smile crept across Virgil’s face.

Roman finished shaking the last crumbs from the cheez-it bag into his mouth, before tossing it aside. “Well, aren’t you just a regular Necro-NERD-icon! I mean, is anyone really surprised that Sabrina the Emo Witch here knows so much about ghosts though?” Virgil only stuck his tongue out in response.

Logan offered an explanation distractedly as he scribbled away at the margins of his notes. “When we were kids, we used to go ‘ghost hunting’ around town quite often. To be honest, it was always less about the ghost hunting and more about creatively trespassing into ruined buildings.” Virgil munched on an orange slice thoughtfully and gave a hint of a smile at the precious memories of the little delinquent children they were.

“Woooow! Didja ever contact any ghosts?” Patton gasped eagerly.

“What? No, of course not!” Logan scoffed, tapping his pen sharply on his glasses frame. “Paranormal and supernatural creatures aren’t real, Patton. Although, it did take me quite a while to convince this idiot of that.” He jostled the boy next to him with his elbow and received a sound smack to his shoulder in return.

“You didn't convince me of anything, ass. I just stopped arguing with you.” Virgil grumbled sarcastically, flicking a pip directly at Logan’s glasses. It bounced off with a ‘plink’ as Logan started to squawk angrily.

“That’s just ridiculous! It's an absolute fact that ghosts aren't real and you know that, because there is no way that my best friend is as fucking dim as Dumb and Dumber over there.” Logan pointed sharply at the two punks across from table who froze in place right in the middle of Patton attempting to spit some juice from his straw into Roman’s open mouth.

“Excuse me!?” The steampunk sputtered, slapping his hands down on the table. “First, Specs, how dare you? Puff and I are creative geniuses.” The smaller boy echoed his assertion with a small 'yeah!’. “And second, Nerd, how dare you? You assume that I believe in the supernatural? Why? Because I have a deep appreciation for fairytales? Because I happen to have an undying love for Disney’s Haunted Mansion ride? Everyone knows the ghosts are projections, Logan! Another fabulously clever way that Disney’s magic comes to life for little princes and princesses and other young royalty! ” Roman gestured about wildly as he ranted. His voice boomed through the courtyard where they sat as his armful of bangles rang noisily. The other students groups perked their heads up at the sounds of a possible fight, but quickly went back to their lunches as they realized it was just Roman.

Logan was taken aback for a moment before he leaned in with a raised eyebrow. “Wait, you don’t-”

He was cut off by a whine from Patton. “Roman?! You don't believe in ghosts? How un-BOO-lievable!” The pastel punk pressed his palms to his chest, miming being shot through the heart.

“I believe in using them as a clever literary device to force a character to confront their baggage from the past.” Roman said with a chuckle, reaching over to ruffle his friend’s colorful curls. “But no, Patton, ghosts and goblins and demons, they’re not real. They’re just fantastic stories!”

Logan blinked rapidly, removing and replacing his glasses a few times. “I’m agreeing with Roman? About ghosts?” His voice was distant and quiet.

“But you can’t know that for sure…” Virgil spoke up, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, I don't know if I believe in supernatural shit, but there is always the possibility…”

“What?!” Logan balked, dropping his pen with a clatter. Suddenly his closest friend seemed to sprout another head. Another head that was spouting nonsense.

“Yeah!” Patton jumped in, nodding vigorously. “Virgil’s right! You can’t be so sure they aren't real! What about all the people that have had ghost experiences?”

“Oh, Puff, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but people lie, cutie pie!” Roman laughed loudly, striking a dramatic pose. “It’s all just theater. You know, con people are some of the greatest actors! I can’t say I haven't given it some thought for myself. I could make millions!” The steampunk preened.

“I’m agreeing with Roman….” Logan repeated like he was practicing words from a different language, trying to decipher the meaning. The other boys ignored him, intent on their conversation.

“Not everyone is a big fucking fraud, like you, Roman.” Virgil gruffed. He picked at his nail polish, trying his best to sound nonchalant. “And not everything can be explained away, so, fuck it, maybe it's worth it for people to study ghosts and stuff. Someone could find some evidence that changes everything.”

“That’s right! People thought atoms were made out of pudding before they saw them in microscopes!” Patton asserted proudly, crossing his arms resolutely across his chest. Virgil and Roman shared a bewildered look, while Logan just slowly removed his glasses from his face and took a breath.

“PATTON-” Logan erupted loudly, before he was cut off again.

“Yeah, we definitely don’t have enough time for you to dive into whatever the hell that was, Lo. Let’s make a wager.” Roman leaned in over the table. “I’ll bet that we could go a full night in a ‘haunted’ location and not find a single piece of evidence of any of your ‘ghosty friends’.” He chuckled smugly and bounced his eyebrows at Virgil.

Patton lunged forwards to clasp one of Virgil’s hands in his own. “Ooh! The Boo-lievers (that’s us, Virge) versus The Debbie Doubters (that’s you two)!” The table nearly shook as he wriggled with excitement. Virgil held in a laugh behind his free hand.

“The Debbie Doubters?!” Roman scoffed, feigning great offense. “Logan, you will have to help me come up with a better team name than that if we are to win this. Here, I’ll start a list!”

Mercifully, the bell rang before Logan could full come back to his senses. Virgil, grateful for the distraction, tugged at Patton’s sweater to drag him along to their art class, while Logan waited impatiently for Roman to join him on their way to chemistry.

“This isn’t over, you dastardly Boo-lievers!” The steampunk yelled after the other two boys, giving Logan a hearty slap on his back. “The Science Studs will school you!”

“That is the stupidest fucking name...” Logan grumbled, shoving Roman roughly with his shoulder in the direction of their class.

“How about The Eclectic Skeptics?”

“No.”

“The Para-No-mal Punks?”

“Fuck no.”

to be continued...

Taglist:

@funsizedgremlin

#punk au #punk sides #thomas sanders #sanders sides #ghosts in the flesh #fanders

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foxofthedesert · 6 years ago

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Arrow FanFic | Dinah x Laurel | A Christmas Miracle

Part 4 – The Miracle (AO3 Link)

A vicious chill threads through the alleyway outside the Carmine Kanigher Shelter, sending waste detritus of modern civilization skittering in every direction. Mice and rats flee for cover as fat flakes of snow begin to fall. Soon the entire area will be blanketed in a carpet of fluffy white powder. A Christmas Miracle for Star City courtesy of a recently reunited father and daughter duo of certain...arctic talents who are in town for the first of what will become the annual Team Flarrowgirl – a universally reviled portmanteau courtesy of one Ralph Dibney – Christmas extravaganza.

Pushing off the cinder block he’s occupied for the second time tonight over the past few minutes, Marv adopts a toothy grin. He already worked his seasonal miracle, which if his best friend Nora’s spotty accounting of history unrelated to her dad can be trusted is taking place right about...now. Nervously, he lifts the sleeve of his jacket to check the vitals monitor on the modular biometrically keyed device wrapped around his wrist, finding all readings back within ideal parameters whereas only hours before they were fluctuating wildly. Just to be sure his efforts were indeed successful, he pinches himself in several places to ensure his central nervous system is still functioning correctly that he is still corporeal and has not disintegrated due to a seismic shift within the causal domino chain that will eventually result in his birth less than six years from his present location in spacetime.

As a reward for a mission accomplished, he sifts through the menus on what Nora calls their Vibe-rators – bless the innocent, adorable, perpetual child that she is, Nora has yet to grasp why nicknaming the gadgets that in honor of their esteemed inventor, their beloved Uncle Cisco, was not quite the honor she thought it was – and quickly deactivates the artificial aging matrix produced by some seriously shway tech that, savvy as he is, even he doesn’t fully understand. He also unilaterally decides to never adopt the pseudonym Marv ever again.

Honestly, what was I thinking going with that? Quen shakes his head, chuckling ruefully as the answer dawns on him. There is a longstanding Christmas Eve tradition in his house of watching Christmas movies all evening until everyone is too tired to keep going, and this year they are breaking out amongst other titles both of Macaulay Culkin’s Home Alone films. Double-dipping those gems before bed is, in his opinion, just about the perfect way to cap off a perfect Christmas Day with his family. Which is why he has to get a move on or he’ll be late and his Moms will not be happy. Nor will Aunt Sara and Aunt Ava, who are actually supposed to drop by this year instead of ducking his Mom’s invite with some lame explanation of a temporal anomaly that needed fixing like, pronto. Come to think of it, Maya, his older sister by a year and a half, is coming back home from a work thing in National City for the annual Lance family Christmas and will almost certainly use his tardiness as another excuse to hit him. And Quen can’t have that. She has enough reasons as is without adding valid cause. Plus, his damn shoulder has been abused enough by his sibling’s iron fists, thank you very much!

Glancing back toward the street he’d watched a younger, more hardened version of his softer mother approach him from, the familiar tug of welcome memory pulls him under its sway. His Ma is still a knock-out according to all his friends, who often break out an ancient acronym he chooses to ignore so as to not require a bleaching of his brain, so the age difference was not that jarring. But it was beyond weird to see her so restrained and world weary.

Of his parents, his Ma is the positive one, the tactile huggy, kissy, slightly smothery mom who sings while she cooks, dances as she cleans, and who cried – on camera! – at his graduation...every last one of the four so far. So many wonderful memories of her flash by that he can hardly sort through them all. Her singing him to sleep while he was little and really, really sick while his Mom cradled him close to her chest and rocked him in her favorite rocking chair. The absurd, bonkers, overboard, birthday bashes she organized for both him and his sister every friggin’ year until they were old enough to insist she dial back the adorable insanity. The way she would stand to the side giggling uncontrollably at his ultra-competitive Mom once he got old enough to regularly beat her at basketball or soccer or video games. How a few stern words from her spoke volumes more than a profuse tirade from his Mom ever could amongst one of the many lectures he endured regarding the vital importance of taking responsibility for one’s own actions. How she always smells like an amazing blend of vanilla and cinnamon and can with a single enveloping hug and a lingering forehead kiss banish every iota of hurt, confusion, pain, and fear plaguing her children, even when they are fully grown adults. His Ma is a lionhearted woman who loves with every last ounce of her strength, and it was more than a little disconcerting to witness her holding that ferociousness ransom in the obviously fading hope that a rescuer might appear to set it free. Thankfully, he is a devoted son who is willing to brave her wrath to secure her happiness, which he did by pushing her toward a certain irritatingly complicated blonde.

The various images of his Ma, heartwarming as they are, mingle with one of his other mom as he watched her first set foot in the shelter. Looking for all the world like she didn’t know what the hell she was doing there, all the while unwilling to surrender an inch to fear or doubt, she was yet so fragile he was afraid to even breath in her general direction lest she shatter into a million pieces. He had to get to know her first before he risked ingratiating himself to the point she would grant him permission for one stilted hug.

He’d like to say that it shocked him to see her so walled off, the woman who carried and nourished him inside her body for nine months and then endured unspeakable pain to deliver him safely into the world, but it didn’t. His Mom has always had trouble letting people in, which in combination with her frightening dark side could make her a foreboding person to approach. From his first memories, he can recall glimpsing fleeting specters of what he’d witnessed in earnest while on this escapade in the past: a simmering rage and innate cynicism fueled by pain that only his Ma can assuage. Once or twice he was the unlucky target to bear the brunt of an outburst that scared him witless, and scared his Mom even more – so much so that she would sequester herself in the bedroom or the spare bathroom until she calmed down or his Ma intervened to soothe the offended beast back into her thick iron mental cage. He never really understood why his Mom got that way sometimes until just last year, about five months after his eighteenth birthday, when he learned about Black Siren. That wasn’t a happy time for him, or for his Mom. He had always known she had a troubled past, but that...that shook the foundations of his essential being, made him doubt his own moral and ethic core, and worst of all caused him to doubt his Mom’s ability to love. It took both his Ma and his Uncle Ollie teaming up to knock some sense into him for him to get his head out of his ass and to stop avoiding and start talking to his Mom again.

And now? Well, now he’s glad he knows about Black Siren, because if nothing else, this trip into the past has given him a reality check as to just how awful his Mom’s life was to have molded her into the hateful person she was before his Grandpa took a chance on her that his Ma later picked up and ran with. Once, and fortuitously, she got to the shelter early enough to join in a group session with the therapist that visits the facility once per week. He had to sit there silently and listen as she got roped into sharing, then grit his teeth through the empathetic agony of her divulging a lot more than she had originally intended. The things she went through before she met his Ma...Quen shudders at the very thought. The silver lining to that intolerable experience is that at least he has a reference to work with dealing with her occasional mood swings.

Also, this foray has given him a new, unique perspective into how much his parents love each other. To have overcome so much adversity just to be together is, quite frankly, astonishing. Nora has told him so many times that his Moms’ love story rivals that of any epic parental romance within the group of kids belonging to the venerated members of the Justice League, but he never quite believed her. How could he when they were competing with the likes of Superman and Lois Lane, the Green Arrow and his Overwatch, the Flash and Iris West, and Supergirl and her mysteriously broody governmental handler all the kids simply know as their favorite Aunt Alex. But those precious hours surreptitiously watching them interact in the kitchen and during the post-dinner clean up operation afforded him a view that, while slightly biased, was able to recognize that same divine spark between them that he sensed whenever he was around his friends’ folks. It was nice, so nice that his heart is still soaring high in the clouds above, to be given the immense privilege of bearing witness to the event that will begin an inevitable spiral into his – and his sister’s – future conception upon a recovered Kryptonian Genesis ship. And come what may, be it unavoidable tragedy like Nora’s Uncle Wally getting imprisoned outside the timeline by Abra Kadabra, or some catastrophic event like Darkseid himself descending upon his Earth tomorrow, he won’t be forgetting this adventure any time soon. It has ignited in him a flame of hope that cannot be quenched and solidified a belief that will endure until his death that love really can conquer all.

“Well, I guess you guys will see me in five years and twelve months on the dot” he says, his gaze turning instinctively to the apartment in which he knows his parents to be making the first baby steps toward a future they have both risked life and limb to protect multiple times. “Good thing it’ll be sooner for me. Just hope you guys don’t kill me when I tell you where I’ve been for the past month...”

And with the press of a button upon his Vibe-rator – he snickers at the thought of the name – Quentin Nicholas Lance disappears from view to join his best friend for their return trip to the future. He is not seen again until many years later. Twenty-four years, ten days, seven hours, and thirteen minutes to be precise, which is two minutes late and of no consequence to anyone but Maya, who uses that as an excuse to hit him.

Damn that punchy brat.

Quen rubs his sore arm, but the smile on his face remains until he is engulfed by two pairs of arms that officially ring in another Merry Christmas for the Lances. To his unending delight, in addition to a new Quantum Tablet, his Moms pulled some really big strings to get him into the Air Force Academy. He can’t wait to tell Nora! And as he rushes to dial his bestie up on his Vibe-device, he gives them both the biggest hugs he can muster up. He doesn’t see how their eyes catch over his shoulder, glowing with love for each other and pride for their child and happiness over his happiness, but then again he doesn’t really need to. He sees it every single day. Nor would it have registered even if he had caught it. He is far too excited to think of little else than realizing his dream of becoming a pilot.

Merry Christmas to me! He thinks as he hears Nora’s voice chime through the tiny, nearly impervious subdermal implants designed by his Uncle Cisco that were wired into his ears after a childhood accident his Mom still hasn’t forgiven herself for rendered him deaf.

“Hey! You’ll never guess what I got for Christmas!”

Nora does guess, the know-it-all brat, but his enthusiasm doesn’t diminish one iota. This is, after all, the best Christmas ever. And not just because he got everything he wanted, but because he got to watch his parents take the final steps in their journey falling in love. How many kids get to make that boast? Not any he knows of besides Nora.

Quen has an extended family that loves him, a bright future ahead of him, a sister that would fight the world for him, and Moms who love him – and each other – more than he could ever begin to describe. And that makes him the luckiest kid alive.

THE END

#dctv #arrow #arrow fanfic #dinah drake #laurel lance #dinah x laurel #laurel x dinah #aka Dinahmite!#or:#dinahsiren #merry christmas y'all!

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yoolee · 7 years ago

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Ye Massive Tag-back Post

I have been tagged in stuff. I am slow. Apologies for anyone tagged in this XD

5 facts about me that literally know one needs to know

(tagged by @saizoswifey)

I get weirdly nervous in grocery checkout lines: I have no idea why. I don’t know if it’s like, the feeling of being trapped in a narrow space (if there’s someone behind you and ahead of you), or the like, awkward social chitchat that I am SUPER BAD AT or what but I get weird. I HAAAATE that the nearest grocery store to me does not have self check-out, and I put off grocery shopping to the last minute. I can improvise a speech in front of a crowd of hundreds, I can jump off high ladders, like, I’m not a naturally nervous person I swear I’m not. But grocery stores...

I once broke into an Irish autorepair shop: Sort of. It’s kind of a long story, but when I was a student in Cork like…8 years ago, they told me to stick to the flatlands and I took a wrong turn and got lost up in the hills and I kinda felt like these two guys who kind of showed up behind me were following me. I did the whole ‘take a couple of right turns’ and it went from two to four guys and I was getting more and more lost and just like NOOOOPE. And then there was trash can on fire and so I like, half-slid down a little cliff, and snuck through/over a chained shut fence and into what turned out to be a repair shop. There were three older guys sitting there eating pizza, and they just blinked at me so I burst out that hey, there was a trash can on fire (like that’s a reasonable reason to bust in, right?). They asked me if I was the one who set it on fire, I said no, they gave me pizza, we waited for the fire brigade. GOOD TIMES. That was the start of a super, super weird 72 hours.

I despise bananas in smoothies: DESPISE. They POLLUTE them, CONTAMINATING everything with awful, horrid, banana-ness. They are smoothie-ruiners. RUINERS. AWFUL, HORRIBLE, TERRIBAD INGREDIENTS OF EVIL. I like banana bread, and my mom’s banana cake, and can sometimes tolerate a banana-nut muffin, but they have no place in my strawberry-raspberry smoothies and they are intolerably smushy on their own. SHUDDER.

I have done a lot of super random jobs at least once: I’ve been a chemist, taught ballet to 6 year olds and figure skating to teens with special needs, charity auctioneer, corn shucker, lighting booth operator, teaching assistant, princess, storyteller, tutor, dining hall worker, medical transcriptionist, editor, corporate recruiter, automated tutorial/phone recording voice, corporate trainer, historical docent, term paper writer, contortionist, martial arts event coordinator, bookseller, video game voice, snake venom analyst (really that and perfumer were subsets of being a chemist, but, worth the callouts), there’s more but like, the list is long and random.

Last time I was in the airport a kid told me I was eating string cheese wrong. I told him that’s how string cheese is eaten on Mars. I recognize none of this make sense, it was 5 AM.

I’m gonna tag @han-pan, @karalija, @mylittlecornerofotome aaaand @jane-runs-fast! No obligation >>;;;

2017 Creator Tag

(tagged by @dear-mrs-otome and @wonky-glass-ornament)

Rules: It’s time to love yourselves! Choose your 5 favorite works you’ve created this year (fics, art, edits, etc!) and link them below (say why if you want) to reflect on the amazing things you’ve brought into the world in 2017. Tag as many writers/artists/etc as you want (fan or original!) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works. <3

Six Wins and Draw This mostly gets to be here because it had a bunch of characters I had never written before! It was fun to write just a quick few paragraphs (if that) for them. I’d like to do something like this again, because it was much easier than trying to force something standalone for a group I’m not as comfortable with the characterization on.

Compliments I really like fluff. I like communication, and silliness, and sweetness. @juniperotome helped tremendously with this piece, but it really turned out to be one of my favs. I actually prefer this to Burn Down, which was fun and which I do like and was the other contender for this slot, but when I put them side by side, I like this one.

THE WAFFLE COTTAGE CHRONICLES (there’s more) This had been rattling in my head since 2016, but I didn’t post this until January 2017. This was my first headcanon shoving ALL OF THE LORDS into a single story. I recognize that it is very American-mindset-centric, but the sheer satisfaction of brain-dumping the beast was cathartic.I wrote 5000+ words in bullet point form in One Single Sitting and just, it was fun. I still think this is hilarious, even if it has issues.

Lick Your Wounds I still have lingering problems with this piece. And there’s a sort of dual fact thing going on - it could be so much better, but it is also the best that I have done, imo. Those are both facts to me. At this point, it’s a very frustrating piece to deal with XD but even when I am not entirely happy with it, I am very happy and very very touched by the response it has gotten, and so it gets a place. #makepuppyhappy

Scraps UGH THIS FIFTH SLOT. I mean. There’s no question this goes to a Kai group piece. I love writing the Kai group, it’s the most comfortable and it comes the most easily. I don’t like writing modern aus but they just sort of vomit out with these characters in a very love-hate way (I love that they have the opportunity to be happy without the specter of history looming, that’s about it – it’s complicated to explain).

IkeSen Tag

(tagged by @dear-mrs-otome)

Top 3 Warlords in order: Sasuke Nobunaga Kenshin

Favorite Moment in the game so far OH MAN. HMM. I am going to be unoriginal and echo Mrs O – Nobunaga being a matchmaking troll is A+, but I do also love KEnshin and Shingen’s letter to Nobunaga in the ES where MC starts with them but falls in love with Nobu and they are basically like, be nice to her and let her come visit or DEATH TO YOU

Who has the best hair Masamune (Shingen & Hideyoshi have the worst /sigh)

Which voice do you like the most? MRS O I SWEAR I AM NOT COPYING but Kenshin/Mitsuhide are flat tied. Whispery and low, swoooon

Who do you think you are most compatible with? None of ‘em. I enjoy watching their romance unfold with story MC, but as actual self, there are zero combos that would work out favorably for both parties based on what I’ve seen so far.

Which warlord appeals to your aesthetics? Sasuke. Dude. Sasuke.

Which warlord makes you the most frustrated? Hmmm! Tough to say. Maybe Kennyo? Only because it’s seems from what we’ve seen that he is very much going against himself for some reason, and it’s hurting him and that is silly. Don’t do that.

Who would you swear loyalty to, the Oda forces, the Uesugi-Takeda forces, or Third Party forces? NNNNNGH. Oda. If I HAD to. Only because there’s a stronger sense of long-term stability and history. But ideally, none of the above. I would be NEUTRAL TERRITORY opening up a little seamstress shop somewhere in the middle that also serves tea and everyone is welcome to come have snacks, tea and fittings but only if they don’t fight XD (or at least take it outside, and no one dies)

BONUS: Mrs O’s Q: If you had to tell one warlord what happened to them in your own original timeline, who would it be and why? Nobunaga. Because what happened to him can’t yet come to pass in his timeline, so it’s moot. He’s shown to accept knowledge with aplomb so I don’t think it would send him into an existential spiral. He could handle it.

My question for anyone who does this – Which lord would make the best roommate?

Music Tag

(tagged by @skullbygloy100 @dear-mrs-otome @wonky-glass-ornament)

I only have two ways of enjoying music – passively not even noticing what’s on in the background and actively listening to the same song for literal and actual hours on repeat

Passes by Helen Jane Long – I literally listen to this on repeat for hours. HOURS.

Blood // Water by grandson

Cows on the Hill by Jay Ungar

Nowhere to run by Boga

Todo Comienza En La Disco by Wisin ft. Yandel & Daddy Yankee

Dusk Till Dawn by Zayn ft. Sia – but basically, anything with Sia

Shark in the Water by VV Brown – this is my Yukkin song lolol

Waterbound by the Fretless ft. Ruth Moody

Wait for It by Leslie Odom Jr

Clair de Lune by Debussy – performed by literally anyone

ANYONE WHO WANTS TO DO ANY OF THE THINGS just tag me <3 And those of you who tagged me - thank you thank you! This was fun

#about lee

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sometimesrosy · 8 years ago

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I'm sorry Rosy but I don't see the character development for Octavia at all, she hasn't developed at all in 4x10. The conclave served the minor plot purpose of putting Octavia in charge and to kill few grounder characters they needed to get rid off in style(so to speak). And cyclical nature of plot this season is so exhausting to me: find the solution-lose the solution, repeat and rinse.... How do you think Octavia's character developed in 4x10?

It isn’t really cyclical, it’s not a closed loop, it’s a spiral where everything that has passed affects what comes next. And it’s making a statement about how the past taints or enlightens the future.

This isn’t incidental, in a world that the past destroyed and the present is trying to reform so that there actually IS a future, particularly since they keep replaying the mistakes of the past.

The difference this season is that instead of just repeating the mistakes of the past, they are learning from them and changing them and transforming the outcome.

I think one of the big reasons they are able to do that is because they are able to lean on others, get their help, take their advice, take off their tribalistic blinders and realize it’s not just about THEIR people but about all people.

We aren’t just trying to save everyone’s lives this season. We are also trying to save their souls. It’s a story of salvation AND redemption.

Calling The Conclave a minor plot point really confuses me.The grounder-skypeople conflict has been the underlying, major conflict in the whole show. They are learning how to get along and doing a rather poor job of it. It was kind of a culmination of everything since they landed on the ground.

Is it because you see the end point of “We share the bunker” and it looks the same to you as Clarke’s suggestion before the conclave? So to you, nothing happened because they could have done it without the conclave at all?

Well, see. A story isn’t just “the king died, the queen died.” A story is “the king died, the queen died of grief.” It’s not about how the story ends, it’s about how the story got there. It’s about WHY the story got there. The grounders agreeing to a sensible plan is a different story than the grounders being unable to get past their tribalism and generational wars to cooperate with their enemies in order to save everyone’s lives and only agreeing when they are about to lose everything and have been beaten by their traditional methods of justice and leadership.

Clearly, the struggle of the show is not over. The struggle is not saving everyone’s lives. The struggle is not becoming a monster to do it. The struggle is creating a new world that is not ruled by those old ideas. We see Clarke and Bellamy struggling to be redeemed for their sins, and Octavia too, but it’s even harder for a whole society, for humanity to stop turning to their old, destructive patterns. That bunker is going to have problems, because the people in the bunker are going to be replaying their old mistakes. They have not learned.

Everyone cooperating and sharing the bunker peacefully is a much different story than everyone begrudgingly sharing the bunker, after battle, treachery, insurgency. It’s not a minor plot device. It’s THE STORY.

So what role does Octavia have in that? How does her character develop? I think part of the problem you might be having is thinking that The Conclave caused the character development. It didn’t. It revealed the character development that has been happening for the last two seasons. From Octavia wanting to run away from Arkadia, resenting Lincoln for wearing a guards jacket, taking Bellamy for granted, trying to get people to follow her, losing what she loved most (which was not just Lincoln, but also faith in Bellamy), her toxic tendency to lash out in anger which resulted in the deaths of people she cared about, which caused her to lash out more, creating a vicious cycle that was pulling her down. turning her towards vengeance, shutting off her feelings, and having her on the edge of becoming that monster for many episodes.

And yet. She has also served as a solution many times. She was the one who, wanting to run away and leave everything behind, turned back to save monty, recognizing that she was not alone and she was one of The 100. She’s the one that pulled everyone back into a team. Octavia is a bridge builder. As she has always been, trying to reach out to the other side and unify them. Clarke is too, but it works differently for her, because she comes at it from the top down, working with leaders, while Octavia reaches for the people, learns their ways and language. She’s kind of like a combination of Clarke and Bellamy that way. Interesting.

This season had her working WITH the sky people, despite feeling separated from the Ark. She used stealth and murder to solve things, which she probably wishes she had done the last season. But back to that salvation/redemption thing, she was losing her soul to save the people. When she died, and came back, she called Arkadia home. This was a moment where she recognized that as much as she hated it, as much as it was a place of horror and fear and abuse and imprisonment for her, it is still who she was and where she came from and those were her people. This was significant. However we saw that the lesson did not stick, as her choices with Ilian led to the destruction of their salvation. And we saw also the clear danger of Octavia becoming Pike, her demon.

Remember the call back. Kill your demons? Yeah it doesn’t work. The demons are inside of you. And Octavia’s real demon was never Pike, it was the specter of her childhood. So we get to Ilian, and like Clarke did with L, she finds a character who is similar in sins, his vengeance destroyed their salvation, and she ‘makes peace’ with this shadow self, and there is sex and for a while she decides to forget who she is and go and be a farmer, which did not work. Not only because they fought her, but because pretending you are not who you are isn’t the way to redemption.

Okay so that brings us back to the Conclave and Octavia agrees to fight for her people, although she says she’s just doing it for herself and she’s ready to go out fighting. But that’s not really true. She doesn’t know it yet, but she finds out as it goes.

The Conclave helps her realize a few things. One, that the thing that makes her who she is, Her Demon, it turns out, The Girl Under The Floor, is the thing that saves her. This is who she is, not just a thing to hide from or lash out at, but a strength in itself. Her weakness is her strength. (Oh interesting, Clarke’s weakness, her love, is also her strength.) Also she learns that she is NOT alone. Kane advises her. Bellamy tells her to remember where she came from. Indra advises her. Ilian saves her. Roan allies with her. Each character continues to play the role that they have played in the last few seasons with Octavia, and because of them she wins, and saves everyone. Salvation, not redemption. Except for her. Octavia discovers the beginning of her redemption through the recognition of the things that make her who she is. Not the least being Bellamy’s love. She is finally at the place where she can recognize it and accept it again, because she’s done all that development over the course of the last FOUR seasons.

This sets her up as the warleader of bunker. Okay. That makes me roll my eyes. But this is the way the grounders work, and with 1100 of them, they have the might in that bunker and Octavia as warleader of… did I hear Indra call it One Kru? she might be what keeps them from killing each other. Is she a good leader? NO OF COURSE NOT, but she’s been learning from Indra, Kane, Bellamy and Clarke and Lincoln and Luna, also Pike and Lxa, both about what to do and what not to do. And she’s going to have to learn more, because they’ve decided that a barbaric conclave is how good leaders are decided. She has already admitted that she’s not a leader. We haven’t even seen the next episode yet and it’s already canon. But she’s being put into that position.

If you want to understand Octavia, and I’m assuming your ask is to actually try to do that, not just write her off the way people have been doing, you have to go back to when you stopped paying attention to her, or farther, and figure out what you missed. Because Octavia has FINALLY been getting character development and the conclave was the realization of that, the culmination, and if you missed it, it’s because you didn’t see what was happening to the character. Octavia is an IMPORTANT character and her character development is part of the plot. So even if you don’t like her (which I don’t, really) you have to pay attention to her or you’re missing part of the story.

And I know you’re missing some things, maybe refusing to see them because they don’t fit your interpretation. But if something MAJOR like the conclave, is written off as a minor plot point, then you are DEFINITELY going off of a misinterpretation. If they just wanted to kill off characters, they could have done it at any point. These deaths had meaning. For Octavia, for the plot, for deeper symbolism. In order, I think that would be Ilian, Roan, and Luna, not solely but I see these meanings for each. None of those are minor plot points. All of those are incredibly integral to the story.

Why couldn’t they just have Roan cooperate with Clarke? Because of betrayal and anger and mistrust and tribalism, which he’s been dealing with the entire time. Why couldn’t they have kept Ilian out of it? Because he was there to help Octavia through her journey. That’s his purpose in this show. Don’t like it? That’s just the way stories work. Minor characters are there to support major characters and Octavia is a major character. Why Luna? Why did she turn into the dark? Because she was broken and she fell. She’s another tragic hero who started off with a beautiful world and lost it through her tragic flaws. She came from the same toxic society that is holding this conclave. And she saw nothing better in the ruthless torturers of skycrew. Same as Polis.

This. is. what. happens. Not everyone makes it through. Luna did not make it through. Jasper did not make it through. Octavia fought through. Raven fought through. Bellamy and Clarke continue to fight through. And sometimes their fight seems hopeless and sometimes they are doing the wrong thing. But they keep fighting.

Octavia is a fighter. She learned how to use the strengths unique to her and she won. THAT is the most important character development for Octavia in the Conclave. She stopped fighting herself, who she was, where she came from, her past, and she pulled together all her lessons and all her people (Bellamy, Kane, Indra, Ilian, Roan, Lincoln, Clarke) and she fought for all of them. With all of them. And that is how she won.

#the 100 #octavia blake #the conclave #character development #hero/monster #also of fighting your demons #conflict between the grounders and the sky people #embracing who you are

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