Forever McFassy

theletteraesc:

trobador:

For motleypatches: considering the relative distance of electron to the nucleus, fill the emptiness with stories!

Retro-futuristic sci-fi fantasy kingdoms XMFC AU:

Charles I, the One True Emperor of Genosha, and Erik the enchanting odalisque.

I would be so terribly bored with you, darling, if I weren’t sure you were planning something devious. Frost’s last words rang in his ears, a warning he’d come close to overstaying his welcome, but also—he hoped, anyway—an indication she was ready to provide support.

Charles wrapped his overcoat more tightly around himself, cursing the stone that not only held Frostland’s eternal cold but magnified it, adding to it a damp that leeched into bones trained to love the warmth. It was hard hurrying unobtrusively to his quarters, with the last of the heat from the wine and the food—spicy Genoshan seafood, another reminder from Emma about where his thoughts ought to lie—bleeding from him.

At least he had Moira’s latest message safe in the inside pocket of the thick wool tunic he wore under his coat. She had said, in the difficult code of the old-style Genoshan military, to expect news and a blade together. Maybe, Charles thought, watching his breath mist away to nothing, Emma would not have to wait much longer.

With a sigh of relief he reached his door. He paused, hand hesitating above the cold iron knob, and wondered why he hesitated. Warmth bled out from the crack between door and age-smooth stone. The servants had renewed the fire early, well before the last time they came in to see he was provisioned with wood and oil for the night, sniffing at his extravagance.

Perhaps… Charles had a long, slim dagger in its sheath around his forearm. A minuscule flex of his wrist freed the catch and the blade slid down into his palm, waiting, warm from his flesh.

The fire roared in its hearth and the lamps were ablaze as they should not be. Charles shrugged off cloak and coat, the heat already prickling and uncomfortable, although not as unsettling as the knowledge he was being watched.

Specifically, being watched by a man stretched across Charles’s bed, black silk camiz and black trousers stark against the white and grey of the blankets and down quilts. The man gazed silently at him, apparently resting at his ease, but the intensity in his eyes, the tension betrayed where the camiz slid away from well-shaped muscles, suggested very much otherwise.

Despite the situation, Charles could see, with sudden, ferocious clarity, how his body might shape to the one reclined on the bed. How it might resist and then bend for him. He thought again of the knife in his hand, saw the man glance down at his palm as if overhearing the thought. The firelight was gold on his skin and where it tangled in his brownish hair. He was lithe as a dancer, or something rather harder; looking more closely, Charles saw he was stubbled, slightly wind-chapped. A battered bag rested forgotten in the corner.

“Who might you be?” Charles asked. He shifted back to the door, adjusting the angle of his body to flee if he must, to kill if needs be.

For answer, the man rose up on his knees, then fell to his hands, then slid gracefully off the bed and knelt. The movement was all of a piece, muscles flowing smoothly from one position to the next. Charles stared down at the bowed head, sensing he was dealing with pride rather than humility.

“My Lord,” the man said. His voice was rough, unmusical but compelling all the same. “I’ve been waiting.”

For so long, it seemed Charles heard. So far from the Genosha heartland, though, his abilities were haltered. “Again, and for the last time, I ask: who are you? Emma hasn’t been in the habit of sending pretty young men to my bed.”

“An odali of the House,” the man said, bowing his head. He didn’t wear the collar with the X sigil, much less the tattoo. A novice or an impostor. The man looked too old for the former, fierce enough to be the latter. “I am called Magnus.”

“What is your mother’s name?” Charles asked, although he could see why the man would be called such. The black trousers, travel-stained and worn as they were, disguised very little.

“Lehnsherr’s Erik,” the man, called Magnus, named Erik, said, “and I and my body are at your service. I brin g you news.”

“And something else,” Charles said. Lehnsherr, that name had been in the harem register for generations. A loyal servant, then.

“Yes, my Lord Emperor,” Erik said, and rocked back to gaze up at Charles, to show the white-ink tattoo of the House aysni, the assassins, above his heart. “And a blade.”

ninemoons42:

luninosity:

In which James explains that he could never be a rocker because “I get drunk after two pints”.

So…drunk!James McFassy fic, please? Bonus points for Michael’s bartender training? *hopeful eyes*

ninemoons42 writes: lightweight? right

Everyone else in the bar is staring avidly at the altercation outside the windows; all Michael knows is that he’s got ten bucks riding on the girls kicking the stuffing out of the hapless sod in the run-down suit, and since one of the girls happens to be his best friend Rose, he’s pretty sure he’s going to have a little something extra in his pocket come closing time.

The problem is, he’s not going to be able to get to closing time without ignoring the - kid/boy/whatever - who’s staked out one end of the bar. Blue eyes, Scottish burr, freckles everywhere the dim lighting catches his skin - and there are also long-since-dried trails on his cheeks, skin gone stiff after soaking in saltwater.

Michael hadn’t needed to ask why the kid was drinking. Heartbreak was something terrible and vicious and for some people it needed to be let out, while for others it needed to be drowned. The kid had wanted to drown his, and Michael’d let him.

Which means that now he feels a little responsible - and also, maybe shamefacedly, a little amused - because the kid is already listing dangerously to the side after two pints and a shot of something violently magenta. “‘M Scottish, I can handle my drink,” he’d said, the only thing Michael’d heard him say other than his drink order, and that might have been true then but that’s not true now, not with the droop in his posture, not with the shaking in his shoulders that means tears or anger or defeat or worse.

“Last call,” Edi says, and he rings the bell over the bar.

The kid doesn’t flinch, but he does reach, lethargic movements, for the wallet chained to his pocket. “How much?” he slurs when Michael hurries over. And: “Michael. Watched you make everyone else’s drinks. You’re good. Why didn’t you pour me anything?”

“Because I don’t know you and I’m already worried for you,” is something that Michael very carefully does not say.

The kid overpays and waves off all attempts to present him with change.

Michael watches him weave out the door, and doesn’t notice when one of the regulars tosses him a tenner - nor does he notice the indulgent smile on Rose’s face.

All he knows is that he wants to look after that kid whose name he doesn’t even know, but who knows his.

He catches up to the kid and says, “You need a place to stay?”

“Okay,” is the quiet response. And: “James. I’m James. Hi Michael.”

“Hi James.”

Michael’s already thinking about making him a full Irish breakfast in the morning. 

nieniekoto:

ghjgshdsgjkd OKAY YOU KNOW WHAT LET’S HAVE A FUCKING GIVEAWAY

THAT’S RIGHT Y’ALL

I am giving away the second-last copy of this XMFC mug I made in 2011, second-last because I’m keeping one to myself for, I dunno, reflecting on my bad decisions, maybe? Whatever, doesn’t matter. What matters is that this cheesy little mug could be yours, completely free of charge! That means no shipping charges either. Just take it and go. Neat-o!

So, like all giveaways, we gotta lay down some rules on how you’re gonna stand a chance to win this thing.

  • reblogs and likes count
  • you can reblog as many times as you want whatever
  • not really a rule but I’m gonna use this handy-dandy site (random.org) to pick out the winner from the list of notes ain’t that great!!
  • giveaway ends on 26th May, 12AM MYT

A note: there is a very slim chance of me reprinting these mugs. If at all I’d only reprint them for friends who insist on having them (which is ridiculous), but even then.

(via luninosity)

luninosity:

buhdumbumchh:

we all know who Fassy learned that from

they practice in front of a mirror together: “no, Michael, it’s like THIS…”