sometimes i blog about french musketeers, and sometimes i cry over idiot dwarf kings. sometimes i even write.
mostly, though, i like to stare at tom burke's face and pretend i don't have a problem
SO GUESS WHO WROTE A NEW FIC
Well, it’s not complete, but it’s up on AO3 :D
Rated: Mature, for now
d’Artagnan thought he’d escaped the brutality of Cartier- the taunts, the bruises, the humiliation. But it seems hiding from his past is impossible, even in such big a place as Paris.
(Or, more accurately, the one where d’Artagnan flees from his cruel bully in Paris and finds that the past can catch up to him regardless. Loyal friends and a budding romance make things complicated, and d’Artagnan falls into old habits much too easily.)
ngl, i feel proud haha go read it :D
kind of going from this because seriously, you all don’t know how much i love that headcanon of mine (and also because throwing hobbit ideas at emiliana is always fun :3)
BUT THORIN TOTALLY PLANNED FOR BOFUR TO GET DRUNK OK
HE DID. HE TOTES DID.
and he knows he’s partly at fault; he’s hardly endeared himself to the hobbit for the first half of their journey, his already gruff manner more prickly than usual when dealing with soft creatures who mourn handkerchiefs.
thorin knows he should’ve been more aware, more open, in seeing that bilbo is not all he seems to be. he’s clever, and quickwitted, and brave. and even that which he’d been quick to dismiss- the fussiness and naivety and softness- thorin comes to appreciate.
he comes to like.
but it’s a sort of cruel realization, to see that he’s not the only one to have seen it. and as thorin struggles with finding a way to approach bilbo, to extend his hand towards an even ground, thorin is only playing catchup.
bofur makes it look so easy, after all.
it’s hard to restrain a glare every time bofur wraps a welcome arm around bilbo. thorin has to ignore balin’s knowing gaze when he bends his spoon nearly in half, bofur and bilbo’s giggles carrying over the campsite. bilbo sleeps next to bofur the most, and it is a difficult task for thorin not to bite the dwarf’s head off for that small fact.
but what bothers thorin the most- what digs under his skin with an urgency and insistence that he cannot ignore- is the fact that bofur cares
and does not seem embarrassed by it.
every time there’s a chance of separation, bofur’s voice is frantic, “bilbo? where’s bilbo?”
and it needles at thorin, not only because it should not be bofur’s responsibility to worry over the hobbit, but also-
(when he hears the panicked inquiry after bilbo, thorin is startled every time. because he never noticed bilbo to be gone in the first place.
his mind is so full of erebor, a hope of a kingdom and a birthright wrapped in one, that he can’t find it in himself to think of bilbo first, as bofur seems to. his thoughts always go to defense and strategy and what-ifs involving his nephews (they need to survive, need to carry on the line)
and the thought that perhaps bilbo would be better off with someone who can afford to place him first, to ignore all other duties to focus on him- bilbo might be better for it, having bofur instead, and thorin only tastes bile.)
but at the end of it, thorin is as selfish as his grandfather, and on their last night in laketown, he tips bofur’s glass with a determination that no one but balin and dwalin notice (and both know better than to question him, at least not about this).
and perhaps bilbo’s urgent call of, “where’s bofur?” twists at thorin’s heart painfully, but he still feels better. more at ease.
because thorin’s mind might forever belong to erebor and his duties and his people, but his heart- his affection and his touch- that, he might be able to gift bilbo. and if the hobbit considers it enough, then-
no toymaker will stand in his way. thorin won’t allow it.
so this is going to be very stream of consciousness because i am very lazy and not patient enough to write like a literate person AND ALSO I LOST ALL OF THIS ONCE ALREADY (fucking computer)
so basically- SOUL MARKS
d’artagnan grows up with the intricate and fanciful swirl of Olivier on his upper arm, the mark pure black and thick with importance. it’s maddening, not knowing who he is; most people get someone in the village, like his parents and his older sister and brother. some get a name from a village or two over, but no matter how far his parents search, there’s never been an olivier who’s made his mark change colors.
thinking back on teen wolf, im remembering how much i really wanted a stiles!musician au (or, basically, stiles is adele au)
where stiles’ mom taught him how to play the piano and how to compose and how to sing, and it became such a private thing, just between them, that he never shared it with anyone, not even scott.
and as things in his life continue, scott getting turned, falling out of love with lydia, getting a group of werewolves as friends, falling in love with derek hale-
stiles starts wanting an outlet. it’s hard being around people who know what you’re feeling all day long- it serves as a special kind of hell for him.
and being around so many happy couples? (scott and allison, jackson and lydia, erica and boyd, isaac and his boyfriend of the week) it can really ad to the angst factor. especially when derek freaking hale is a person that exists.
so stiles wants to vent. and he writes. like everyone else besides lydia (who is too in love with school for it), they all decide to take a year off before college. so stiles has plenty of time to stay up and write lyrics, penning down melodies and figuring out the right way to sing things.
and somehow, accidentally, he makes an album
it sits around for weeks, him having already forgotten it by the time the next supernatural emergency shows up, but his dad- well. his dad can be nosy, sometimes. and he finds the cd and sends it in to a recording studio because he knows his son is talented, and yeah.
after a huge fight about privacy with his dad, stiles gets signed.
the thing is- despite the album being a supposedly indie release, limited to no advertising (stiles literally just went to LA for a weekend to sign a contract and record everything using studio equipment, it was so fast), the news blows up in beacon hills in no time (the horrors of small towns haha)
and when the pack finds out- because stiles didn’t even think to mention it, of course- there’s a bit of teasing, at first. but once the first single is released- a quiet and broken hearted song about unrequited love- there’s a tension in the group.
and stiles remembers now, vividly, why he never wanted anyone to find his work. because the entire album, in all honesty, is a huge fucking love letter to derek hale.
and then, of course, because stiles’ life is awesome like that- the song becomes a number one single.
d’artagnan teaching athos that sex can be fun
surprising athos in his rooms with only his shirt on, pouting like a young maiden and sashaying towards athos in the most ridiculous manner. “take me, soldier,” he commands athos, who can’t help the soft huff of laughter that escapes him. “take me now,” and d’artagnan’s own amused giggle isn’t hidden well enough. they’re still laughing hours later, when d’artagnan is well-fucked and sore, a bump on his knee from nearly sliding off the bed, and athos’ own shirt is torn down the sides from the strain.
d’artagnan pushing athos to sit on the bed and to lay back against the headboard, a jar of red jam in one hand and a mischievous smile on his face. it’s so sticky- d’artagnan’s mouth a messy red as it’s wrapped around his cock- that athos is more concerned with the mess than with coming. they end up grabbing crackers to eat with the jam instead, athos continually mocking the boy for his brilliant idea until theyre both wrestling on the bed, exchanging sticky kisses and completely ruining the sheets.
d’artagnan goading athos into fucking him hard, yes, right there, just like that, and then grinning up at him afterwards, teasingly saying, “I’d give that performance a solid eight.” athos raising an eyebrow, because fuck it, that was at least a nine, and turning d’artagnan over, ignoring the “what?” he hears and licking messily at his entrance. he’s sobbing by the end of it, already sensitive from before, but athos is methodical, pushing his tongue inside and tasting d’artagnan and himself in a delightful mixture that only makes him more determined to please. d’artagnan dropping against the bed like dead weight, turning over minutes later to give athos a considering look, and saying, “i’ve been convinced. i’m bumping the score up to a ten.”
athos learning to smile and laugh and enjoy himself- and not worry about composure or performance- and d’artagnan beaming brighter and brighter every time athos turns to him with that unguarded look and kisses him, just because he’s happy.
more importantly though
porthos and aramis together for the first time, and porthos keeps grinning into the skin of his friend, smiling into kisses and unable to hide his happiness every time he so much as looks at aramis
and aramis is only flattered at first, but after a while of it, he becomes truly flustered. and then- and then the endearments begin, porthos mumbling darling into his neck and tracing the words my dear into his hip with his tongue, and it’s so overwhelming, being wanted that much, because aramis is never the passive one- he’s the one who charms, who sees to the needs of his partner, who whispers the kind words into ears as he makes them come apart
but porthos is nearly reverent in the way he kisses and touches and takes- as if he were a condemned man trying to find his salvation in aramis, and it leaves him breathless and aching with want, sobbing into a pillow as porthos murmurs into his ear, “you’re doing great, sweetheart, so good for me, made for me, weren’t you, darling?”
and all aramis can do is nod fervently, shaking with need and filled to the brim with pleasure and happiness, crying, “yes, yes, i’m good, just for you, just for you.”
They’re unloading the first batch of boxes out of Brienne’s small Honda Civic when Jon makes an odd, strangled noise. Brienne and Ygritte both look at each other before walking around the car to see a pretty redhead elbowing Jon soundly in the ribs. It’s Sansa Stark, there’s no denying it. Brienne’s seen her around the office a few times, the young girl always quick to smile at her.
"Ouch," Brienne mutters at the surprising display of strength. Ygritte grins in delight, though; she’s always been a little odd, her friend. Brienne mostly finds it charming and interesting, but at moments like these, she wonders a bit.
one where bilbo is so obviously enamored with thorin, even the oblvious ori can see it. and thorin loves it, basks in it, especially after bilbo saves him from the head orc.
because then, thorin allows himself to see what he was purposefully ignoring before: bilbo’s courage, however small, his wit that startles a laugh out of even dwalin on occasion, his amusing eccentricities that bely a mischievous streak, and his kind heart, most important of all.
so yes, thorin is completely aware of biblo’s affections, as is the entire group. and yeah, not everyone agrees with how thorin obviously plays with the hobbit, sometimes teasing him to the point where bilbo is red-faced and stammering, or when thorin drops a simple caress onto the hobbit’s hands as they travel to merely shake him.
because thorin is an arrogant fellow, there is no denying it. so he toys with his little hobbit, flusters the poor fellow as often as he can, but doesn’t express clear intentions.
because thorin’s duty to restore his kingdom comes first, and he figures, well.
bilbo’s affection is so outright and obvious, it’s not like waiting a while would cause any change to those emotions, right? and thorin has other duties, you know, that come first- he has to kill smaug, restore his kingdom, get order back to Erebor! too much to do!
but there’s quite a huge problem with that thinking, you know. because bilbo doesn’t understand thorin’s thinking and so he assumes-
well, he doesn’t quite know what to assume, whether thorin is showing some fondness for him after he saved thorin, or if he’s, well.
bilbo doesn’t want to consider it, but the truth of the matter is that thorin might be mocking him. perhaps not in a purposefully hateful manner, nor even in a mischievous one. bilbo thinks that the touches and the soft teasing might be thorin throwing him a bone, so to speak, because the dwarf never goes any further. sometimes, even, when bilbo is courageous enough to attempt his own advances, the king always turns him down swiftly and efficiently.
so bilbo is more than discouraged of his feelings for thorin, and the company?
they’re not all happy with thorin’s decision, either.
I mean, some like dwalin and gloin and oin and such, support thorin no matter what he does. and since they’re not especially close to bilbo, they don’t notice the hobbit’s lowering spirits.
fili and kili disapprove, though, as they’ve become quite fond of bilbo. but due to their fear of their uncle (and their trust that thorin will eventually work everything out himself) they say nothing. balin’s feelings are similar on the subject, but he is far more observant than the rest because he notices-
balin notices how much all of this bothers bofur. and he knows a complication when he sees one.
Headcanon that Athos has never been any good at dates. Ever.
"I really am sorry," Athos tells d’Artagnan. He still can’t quite look up, the blush not receding any time soon, but he can at least manage apologizing. Again.
d’Artagnan laughs brightly, bumping his shoulder a bit with Athos’. “And I said it was fine.” Chancing a glance, Athos finds d’Artagnan grinning. “After all, you were only thinking of doing your job; that waiter really could have been snorting coke or something, you never know.”
Athos winces. “It was powdered sugar leftover from his coffee break. I should’ve noticed, they’re not even the same bloody texture-“
d’Artagnan shrugs and latches onto his arm, long fingers squeezing the indent of his elbow tenderly. “You made a mistake- it happens. You’re a homicide detective, they understood that you were simply on edge.”
"That doesn’t excuse almost breaking his nose when he reached for the sugar packets in his back pocket," Athos mutters, utterly mortified.
"He could’ve had a gun?" d’Artagnan offers, his own face giving away his own disbelief at his comment. At Athos’ scathing look, he shrugs again. "At least he’s not pressing charges."
"Let’s hope he doesn’t go back on his word." Athos did sign him a check for a grand before they left- hopefully, that’d be enough to ease the poor sod’s hurt ego and hurt nose.
"Are you ok, though?" d’Artagnan suddenly asks, hands in his pocket and shoulders hunched up in worry; he looks incredibly young like that, and Athos is suddenly reminded that he’s only just graduated from the academy a year ago.
Athos feels terribly old and ridiculous right now.
"Other than wanting to crawl into a bottle tonight and never come back out, yeah, I’m peachy," he answers drily.
"No," d’Artagnan says, sounding determined. "I mean- you’re the most in-control guy I know." A pause. "Usually. Something had to have made you go off like that.” d’Artagnan gives him a look, his lips downturned in a horrible imitation of disappointment- the boy’s face is just not made for unhappy expressions. “If you had a huge case or something, you know we could’ve rescheduled. I understand that work comes first, Athos.”
Athos sighs, his earlier embarrassment that had slowly receded coming back full force. “No cases, actually,” he says haltingly.
d’Artagnan arches an eyebrow. “Then what had you so wound up tonight?”
He gives the young man a strained look, trying to ignore the ferocity of his blush. “This.”
A half-smile makes it unto d’Artagnan’s face, as if unsure whether he should be amused or not. “Our date had you nearly assault a waiter over sugar packets?”
The blush intensifies, and Athos is fervently grateful for the scarf that hides his surely blotchy neck. “I’m not good at this,” he says haltingly. “And you- it made me nervous.”
"Oh," d’Artagnan replies dumbly. Athos merely sighs, hoping that they could reach d’Artagnan’s apartment quicker so he could forget the entire ordeal and never attempt a romantic life ever again.
For the first time that night, the gods are listening to his prayers because d’Artagnan stops walking only a few moments later, staring up at a small building with a thin metal fence. “Well,” Athos starts. “Sorry about tonight. Again.”
d’Artagnan bites his lip, obviously wanting to give him the ‘let’s not do this again’ talk, which is completely understandable. So Athos hugs his jacket closer and braces himself for impact.
"Would you like to come in?" d’Artagnan blurts out.
His loud “what?” is more than a bit incredulous, and now it’s d’Artagnan who’s blushing.
"It’s ok if you don’t-" d’Artagnan hurriedly adds, but Athos is too bewildered to care for politeness as he interrupts him.
"I got us banned from a restaurant for life and smashed a guy’s face into our table, why in the world would you want me to come in?”
d’Artagnan only stares at him, his lips slowly curling into a beaming smile. “You only did it ‘cause I made you nervous,” he says happily, as if that were the important part of the entire night. He steps forward, and despite the difference in rank and age and experience, Athos feels as if he’s the vulnerable one here.
"I’m charmed by you," he admits in a soft voice, and Athos fights to keep his breathing regular. d’Artagnan’s hand creeps into his, thin fingers intertwining with own thick ones, and he pulls. "And I’d really like it if you came inside."
"You have a worrying concept of romance," Athos tells him, his voice unsteady. d’Artagnan laughs and squeezes his hand, and Athos finds himself utterly charmed as well.
it doesn’t take fili long to figure out bilbo’s feelings for thorin.
it should bother him, how easily the dwarf has learned to read him. but bilbo understands how shared misery can bond people, and he knows that with fili’s heartache, he’s needed to focus on something other than his brother.
so when fili comes up behind him and pokes him gently in the side one day, whispering “don’t look now, but you’ve been capturing my uncle’s stare for a while. quite flattering, eh?”, bilbo only snorts and replies acidly, “you best focus on gathering wood, dear prince, and not on gossiping. it wouldn’t do you any good to capture your uncle’s stare for not following orders, now would it?”
after a chuckle and a quick bump of shoulders, fili heads off.
“my nephew seems to have grown quite fond of you, halfling.” bilbo almost drops his pipe in surprise, looking up to a smiling thorin standing ever so handsomely in front of him.
bilbo feels himself flush slightly, still not quite used to being in favor with the king. “he’s quite nice to talk to, for all his troublesome ways,” he replies, eyes focusing on his pipe.
thorin laughs softly, a small rumble from deep within his chest, and settles down beside the hobbit. “he’s a good lad. not quick to trust, too. i suppose that speaks quite well of your character, given how close you and he have become.”
bilbo only smiles, entirely sure that his ears were as bright as his cheeks. thorin returns his smile, inching just a bit closer to the hobbit, just enough for their knees to brush. bilbo can feel thorin’s hand on his outer thigh, palm facedown on the ground but pressed in-between their bodies.
he’s quite sure he’s not imagining those same fingers caressing his leg, however soft the touch may be.
so bilbo, impulsively as can be, places his own down as well, mere inches from thorin’s. it is an invitation, as much of one as a handwritten note is, and he can’t help the renewed flush that comes to his face.
it is all worth it, however, for the way thorin’s fingers trace his own mere moments later, calloused digits outlining the infinitely smaller hand with a care and gentleness bilbo had not known dwarves possessed.
the smile he carries for the rest of the night, fili tells him later, is practically obscene.
"I’m just trying to help a friend," dwalin tells him, hand heavy on his shoulder. "I know I’d like to be told if there was ever whisperings of my One going ‘round."
thorin only resists in snorting because he knows without a doubt that dwalin is merely trying to care for him. despite this, thorin can’t help but feel a bit annoyed with his friend. “and I have told you that neither bilbo nor my nephew would ever do what you describe.”
dwalin shrugs. “just be aware, because its been more than one curious dwarf who’s noticed the way fili is spending time away from kili. and he’s gotten more than a bit close with our burglar, something not entirely proper given your own intentions-“
thorin huffs, wishing he wasn’t stuck on watch duty so he didn’t have to listen to this dribble. “fili is family, dwalin. and accusing my One of such imporpriety-“
"not accusin’. merely informing you of the gossip," dwalin tells him waspishly. "besides, not much to be improper about when you haven’t fully declared yourself," dwalin adds, if in a low voice.
thorin nods in a confident manner, unconcerned with his friend’s words. “regardless, i am confident in my chosen partner.” then, thorin chances a small smile. “and i will declare myself once i am king again, and not before. i have nothing to offer him, now, but when we take back our home- i will return to my thrown, dwalin, and i will have every treasure at my behest. he’ll want for nothing.”
after a moment of silence, thorin looks up and finds his friend smiling as well. “aye, my friend. not even a hobbit, as odd they are, could turn away a king.”
thorin claps a hand on his shoulder and they spend the rest of the night revelling in their friendship, sharing stories and plans and songs, just as they had when they were lads.
Snippet from my Shitty!Life Stiles AU, where he ends up getting adopted by a distant aunt after his parents die and he lives ala “Shameless” before meeting David Hale, Derek’s dad. I’m on a writing binge right now, starting all of my half-ass ideas into real fic so I can finally write them :D
Stiles’ mom died on impact, the report says. His dad lasted a little longer, but internal bleeding from a broken pelvis and the amount of glass embedded in his chest did its job relatively quickly enough. The pictures are gruesome things, the glossy image of his mother with a snapped neck (seatbelts, they always said those were important) staring back up at him, blood all around her in a mockingly unique frame. Stiles can’t look at his dad for too long, the distorted expression on his face too much for Stiles to handle, let alone his shredded chest and arms.
Of course, he’s not supposed to have seen any of this, so as quick as he can Stiles closes the folder on the deputy’s desk and slides out of the room, all wide eyes and trembling hands as he goes.
Stiles is ten and his parents just died and really, people should know better than to let the sheriff’s kid go to the bathroom unsupervised.
I am weak and I wrote more “past!Sciles, jealous Dere/Isaac” fic :D
Inspired by tonight’s episode where Derek punches Stiles’ hand haha. Basically, a kind of what-if scene revolving around the possibility of Derek hitting too hard.
“I can’t believe you broke three of my fingers,” Stiles says hysterically for the fourth time that night. “Three. Of my. Fingers.”
“I said I was sorry,” Derek mutters, and the thing is, he sounds it. In fact, it’ll be a long while before Stiles forgets the face of absolute horror Derek made when Stiles had cried out in pain.
It almost makes him feel guilty for making Derek feel worse, but still. Three broken fingers.
Continuation of this.
Summary: In which Stiles and Scott have a history. Derek and Isaac are not happy.
“This is so boring.”
Lydia only hums in absent agreement, her focus more centered on her chemistry homework than on Stiles’ complaints. Completely used to it, Stiles only continues.
“Why do we even have to be here?” he exclaims, kicking his feet up on the porch rail as he stares at the group of sweaty teens on the lawn. “I mean, all we do is stare at the werewolves as they trounce around doing their so-called training.” Stiles rolls his eyes, lowering himself even further into his uncomfortable lawn chair.
Fanfic War prompt: Peter/Stiles making Derek jealous as fuck
"So have you reconsidered?"
Stiles jumps, so startled he splashes coffee over his clean white shirt. “Godda- You werewolves really need to work on making noise, you know?” He mutters irritably. “Ugh, that was hot, too.”
Peter only shrugs and smirks. Stiles rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, I know what you said," Stiles cuts him off. They’d had the same conversation just yesterday, and frankly, Stiles was too tired to hash it over again. He didn’t particularly want to explain, point for point, why he didn’t want the bite (that was twenty minutes he just did not have). Besides, he had mothereffing trolls to worry about at the moment.
"And?" Peter implored, trailing a finger over Stiles’ wrist on the keyboard. Stiles subtly rolls his eyes, the intimidation a little too useless given the fact that the Argents, Scott, and Derek’s pack are all present and more than willing to rip Peter’s throat out at any sign of a threat.
Peter leans down a bit, his breath ghosting over Stiles’ shoulders as he tries to concentrate valiantly on the laptop. “I could make it worth your while,” he breathes out, a lone finger elongating into a claw as he traces it up his arm.
"I highly doubt that," Sties answers blandly. Peter had tried the almost exact thing on Monday, too, cornering him at the local Starbucks before propositioning him. Stiles almost laughs- he hadn’t been scred then, and he isn’t scared now.
Then again, that might have a bit to do with the protection spell laced around his neck and wrists, but Peter couldn’t know that. No, all Peter would sense is his calm heart.
Just like he wanted him to.
Stiles almost jumped again when he felt strong arms enclose him completely, Peter’s left hand on top of Stiles’ shoulder while the other practically held his hand on the mouse. “Think about it. Please.”
Stiles raises an eyebrow, about to open his mouth and say something along the lines of, “No, you creepy pedo”, but he’s beat.
By Derek of all people.
Who now has claws digging into Peter’s forearm, and wow, that certainly looks painful.
"Stop. Interrupting. The human," Derek states, eyes red and promising violence, and Stiles wisely goes back to researching how to kill a troll efficiently.
He almost misses Peter’s amused mutter of “Jealous?”, but the small skip in Stiles’ heartbeat gives him away.