🔞 [shangqi x katy]

a/n: light smut ahead. this is the original version, and has been purged from AO3. I'm reuploading it here bc people seem to like it. You can find the remix here: close 2 u (the dirty reverb remix)

They barely make it to the apartment.

a little erasermic wip that i just started

Sometimes, Shouta enjoys taking photos of Hizashi.

His husband is beautiful, he knows. He’s seen all the magazines, watched all the interviews, heard all the compliments.

They only see Present Mic, though. They get the perfect, glossy, purposefully designed public persona. The handsome and powerful DJ Hero.

He gets Yamada Hizashi. He’s the first thing he sees when he gets up, and the last thing when (if) he goes to bed. He gets to see him all mussed and sleepy with his hair down. He sees his bleary eyes and ratty undershirts as he leans over the counter, starting up the coffee machine. He sees him lying languidly on the couch, holding their old cat, Mizuki, up in the air, making kissy faces at her.

It’s in these private moments, when Shouta thinks his husband looks absolutely breath-taking.

He tried to be discreet at first, but Hizashi seemed to have the latent ability to always know when a camera was being pointed at him. He made fun of him for it, much to his embarrassment, but he’s learned to ignore it. Nowadays, neither of them really care.

tim drake, damian wayne

In his dreams, it plays out differently.

There is still blood everywhere else, but not on Damian's hands.

The basement does not smell of rust and gunpowder. No heavy copper weighing down in his throat. Damian is a little grateful. No smell nor taste in dreams.

He holds Drake’s hand in lieu of his katana here. His other hand still presses down on Drake’s wounds, but in his dreams, they are inconsequential. Drake's lips are moving, teeth stained with blood, but he's not talking. When he breathes, there’s no whistling. There is no sound at all. For that, Damian is thankful too.

In his dreams, Drake doesn't push him away. Doesn't put the mission first.

In his dreams, they manage to get out of that basement together. Blood dripping behind them, Drake's arm slung over Damian's shoulder. When he looks up, Tim is smiling. When his mouth moves again, Damian parses the words perfectly.

Am I really gonna put my first solangelo fic on the internet? *sigh* I’m going to cringe so hard once I read this again a few days from now.

BUT I HOPE YOU LIKE IT THAT WOULD MAKE ME REALLY HAPPY THANKS

"Remember sleeping? Sleeping was nice."

Nico glanced at the grumpy son of Apollo crouching behind him in the desolate alleyway. His golden hair stuck out in all directions, resembling a bird's nest. The bags under his eyes made his face look gaunt and tired. His eyes had lost their usual sparkle and were now glassy and cloudy.

Nico frowned sympathetically at him. Will wasn't as accustomed to sleepless nights as he was, given that he had not been on a quest before. Not to mention, he was the son of- well, the Sun.

Nico wondered if they should just call it a night and head back to their hostel. They'd been staking out this particular row of shophouses for hours now, waiting for their target to appear. Unfortunately for them, she didn't seem to want to come out tonight.

Nico cracked his neck and back in an effort to relieve the stiffness in them. He too was getting weary of waiting for nothing to happen. He sighed and turned to Will, brushing against his solid chest in the process. Both of them flinched slightly, as warmth spread from where they touched and reached their hearts.

Nico coughed. "Um, maybe we should just go back now and come back tomorrow night. It doesn't look like the witch is gonna come out tonight."

Will nodded, his face relaxing into a tired smile. "Okay, but we're not shadow-travelling," he yawned as he got up and stretched to relieve the ache in his cramped muscles. At this, Nico whined, his head falling back onto the wall behind him in frustration.

"Why not? We're both tired as fuck and I'm not gonna walk all the way back to the damn hostel. I'll-"

"Start fading away because you're not back at your full strength yet? Yup, sounds about right," Will shot back. He reached out a hand to pull the smaller boy up. "C'mon Death Boy, we're walking whether you like it or not."

Nico glared at Will, though he knew it wouldn't change his mind. Huffing in annoyance, he batted Will's hand away and staggered to his feet.

"Fine, let's go Sunshine," he muttered darkly as he started the walk back to the cheap hostel a few blocks down the road. Will smiled softly, though Nico couldn't see.

At least the boy had stopped fighting with him on everything.

Deciding to let the son of Hades stew in his thoughts, he kept quiet as they made their way back to their hostel room, which they were sharing with other backpackers. Unfortunately, all the beds except one were occupied.

Nico sighed tiredly. He was way too out of it right now to worry about sleeping logistics. He wiped his hand down his face.

"You know what, I'm probably gonna regret this in the morning, but can we just sleep together tonight?"

Butterflies started fluttering in Will's stomach, but he was far too weary (and happy) to care. He sighed contentedly and flopped down onto the bed, scooting over so that there was space for Nico.

Nico sat down gingerly on the bed and laid down, trying to keep as much distance as possible between him and Will. Unfortunately for him, Will had other plans. Already in the land of Hypnos, Will reached out and cuddled Nico into his arms. Nico stiffened at the contact. One part of him wanted to shove Will off and run away, but another part welcomed the warmth and protection of another body- particularly, this one. Eventually, he gave in to the latter, and settled in Will's arms, burying his face into his neck.

Prologue: Jurian

He could not die yet.

The trees ahead were on fire, the blazing light the only reason they could see the enemy in the dark.

The fire was spreading fast, catching on leaves and brambles until an almost unbroken line burned through the forest. But it was a double-edged sword, soon enough the smoke would overwhelm what was left of his legion – take their vision, their breaths, their lives.

His body tensed as a winged figure dropped from the sky, green siphon’s glowing.

The Illyrian attacked; swinging it's blade hard and wide, aiming to decapitate him. Jurian took two steps back, leaned just out of range and shot forward as the momentum left the creature's side open for a split second.

His iron armour moved through the green shield as if it wasn’t there, allowing him to butt his shoulder into the fae’s abdomen in a tackle. He was strong, stronger than any human but Illyrians were bred to fight, he only had seconds before the creature recovered enough to drive it’s sword into him.

It was just enough to use both their body weight to shove the Illyrian back into a tree trunk and pull back as it’s membranous wings spread in reflex. Illyrian leather was almost impossible to penetrate - the Human's iron weapons becoming almost useless where there was no magic. But their wings...

Jurian brought his short sword down on the exposed wing and heard the thing howl in pain, crumpling slightly. Jurian shoved his sword through the small space between it's helmet and leathers, iron driving through its throat.

Blood rushed in his ears and he could no longer hear the shouting of the warriors around him, how many still lived? And the others, the ones he’d entrusted to guard those who fled south, had they made it to the river?

It didn’t matter. All he could do now was hold the line. Keep moving, keep fighting, keep killing; unflinching in the face of the gore. That was his part in all of this; the price he gladly paid in exchange for his people’s freedom.

By morning a stretch of scorched land would cut the continent from coast to coast and his people would be free.

Still, he wondered if he had done enough…

Wondered – past the weariness in his bones, the rage in his soul and the ache in his heart – if Myriam had managed to make it across the sea… if she too would stand and think of him as death inevitably neared, as sure as the rising sun.

His eyes lifted to the darkness above, though he knew he would not be unable to see the stars past the light of the flames or the haze of the smoke...but still, his eyes searched the sky as his heart reached for words his mouth did not know.

Praying, to whatever might hear.

Like an answer, a sudden southern wind – pure and untainted by magic – blew cool against his back, pushing the smoke north into the enemies’ face.

It gave him enough to take a breath, to push the fog from his mind.

He could not die yet.

Not until Amarantha’s blood was upon the soil with the hundreds of thousands of humans who had lived at died at whims of the Fae. Jurian felt it, like a strange current in the air. If he reached out and pulled on that power, it would buy them enough to sever this cursed land and seal away the Fae for a thousand years.

Their blood. And hers. And his. The blood of innocents and the blood of monsters.

He lowered his eyes again to the burning treeline, to where something in him knew he would find her. Black eyes stared back; set in that too familiar pale face, framed by too familiar red hair.

The memory of Clythia made his gut roil but he had nothing to throw up or shit out – had not been able to eat a thing in the three days he had held the forest. He would have scolded anyone else for doing the same, commanded them to maintain their strength but something in him had known…

He found no joy in the food he had thought he would miss; nor could he pull his eyes from the stars he had always hated looking up at. He had not spent his last days dreaming of the past as he imagined many did, but rather thinking of the future he would not live to see.

The look in Amarantha’s eyes told him what he knew – had known since he’d put his sword through her sister…

Just a school assignment. Obviously inspired by Les Mis

Write an introduction to the story of Cinderella.

It was the singing that woke her up.

Eloise Thenardier sat up in her bed as an angelic voice floated up into her room. Her mouth twisted into a cruel sneer.

So the little brat is up.

Tugging on her nightgown, she stomped down the stairs leading into the kitchen, stopping by the broom closet to grab a large wooden bucket. Peering into the kitchen, she narrowed her eyes at the sight in front of her.

Instead of sweeping the floors like she should have been, that little Mademoiselle was resting on a small stool, singing mindlessly to herself.

Eloise swept into the room and set the bucket loudly on the table. Hearing the noise, the little girl jumped into the air, startled. She turned around, only to see the imposing figure of Madame Thenardier looming over her. She froze for a moment, before jumping up and scurrying around the kitchen, back to her chores once more. Eloise snorted. “Now look who’s here? The little madam herself, pretending once again she’s been so awfully good!” she sneered, as the little girl set the cutlery on the table.

“Better not let me catch you slacking, better not catch my eye!” Eloise thundered as she grabbed the bucket from the table. “Now take this pail, my little mademoiselle, and go and draw some water from the well!” She set the bucket down in front of the little girl with a loud thump.

The little girl curled her tiny fist around the handle, trembling like a leaf. Much to Eloise’s annoyance, the little brat did not move. She stood as if her feet were rooted to the floor. Eloise eyed her with displeasure. She opened her mouth, ready to scold her once more, when the little girl began to whimper pleadingly.

“Please do not send me out alone, not in the darkness on my own-“

“Enough of that!” Eloise roared, utterly fed up. The little girl flinched. Eloise loomed over her as she cringed to make herself smaller.

“Or I’ll forget to be…nice,” mocked Eloise in a whisper. She grabbed the little girl by her chin roughly, forcing her to look at her. “You heard me ask for something, and I never ask twice!” she snarled, and snatched her hand back with such force that her sharp nails left a faint bloody scratch.