Rise Up, Oh Heart, For There is Another Battle to Win

lathori asked: Babe. THE smut fic. You know the one. E x R, what we've been talking about. /Please/ write it? /Please/ <3 E

Aaaaand here we go with the smut.  I don’t write smut much, mostly just on request.  So I dunno how this came out.  But it’s definitely smut.  NSFW. Possibly NSF-Anywhere.  Also it like…cold opens to sex, so.  There is no plot here.

Grantaire tugged at the long ends of the cord, tightening the coil winding about the outside.  It scraped along the taut length stretching to the headboard, a faint but audible sound, and he glanced down.

“Too tight?” he asked quietly, letting his fingers trail down to slip into the gap between Enjolras’ wrist and the five loops of white cotton binding him to the bed.  He could still fit two fingers comfortably beside Enjolras’ delicate wrist, and the touch made Enjolras’ eyes flicker open.  The usually bright honey color was a little hazy, distracted.  “Mon ange,” Grantaire prompted.

“You’re fine,” Enjolras said, blinking until his gaze was clearer.  Grantaire nodded and finished tucking the loose ends away until the knot was secure. He ducked, pressed a kiss to the long, deft fingers, and saw Enjolras close his eyes again.

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Anonymous asked: Prompt: les amis princess protection program au

*Aaron Burr voice*  Sure!  So it took me a long-ass time to write this because I saw PPP like once, like ten years ago, and I just now had the time to google it and brush up.  As payment for the delay, it’s SEVEN PAGES.  Also I wrote this at two in the morning and I haven’t looked over it since, so…  I wandered off from the movie plot.  Sorry.

• Prince Gabriel Alexandrè Enjolras Apollinaire—he usually opts out of the lengthy full name for just ‘Enjolras’, to the ongoing dismay of his entire staff—is literally getting crowned as king of the small country Rive Lune when Inquisiteur Javert, the right-hand man of the neighboring Rive Astre, comes crashing through the door.  Turns out being extremely determined to transform a hundred-year monarchy into a democracy makes the local dictators edgy.  Despite his best efforts to the contrary, Enjolras is (quite literally) hauled away by Monsieur Valjean, a member of the Prince Protection Program.  His mother and the queen of Rive Lune, Her Royal Majesty Juliette Ameliè Lamarque Apollinaire, is not so lucky.

• Enjolras puts up a very legitimate fight against being ‘packed off like so much spare luggage,’ as he puts it in his lengthy tirade. The PPP has never had to handle such an…opinionated prince—normally, they’re so shocky from an attempt on their life that they don’t question much.  Enjolras is something else.  He spins such a compelling speech about personal responsibility and care of the people and my country that, honestly?  They almost go for it.  And then Valjean clears his throat and politely reminds everyone of the situation, and Enjolras is packed off to America without further ado (and over his continuting protests) because Valjean has that effect on people.

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Deorum (Of Gods)

All right, this is the last (and longest) part of Deorum!  The rest of the story is in this tag (Parts I, II, III, IV, and V).  This takes place a about a week and a half after Part V, and includes the grand reveal about Jack’s…situation.  I hope you guys like it, and thanks so much for sticking with me through this mess of a story!  If you have any questions, I have a bunch more stuff worked out for the universe, so feel free to ask away.

The newly arrived family across the hall from Jack hadn’t tried to invite him over again, but Marcus and his wife—Dorothea-call-me-Dot, as Jack learned upon meeting her—still greeted him when they passed.  He knew that the son, Jesse, was quiet and smiled shyly at him, and Apollo had been elated with the boy’s interest in art, and that Mac, the daughter, was buoyantly energetic at all times and drove her parents to distraction.  Dot was handling the adjustment better than her husband, which he knew for a fact because he had seen her talking to Sekhmet about getting blood out of clothes after Mac’s latest mishap.

Marcus, on the other hand, had almost swooned when he saw Hapi and Bragi together in front of Starbucks.  Jack had been more than a little judgmental when he saw Marcus waver and grip the edge of the table outside.

So it was a shock when there was a sharp hammering on his door on Wednesday afternoon, and Jack opened it to reveal Marcus standing there and looking disheveled.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked, sweeping a glance over the man.  His usual tidy suit was missing its jacket and his hair stuck up in clumps as if he’d been dragging his hands through it.

“Have you seen my kids?” Marcus asked, skipping any semblance of polite greeting.

Jack paused.  “…no? Are they not where they’re supposed to be?”

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Deorum (Of Gods)

RIGHT, sorry for the delay, I forgot this was a thing.  Here is Part V, set about six days after the last bit.  Parts I, II, III, and IV are also available

It was a Friday morning again when Jack woke himself up from a dream with shouting in a language he didn’t immediately recognize.  This would have alarmed him more if he hadn’t discovered, over the past several days, a native speaker’s knowledge of German, Japanese, Welsh, Spanish, and Slovakian, as well as passable fluency in a handful of other tongues—including, to Anansi’s supreme satisfaction, Akan.  The shouting was new, though, and as his brain caught up to the adrenaline in his veins, he vaguely recognized it as Russian, diphthong vowels dripping from hard consonants.

Jack tried to recapture the sound of his words, as if he could collect the echoes from where they had settled in corners of the room and hollows of the blankets, reassemble them into speech.  He opened his mouth and let his lips move to form the syllables he had heard.

“Something meshok moi,” he said aloud. “Popast’v meshok moi.”

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Deorum (Of Gods)

O K A Y.  Only took me like nine days to get a new computer, so here we go, posting of this story will now resume its daily schedule.  This is Part IV, Parts I, II, and III are also available.  This scene takes place the day after the previous one–Jack is no longer dying of a divine-level hangover, is the point.  Also, please feel free to correct my German, I do not dich the language.

“Hey, Jackie,” Idunn said, already sliding forward a travel cup with an elegant cursive J on the side.  Her handwriting would have made calligraphers weep with envy, although her print letters were angular and sharp-edged as blades.  “How are you feeling?”

“Eh,” he said with a shrug and an expressive hand motion.  “Ich bin gut, aber erschoft.”  Jack’s eyes widened at the sound of his own words and one hand flicked up to touch his lips, a betrayed look crossing his face.

“Didn’t know you spoke German, Jack,” Idunn said in a strange voice—careful and calm, as if bracing herself or someone else against an oncoming onslaught. “Wen haben Sie erfahren?”

“I…didn’t?” he said through his fingers, and felt almost shaky with relief when the words spilled out in familiar English.  “What the fuck?”

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kashinoha asked: #70. (67%) with Hardison/Parker/Eliot!

From this ancient prompt list, because I am the worst and it took me forever to get around to this.  I just want everyone to be proud of me because I almost went somewhere REALLY terrible with this prompt.  Because the last episode of Leverage fucked me all the way up and I remain vengeful about that.  That near miss will be obvious.

The con had unraveled at light speed.  Things had gone south almost as quickly as the time Leverage Incorporated had stolen the maquettes of the David, leaving Parker scrambling to adapt their plan and salvage as much as possible.  They’d managed to get the files that would prove their target responsible a fistful of deaths revolving around tainted eggs, but now Eliot’s earbud was fried.

Well. He thought it was fried—admittedly he hadn’t devoted a lot of time to checking in more detail.  Between the black eye swelling on his face (bone undamaged, bruising unlikely to occlude vision), the blood seeping into his jeans from a nasty knife cut to his thigh (missed the artery, unlikely to prove lethal, would inhibit full range of motion) and the four cracked-hopefully-not-broken ribs impeding his breathing (another hit would shatter them along the fissures) and, naturally, the fact that he was tied to a chair (efficiently, they had practice), the earbud had taken low priority.  If it was fried, he was going to murder Hardison with his bare hands, assuming he got out of this with both hands intact.  

Also assuming that the others got out of this to be murdered, of course, which was never a certainty when someone had the forethought to take their hitter out of the equation.  Eliot almost would have been reassured if the target’s hired muscle (most of them half-decent, with a small command structure of better trained mercs) was busy torturing him, because if they were occupied with him, the others would have time to get out.  Instead, they had managed to knock him out with a hard blow to the head (mild concussion, vertigo manageable for motion) and left him here alone, tied up and out of play.  But he was trying not to think about that, because if he thought too hard about the kind of disaster that could befall Hardison and Parker when he wasn’t there to take the hit for them, he got a little lightheaded (possibly the concussion, more probably a mild anxiety response).  So the dead earbud had to take a back burner to getting the fuck out of here and finding the other sixty-seven percent of Leverage International.

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Deorum (Of Gods)

Sorry for the delay, and here is Part III.  Parts I and II are here and here, respectively.  Since this one is pretty short, I might post Part IV later tonight.  Also, since not all of these are obvious in terms of timeline, this one takes place the morning immediately following Part II, which is a couple of days after Part I.

The knock on Jack’s door woke him up and he immediately regretted continuing to allow Thursday nights to happen to him, as he did every Friday morning.  Thursdays had been happening to him for several years now, since before he was legal to drink, and he had expected to build up a tolerance eventually, but there was no sign of such a thing.  It probably had something to do with Thor’s insistence on having them be strictly Bring Your Own Alcohol, which usually ended with divine-strength mead from the Norse, sake from the Japanese, and beer from the Egyptians, among others.  Dionysus had brought wine exactly once before being strictly barred from ever doing so again—possibly because it had almost landed Jack in the hospital after a glass of the stuff, more likely because there had been a lot of wounded pride going around among the gods.

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yol-ande asked: Oh oh oh, I saw you ship Damerons, could you write something ridiculously fluffy with Finn being badass, while Rey and Poe are all starry-eyed over it? This fandom needs more Finn love. (And I need all of the fluff)

Okay I’m so sorry for the delay but HERE.  Also, bear with me, there is in fact some fluff here, but this kind of turned into a crash course in my favorite tropes, so the fluff is…at the end. We’ve got dramatic rescues!  We’ve got canon references!  We’ve got hurt/comfort after interrogation!  We’ve got the Damerons being stupid in love with each other!  We’ve got Rey being deadly as fuck even severely compromised!  We’ve got Finn the patron saint of revolution!  We’ve got disguises and drugs and sweary droids!  And eventually we’ve got fluff.  Also this is like…twelve pages, pushing 6K, I have no excuse.  I’ve also decided that Shinedown’s Cut The Cord is the new theme song for the Stormtrooper revolution.

Poe wasn’t sure how long they had been there—definitely days, but probably not more than a dozen. Probably.  It was hard to tell, with irregular ration schedules, and there were no other prisoners in their dark cell to ask.  The brig was far from the hull of the vast First Order battlecruiser, too, and although the impenetrable black wouldn’t have helped with timekeeping, he wished they could at least see the stars.

They didn’t seem interested in him, but they had taken Rey from him three times since they were first captured—all his injuries were from trying to keep them from taking her, against her direct orders.  The first time, she had walked, as graceful and serene as a dead moon, between the Stormtroopers.  She had been weak with the cuffs on her wrists, cutting her off from the Force, clean and crisp as a lightsaber slash, but she was strong.  They had returned her to him bruised and exhausted, wilted with it, and she had bared all her teeth at him proudly and snarled that they would never get answers out of her.  

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Deorum (Of Gods)

All right, here is Part II of Deorum.  Part I is here, I hope you guys enjoy!

“Jackie, you look terrible,” the girl at the counter said, alarmed.  She had delicate features, with an upturned nose and a light scattering of freckles over her cheeks, and her long brown hair was bound up into a neat crown of braids.  She looked about sixteen, dressed in a pearly grey shirt and a black apron that said simply Idunn’s Coffee.  “What’s wrong?”

“Wish you wouldn’t call me that, Idunn,” he said, and she smiled at him fondly, flashing a slim line of teeth.  She had conceded to the Anglicized version of her name with more grace than some of her other counterparts, which Jack appreciated.  He found the ‘eth’ letter rather difficult, and she despaired of his pronunciation.

“You’ve mentioned,” she said, brushing one hand over her forehead in the habitual movement of one checking for stray hairs.  A pair of stacked gold rings glinted on her index finger, with a third on her thumb.  Her entire family dripped with the things, Jack knew—a scant three was downright restrained.  “You do look exhausted, though.  Everything okay?”

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