(fics): ... and here's what you missed on glee

Sep 30, 2015 22:35

me: creates ficathon
me: tries to fill everything at said ficathon

so, round up.

doctor who, amy pond
insp: the girl with antlers, for ladymercury_10

She skins her knees bi-weekly.

Her aunt (no, not her aunt, her mother? no, not that either) chastises her. There’s blood all over the kitchen. Amelia thinks it’s rather pretty that way. Twin trails drip along the woodgrain and follow her to the hall.


Home, alone. She isn’t sure where anybody is.

Amelia is nine. Santa ignores her prayers.

She dreams wolves. She dreams whales. She dreams setting forest fires that swallow up the world.


Nefertiti would kiss her, she thinks. In other worlds, Aphrodite would marry her. She knows already that in this story she is War.


Rory calls her pretty, in her cutoff shorts, her ripped shirts. The girls call her things she doesn’t understand as insults. She bites them anyway, unsure if she’s mad or just hungry.

They are on the brink of something, almost - almost -


Sixteen. She becomes Amy. Her legs lose their imbalance, skirts stop fearing her. The dogs come for her, chasing, chasing, touching her hair and calling her baby. She runs until breathless. Turns. Stalks home.


Nefertiti loves her. God, she must. The book pages paint her immortally brave.

Why yes, she practises to the bathwater, to the mirror, I am a Queen.


The dogs, again.

She can hear them panting, breaths hot and dripping on her neck. She twists when they come. Head bowed. Horns poised. Crown poised.

Seeing red, they wake up blue and green and purpled. Her fists bleed, slightly. The kitchen floor shudders in nostalgia.


The Doctor, then. Imaginary, or something, or …

The lines of intersection are wrong. She can feel it, the wrongness in her blood. He opens the door to her, burning up a sun, burning up a forest. Her legs will never tire of running.

“Even now, you are frightful, Amy Pond.”

Her brow arches. She adjusts her crown. “Is that meant to be insulting?”

“Oh, never. Only the beastly can be so beautiful.”

I'm afraid that someone else will hear me
tvd, caroline/klaus
insp: midas is king and he holds me so tight, turns me to gold in the sunlight for lynzie914

The silence of a bedroom, intersecting with the red sheets, counteracting with the lips are her throat, dragging sounds from her chest and into the ether.

His mouth tastes like the sun on her skin.

If she doesn’t breathe, then the moment is solid, then the gold of his hair brushing her collarbones is more than momentary. If she dies now his arms hold her holy.

If he dies now she won’t hold it against him.


Caroline wakes up in Paris. The morning is sentient, she feels like cut glass when the sun passes through her. When the streets cannot swallow her, they spit her against the alleyways that divide like labyrinths.

(Her and Bonnie and Elena, fourteen and swallowing stories over hot chocolate and painted nails; the beast was cast into an endless prison and Ariadne was thrown away to appease the beast.)

Caroline can’t be sure which she is, but it never mattered before, it doesn’t now.

She’s in a white dress. She can taste blood on her tongue, and it isn’t hers and a street artist called her an angel so she flashed him her teeth.

She’s careful; only risky in small doses. It’s hardly a breadcrumb trail.


His hands around her wrist like cuffs that kiss her bones until they purple. His mouth traces the bruises and suck more to the surface and they fade fast enough that he can kiss more supernovas into her deadwhite skin, so he does, and she whimpers, and he doesn’t stop to smile.

She could break his fingers if she felt like it.

He’d only thank her.

She stretches under him, lets his angles cut into her softness until their bruises match. He lies between her legs dragging bloody tracks down her left thigh and biting pinpricks in the right, then licks the mess away. She’s quivering before his fingers trail anywhere near they should.

It’s only as painful as she asks for.


In Barcelona the sun feels like something divine.

Caroline is an angel on the cobbles. The wild cats kiss her wrist when they bite venom into tourists.

Sunset falls on her too soon and it feels like it’s dragging her underwater, a place where she can’t breath and her white wings cannot save her and she knows Barcelona was not her city to claim, as much as she craves it.

She steals a hymn book from every Cathedral she passes through before she melts away.


He doesn’t fuck her like other boys did. He doesn’t kiss her throat and swear god is hiding between her legs. He doesn’t go fast to chase the high of her. He doesn’t go slow to love her.

He holds her hips like she’s made of steel and he still has to splinter her skin. He presses himself low against her to feel where they touch at every curve, rolling his hips in slow increments. He fucks her like they’re immortal and the closest thing to heaven is:

Her open mouth and the sounds falling through it.

Her neck and the pulse matching his.
Her body clutching him closer and her fingernails dragging him away.

He fucks her like heaven isn’t a place they can get to, so he rides out feeling celestial for as long as he can.


Rome says no.

It spits in Caroline’s face.

She never asked to be holy, the damnation tastes like bloody wine.

There are too many other ghosts there.


With his fingers on her spine she is sleepless and blessed. Her hair tangles under his touch and he crushes her to gold.

She could turn and count his bruises and know he holds more than her, canvassed and perfectly reflecting the stars outside. She could turn and kiss him and and let him turn her to scripture in post coital whispers.

She could turn and hold her head to his chest and fall asleep with his breath warming her throat as the world ends beyond the window and no one would remember the ashes but them.

She lets him curl around her instead.


Caroline almost expects to wake up in New Orleans, drinking the hello off of his lips.

She doesn’t.

New York feels like someone else’s home, her mattress a dirty heap on the floor. Nothing has felt more like the right kind of wild. She wanders the galleries for days hunting for something that feels decadent the way she does. In a moment there’s a painting she notices, something about the paint strokes familiar as the fingers on the back of her neck.

Klaus presses his lips to her ear and says something dangerous like, hello, I’ve been waiting for you.

She smiles and tells him next time he’ll learn to wait longer.

be healed
biblical mythology, judas/mary magdalene(/jesus)
insp: and since he bids me seek his face, believe his word and trust his grace, I'll cast on him my every care for kwritten

Gethsemane cannot replace Eden. In Gethsemane they may still be forgiven.


Perhaps the angels knock on her windows and walls. Angelic voices on the wind, begging, screaming, but she never has the right words for them so she never answers.

Mary hears wingbeats in her sleep, wakes with feathers in her hair.

As he takes to knocking on her window seeking reprieve she still has no answers but her door stays open when his eyes drift closed.

He kisses her hand and nothing more.


Call her holy, call her sanctified in the night when nobody is watching and he lies in her arms and asks for nothing but the hands running through his hair.

His skin is dirty and his eyes are older by the night. In sleep, his smiles are Saintlike.

When he asks for forgiveness she does not ask what for and does not say it isn't hers to give. With his skin under the dripping cloth and her fingers, wiping the sins of fear and sleeplessness from his aching body, he begs that she might bless him. Oh Holy, forgive me.

The air is hollow inside their lungs.

Her lips brush the tired skin of his cheek and she does not know why he cries but she lets him, God witness her, she lets him.


Father I have done nothing wrong but I've seen things unholy like blood on my hands and mud on my knees and even when I wake my nails are black and fingers stained. Help me, Father. I have done nothing wrong. I will do nothing wrong. Please help me.


The stars cannot absolve her for the marks on her flesh and she sleeps naked and alone with the blanket scraping raw her moonlit skin. He does not come and she does not wait for him. She sleeps for days and days asking the angels to leave her alone.


Had she kissed him when spring began he may have done worse. He may have done nothing at all.


(God kisses her, tells her she is glorious, she is absolved and her touch absolving and he tells her that he is sorry and will not say why.)

(She tells him she's the symbol of abuse. She is the image of a martyr who does not die. She can still feel the stones kissing her.)

(He tells her to go to sleep.)


Even with that, the men come for her. Fingernails fucking into her skin.

Standing delicate in her cloth-sewn dresses, the perfect whore of the Lord's favour.

Every slur said with prayer, did He not save her from this? Does Jezebel not become one with the angels?

Whore, they scream. (Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.)

Slut. (Forgive them, Father, they know no better.)

Worshipper of Man. (I have never touched what was not mine to take. Oh, Father, believe me now. You must believe me.)

They may leave bruises but none from a kiss and she is not their canvas.


The landlords spit at her when she stumbles for rent and they spit at him for laying with her and she does not let them ruin her.

Her hand in his they dance in the rain. They dance, and dance, and dance.


She never asks him for a thing.


Father, I love him I can do nothing wrong.

I love him, I love her.

Bless me for I am innocent and meek, I am the child of selfless love, I am the Saint of Misunderstanding.

Please, Father.

Name me not a devil for loving them. They loved me first.


She holds him close and can't think it a crime.

His skin is cold even with the dull dry heat, her touch must burn him and he buries closer, wrapped in her softness and needing something.

The moths sink themselves into candles as though it's the only choice.

Can they be blamed? The broken man and the whore holding on to the last embers of divinity. Clinging to skin.


Does God ask anything of her but the comfort of her hands?

Does the King ask her to kiss softly every mark upon his skin to aid his healing?

Does she wait for Him, knowing He will not leave her in this place?


He kisses her in the garden. The place he knows is waiting for his blood and he kisses her under the trees and he says this is his salvation. Do not choke on my blame, he tells her. You were the last thing I held with grace.

He does not say sorry.


The angels won't stop knocking and she is afraid to answer. With skin trembling under her blankets she is afraid of what they will tell her.

Wingbeats and quietness.

Her bed is cold. Her skin is cold. Her heart and the angels keep beating anyway.

go on and light a cigarette
gossip girl, blair/vanessa
insp: b & v that one sunny sunday morning when the weather was cold but it was warm under the sheets and that's as close to god as it gets for fluffyfrolicker

The windows hold in their breath like Robert Frost was right and no on could stop the snowfall until they all lay buried and Blair breathes the smell of deodorant off of the bedsheets. Vanessa's hair is tickling her nose.

She peels the hair back like a curtain and kisses the sunlight off V's mouth. They taste mutually stale and sleepy and Blair keeps kissing that taste away, fingers tickling at the edge of V's sleepshirt and pushing up and under. V opens her eyes and bites down on Blair's lip.

"So that would be a good morning, then?" Blair soothes her lip with her tongue, fingers still tracing the lines of Vanessa's ribs. Her thumbs inch along the curve of V's breasts, brushing her nipples and stealing a sigh back with her mouth.

Vanessa's hands span her ribs and her smile is like a knifepoint. "Just how good are we planning on going for?"

Blair purses her lips and considers. "Bright lights, angelic choirs, I'm expecting feathers, at least."

Vanessa kisses the crease between her eyebrows and flips them so she's pressing Blair's body down into the mattress and their legs sink together so they're tangled, utterly. Blair moans when Vanessa's thigh shifts. Bitch.

Blair arches up so their faces are level, foreheads almost touching and breaths intertwined. "Kiss me." She says, and it's not a request but V grants her anyway, groaning an ugly sound into her mouth when Blair pinches her nipple, hands still twisted up in her shirt.

"Fuck, Blair -"

"Good point, lets do that." Blair scratches her nails lightly over Vanessa's breasts and then twists her fingers into Vanessa's hair as V slithers down Blair's body using her tongue as a guide. Her mouth flicks and teases and feels wild long before she stretches out between Blair's legs and smiles up at her like hell.

They grin in stalemate, Blair holding Vanessa's hair tight like it's a precious commodity and Vanessa looking through her lashes at Blair, sucking a ring of hickeys around Blair's bellybutton.

"Do I need to ask nicely?"

Vanessa drags her mouth down, flicking her tongue too quickly for more than a glance. "If you were nice about anything I wouldn't have you." She presses her smile into the soft skin between Blair's thighs, kissing up, up, up and ducking away to the other side, kissing and sucking until Blair's laughter makes the bed shudder on the creaking floorboards.

"V, fucking - tickles oh my God."

Vanessa holds on, dragging closer to the apex of Blair's thighs, twitching and dewy-wet, still kissing so lightly that Blair's giggles wrack the bed. She presses Blair's thighs apart and presses her tongue flat, licking soft and long.

Blair yanks hard at Vanessa's hair, breaths still catching where she's laughing. Vanessa presses her tongue down harder, letting Blair move against her, grinding and sending breathless noises toward the ceiling.

Blair bites down onto the skin of her arm as V's fingers press her open and her tongue flickers over Blair's clit and everything is shattering in that slow way as she shakes apart on the bed, feeling warm and golden.

Vanessa pulls back slowly, inching forward and back up into Blair's arms. "Was God home?"

Blair drags her teeth down the slope of V's throat, rolling them over so she's on top again. "Oh, when is he ever?"

fic, blair/vanessa, caroline/klaus, amy pond, blair, vanessa, caroline, religion & myth, jesus, judas, doctor who, all the fandoms, tvd, gossip girl, mary magdalene, klaus, femslash!, judas/mary/jesus

Previous post Next post