#writing: fictober19

[izzyovercoffee]

Prompt number: 5. “I might just kiss you.”  Fandom: Republic Commando Rating: These hands are E for Everyone Warnings/Tags: Depression, panic attacks, wrestling with deep-seated internalized homophobia Summary: Fi just wanted to watch the sunset in peace, but the problem with being alone is that it gives room for his mind to wander.

##. don’t know what I’m looking for

  There were few places, in the dense grasp of forest and the tight snap of early winter, that Fi could find a good place to watch the lingering vestiges of light claw at the sky in its last breath of day. Still, he’d made it a habit to walk the boundaries of Kyrimorut and tread out into the woods, and find a place where he could watch the sky change colors, and watch the red streaks of late afternoon light linger long after the retiring of the sun.

But the night always came. It's inevitable. 

Some part of him, deep and buried and very, very, tired, knew that that kind of thinking couldn't help him---wouldn't help him---move forward in coming to terms with his... his... 

With himself.

There was a word he searched for---the searching less, lately, but still ever present and made worse in the grips of panic every time he realized he searched a little longer than he used to, than he remembered doing before.

The cold of the snow under his bare palms, and the rough bark scraped against the underside of his fingers, helped to ground him in a way that the other exercises, other coping mechanism taught to him, didn't. 

Freedom. That's what he had. A freedom to look into the sky and see the streaks of the dying sunlight and linger as long as he wanted outside in the open air and brisk night and not have to answer for his ignoring curfew.

He didn't have a curfew---as far as he could be found, and that everyone knew where he was, and where he was going.

Even that sounded like something less than freedom---the bitter, angry, disappointed and grieving part of him wanted to call those limitations suffocating. The better part of him, the part he wanted to actually be but still couldn't quite reach, knew the difference. They wanted, needed, to know where he'd be and how to find him because they needed to be able to make sure he was okay.

Before, his location was branded into him so they could monitor where he went and why, and for how long, while under the exacting eyes of the Republic. He had to answer to, and for, something that owned him. 

Now, "undead" as Mereel liked to call it, Fi was free. Actually free.

But the weight of something unnamed and unknown still choked around his neck and threatened, constantly, to pull him back under the tide of his grief and sweep him away.

He lifted his hand off the half-frozen bark of the tree he stood beside, and stared at the indents left behind in his palm. 

Only a couple hours before, he'd held Parja's warm hands between his own. He'd done the things he'd seen Ordo do with Besany---affectionate touches, closeness imitated in old holos like hugging, or cuddling. Things that, honestly, weren't so different from what Omega fell to after hard missions---except there was an implied weight to it now, that wasn't there with his vode before.

And in the cold of the end of day, with the dying light slowly extinguished by the encroaching night, he admitted to himself that he expected things to feel different. He expected...

He didn't know what to expect, actually. He expected something. Anything. Some kind of illumination in his head, or his heart, or something else that would make sense and he'd go "aha" and understand he was in love. He'd spent so much time daydreaming about what Darman had with Etain, or Ordo with Besany, and how he'd cherish this thing that eluded him and that those two found with the kind of shabla good luck Fi could never even imagine happening to him---

He slammed a balled fist against the tree. 

It shook, and snow tumbled off the cold branches above him, and a lump of cold-and-wet snow plopped unceremoniously down on his head. Pieces dripped and escaped the clumps to fall under the edges of his poncho, and chilled down his back.

What was wrong with him?

He flailed, and slapped the snow off his head and the back of his neck.

Couldn't he appreciate how lucky he was? 

Shivers tensed painfully up his spine.

Gods. 

He couldn't breathe. 

Why couldn't he see what was right in front of him?

The itching collar of his sweater felt like a noose around his neck, cutting off air. He clawed at his throat, at his poncho. 

How could he be so selfish? So stupid?

He ripped off the offending clothes, still struggling to breathe.

Why couldn't he just---

A hand found his shoulder. 

"Fi," a soft, familiar voice cut through the haze of fury that clouded his vision. He blinked rapidly, and felt that same panic rise in his chest. Where? Where was---? "That's enough."

Though he tried for anger, for frustration---reached for it where it had burned so shabla brightly in his chest just a few minutes before, he only found exhaustion. It made shrugging off the gloved hand of Jusik especially difficult, but he still managed it. 

"Go away, Bard'ika." 

Fi pretended he wasn't cold, that he wasn't just mindlessly ripping off his clothes in the middle of nowhere right off the boundary of Kyrimorut completely surrounded by snow-laden trees and snow-covered ground, his back dotted in now-frozen streaks of once-snow and his hair a mess with snow sticking to the shabla strands.

Wow. He's in trouble.

"Sure, I can do that," Jusik replied, just as even-toned and right under the edge of pleasant that really fires Fi's nerves and he can't exactly identify why except he wanted to punch him for sounding so understanding in the face of yet another of his pointless breakdowns. "As soon as you talk to me." 

"Maybe I don't wanna talk?" Fi snapped, and cringed, and fought down the lump gathered in his throat. "Maybe I just wanna be alone." 

"Okay," Jusik said, and Fi easily heard the crunch of snow as the other man approached. It was something to focus on, beyond his frustration giving way to violent shivers. "Okay."

Fi had been through worse. Survived worse. The cold barely fazed him, in his heyday. 

He was a long, long way from those days.

"But..." Jusik trailed off. 

Fi finally looked at him. Saw him, dark skin and sun-bleached hair a bright, warm contrast to the cold and monotonous shadows and white of the landscape. He held up the clothes Fi was sure he'd thrown to the ground---and searching the snow, found no trace of disturbance where they should have landed.

How long was he out there, watching over him?

"But what?"

Oh, Fi sounded defeated. That wasn't good.

Something shifted behind Bardan's eyes, and his expression tensed around the eyes, the mouth, as he fixed on Fi's face. 

Moments like this, Fi wished he was more like Mereel. Or Kal'buir. They knew how to read expressions better than he'd ever even tried to do. Better than anyone else he knew. They could look at someone, and just ... know what they were thinking. Or hiding, if they were hiding something, from just a look. From just a sentence. 

But he wasn't like them. He was barely even like himself.

Oh. Oh no. 

Fi pressed his fists to his eyes. Hot tears spilled from the corners of his eyes, and he struggled to push them aside, or away, or stop them entirely. 

"Don't---" Fi snapped at another crunch of snow, but---

But Jusik ignored him this time. 

"But it's cold, Fi," Jusik insisted, too close for comfort, but Fi couldn't bear to back away. He couldn't bear to move. "Let me help you. Please." 

"I don't---" Fi grit out between his teeth, and pushed through the sting of his breakdown to look at Bardan. "I can't breathe with that shabla thing." His knuckles grazed the edge of the sweater Jusik held, and he shuddered. "Don't make me wear it." 

"Then at least put this back on---" Jusik tossed the sweater over his own shoulder, and moved to put the poncho back over Fi's head. 

Fi didn't resist, though he closed his eyes as the soft knitted fabric fell over his shoulders and draped down past his hips. Instantly, he felt some warmth return, some stability, some...

Something.

He felt something he couldn't name as Jusik's hands rested on either side of him, holding him by his arms in place. Steady. And sure.

And different. 

And all that grief bundled up inside him. All that anger, and that rage, and that frustration, and confusion, and, and, and---all of it came tumbling out of him with a shaky exhale on the edge of another sob. 

"Whatever you're dealing with," Bardan said, "Just know you don't have to do it alone." 

Fi couldn't respond, couldn't think. All he could focus on was the weight at either side of his arms, of the rubbing motion Jusik took in a way that should have been comforting, but pulled at that anxiety, and that fear, and that panic buried deep down just as much and as easily as it steadied, and calmed, him.

For so long, Fi always...

Kal'buir was always so focused on "his boys" finding "good girls" to take care of them. Fi had taken that to heart so thoroughly he didn't... he hadn't... 

It never occurred to him to look elsewhere. 

And he buried that traitorous thought back down, deep, as he thought of Parja and found his grief and his confusion double suddenly, painfully, sharp in his chest. 

"I know," Fi's voice cracked. 

He searched for a way to say, to express, to speak his mind and define the ways in which he didn't, couldn't, allow himself to be any more of a burden than he had been so far. He tried to find a way to say how he couldn't forgive himself for not getting better, faster. For getting back to his old self, now. Sure, he understood that these things took time. That he had to work at it. That he might never be the person he once was.

But he remembered what it felt like, and that was a torture no one prepared him for. He remembered what it felt like to look and find the words as easily as he could find the sky, the cold, the snow, and Bardan on this day. He could feel his limbs want to respond with the precision, and the accuracy, and the finesse he worked his whole life to perfect, right up to the day his life was nearly taken from him. He remembered what it was like to be himself, and now that he was trapped in this body that didn't work, didn't respond, with a broken brain that cut him down at the knees and took from him who he thought he actually was---

Who was he, really, without everything that he'd used to define himself, before? Who was he? 

Who was he?

"Just breathe, Fi."

Bardan's voice pulled him back into the present, into the weight on his arms and the little warmth draped over him that still, somehow, managed to chase out the chill of the night. 

"It'll pass. Just breathe." 

Fi didn't know how Bardan knew, but he assumed... he just assumed... Well, it didn't matter what he thought.

Bardan knew, somehow---felt, somehow---the very struggle that wrought Fi's insides and brought them into knots so tight they crippled him, and that? 

That, above all else, made him feel less alone. 

Made that fear, and that panic, and that dread that'd settled so deeply at the base of his skull every time he closed his eyes, every time he slept and dreamt of the person he once was and woke to the shadow of who he is, he knew, somehow, that Bardan was right there---nearby, even if not nearby---as steadfast and grounded as the tree Fi accosted a while ago.

"I'm sorry," Fi broke. Cracked. Felt the grief rise back and overwhelm him. He reached out, finding that warmth that Jusik always seemed to radiate, and grasped him at the shoulders, just shy of the juncture of where his collar met his neck. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay." Bardan's voice, still so solid, and warm, and understanding, and no longer scraping at Fi's patience so much as soothing his hurt. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Not here, and not with me." 

I could kiss you, Fi thought, delirious and exhausted, and buried that thought as quickly as the shifting winds picked up the snow once more. 

He knocked foreheads with Bardan, instead, with eyes closed and hot, angry, tears gathered behind them, and focused on breathing. 

"It's okay," Bardan whispered between them. "It'll be okay."

Fi didn't believe that. He didn't believe it for a second, not when he could still feel the man he once was in his broken body.

But the way Bardan said it...

The way he said it made him want to think it might be. 

And that was enough for him.

#writing: mine #writing: fictober19 #writing: repcomm #Republic Commando #Fi Skirata #Bardan Jusik #r: Bardan/Fi #I still have to come up with a ship tag but uh ............. for now there it is? #r: tbd #I really meant for this to be short and sweet and then it turned into this #2k bittersweet and wounded ... thing #the ship is very much a blink and miss deal if that's not your cup of tea #also a post-GAR fic so Fi is free; if that's also something that you look for #c: Bardan Jusik #c: Fi Skirata

[throwing-summers-at-the-walls]

Anyone want some more random Rinch bc here's a drabble

“I hope you won’t have to follow him around for too long,” Harold says, “with that recent drop in temperature…”

“I’ll be okay. I’ve seen worse,” John replies. It's supposed to be comforting. He realizes too late that it isn’t.

“That’s not a reason to deprive yourself of comfort now.”

“You keep me warm.”

He didn’t mean to say it out loud. This feeling was to be locked up inside of him.

“I’d still suggest you start wearing a scarf, especially if you persist in keeping your shirt collar open.”

John can hear his smile; the cold is less harsh.

#person of interest #rinch #(kinda) #harold finch #john reese #maybe ill post it on ao3 later idk #i used a fictober19 prompt (you keep me warm) bc none of the fictober20 prompts interested me #posting this now before i change my mind and delete it fkfjfkfj #nourann writes

[nobeliumoxygenoxygenmisc]

Kagaminette || Might just kiss you

For fictober event @fictober-event

Prompt number: 5 “I might just kiss you.” Fandom (AU if applicable): Miraculous ladybug Rating: General Warnings/Tags/Ships: None, Kagami x Marinette

One little comment during a study session leads to Marinette’s internal panic and the eventual realisation of who she truly likes now. (1k words)

--

"Marinette, why do you do that when you're concentrating?" 

Marinette jumped, the pen she had been using rattling to the edge of the desk they were studying on. The sound was jarringly loud in the quiet library. She looked at Kagami in confusion. "Do... what?" She asked, wondering if she should prepare herself for something that bordered on blunt and rude; with Kagami, it was always a surprise but she knew that the girl was trying her hardest to work on her conversational skills.

Kagami paused, deliberate and thoughtful in the second before she answered. She was always thinking before she spoke, something Marinette wish she could do; she didn't have the patience or ability to think before she spoke, sometimes... most of the time. Whenever she was with Kagami, that lack of ability stood out more often than not; something about her made her spill and mix words in almost in the same fashion she knew she did with Adrien. "You stick your tongue out when you concentrate really hard." Kagami cocked her head to the side. "It's... distracting."

Marinette blinked. "It-it is? Oh." She took a few moments to register her sentence. She'd never really noticed she stuck her tongue out, but thinking back--she did. What a discovery! What a discovery, she thought, flushing. She must have looked so stupid half the time, oh why hadn't Alya said anything? Or her mum, or dad? Or Tikki? And... it was distracting? 

Oh, yes, because she looked so stupid doing it, of course. Great. Another thing she could add to her list of why Kagami-would-never-like-her.

She flushed deeper. "Ko-korry Kagami--ah, I mean! Sorry Kagami! I'll try to-to stop doing it from now on," She said, mentally berating herself for mixing her words up again. She still hadn't been able to figure out just why she fumbled her words around Kagami, especially now that their time of misunderstandings was over. 

And recently, Kagami's blunt comments had become more positive. A "you look cute in that dress" here, a "that design is very good" there, and Marinette wondered if she even knew about the effect her compliments gave her. To hear them from the Ice Queen herself--not that Kagami really was an Ice Queen--, they had to mean something after all.

Kagami shook her head. "I'm sorry. That was rude. It's not... a bad thing." She paused again, this time heavy with thought. "It is distracting because I might just kiss you."

Marinette froze. 

No, that wasn’t quite right because her whole body seemed to heat up. She went still. "I-you--we?" She fumbled, mouth agape. "You--"

Kagami stared at her, seemingly unperturbed by her own words. Had they-had they not the same effect on her as they did on Marinette? Why did she look so nonchalant? 

And why did Marinette feel so embarrassed in the first place? 

"Are you alright Marinette?" Kagami asked, leaning over the desk slightly. But the movement, as slight as it was, shocked Marinette out of her seat and she yelped, declaring, "I need to bo gathroom!" before rushing out of their desk to head to the bathroom.

Inside, she collapsed onto the seat and buried her face in her hands, Tikki flying out of the bag to gently pat her head. "There, there, Marinette. It's going to be okay." Tikki flew back, smiling encouragingly. "Though, I don't see how this warrants such a reaction. It sounded like a compliment after all!" 

Marinette groaned. "No way Tikki! If-if Kagami wants to kiss me--how am I supposed to work knowing she wants to? How-how am I supposed to concentrate? Tikki what if she does kiss me?! I'm a terrible kisser--she'll know I suck at kissing and then she'll hate me and we'll never get to talk again and I'll never see her again and Tikki this is an emergency!" The kwami hovered in the air, fondness in her gaze. Marinette groaned again, screaming through her teeth. 

"Now we don't have time to unpack all of that but..." 

"You need to stop hanging out with Plagg."

"It was Trixx who taught me that actually!" Tikki beamed proudly. "But anyways! Kagami doesn't seem like she'd kiss you without knowing you'd be alright with that."

Marinette stared at her. "This is the same I-never-hesitate Kagami Tsurugi we're talking about right?" 

Tikki nodded. "Yes, but even if she says that, she wouldn't kiss you out of the blue Marinette!"

Marinette continued to stare. "Tikki, this is Kagami I-never-hesitate Tsurugi here! The strongest, most fearless girl out there and she'd totally kiss me even though I don't know why because she is way out of my league but when she does she'll know how terrible I really am and she'll never want to be my girlfriend ever and I'll never be able to design clothes for her again and cheer for her at tournaments and--"

"I thought you liked Adrien?"

"And--" Marinette stopped, blinking out of her spiral. "I-I do?" Tikki stared back, confusion mirrored in her eyes. "I do, Tikki. What-what made you think... otherwise?"

"You said 'girlfriend' earlier. And you sounded really confused." Tikki thought for a moment. "Well, now that I think about it... Do you still like Adrien, Marinette?" 

Marinette blinked, wondering where this question came from. Of course she did! Adrien was still the same handsome, kind, amazing Adrien and she still loved to watch him fence against Kagami because it really showed off their skills and she loved designing outfits with Kagami for them to match in and she loved baking pastries for everyone with her--

She stopped. 

Did... did she still like Adrien? 

All those events; sure, they’d been for Adrien in the beginning. Sure, the first times she’d gone to watch the fencing class was for Adrien, and the first time she’d baked with Kagami had been for his birthday gift, but then she’d started going to the classes even when Adrien had to miss one for modelling and now Kagami and her had almost fortnightly baking sessions together, much like their studying and...

Oh.

Tikki smiled, patting her head again and pushing her jaw back up closed. "Are you alright, Marinette?" She asked again.

Marinette slowly shook her head.

"Tikki..." She stared at the tiles, her head dizzy with revelation. "I think I do like Kagami." 

--

third one up for fictober!! hope you enjoyed and pls tell me if you did?? 

#fictober19 #miraculous ladybug #kagami tsurugi #kagaminette #marigami #kaganette #marinette dupain cheng #kagami tsurugi x marinette dupain cheng #marinette dupain cheng x kagami tsurugi #kagami x marinette #marinette x kagami #my writing #writing #my work

[tinknevertalks]

Prompt number: 30 - I'm with you, you know that. (I've changed it ever so slightly for this.)

Fandom: Sanctuary

Rating: Light T.

Warnings/Tags: Pre-Series, Whatever Happened to Patricia Magnus?, The Five actually being united, mother-daughter interaction.

--

Helen gazed up from her seated position on the bed, her mother looming over her in a way she hadn't since Helen was three. "Not blood, fechan i. Never blood." Patricia's eyes were changing colour, from bright, light blue to dark, sickly yellow. The door knob rattled, the door itself barely moving, but Helen heard nothing of it, hypnotised as she was by her mother's movements.

"Then what, Mother? Let me help you!" she pleaded, the cries from beyond the door faint and far away.

Patricia touched the underside of Helen's chin with her index finger, pushing so Helen's head would tilt backwards. A smirk marred her features before sense seemed to regain control. She pushed her child away. "You can't help me. No one can."

"Why?" 

Patricia shook her head. "I refuse to tell you."

"I'll find out. I won't stop searching until I can cure you."

"There's nothing to cure, Helen. I am not one of your father's beasts, or any of your young gentlemen. Leave me so I may rot away in peace." Her voice, so soothing as a child, rattled through Helen. What could she mean, nothing to cure? But she couldn’t ask, as Patricia had started growling again.

“Mother?” Helen rose to her feet, stepping forwards to bridge the gap between them.

“Feed me!” As she said this, she lunged for Helen, arms outstretched. Clammy fingers started wrapping around her neck but the suffocating pressure never came. Instead arms wrapped around her shoulders, trying forcefully to turn her from her mother. "Let me eat!" was the last she heard before Nigel dragged her away, her father and Nikola between her and her mother.

"Let me go, Nigel. I have to help her," she said, trying to break free. His grip was strong, stronger than she anticipated, and within moments they were beyond the threshold.

"You can't help her," Nigel murmured, turning her to face him. "There is no helping her."

"But--"

"The Source Blood's changed her. That isn't your mother in there." He looked deep into Helen's eyes. "And you know that's true."

Helen bowed her head. "I just… I had to try." She looked up at Nigel. "She's my mother."

Nigel nodded as James and John joined them. John brushed a lock of Helen's hair behind her ear, wiping away a tear that meandered down her cheek. "We know," he replied as Nigel squeezed her shoulders.

The door slammed shut, and Helen turned to see Nikola and her father resting heavily against it, her father panting from exertion. "Fa--"

"Not a word!"

Helen blinked. The last time he spoke in that tone was after her mother's illness when Helen was six. There was anger and disappointment in equal parts colouring his words, but the vein of sadness running through cut her to the core.

"Go down to the drawing room, all of you." He looked over his shoulder, grimacing at the hissing and snapping issuing from beyond the door. As they walked the corridor towards the stairs, Helen heard the pitiful, mourning voice of her father. "Oh, Pat. What have I done?"

Helen bowed her head again. Nigel squeezed her shoulders. "We're with you, you know that."

"All of us," added James.

"Thank you, gentlemen," she murmured, "but I will not appreciate any unnecessary histrionics."

"Histrionics, us?" Nikola asked, sarcastic as ever.

"I think you have us confused with other people," John added. "Would we ever debase ourselves with histrionics?"

Helen arched her brow as they arrived at the drawing room. "I shall remember that when the wine runs out."

#fictober19 #fanfiction #Sanctuary #helen magnus #patricia magnus #whatever happened to patricia magnus? #Gregory magnus #the five #nikola tesla #john druitt #james watson #nigel griffin #pre series #oxford era #i have a headcanon for that #i wrote this #i made this #rachel writes fanfic #rachel writes fic #almost finished #one prompt to go

[aviesnapkindoodles]

Can I Choose?

 Prompt Number: 1 

 Fandom: Sanders Sides

 Rating: K (I think this means 5+)

 Warnings/Tags: Logince, soft love, Sanders Sides, holding hands, dress up, outfits, ruffles, falling over the back of the freaking couch because Roman is too busy laughing at Logan in heels, suit, gay

___________________________________________

"It will be fun, trust me." Roman tugged on Logan's hand, attempting to pull him through the open doorway. Logan kept his face neutral, 

"Roman, I do fail to comprehend how shoving me in a closet will be entertaining."  

Roman huffed, and pulled harder, and fell over with the effort. "It's not a closet, it's a fashion palace. Now come on Teach, I have a galaxy bowtie with your name on it." 

Logan sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Very well. If this is the only thing that will keep you from destroying my lab, then let us depart." 

Roman bounded up at that, a wide grin breaking out over his face. "YES! Let us go forth, my comprehensive companion!" Creativity hopped after the quick walking nerd, who flung open the door to the closet and entered.

"This is gonna be so much fun!" Roman exclaimed and slammed the door shut behind them.

Logan surveyed the large closet, which was about the size of a small bedroom. It had two levels, and one of those swivel bookstore ladders. A plush red couch was in the corner by Roman's extensive collection of shoes. Half the room held costumes and various ballgowns, suits of armor, and as Logan recalled from his vocab cards, "Extra" attire.

With an exaggerated sigh, Logan sat neatly on the sofa as Roman flitted around the room, mainly talking to himself excitedly, sometimes pointing his excitement at Logan. 

The aforementioned had throughout the semi fashion show been sitting in the warm sunlight while the Creative side hummed and rustled fabric, fallen into a sleepy daze. 

Logan’s eyes followed Roman around the room, focusing on his enthusiastic smile and soft hair and those chestnut eyes and his little bounce while grabbing clothes that he wants to put on Logan because he wants to spend time with him and oh dear Marie Curie he’s looking at me. 

Roman flounced down next to Logan, snapping him out of his gay panic. 

“So, my Spec-tacular man, capes or skirts?” Creativity’s eyes sparkled as he held out a black tulle skirt and a heavy velvet cape. 

Logan’s voice caught in his throat, then cleared it and replied, “Whichever option least interferes with my professional,” he whipped out a flashcard, “aesthetic.” Mid-adjusting his glasses, Roman pulled Logan up, bringing them uncomfortably close together. 

Logan’s eyes widened and Roman winked, “You can’t get out of this with a flashcard, Lo! Go change! I’ll get the heels out.” He tossed the tulle skirt to Logan, who was trying to protest but was utterly failing.

The stuttering side nodded and hurried to the dressing room, mind racing like that time Deceit and Virgil ran around the dining room in Heelies.

Ten ball gowns, thirty pairs of heels, one broken lipstick, two skirts, one leather jacket that Logan actually secretly liked, 15 capes that Logan expressed extreme disgust for, and him accidentally falling over the back of the couch in 5 inch spiky heels later, Roman was extremely frustrated, to say the least. 

“I don’t understand! How can I not find a fabulously regal statement outfit worthy of well, “ Roman quit pacing and looked at Logan, who was folding the upset side’s galaxy leggings from the laundry bin?

“-You!” Roman exclaimed, “Galaxy! OF course, a galaxy vest, maybe an off the shoulder baby cape, then some leather boots-”

Logan was visibly taken aback, and placed a hand on the frustrated Side’s shoulder, snapping Roman out of his self-criticism.

The dark-haired side gulped, “Ah, Roman. It would appear that you are expressing difficulty with finding me outfits. I would suggest that possibly, I could help, as it appears to cause you amounts of distress.”

Roman’s eyes searched Logan’s face. “Are you sure? I thought you-”

“On the contrary, Roman, I do enjoy the science of color and textile production, especially the advanced craftsmanship of making elaborate pieces.” 

Roman brightened at that, and was about to reach for a ridiculously ruffled velvet dress when Logan hurriedly continued, “I do not enjoy wearing them particularly, but I do appreciate such pieces of couture.”

The creative side winced, looking down at his hands full of ruffles “Then I guess it was torturing me putting you in all those ball gowns, huh?”

“Not torture, but not an experience I would care to do in the future. Although I did very much enjoy the leather jacket you pulled.” Roman looked up at that, “So, could you pick some outfits for me?” Roman cocked his head, putting on a pouty face, grabbing Logan’s hands and pulling them to his chest.

Logan could feel his face heating up as Roman looked up at him, sticking out his lower lip. “Pleeeeeeeeeeease? I want to know what you think would look good on me?” 

The very distressed (but in a good way) man nodded slightly, and Roman cheered. He released Logan’s hands from his chest, and did a dramatic twirl, landing on the couch.

“Bring me the fashion, my couture-appreciating cutie!” Roman brushed his hair back from his face, a regal smile gracing his features. Logan turned before Roman could see his blush, and began rifling through Roman’s skirts.

Maybe one day he could tell Roman the best thing he could wear was that smile.

____________________________________________

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!! I did it. I did it. I think I might faint! Fictober is wild, and I am very excited. (This is Cas’s Fictober)

#Logince #soft love #gay #Fictober19 #fanfiction #first time writing and publishing #minimal editing #very very gay #Sanders Sides #fanfic #no rating #well idk what the ratings are but i think its like everyone??? #holding hands #@fictober-event #@illogicallyinclined

[dreams-of-kalopsia]

Fictober Prompt 17

“There is just something about them.”

Voltron fanfiction (Plance)

No warnings apply.

Read it on AO3.

____

Happy April Fool’s Day! There’s no joke, though. I’m just a real fool for this show and this pairing. XD

____

Part 1 (Pidge): Timing

Part 2 (Lance): Intuition

Part 3 (Colleen): Grounded

Part 4 (Hunk): Change

Part 5: Them

(Nadia)

The rumors are true: Commander Holt’s daughter is a genius.

She can beat any Earth videogame. Can store galaxies’ worth of tech info in her brain. Can hack into anything that runs on codes. Can master anything remotely mathematical or scientific. Can head and complete the repairs of all MFE units, come up with upgrades, and finish installing them in a month. Can pilot an interdimensional, sentient, robotic Lion. Can fight and beat almost anyone bigger than her—which, with her height, is a lot of people.

But she can’t fire a gun to save her life.

Nadia gapes at said genius. “What.”

“You heard me.”

“That’s quite hard to believe,” James chimes in. “You’ve been fighting in a war for years.”

Pidge shrugs as she taps on her tablet to run a systems check on Ryan’s unit. “I have my brain, my bayard, and Green. They’ve kept me alive so far.”

“I’ve seen your bayard. It’s just a short blade with a grapple and static discharge.”

“Works just fine for me. For the most part.”

“But long-range weapons give offensive power while providing distance and cover,” Ryan argues, to the team’s agreement.

“Short-range weapons and grapples require contact. Larger enemies will overpower you,” Ina says. “Pistol-sized blasters would work best for you; you should try it.”

An idea sparks to life in Nadia’s brain. She looks at Ina. Then at Pidge. Then at the others. Then she grins. “Let’s do it. With us as your teachers, you’ll be wielding a gun in under a week.”

Pidge sends back a challenging smirk. “Oh yeah?”

She plants her hands on her hips. “Wanna bet?”

* * *

Nadia, of course, wins. Because as she said, Commander Holt’s daughter, Katie Holt, is a genius.

Five days of putting up with James and Ryan’s great demos but useless explanations, absorbing Ina’s breakdown of the principles of aiming and shooting, and following Nadia’s strict instructions on posture and aim, and Pidge is at the Garrison’s shooting range, blasting target after target at the final stage of her expert-level shooting course.

Watching from a safe distance behind Pidge, Nadia puffs out her chest. She turns to her team. “What did I tell you guys?”

“She’ll be wielding a gun in under a week,” Ina supplies.

“She’s a genius,” Ryan answers next.

James releases a long sigh before replying, “This will be fun.”

Nadia nods smugly to each response. “And I was right.” She directs her attention back to Pidge, who’s just about to finish the stage.

“Really makes me wonder why she never learned,” James comments after a while. “Two of her teammates use long-range weapons.”

“Ask one of them yourself.”

At Ryan’s words, they all turn towards the entrance. Lance has just entered and is approaching them with a friendly smile.

Nadia hasn’t hung out with him as much as she has with Pidge or Hunk, but she’s heard a lot about him. Seems like a nice, fun guy. And since those two like him so much, then by transitivity, she likes him, too.

She smiles when he reaches them. “Lance! What’s up?”

“Hey, guys,” he greets. “Have any of you seen Pidge? Shiro sent me to get her.”

“Pidge? Oh, you mean…” She jerks a thumb behind her and raises her voice. “…the badass over there firing a gun like a pro?”

Pidge curses. Nadia turns just in time to see her miss a quickly moving target. “Nadia! Don’t distract me!” she shouts as she fixes her aim.

Nadia laughs, stepping a bit to the left to give Lance a better view. He looks dazed watching Pidge hit every target with ease. Even if her back is towards them, her confidence is obvious in her relaxed posture and steady aim.

Nadia wasn’t lying when she said Pidge is a pro. She can’t help puffing out her chest again. She’s so proud of her team’s work and her friend’s newly acquired skill.

“She can…” Lance starts but doesn’t finish. More like forgets to finish. He’s so enthralled by the sight before him, he probably hasn’t realized he spoke up.

“Yep,” she answers anyway, to which Ina adds, “Four point two enemies per minute. Eighty-two percent accuracy. Sixty-eight percent headshots, twenty-four percent torso, six percent arms, two percent legs.”

“Yeah. What Ina said.”

“She learned from us in five days,” James says, his arms crossed. “And only during our free time. I’m sure she would have learned faster from you Paladins.” His tone is casual, but his words have a critical undertone to them.

Nadia quirks a brow and trades a glance with Ina and Ryan.

Is he… throwing shade at Lance?

Lance seems to think so, too, because he tears his eyes from Pidge to shoot James a look that’s borderline hostile. But before he can speak, James shrugs cockily at him and walks over to Pidge, leaving silence in his wake.

What is up with him?

And please, Ina, do not comment on it.

A few feet before them, James proceeds to give Pidge pointers now that she’s done with her course.

And the silence turns awkward.

It starts to weigh on Nadia, so she initiates a conversation with Lance. “So, Lance. You said Shiro needs Pidge?”

“Yeah. He needs help decoding an encrypted message or some…thing…” he trails off, his brows furrowing and eyes narrowing in a glare.

She follows the direction of his gaze, finding Pidge at the end. James is standing close beside her with one hand on her shoulder and another on her wrist as he corrects her posture, and she’s nodding attentively to whatever he’s saying.

Nadia narrows her eyes when they return to Lance. She can tell that something’s happening, but she can’t pinpoint what.

“He’s at the bridge with Sam and Officer Curtis,” he continues as if he hasn’t suddenly stopped talking for two whole minutes. He gives them a stiff smile. “Please tell her that after she’s done.” And then he turns to leave.

At the exact moment Pidge turns towards him. Her excited grin instantly falls into a disappointed frown when she finds him walking out the door.

Oh my gosh. Did I really just see that?

It’s such a dramatic moment that Nadia nearly shivers from the thrill.

“That was awkward,” Ina belatedly states.

Nadia gives her a wry smile. “I’m surprised you’re only pointing it out now.”

“It wasn’t a favorable option a while ago.”

“What did Lance want?” Pidge asks, walking towards them, her eyes still trained on the door.

“To deliver a message,” Ryan answers unhelpfully.

Seriously? Nadia side-eyes him before explaining, “You’re needed at the bridge.”

“Oh,” she says despondently. “I’m guessing Shiro, Dad, and Officer Curtis need me?”

“Yep.”

Pidge sighs. “Gotta go, then.” She gives them a thankful smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you guys so much for teaching me. I can’t believe you really did it in less than a week.”

“No need to thank us,” James says, smiling back. “It was a necessary skill.”

“You’re welcome anyway,” Nadia replies with a grin.

“Maybe you can turn your weapon into a gun next time,” Ryan adds.

“You seem sad.”

All heads snap towards Ina in varying degrees of horrified, and she doesn’t even notice.

“O-Oh, um…” Pidge stutters, “I’m just uh… sad. That I… have to leave now.”

“You can continue practicing tomorrow. Everyone’s free times overlap for two hours in the afternoon.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” With a short wave, she takes her leave.

Nadia stares intently at Pidge’s retreating back.

Yes, Katie Holt is a genius. Yes, she can do a lot of cool things, including mastering her shooting skills in five days.

But she can’t hide her emotions to save her life.

It goes without saying that no one—not even Ina—is buying her lie. So why do it? She’s obviously upset because of Lance. But why? Speaking of Lance, why was he glaring earlier? Was he glaring at James? At Pidge?

“Rizavi.” James’ voice pulls her away from her thoughts. “You’re plotting something.”

“Not yet,” Nadia replies. “But didn’t you see how those two acted? There’s just something about them.” She looks at each of her teammates. “I’m going to find out what.”

____

(James)

People, in general, are easy to read.

From their expressions, words, actions… there’s always some information about the person to be gleaned.

James supposes that’s what makes him work well as a leader. He can understand the motive behind Ryan’s actions, follow the logic in Ina’s words, tell that Nadia is plotting something when her eyes start to glint. After years together as a team, he can accurately anticipate the actions they’ll take on certain scenarios.

And right now, he knows exactly what Nadia is doing.

“Welcome to the training hall,” she tells Pidge and Lance with a sweeping flourish of her hands. “Time for holographic campaign simulations, Pidge.”

“What am I doing here again?” Lance asks then immediately backtracks, “Not to say I’m not okay with it or anything.”

“We’re short one person. Campaigns require working in pairs.” She sends James a pointed look. “Right?”

Wrong, but for the sake of her plot, he answers a “Yeah.”

She grins and nods, taking out three white strings of different lengths from her pocket. She aligns the ends and covers the middle parts with her palms. “Okay, now pick one end and tug on it.”

Ina and Ryan glance at him, their question clear: ‘Are you really letting her do this?’

James replies with an amused smile and a shrug. ‘Why not?’ He pinches one end and pulls. If he’s seen through Nadia’s plan correctly, the one who tugs on the other end should be…

Pidge smiles up at him. “Looks like we’re a team.”

He suppresses a smirk. “Looking forward to it.”

His spine suddenly tingles with the sensation of being watched, and he catches the tail-end of Lance’s glare before he turns away to prepare with Nadia. The smug amusement gets the better of James. He allows himself to smirk.

Being able to read people isn’t limited to his team, of course. How else will he predict Hunk and Keith’s infiltration plan if not for the knowledge that Hunk is terrified for his family and Keith is the reckless, ride-or-die type of guy who would go with his friend? How else will he find out that Curtis has a crush on Captain Shirogane if he hasn’t noticed Curtis’ lingering looks on the Captain? How else will he realize that Pidge has feelings for Lance if he hasn’t seen her face glow when he tells her that Lance is watching her and then fall when she finds him leaving, his back turned towards her? How else will he know that Lance likes her back if not for Lance’s obviously jealous glares at him?

How else will he establish that they don’t know their feelings are mutual if not for the stolen, pining glances every so often?

Nadia chooses a campaign that James holds the best record for. No doubt she intends to gauge Lance’s reaction when they lose to James and Pidge. She’s on the right track; Lance’s jealousy will be aggravated if he thinks that James and Pidge’s teamwork is the sole reason for their sure win, and his feelings will become more apparent.

James prepares his blaster, showily helps Pidge prepare hers, then leads her to their starting point.

“We’re ready, Rizavi, Lance.”

He hopes Nadia catches on soon. Maybe then she’ll be more perceptive of the subtler cues around her. Like his advances that she always unintentionally deflects without even knowing.

____

(Ryan)

Ryan is an observer of life, a spectator of the world through and through. If he were to compare himself to something, he’d be a sponge that absorbs everything and gives nothing away unless pressed.

But after bearing witness to the same unchanging event so many times, he’s just about ready to talk. After all, even sponges can only absorb so much before the excess spills out.

“Nooo, I’m too late!”

His eyes dart towards the newcomer.

Hunk has stopped by the training hall, hands holding a tray with two glasses of probably milkshake, gaze fixed on the competing pairs in the middle of a campaign simulation, James and Nadia versus Pidge and Lance. “I wanted them to taste-test…” He casts his eyes down in a slight pout. After a few moments, he looks at Ryan and Ina with hopeful eyes. “Hey, maybe you guys can do it? Tell me what you think. And be honest; I promise not to get offended.” He raises the tray towards them.

They take it without question.

“Thanks.”

“Thank you.”

It’s no secret that Hunk is a genius chef who loves cooking and knows his yeast, much like Ryan. Ryan can never doubt anyone who knows their yeast.

True enough, the milkshake tastes divine, and he says so, Ina’s agreement following close.

Hunk chuckles pleasantly. “That’s great. I was experimenting with the proportion of the ingredients to accommodate this alien vanilla that adds a distinct tang.”

The buzzer goes off to mark the end of the campaign. The three of them redirect their attention to the simulation zone. Nadia, James, Lance, and Pidge huddle together before the performance analyzer, waiting for the results.

Despite not seeing the results the moment they appear, it’s easy for Ryan to see who won.

Rather, it’s easy to hear who won.

“Yeah!!” Pidge and Lance cry out, pumping their fists in victory.

“We did it, Pidge!” Lance says. Beaming, Pidge turns to him and raises her arms for what seems to be a hug. He drops his gun and holds out his hands towards her waist. Then they both freeze mid-action and abruptly turn away from each other, Lance scratching the back of his neck before picking up his gun.

Irk bubbles in Ryan’s chest. He’s honestly tired of watching them do this every single time they win.

“They’re so… awkward with each other,” he comments as he returns his glass.

“Ugh. Tell me about it,” Hunk whines. “Imagine seeing them, like, every day.”

Ryan releases a fed-up, sympathetic grunt.

God forbid.

____

(Ina)

Ina’s brain isn’t wired to read social cues.

What it is wired for are observation and analysis, and she depends on her rapid processing skills to assess the situation, approximate the meaning of the social cues from previous experience, and act accordingly. Her approximations don’t always reach the acceptable level of correctness, which leads to inappropriate responses, but her team has helped her greatly with that. By observing Ryan’s body language, watching Nadia’s ever-changing expressions, and listening to James’ simplified explanations, Ina’s approximations and understanding of human behavior have increased in accuracy by sixty-seven percent.

She’s always thought that her current level of comprehension is sufficient to keep up with most situations.

Lance’s and Pidge’s recent changes in behavior, however, are making her think otherwise.

They behave as they normally do outside each other’s presence. They work in perfect sync when working together as Paladins or partners during campaign simulations. But once their tasks are done, they oscillate between acting like best friends and barely being able to make eye contact. The behavioral changes have no apparent trend or pattern that she can follow in order to act properly or say anything other than “The atmosphere is very tense and awkward.” when they behave aberrantly.

Ina has never encountered their confusing behavior before; it mildly frustrates her that she doesn’t have enough information for a proper analysis.

“What are you guys?” she finally blurts out one day as the three of them watch James and Hunk compete against Nadia and Ryan on the simulator.

Pidge and Lance share a look that she’s learned indicates uncertainty.

“We’re…” Lance begins to say.

“We’re uh…” Pidge begins at the same time.

“Friends?” “Humans?”

They look at each other again, this time with mirroring frowns.

He puts both hands on his hips. “Really, Pidge? Humans?”

Pidge crosses her arms and glares up at him. “Ina asked what we are! Obviously, we’re humans!”

“Of course we’re humans! She’s obviously asking how we’re related to each other!”

It occurs to Ina that they’ve left her out of the conversation, as if they’ve forgotten that she’s there with them. She takes the opportunity to study their interaction to derive her own conclusion.

“But we’re not related to each other! You’re from Cuba and I’m part-Italian!”

“Argh! Not that kind of related!”

“Can you please be a bit more specific?!”

“She’s asking what our relationship is!”

Ina, who’s been quietly following their quick back-and-forth with her eyes, almost gets a whiplash when Pidge doesn’t retort. Upon further observation, she’s gone completely still as well.

“We don’t have a relationship, Lance.” Pidge’s voice is devoid of the heat and energy of her previous counterarguments.

Ina notices Lance’s foot twitch—to step towards Pidge, she deduces—but it ends up staying in place. “We’re friends… right?” he returns, tone quiet and somewhat… pleading?

She tilts her head in confusion.

Pidge bows her head, her bangs and glasses obscuring her face. “Friends. Right.” With her head hung low, she misses the way Lance momentarily winces at her words.

For what reason, Ina can’t figure out.

After a deep inspiration, Pidge turns to her, smiling but also not really smiling. “Either way, does that answer your question, Ina?”

Ina’s eyes dart from Pidge to Lance back to Pidge again as her mind reaches a conclusion.

“Yeah. Partly.”

These two are complicated.

____

(Curtis)

“Pidge!” Cadet—no, Paladin Lance bellows as he barges into the Green Lion’s hangar. The door hisses angrily closed behind him—if that’s even possible.

Curtis knows why he’s here. Intel of Paladin Pidge’s secret mission has been leaked to him somehow. This only proves that the IGF-Atlas crew isn’t as tight as Captain Shirogane and Commander Holt are hoping, and all the more the necessity for all the moles to be baited and weeded out before launching.

Seeing the shocked, panicked expression on Paladin Pidge’s face, Curtis decides to intercept Paladin Lance’s approach.

“Paladin Pidge is busy,” he explains, not budging when the Blue Paladin tries to push past him.

“Isn’t she always? Aren’t we all?” Paladin Lance all but growls. “Maybe since she’s spending too much time on secret missions behind everyone’s backs, she’d make a little time to explain why she’s doing everything without her Team.” Not once does his glare leave Paladin Pidge, who stands frozen behind Curtis.

Curtis tries to reason again: “You have to understand—”

“I won’t understand without a proper explanation.”

“Now is not—” A small hand rests on his arm to stop him. He looks back at Paladin Pidge in surprise.

“It’s fine, Officer. Can you give us a dobosh—I mean, a minute?” She gives him a slight smile that disappears as her gaze shifts to the Paladin he’s still restraining.

“Are you sure?” he asks, regarding her with concern. “You only have a ten-minute allowance, and you should have taken off three minutes a—”

“I’m still at a safe margin,” she assures. “I promise I won’t take long.”

Curtis glances at the still-enraged Paladin Lance. He doubts that very much. Nonetheless, he sighs and capitulates, resolving to call the Captain should an argument arise and interfere with the mission. “Okay,” he says, retreating to a distance that somewhat allows privacy but also alerts him of any brewing conflict.

It’s not that he questions the two’s friendship; it’s just that the air around them is so charged that he’s not sure he can intervene at any point anymore. The tension has only increased after he’s given them some room to talk.

Maybe it’s better to summon the Captain now.

Curtis murmurs into his communicator, “Captain, there’s potential trouble in the Green Lion’s hangar.”

A reply crackles softly from the headpiece. “On my way.”

“I don’t have time to explain anything other than I’m on a secret mission,” Paladin Pidge says, drawing his attention back to the pair. “The fact that you know about it means I’m not done with it yet.”

“What’s the mission?”

“Classified. It’s called secret for a reason, Lance.”

“Where are you going?”

“Classified.”

“Who’s your support?”

“Green.”

“Green?! Pidge, have you been going off alone?!”

“Yeah. So?” she answers defiantly, but her hand moves to grip her forearm in a defensive gesture as Paladin Lance’s anger mounts.

“What do you mean ‘so’?! Why is no one backing you up?!”

The quiet hiss of the hangar doors heralds the Captain’s arrival. In seconds, Captain Shirogane has reached his side and is watching the argument with worried eyes. “How many minutes until Pidge’s time is up?”

He checks his timer. “Seven.”

Captain Shirogane sighs. “Let’s give them five. I have a feeling they need this talk.”

Curtis knits his brows and looks at his Captain. “Not to be insubordinate, sir, but are you sure?”

“No. But let’s hope I’m right.”

“…the more people who know, the more the mission is compromised. Besides, Green and I specialize at stealth—”

“You didn’t think to ask anyone on the Team—”

“Everyone’s busy or can’t keep a secret. Look, I don’t have time—”

“You could’ve asked me for support, Pidge! I’m not as busy and I can—”

“Can what? I can read your thoughts on your face and body language, Lance! You can’t keep something top secret for so long without arousing suspicion! Why are you here, anyway?! If there’s anyone who needs your support, it’s Allura, so go support her instead of wasting my time!!” Paladin Pidge erupts, her words reverberating harshly around the hangar.

Heavy silence falls soon after.

Curtis catches the flash of hurt on Paladin Lance’s face before he turns his head away, the tension in his body evident through the clenched fists at his sides. Curtis barely hears the next words, subdued as they are: “Don’t tell me what to do, Pidge.”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

Paladin Pidge spins on her heel then and walks briskly towards her Lion. “I’m ready to go, Officer. Hey, Shiro,” she manages to murmur as she passes them.

Behind her, Paladin Lance has yet to lift his head or move.

Curtis looks worriedly at his Captain, unsure if this is the outcome they were supposed to hope for. Troubled eyes meet his.

The launch sequence begins its countdown.

When it reaches zero, Curtis realizes that he may have just witnessed the end of a friendship.

#fictober19 #writings #it's april #i know #i'm sorry #TTnTT #voltron #plance

[tiredandineffable]

Christ, if my love were in my arms

Third and sadly late entry for Fictober 2019! Prompt is “Now? Now you listen to me?”

Summary: Rated G. Crowley gets cold and Aziraphale, a principality and good boyfriend, gets protective. Softness ensues. 

.................................

"I'm fine, Aziraphale."

Crowley is decidedly not fine. He hasn't been fine since a literally God-forsaken cold front hit London a week ago, leaving Crowley stuck in the bookshop and sitting by the fireplace under every blanket Aziraphale could find in the hopes of keeping his cold blooded body from facing hypothermia. Once the task was done, a mishmash of hand knits, down comforters, and quilts had been gathered together from every corner of the bookshop until Crowley ended up where he is now, sitting in a tightly wound maelstrom of warmth for the better part of a week, the center of Aziraphale's anxious attention. Sure, he wasn't fine, but he wasn't as bad as Aziraphale had come to believe, either.

"Dear, last time I checked it was two degrees outside, which is far below the recommended minimum of twenty, and the internet said the ideal temperature for snakes is closer to thirty. You scared off a customer by rambling on incomprehensibly a mere half hour ago. You cannot possibly be fine.”

“Angel, it’s at least thirty degrees under these blankets,” Crowley insists as he looks up at Aziraphale, pleading yellow eyes peeking through a mountain of warm layers. “Besides, my body is completely human right now. I can handle the cold.”

It’s a lie. His physiology sits vaguely in between, sometimes shifting closer to one or another as it pleases. Random snake features mingle with random human ones in a way that seems too opportunely inconvenient to be a coincidence. He’s also never been able to handle the cold, mild or otherwise. But humans complain about the cold too. Constantly. The influx of customers coming into the shop to escape the slowly dropping temperatures is a testament to the inherent weakness of all creatures. They’ve been lingering, driving Aziraphale to utter madness just to avoid a bit of wind or some rare London snow. Crowley just happens to start behaving abnormally a little earlier than most. He doesn’t need to be coddled for it. He most certainly doesn’t need to be swaddled in wool.

Aziraphale raised a brow but the look of disapproval was slightly ruined by the twitch of his lips. Crowley counts that as a win.

“Dear-” Aziraphale steps out of Crowley’s line of sight, undoubtedly to plan for his next round of coddling- “last time you said that, it was immediately before jumping into a lake and nearly dying of hypothermia, so pardon me if I don’t quite trust your judgement with regards to regulating your body heat.”

Valid point.

From within his cocoon, he hears more than sees the angel bustle about. This is cozy, he’ll admit. The hot water bottle is excessive but grounding and he wonders if he is physically capable of melting into the floorboards. Between the heat from the old bookshop fireplace and the earl grey scent of Aziraphale on the blankets, Crowley’s fight has started to die down. He’s not agreeing. Far from it, since Aziraphale is still wrong. He’s just not fighting a battle he’ll inevitably lose against a being made of literal love who has decided that this is how he’ll express it. There’s a creak in the floorboards and its in the act of opening his eyes to check on the sound that he realizes he’d been drifting off. The angel sets down what is now Crowley’s fourth mug of tea for the day and Crowley, sleepily accepting of his fate, takes it gratefully. He takes a sip and sinks further into the blankets.

“S’nice.”

“Now? Now you listen to me?” He’s peeved. He’s frustrated because Crowley has fought him on every blanket and every mug of tea and every bowl of soup until this point before suddenly dropping the argument altogether. But it doesn’t last. The disgruntled look melts when he notices the boneless, drowsy way Crowley shifts under the blanket mountain. All Crowley can do is shrug in explanation. His resolve is definitely lost now, with Aziraphale sitting close enough to curl into. You could just lean right over. Just curl up on his lap. It would be the warmest spot in the house. He probably wouldn’t mind. Cozy spot.

“Snake brain,” he explains

“Honestly, Crowley,” Aziraphale huffs as he leans in to gently run his fingers through Crowley’s hair and oh, if he had any resolve left at all, it would be gone now. “You can just ask for things you like. There’s no reason for you to be going about pretending you aren’t cold.”

Cozy spot, Crowley’s mind all but begs.

“It’s just us two, dear, and I will not have you harming your health in the name of posturing.”

Cozy spot. Cozy spot. Cozy spot.

“Besides, it does give me a rather good excuse to close the shop for the day. Much better to spend the day-”

Crowley shifts to wrap Aziraphale up with him before settling on his lap neatly, all tucked in within the space of his angel’s arms, his cheek against his chest. Aziraphale is surprised, even taken off guard, but Crowley has been full of surprises recently and he is more than willing to oblige in this one. Crowley’s eyelids grow heavy and he knows, deep down, that even his hardheadedness won’t win out against the lulling touch of Aziraphale’s hand on his back. Just as it hadn’t won out against his attention, his insistence, the exhaustive nature of his love. But if he had to lose a fight, he can’t say he minds losing this one. The weight of one warm, angelic hand on his own cements his conclusions and he finds himself, in his impossibly cozy state, twining their fingers together gently.

“Oh, western wind, when wilt thou blow; the small rain down can rain.”

The recitation comes as barely more than whispers spoken against Crowley’s temple, but he feels the impossible fondness and sinks ever further into Aziraphale’s chest. Short, soft, tentative fingers rub at the base of his wings and he can’t help it if he falls a little more in love with every light scratch of blunt nails between downy scapulars.

“Christ, if my love were in my arms and I in my bed again.”

Crowley surrenders.

#fictober #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #good omens fic #ineffable husbands fanfiction #ineffable husbands fic #fictober19 #good omens #Aziraphale #aziraphale/crowley #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #crowley #My writing #fluff #utter fluff #established relationship

[kibuto]

Fictober 2019 - Prompt 30

Prompt: 30. I'm with you, you know that Fanfiction: Dragon Age Inquisition Characters/Pairings: Pavellan (Dorian Pavus and Tamvir Lavellan) Warnings: None

Of course they couldn't have the meeting at Skyhold. The Inquisitor's relationship with a man from Tevinter was contentious, but grudgingly accepted by most. The arrival of anyone else from Tevinter, especially an actual Magister, would cause more uproar than Tamvir, Josephine, or anyone else in the inner circle wanted to deal with. Dorian in particular had very little desire to deal with anything related to Magister Halward Pavus.

Eventually Dorian had, with clear resentment to having to do so, consented to meet once again as they had before in Redcliffe. He had even acquiesced to Tam's request to come with him. Tam doubted it had anything to do with his ability to actually do something should Magister Halward make any moves to do something untoward. The only thing he had going for himself was his title and whatever weight it carried.

The descent from Skyhold had been quiet, Dorian not having much desire to chat and Tam not wanting to push him. They'd even ridden separately; Tam on his mount and Dorian on a horse borrowed from the stables. It was strange to not have the simple closeness of riding double.

As much as Tam wanted to give Dorian his space, to respect his need for solitude, he desperately wanted to know what was going on inside Dorian's head. Dorian was always there for him; it felt wrong that Tam wasn't able to offer the same sort of comforting shoulder to lean on.

"Dorian--" Tam started.

"So--" Dorian said at the same moment.

Tam couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him, and hearing the same from Dorian gave him a warm little fizzle of relief. "You first."

"I was just thinking how similar this is to the last time we did this," Dorian admitted. "Though hopefully this time I act like less of a complete ass toward you."

"You were scared and angry and you lashed out, Dorian." Tam shook his head. "I don't blame you for how you acted then." He smiled, blushing, and looked down at his hands holding the reins. "You've more than made up for it."

Dorian's laughter was worth every fragment of Tam's embarrassment from saying the words. It thawed more of the ice that had been clogging the space between them.

"Let's perhaps not go telling that little fact to my father," Dorian suggested, his mirth fading back into seriousness. At least he wasn't as tense as he'd been before. Tam had to find silver linings everywhere he could.

"Definitely not." The last thing Tamvir wanted to do was go discussing his and Dorian's relationship in detail, especially with someone who frowned on it even more than the Chantry sisters. "But whatever this is about, whatever he wants... I'm with you, Dorian. I hope that you always know that."

Dorian nudged his horse in closer, getting their two mounts to walk side by side and allowing him to reach out a hand that Tam clasped. "I wouldn't be doing this if I wasn't with you. At the risk of sounding dreadfully sentimental, with you at my side there is nothing I can't do."

Tam smiled and gave his hand a squeeze before letting go. "Including travel through time," he pointed out. "I don't think I'll ever forget that."

"How could either of us?" Dorian quipped, then shuddered. "We're all lucky that I am as brilliant as I am handsome. A lesser mage never would have been able to get us out of that mess."

Tam didn't need to call Dorian on his exaggeration. They both knew how utterly terrified he'd been in that instant with everything riding on his shoulders. But it had been the first instance where they had needed to trust each other implicitly, and that success had eventually led them to where they were now. What was dealing with family, when they had already faced down so much?

"You're right," Tam said instead. "I truly am the luckiest man in all Thedas."

#Dragon Age #fictober19 #Fictober2019 #Pavellan #Dorian Pavus #Tamvir Lavellan #Ki writes stuff #I know it's June #but fuck it #time is a myth

[ythmir-writes]

Fictober 2019, Day 27

Prompt: “Can you wait for me?” Fandom: Ikemen Vampire Pairing: Le Comte/OC-MC Audience: General

The Comte de Saint-Germain had many things to do, despite the belief among the residents that no, he didn’t really.

“He just sips tea and munches on biscuits.” Arthur said.

“He visits museums often, doesn’t he?” Isaac had asked.

“I’m sure he reads all day.” Theodorus said.

All of these were in a way correct. The Comte did spent his days sipping tea, vising places of art, and learning many new things. Humans, fascinating and tireless as they were, discovered a lot of new things every day. And the Comte enjoyed learning; living a quiet life of contemplation, of constantly watching people live their lives, of being a witness to all sorts of things he would have otherwise missed if he was not the kind of man he was. But recently, something else had taken most of the space in his mind.

Or, if he was going to be very particular, someone else.

He had not noticed it at first. He had always thought he was playing the gracious and curious host. She was strictly not one of them, and she was not of the same calibre as the people he usually invited.

She was different in every aspect.

She was, to put it, more.

And she stood before him now, barely containing the excitement in her eyes as she held the invitation he had given her in her hands.

“The first printing?” She asked.

“Yes.”

Yasmin’s shoulder shook with happiness and she only barely contained a whoop of joy.  “And they’re going to sign it in front of me?”

The Comte hummed in approval. “They assured me that would be the case.”

Yasmin’s mouth opened, closed, before finally saying, “I – I’m just –” she waved her hands, “I have no words, Comte! Thank you so much for making this happen for me! A signed first edition of my favorite history book – this is amazing!”

“It’s a small token. After everything you’ve done for us.” He said.

“I owe you my life!” Yasmin said, leaping towards him and giving him a tight hug.

The Comte felt his heart leap to his chest. All too suddenly, she filled his senses: her scent, her warmth, the way her heart somersaulted from emotions, and the way she squeezed him fondly in her arms and - 

And all too soon, she was stepping back. “I’ve never thought I could live to experience this day!”

“Yes.” The Comte swallowed, recomposed himself. “Well not everyone steps into a wormhole to be transported into nineteenth century Paris.”

“I’m lucky, then.” She grinned up at him. “Very lucky.”

If only you knew who is truly lucky.

“You’ll be coming with me, right?” She asked.

“I would gladly accompany you, if you’ll have me.”

She laughed. “I think it’s the other way around, isn’t it? It’s your invitation, Comte. I’ll come if you’ll have me.”

At that, the Comte could not help but stare. 

He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. If only she understood how much those words affected, how much it meant for him. How much, in all bare honesty, he wanted to scoop her up and have her right then and there.

But his precious little flower had no idea what her words did to him. And as much as he wanted to close the gap between them, bend low to kiss her and coax her into surrendering herself to him, he settle for a nod.

“Then it’s settled.” He said. “We can choose your dress tonight if you are free?”

“I am! I’ll make sure I am” She said, nearly cackling. “Let me just get changed into some good walking boots – can you wait for me?” She asked, hand already hovering over the door.

The Comte smiled.

He knew what she meant by the question, knew that it had utterly, absolutely, completely no relation whatsoever to the thoughts in his head. But he answered it anyway, as if it did.

As if she had asked for his forever.

“For as long as you need, ma cherie.” He smiled at her. “For as long as you need.”

#fictober19 #ikemen vampire #ikevamp comte #ythmir writes #ythmir fanfics #i love a golden boy so much i cant stop writing about him #fictober 2019 day27

[superbataddicted]

Fictober 19 (Prompt 31)

Prompt 31: “Scared, me?"

Rating: General Audience (Fun & Fluff & Kissing, M/M)

Fandom: Superbat, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Superman/Batman

Writer: batzmaru65

“Scared, me?” Bruce snorted, “Why should I be scared of some words from your mouth.”

“Good, then turn around and face me.”

“I’m busy.”

Bruce continued to stare at his bank of video screens, back towards Clark and fingers flying over the keyboard.

“See, it’s obvious that you’re scared.”

“I’m not!”

“But you’ve been typing gibberish for the last paragraph or is that some new language you’ve picked up?”

Bruce’s fingers stumbled, disrupting the rhythmic typing and then he began pressing the delete key in a panic.

“Bruce...”

Clark stepped closer and Bruce suddenly stood up, sending the swivel chair careening backwards as he hurried towards the lift that would take him up to Wayne Manor.

“I was drunk, Clark! And I don’t want to talk about it.”

But Clark grabbed him before he could reach the lift, twirling him around to face him. His lips twitched in delight at the sight of Bruce’s flushed cheeks and he leaned in only to have a palm slammed against his mouth, thwarting his attempt to kiss.

“Now, you listen, really listen. I was drunk and it was a mistake and that’s it. Full stop. Period. End of the story. So don’t act as if...as if there’s...just don’t. Just forget all that had happened and we can go back to how we were before.”

“What if I don’t want to.”

Clark had let go of Bruce and grabbed the hand which had been pressed against his mouth, pulling it away and doing it all in a blink of an eye.

“What if I tell you that I knew you were drunk and yet I purposely teased you, flirted with you and tempted you? It was not a mistake at all to me. And I did it intentionally because I want you very much and I know that you want me too.”

“I was drunk!” Bruce shot back frantically, his brains starting to malfunction at the smouldering intensity in Clark’s gaze.

“Yes, you were drunk when we tumbled into bed last night.” Clark grinned and Bruce flushed even more, “But were you drunk when you sneak peeks at me when you thought I wasn’t looking? Were you drunk when your heart spikes just that little bit when I step too close to you? And were you drunk when you make that tinny forlorn sigh when I bid you goodbye?”

“How did you..! I thought I had...”

“...hid it well?”

Clark’s smile was soft and tender as he pressed a kiss to the back of Bruce’s hand which he had been holding.

“Actually you did but I was in love and fixated on you so I noticed.”

Bruce stared at Clark. He opened his mouth, closed it, sucked in a deep breath, opened his mouth again and Clark kissed him. A half-hearted protest was all that Bruce could manage before he was swept away by the kiss and the whirlwind of feelings that came along with it.

A long moment later.

“I think I’m drunk,” Clark murmured against Bruce’s lips.

“I think you’re a bastard for taking advantage of my inebriated state.”

“I think this bastard will like to take advantage of your current not-inebriated state. And this bastard will also like to take advantage of every single moment available in your life, to share and be there for as long as he can, if you don’t mind.”

Bruce was silent, eyes seething pools of emotions and Clark waited with bated breath. After what seemed like an eternity, Bruce finally sighed.

“I still think it’s a mistake but maybe...it’s a mistake that I don’t think I’ll regret making.”

And Clark beamed, a burst of sunshine that had Bruce’s heart skipping a beat and his love showing clear and strong on his face.

#fictober19 #superbat #clark kent x bruce wayne #superman x batman #writing based on prompts #clark x bruce #writer: batzmaru65

[ewokthrowdown]

Prompt number: 15 - “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Fandom fanfiction: Yuri!!! on Ice

Warnings, pairings: None, Victuuri

It was official. Yuuri and Phichit’s landlord was a dick.

“Right in the middle of the holidays and he puts the rent up!” Phichit was saying for the millionth time.

They were lugging boxes of their stuff into their new flat, just four days before Christmas. As though they didn’t have enough to do, what with the holiday work their tutors had set them, the various festive parties, and shopping for presents for their friends who celebrated Christmas. It wasn’t a big thing for either of them, but their friend Leo loved Christmas and it seemed rude when he always got them a little something. So it had become a tradition that their group all exchanged gifts, which meant they had to get four gifts for each of their group of friends, consisting of three other students; Leo, Guang Hong, Seung-Gil and of course Phichit and Yuuri.

“I know it sucks,” Yuuri agreed. “There’s just a two more boxes downstairs then we’re done though.”

“Okay, I’m just gonna get something to drink,” Phichit said, wiping his forehead and digging through the box marked ‘Kitchen’ for a glass.

“Okay,” Yuuri agreed, before telling Vicchan, his toy poodle, who seemed to want to be wherever Yuuri was, to stay.

Vicchan sat with a little huff and Yuuri headed back out into the hallway on his own, going over to the lift to push the button. Usually he’d use the stairs as a good way to stay fit, but with all the up and down they were doing that would get old pretty quickly.

Back down in the lobby Yuuri lifted another box. It was heavy, full of both textbooks and works of fiction. Well at least it was a good arm workout.

“Hey, new to the building?”

The voice came from behind him, and Yuuri turned to see the most beautiful human being he’d ever laid eyes on. He almost dropped the box.

The man was tall and slim, with a shoulder to waist ratio that looked like it was moulded by the fitness gods themselves. He had a sweep of silver hair, short but with a fringe. His skin was smooth and pale as marble, a jawline and cheekbones that could have cut diamonds. And his eyes... Yuuri thought he’d never seen eyes so blue.

Rather than a witty, interesting reply, what came out of Yuuri’s mouth was “mn-wha?” which he wasn’t sure was even a word. His cheeks were on fire, and if his hands were free he would’ve face-palmed.

The man grinned, apparently aware of his effect, and gestured to the remaining box.

“Can I help carry that up?”

“You don’t have to,” Yuuri managed to say, which was an actual sentence at least.

“It’s no bother,” the man said. “I was going to go to the gym anyway, so this is just like a pre-gym warm up.”

Of course he was on his way to the gym, Yuuri thought. You didn’t get a body like that without some serious work.

“Oh, well, if you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

“None at all.”

The man came forward and took the box with Phichit’s books in it. Yuuri’s own arms were starting to ache, but he was determined to keep hold of the box.

“I’m Victor by the way,” the man said once he’d lifted the box. “I live in flat thirteen.”

“Oh, we're on the same corridor then,” Yuuri said, carrying the box over to the lift and nudging the button with his wrist. “I’m Yuuri.”

“Well hey new-neighbour-Yuuri.”

God Victor’s smile was cute.

The lift pinged and they got in together.

“So do you work nearby?” Yuuri asked, trying to do a better job of conversing since his disastrous beginning.

“I actually work from home,” Victor said, his smile easy and charming. “I’m a photographer.”

“Oh cool, you should meet my roommate, he loves photography.”

“We’ll have to compare cameras. So what do you do?”

“I’m a student,” Yuuri said, glancing at the numbers as they climbed. He was very aware of how close they were standing in the little lift. “I study dance.”

“Oh so that explains it,” Victor said, eyes dragging up and down Yuuri’s body in a not at all subtle manner.

“Explains what?” Yuuri asked, butterflies dancing in his stomach.

“The fact that you’ve got the body of a dancer.”

Yuuri’s cheeks flushed even darker than they already were and he spluttered. Victor smirked.

“Do you like dogs?” Victor asked then, which was an odd segue.

“Um, yes,” Yuuri said, blinking in surprise as the lift doors opened. “I have a toy poodle.”

“You do?” Victor asked, his face lighting up. “But I have a poodle! She’s a standard so probably bigger, but what a coincidence!”

Suddenly Victor didn’t seem nearly as intimidating. In fact from the way he was bouncing along next to Yuuri down the hall he seemed quite dorky. It made him, if possible, even cuter.

“Well maybe our dogs can be friends,” Yuuri said, then realised what he’d said and flushed bright red. He’d basically asked Victor on a doggie playdate.

“I think Makkachin would like that very much,” Victor said, grinning at Yuuri as they reached his door and ducked inside.

Phichit was there, apparently bored with hauling boxes and now arranging their potted plants. Yuuri rolled his eyes. True, Victor had carried up the one Phichit would’ve needed to get, but Phichit didn’t know that.

“We’ve got the last boxes,” Yuuri said as he came in and bent to place the box down in the middle of the lounge.

Vicchan bounced over to lick his face, then went to jump up at the new person.

“They’re all up?” Phichit asked, turning to look at them and his eyes widening at the sight of Victor. “That’s what I’m talking about! Good job. And you might be?”

“Victor,” Victor said, stooping to pet Vicchan and cooing at him. “And you must be Yuuri’s roommate and Yuuri’s very cute dog, hello gorgeous, who’s a good boy? You are, yes indeed.”

Yuuri grinned at the sight of Victor fussing over Vicchan, who lapped it all up. Then Victor straightened and offered a hand to Phichit.

“Phichit Chulanont, at your very sexy service,” Phichit said, winking as he shook the offered hand. Victor laughed. Yuuri wanted to die.

“Yes well,” Yuuri interrupted. “It was very nice of Victor to help out.”

“It sure was,” Phichit agreed. “Would you like to stay for a cup of tea to say thank you?”

“I was actually on my way to the gym,” Victor said, gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb.

“I bet you were,” Phichit said, dragging his eyes up and down Victor’s body as Victor had just done to Yuuri. Yuuri elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“Maybe some other time,” Victor said, clearly fighting the urge to laugh. “It was nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

Though it seemed as though he was talking to both of them, his eyes were very firmly fixed on Yuuri.

“Sure,” Yuuri agreed, blushing, which seemed to be his constant state at the moment.

“Alright, see you,” Victor said, and with one final pet to Vicchan he headed out.

As soon as the door closed behind him Phichit punched Yuuri in the arm.

“Our hot neighbour wants to bang you!”

“Shut up! No he doesn’t.”

“Oh so those fuck me eyes he gave you at the end there were all in my head?”

“Well you do have a pretty overactive imagination.”

“Yuuri,” Phichit sighed, as Yuuri went to start unpacking their kitchen stuff. “Just because I was the one who told you about ninety percent of the students at uni are crushing on you does not mean I have an overactive imagination.”

“There’s literally not enough girls and gay guys to make up that percentage.”

“That’s how powerful you are, my man.”

Yuuri threw a tea towel in Phichit’s face.

~~~~~~~

“I’m home!”

Phichit’s voice rang through from the front hall to where Yuuri was in the kitchen, carefully pulling out a tray of cookies from the oven.

“Okaerinasai!”

“What smells so good?” Phichit asked as he stepped into their kitchen.

It was a day later and they’d pretty much done with unpacking, deciding to just get on with it and knock it out in one day.

“I’m baking cookies for Victor to say thank you,” Yuuri explained, nudging Vicchan out of the way where he was dancing around Yuuri’s feet, hoping for a dropped cookie.

“For carrying one box upstairs?” Phichit asked, coming over and hopping up to sit on the counter.

“Well it was a heavy box…”

“You’re whipped.”

“I believe you have to be in a relationship to be whipped.”

“Semantics.”

Yuuri ignored this and went to open up the cake tin for the cookies to go in once they were cool. He figured if he gave the cookies to Victor in a tin of theirs then Victor would have to return the tin and Yuuri would have an excuse to see him again. It was the perfect plan.

Yuuri put a timer on his phone for the cookies to cool, then went and played a little Super Smash Bros with Phichit before it went off. He put the cookies in the tin and tugged on his shoes.

“Good luck getting the booty,” Phichit called from the couch as Yuuri passed.

Yuuri gave him the finger.

Moments later he was stood outside of flat thirteen, hesitating. Before he could overthink his decision he knocked.

“Coming!” Victor’s voice called from inside and Yuuri felt his stomach clench in anticipation and nerves.

Moments later the lock clicked and the door swung open. Yuuri dropped the cookies.

Victor was in a towel, just a towel. He’d clearly just got out of the shower, his perfectly chiselled torso still a little wet, drops of water rolling over perfectly cut abs. Yuuri’s brain entirely short circuited. He felt like he’d been smacked over the head with a battering ram and all he could do was blink at Victor.

“Yuuri?” Victor asked, eyeing him with some concern. “Are you okay?”

“Guh.”

Yuuri wanted to die. He managed to pull himself back together enough and firmly looked anywhere but at Victor, his eyes fixed on the floor as he swooped to pick up the tin of cookies and held them out.

“I made you cookies to say thank you for helping with the box,” Yuuri explained, his cheeks hot enough to bake another batch. “They’re chocolate chip.”

“Oh!” Victor exclaimed, reaching out and taking the tin. “That’s so sweet of you! You really didn’t have to…”

“It’s okay,” Yuuri said, his eyes firmly fixed on the floor. “Well… bye.”

Then Yuuri fled.

Phichit laughed at him for a solid fifteen minutes when he managed to get the story out of Yuuri, who was still lying facedown on the floor of their lounge an hour later. Vicchan stood on his back in what was clearly an attempt to help.

~~~~~~~

Yuuri looked up from where he was stretched into a split at the sound of a knock on the door a few days later.

“It’s open!” he called, a little embarrassed that he was in such a tiny pair of booty shorts for doing yoga but figured that it was his flat anyway.

He looked over his shoulder to see Victor walk into the lounge. He dropped the cookie tin he was holding. Vicchan let out a bark of surprise at the noise.

“Victor?” Yuuri asked, perplexed by the stunned look on Victor’s face. At least Victor was fully dressed this time, though the jeans were practically painted on.

Victor mumbled something in what sounded like Russian and wiped a hand over his face, his eyes very wide and his cheeks flushed pink. Yuuri moved out of the splits and stood, turning to face him.

“Everything okay?” he asked, going over to where Victor was bending to pick up the tin.

“No, I mean yes, everything’s perfect, everything’s thighs, I mean fine!”

Yuuri had never seen Victor looking so flustered. It was kind of cute actually, the way his cheeks had gone pink and his eyes kept flitting to Yuuri then away.

“You finished the cookies?” Yuuri asked, reaching out to take the tin with a smirk, his confidence growing.

“Yes, they were very good,” Victor said, still looking flustered.

“I’m glad,” Yuuri said. Then, daringly, “I was just finishing up, want a cup of tea?”

“Oh, um, yes, that’d be nice.”

Half an hour later they’d exchanged numbers and agreed to a dinner date on Friday night. Though they didn’t wait until then to make out on the couch. Phichit walked in on them and whooped so loudly Victor fell off the couch. Yuuri tackled Phichit and gave him a noogie.

#victuuri #yuri on ice #yoi #viktuuri #fictober19 #detroit fam #AU: neighbours #fanfiction #my writing #mine

[izzyovercoffee]

Prompt number: 12. “What if I don’t see it?” Fandom: Republic Commando Rating: PG Warnings/Tags: none that I can tell, ask to tag if need Summary: Bardan can’t sleep, but he’s quick to learn this isn’t much better. Notes: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ dear etain come home everyone misses you and bardan’s developing some neuroses from seeing you floating indefinitely thanks

##. or maybe he’s just hallucinating

  It lurks at the corner of his eye. 

He turns, and it’s gone. A trick of the light. A trick of his mind. The paranoia and the anxiety that permeates the ground Kyrimorut’s built within creeping into his blood, maybe. Louder, still, at night and in the dark, where his eyes find difficulty to adjust and he relies more on … other … senses to guide him, much to his chagrin. 

A friend of Mereel’s once took one look at him and laughed. 

“It’s hard to be haunted, no?” they said, after. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, and thought he sounded convincing. 

Certainly he hadn’t been, for they said nothing in reply. Just smiled, knowing, and walked away. 

Bardan breathes in the bite of cold air as he crosses the snow---over the tracks that have worn away at the fallen evidence of winter, packed down the cold and the dirt to forge a path just shy of “safe” to walk in the night. 

It occurs to Bardan, suddenly, as his hand lands on the wall panel to the makeshift medical bay on-property that Mereel has a suspiciously long list of friends who all, it seems, are equally as haunted. If that is, indeed, what haunted means. 

The door cycles open under the scan of his palm, and he’s met with a figure that chills his blood before his eyes.

He blinks and it’s …

Gone. 

Leaving only an open hall, lit as well as their off-grid power can afford to offer alongside the regular heating. 

He steps into the hall, and waits for the door to cycle shut behind him. He removes the outer layers, hanging them up on a rack to the left of him, and leaving him in sparse armor---casual wear, if mandalorians could be said to have them. 

He walks down the hall, down past the open door connecting the lab to this hastily built structure connecting multiple points of necessity to a centralized power. The voices of Mereel, and Dr. Uthan, blur together with the gentle hum of power in the walls as he passes. 

Still talking, still working, long, long past the end of daylight. 

He stops at the end, at the door to another room---empty. Lighting as sparse as everywhere else in this medical station, he feels a pressure lay on his chest he hadn’t at the door. The hairs at the back of his neck rise, and he’s reminded, suddenly, of when he was a child in the temple. Of wandering the halls, past curfew, and feeling the weight of being watched by one of the Knights that walked the halls. 

They had watched him in silent curiosity, and later he understood what he didn’t know then.

So long as he behaved, he would find no trouble. 

He can’t imagine, now, why he’d begin to court trouble in here, in this very room, in this very place, at this very day, but…

Hell.

Maybe there is something to calling their gifts a haunting, rather than a gift. 

“What do you think, Etain?” he asks as he enters the room slowly, hands out of his pockets and hanging at his sides. 

She says nothing---simply floats there, dead to the world, the galaxy, the universe---unresponsive and barely better than the night before.

Worse, he knows, than Fi had been. 

He wants to wonder what the point of maintaining a corpse might be, but the weight of the watching is nowhere near as threatening as the grief welling up in his chest at the thought.

“You’re right,” he says, “I can’t give up hope.” 

He sometimes thinks he wants to. Isn’t it easier to entertain the grief, and the tragedy, and the world-shattering weight of losing her over the unending pain of uncertainty? Of hanging in this limbo of not knowing if she would ever recover?

Her vitals stable. Her body mending, slowly. But… nothing. Unresponsive. 

If not for the …

But he can’t explain that to anyone who asks. Only defend the maintenance of the bacta tank, and his periodic attempts to reach her, through the glass and the distance of…

No one ever spoke about this, before. 

And as much as he had distanced himself, broken off and separated himself, from the Order and everything it had once stood for before it was cut down brutally in its hubris, he still struggles, now, to piece together broken and painful memories to find an understanding---some kind of way through this nightmare Etain’s trapped in. 

But as the days drag into weeks and into months, he finds himself more, and more, desperate---more, and more, fiddling on the edge of frustration, and fury. Fury at himself, for being unable to do what he should have been able to do, easily. Fury at the universe, for aligning in this way, to strike out at them at their heart, and nearly succeed---and, if she never improves, then ‘nearly’ becomes certainty. 

And fury at Kal, for calling her back to the core, for no reason that Bardan could guess at, could understand or make sense of---when she could have easily rendez-vous with the rest of them, at Kyrimorut. They didn’t need her in the city. She didn’t have to come back. 

And Ordo knew it. And said it. 

And yet Kal.

Didn’t listen.

One of the vials to Bardan’s right shatters. Glass sprays, everywhere. 

Bardan takes a step back. Like peering through a curtain, he can see, and feel, his desperate anger as a separate creature from himself. Like a thing of its own mind, and own being, though it lives inside of him. 

It takes effort to unfurl his fists, and even more to understand what he stares at is broken glass of an empty vial from the counter against the far wall. 

And yet he can’t be sure if it’s him who’s responsible. 

A different version of himself might say it’s no one’s fault. A different person with his face and his voice and his name, from a different time, might try to find the middle ground.

But here, and now, with Etain so close to them and yet on the edge of being lost forever, and him being unable to find the path to her, to bring her back---

What middle ground could he justify, that he could not before to stay with the Order? What middle ground could he create to explain his willful blindness, that would not have been just as senseless, and hypocritical, and of help to no one?

He’s supposed to be a healer. A healer heals. 

A healer mends a wound, but a wound can only be mended when it’s recognized for the damage done. 

“But what if I don’t see it?” he asks, and receives nothing in answer. “What if I can’t see it?” 

Something moves in the dark, and he spins to face it---and finds nothing. 

A crack of something sounds down the hall. The lights go out.

The dark seizes his shaken heart and for a brief moment it’s fear, and grief, that roots him to the spot. All that lights the room is the single bacta tank and Etain’s near-lifeless, comatose form floating in the fluid. Though he knows, logically, that her medical supports are hooked up to numerous fail-safes, panic still grips him.

The backup generators grind to life, and the emergency lights blink on, lighting the room in red. 

It’s less than comforting. 

He finds his frustration and gathers it back down in his chest, and leaves her without a goodbye. He passes the lab---noting Mereel and Uthan still worked despite the outage---and stops only to gather the outer layers he needs to survive the bitter cold. 

The door opens under his press to the wall panel.

A dark figure stands in the snow. 

A sharp wind bursts across the clearing, throwing snow and ice in every direction, and as it passes---so does she. There and gone, in a breath and a breeze.

He wants to say the pressure is getting to him. The anxiety, the frustration, the failure. 

But he knows better.

And that knowing only weighs heavier on his heart.

#writing: mine #writing: fictober19 #c: Bardan Jusik #c: Etain Tur-mukan #this continues to be an etain lives au and we can just deal with that

[nadisabug]

Fictober19-Day 8

Title: Alone

Prompt number: 8 “Can you stay?”

Fandom: Danganronpa (SDR2)

AU: post-simulation (note: not apart of the fictober-sdr2 series I am doing, this is separate bc I have been doing so much angst and I need a break)

Rating: T (teen)

Warnings: Graphic depictions of injuries

Tags: SuperDanganronpa2, Komahina

A/N: After the cut, it goes graphic injury depiction. If that bothers you, skip ahead to “Komaeda!” and you should be fine. I’m just trying to practice overwhelming sensation and just descriptions in general. Also!! Sorry it’s late :( I’m doing my best, uni is hard >:( I promise I will get the missing ones out before 12 at the latest.

EDIT: links to part two and three

“”“”“

Pain.

All Nagito felt was pain.

Waves of adrenaline washed over him, stinging and burning, leaving a dull buzz in it’s wake. The uneasy feeling of his skin not being in a single piece - the knowledge that there was a hole in him - made his head spin. He felt as if he were freezing, cold cement beneath him biting at his tender flesh, and burning at the same time. The warm blood soaking his clothes, dripping down his body, pooling in his palms, felt wrong. It irritated Nagito, the thick, warm goo itched his skin. He felt the overwhelming need to wipe it off, just scrub it off of him, and close his wounds so they wouldn’t weep anymore.

But he didn’t. He allowed it to happen, he allowed himself to freeze and burn and itch, he allowed himself to wallow in complete and utter misery. In despair. He deserved it. He was useless, worthless, nothing. He didn’t matter, the only thing he did in this world was fuck everything up - that much was apparent by now. The only contribution he could possibly make would be sacrificing himself in order for hope to prevail. It was probably the only good thing he had done in his life.

But that didn’t mean he should enjoy it, or even feel good about it. He deserved to be as miserable as possible in his last few moments, miserable, in agony, and utterly alone. Nagito felt the tendrils of a burning steam lick at his hand. It traveled up his arm, caressing his gaping wounds, stroking his chin, before delving into his nostrils. He involuntarily gasped, sucking the tape covering his mouth in, and creating a wheezing snort from his nose. The warm fog filled his lungs, coating them, covering them. It felt like he had inhaled tar, and the sticky substance clung to the inside of him. He hyperventilated, forcing short puffs of air out in an involuntary and desperate attempt to expel the offending fog, and consequently pulling more in with each frantic inhale. His mind grew fuzzy and his vision began to darken as the lack of oxygen finally began to take hold. His limbs weakened, and he tightened his grip on the cord he was holding. He couldn’t let go, he couldn’t. If he let go everything would be ruined, pointless, all his fault. He had to keep holding on he couldn’t let go. Nagito looked over to his hand, checking to make sure it was in his hand. But… it wasn’t… Not just the rope…

He didn’t have a hand. Komaeda tried to scream, but nothing came out. His chest started heaving as his mind started to clear, focusing solely on the missing limb. It was oozing thick blood and Nagito was sure he saw the flash of white bone. He just kept trying to scream but he couldn’t he was breathing but he was not speaking he couldn’t call for help no one would come-

"Komaeda!” Nagito’s world tilted and spun, his was sitting up, but there was still blood all over him and he couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t scream- “Nagito!” Calloused hands captured Nagito’s face in a firm hold. Suddenly, all Nagito could see was green and red and green and red and green and red and for some reason someone was screaming but he didnt- “Nagito, look at me, I am right here. It’s me, Hajime. I’m Hajime. You’re okay, I’ve got you.”

Nagito’s eyes focused. Oh. Hinata-kun was here. He had come. He… saved… Nagito…

Nagito stopped screaming. He blinked. Hinata was still there. He blinked again. Hinata was there.

Hajime was there.

Nagito opened his mouth to express his gratitude, to play off his sweat-soaked sheets, tear-stained face, and voice torn by screams. He opened his mouth to apologize. Say something eloquent.

All that came out was a broken sob.

Nagito’s eyes stung and his throat closed, sobs rising from his constricted chest.

Hinata’s eyes softened, losing their frantic, worried edge, and he loosened his grip on Nagito’s face. One of his hands slipped behind Nagito’s back, and suddenly Nagito was in his lap.

He was startled, Nagito tried to push away, insist that he was fine. But Hinata spoke.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m here now.”

Nagito sobbed. He clutched Hinata’s shirt, balling it in his one fist, digging his stump into Hinata’s chest. It was still raw and healing, only just getting over the nasty infection, but Nagito jammed it into Hinata. He needed to, he needed it to be grounded, to be gone, for her to be gone. He wanted it to grow back, just appear like new, like it had never happened. Just more ugly, pale, skinny Nagito. That would be better, anything would be better than the empty space, the memory of the utter despair he went through.

But there was nothing he could do to change that.

So he cried.

He cried until he couldn’t anymore and there was nothing left to cry about. He cried until he stopped. It was slow, a new sob rising every minute or two, growing more and more apart. He cried until he began to feel Hinata’s hand on his back, rubbing circles, pressing Nagito further into Hinata’s chest. He felt the warmth radiating from Hinata and couldn’t help but wonder just how long it had been since he had been this close to someone. He cried until he realized Hinata’s hand was in his hair, combing through it, caressing his scalp. Nagito thought for a moment that his diminishing headache could be due to the comfort provided by Hinata’s hand, but he could neither confirm nor deny it.

And then it was silent.

Nagito felt so secure and warm and safe and so, so very tired. He felt himself begin to drift off, closing his eyes just for a moment-

Hinata moved.

“Wait!” Nagito’s head shot up, a lightning bolt of pain arching across it at the harsh movement. His vision blurred, he clutched Hinata’s shirt again, and his entire body is tense. “Please! Don’t… don’t…” please don’t go

Hinata did not respond for quite some time. It was long enough for the pain in Nagito’s head to soften to a dull ache and his vision to clear and focus on Hinata’s face. He was stoic, as always, expression carved in fine granite. Magnificent. Always. He always was.

The silence worried Nagito. Of course Hinata would say no, Nagito knew he did not deserve any of… whatever this was. But, whether it was because he felt like he could not backtrack or because he needed it that bad, he spoke again.

“Can you stay?”

Nagito’s whole world froze for a moment. He stopped breathing, his heart stopped beating, he stopped thinking. Everything was in this small moment, everything rode on this. This could change everything. Nagito knew it was risky. He knew it was stupid. He knew Hinata would say no because Nagito was terrible, just terrible the worst human being he didn’t des-

“For as long as you need me.”

Nagito almost started crying again.

Hinata said it so… simply. Like this wasn’t the most important thing Nagito had ever been told. It held so much, a promise, a commitment, an understanding. It meant so much. Nagito felt like he had to say something, he had to. It was just… too much for him not to.

He opened his mouth and an echo of a sob came out. His face burned and he looked down at his hands hand and stump. He couldn’t meet Hinata’s eyes. He opened his mouth again to explain himself, to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, to beg Hinata to not take it back and leave Nagito all alone again…

“Nagito, you don’t need to say it,” Hinata finally spoke, voice velvet and warm. Nagito felt Hinata brush a strand of hair behind his ear and reddened in response. “I know.”

At that, Hinata laid down on the bed, pulling Nagito with him. Hinata pulled the blanket over the both of them, pressing Nagito into his side.

“Sleep.” Hinata ordered softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Nagito’s final thought before sleep claimed him was an answer.

I hope you never do.

#fictober19 #komahina #hinakoma #super danganronpa 2 #danganronpa #komaeda x hinata #fictober day 8 #hinata hajime #nagito komaeda #nagito x hajime #gods i almost cried writing this #why do i torture my boys? #at least it has a happy end? #lol pls don't hate me ill do less angst i promise :( #wuould you believe me if i said this was just supposed to be stright fluff? #i just *clenches fist* love angst #okay ill stop ranting lol

[nobeliumoxygenoxygenmisc]

Kagaminette || A certain taste

For fictober event @fictober-event

Prompt number: 9 “There is a certain taste to it.” Fandom: Miraculous ladybug Rating: General Warnings/Tags/Ships: None, Kagami x Marinette 

Kagami tries out baking for the first time and it turns out… well, Marinette will tell her (or try to). (>1k words)

--

This was fun, Kagami thought with a smile, closing the oven door in satisfaction before turning to Marinette, who was smiling fondly at her. "Now we wait?"

"Yep!" Marinette said cheerfully. But then she blinked, a giggle escaping her throat as Kagami wondered what exactly it was that had prompted such a reaction. "But first, let's maybe clean ourselves up. And the kitchen," She added, gesturing to themselves and to the Dupain-cheng's kitchen that did look like a storm had gone through it. Kagami had never seen such a mess before, and she grimaced, wondering just how they'd get through it, when Marinette continued, "Though, it's not as bad as I expected."

She turned to her, surprised. "Really?" 

Marinette nodded, already gathering some of the used equipment. "You should have seen when I baked with Alya. It looked terrible in here!" She laughed. "And she said she totally had it. You've never baked before, right Kagami?" Kagami nodded. "See? This is really good for your first try!" 

On instinct, Kagami fought the smile before remembering to let it be. Her stomach warmed all of a sudden, the compliment making her surprisingly happy, considering how many compliments she received on the daily. But then again, those were for things she already knew she was good at (things she had to be good at); fencing, grades, archery... baking, on the other hand, was something she was completely new at.

The kitchen was cleaned up and the aprons taken off, the two going back into the living room where they continued playing the video game Marinette had said was Ultimate Mecha Strike Three. 

Now that was something Kagami was not the most proficient at. Marinette seemed to win every round, except for one where Kagami had instantly known she'd gone easy on and had called her out for. Not that Kagami cared too much about the losing; it was fun, regardless. Especially without the need to be the best. 

This whole day was fun, she thought again.

The timer went off, startling Marinette almost off her seat, Kagami concerned before she paused the game, laughing nervously. "Oops, guess I was too caught up, huh?"

"You were concentrating. That's a good thing," Kagami said, earning another laugh. 

They went back into the kitchen, her heart beating as Marinette eagerly took out their trays and laid it on the counter. She was unusually excited for this; it wasn't as if her cupcakes were going to be the best things ever (in truth, she doubted how good they'd taste because they just did not seem the same as Marinette's), but... she was excited and she really, really hoped they did taste, at the very least, decent. 

"Here." Marinette gave her a pink icing bag, her smile nothing but encouraging. "You can follow my lead, or you can make any sort of design you want, it's completely up to you!" 

She nodded, watching Marinette for a moment then deciding that she would go her own path. Taking the bag, she steadied herself before carefully putting the icing on. She waited again, wondering about what exactly she was allowed to use before Marinette's voice interrupted her thoughts. 

"Feel free to use anything on the counter Kagami," She said. "If there's something else you want, we probably have it so just ask and I can try and find it!" 

Kagami flushed, reaching out to get some oreo bits; had she been so transparent that Marinette could read her so easily? She must have been.

She ignored the thoughts, focusing. It didn't matter. Marinette was kind, and nice, and cute, and non-judgemental. She could let her guard down around her, she told herself.

It was a few minutes more before she was done, stretching a bit after having leaned down for so long, realising as she did so that Marinette was looking at her cupcakes with wide eyes. She glanced between her and the pink and red black-spotted cupcakes; had she done something wrong? She wasn’t normally this self-conscious, she knew, but baking was Marinette’s expertise and definitely not something she was even remotely well-practiced in.

"Are they..." Marinette began, hesitantly. "Are they Ladybug themed?"

Kagami smiled, the smile coming on naturally at the mention of the superhero. "Yes. I look up to her, so I decided to decorate them based on her." 

Marinette seemed to beam, grinning. "That's really awesome, Kagami. I'm sure she'd love them."

"That would be nice, if she tried them." It would, but she pushed her hopes down, foolish as they were. As if she'd get an opportunity to give Ladybug some. And furthermore, "I must improve before even thinking of giving her one." Something flickered in Marinette's eyes, but she couldn't quite decipher it, even as Marinette asked to try one. She blinked, slightly confused. "Of course. It was only with your kindness that I could make them, after all. I would say they are also yours."

Marinette waved her hand. "Pfft, but you made these all on your own! They're still yours." She took a bite, her eyes widening as something even more unreadable flashed across her face.

Kagami waited. And waited, as Marinette chewed and swallowed, and suddenly her stomach sank, realisation dawning. "There's something wrong with it, isn't there?"

Marinette coughed. "Wha-wha-whaaat? No! Of course not! They're great! I've--I've never quite tasted anything like it! There's a certain taste to it--they're super dummy--yummy! Yummy! Delicious, I mean--"

Kagami held up a hand, conflicting feelings of disappointment but also strange fondness warring in her heart (she didn’t want to admit it, but she knew she had been expecting a brisk scolding, even though by all rights a failed cupcake should not have warranted such a reaction). "It's fine, Marinette. I understood I wouldn't be as good as I hoped in my first try." She raised her hand again as Marinette opened her mouth. "You don't have to spare my feelings. I'll know as soon as I try them, anyways."

She deflated, bashful. "...You're right. Sorry, Kagami." 

Kagami shook her head. "Don’t apologise. I'm thankful you tried, but please remember you don't have to do that with me." She took a cupcake herself, and bit into it, thoughtful as she chewed. 

Yes, there was something off about it. Maybe she hadn't put enough sugar? That must have been it. But she had followed all the instructions as best she could, though, how could she have... she pushed those thoughts away. No, it was alright to get things wrong. There were second chances, she reminded herself, looking at Marinette as she offered her an encouraging smile. 

At least, in Marinette's home there was. 

Then she noticed something else. "Are your cupcakes based on the superheroes as well?"

Marinette brightened, nodding vigorously. "Yep! I tried to keep it as close to their designs as possible... can you recognise them?" 

Of course she did, looking at the black and gold one that was clearly Chat Noir; the green Carapace one with the pattern of a turtle shell; an orange and white one for Rena Rouge; yellow and black, the icing positioned like a stinger for Queen Bee; and even a few more she vaguely recognised, perhaps for the newer heroes that she had heard rumours about but hadn't seen yet (besides herself, obviously).

And then her eyes widened at the one she had previously assumed was Ladybug's. But no, Ladybug had no yellow on her costume whatsoever, and this one had four pieces of candy corn on the sides just like... Ryuko. Her.

"Is there something wrong?" Marinette asked, her voice soft and nervous. Kagami blinked out of her thoughts.

"No," She said finally, looking into Marinette's eyes and, if she could look at herself, she might have been quite possibly beaming. "They look amazing."

Marinette smiled, the happiness on her face setting off something even warmer in Kagami's heart. "I'm glad."

--

fourth one for fictober i think? ive written more than i thought i would (and way more kagaminette too 😂). thank u for reading and hoped u enjoyed!!

#fictober19 #miraculous ladybug #kagaminette #marigami #kagami tsurugi #marinette dupain cheng #kaganette #kagami x marinette #marinette x kagami #kagami tsurugi x marinette dupain cheng #marinette dupain cheng x kagami tsurugi #my writing #writing #my work

[theherocomplex]

Fictober, Day 3

Fandom: Castlevania

Pairing: Alucard/Sypha/Trevor

Warnings: Non-explicit references to canon-typical violence. 

Prompts: “Now? Now you listen to me?”

Notes: Trevor, no. 

Prompt List

*********

It takes Trevor a little longer than it should have to figure out the weird gaspy noises are coming from Alucard’s direction, but he’s going to blame that on the concussion. No man alive is at the top of his game when his bell’s well and truly rung, not even a Belmont. 

Of course, offloading the blame doesn’t change the fact there’s a half-vampire currently hyperventilating five feet to his left, nor does it do anything to help the situation. Which is, currently, about an eight-point-five on Trevor’s personal bullshit scale -- it’s below Ancient Vampire Trying to Destroy the World Out Of Grief, but then again what isn’t, but above Starving to Death as an Excommunicant Heretic and Falling Drunkenly Asleep in What Turned Out To Be Fresh Manure. 

Something shrieks from the stream just ahead of him. Alucard leaves off the gasping in favor of shouting a warning as something sleek and dark clambers long-limbed out of the water, and moves fast as lightning in Trevor’s direction. He rolls out of the way just in time, landing face-up in Alucard’s lap just as the creature lands in the space he so recently occupied. 

“Belmont --” Alucard wheezes, then spits up a mouthful of greyish river water. “We need to -- we need --” More wheezing, more water; maybe the hyperventilating isn’t from an oncoming panic attack and more because the rusalka currently slithering toward them spent the better part of the last hour trying to find out if half-vampires could drown. 

Trevor tries to make a mental note to apologize for assuming Alucard was being a useless tit, but his thoughts slide away, and he can barely focus on Alucard’s pale, angular face. 

At least Sypha got away, he tries to say, as the rusalka lets out another shriek -- this one so close he feels her breath on his neck. She’ll warn the villagers, get them mounting a defense; salt and holy water and fire should do the trick. 

Alucard cries out as a set of fiendishly sharp claws stab into Trevor’s shoulders. He tries to hold on, but they’re both beat to shit and Trevor can’t get a grip of Alucard’s shoulders. He’s dragged backward, into a nest of muddy red hair and a low monotone hum. 

One rusalka shouldn’t have been this much trouble, he thinks, as the claws punch through his chest, somewhere below the ribs. They killed Dracula, they killed so many other vampires, surely this isn’t how it ends, on a muddy riverbank with Alucard coughing up blood and water and Sypha vanished into the woods. 

“Sweet boy,” whispers the rusalka. “Sweet, sad boy, you’ll sing for me, won’t you?” 

Alucard shouts his name -- Trevor, for once, not Belmont, and if that isn’t a sign of how bad things have gotten, Trevor doesn’t know what is. But then Alucard yells something else, something that sounds suspiciously like fuck, which -- well, normally Trevor would be very interested, but that seems unlikely to be high on Alucard’s list of priorities, and so Trevor goes with the next option, and ducks. 

Heat arcs past his head and slams into the clammy body pressed against him. The rusalka screams, a nasty bubbling noise that sounds like a pot boiling over, but more flame arrives, crashing into her like rocks thrown through a window, followed by a stream of ice shards. A few catch him in the cheek and shoulder, but he’ll take a bit of skewering over being cooked any day of the week. 

The rusalka leaps back toward the water, but Sypha -- covered in mud, her robes torn in a dozen places, her hair a coppery tangle and her mouth locked in a snarl -- simply slams her palms together, and the icy blades buried in the rusalka’s flesh explode outward, shredding her into a hundred bloody chunks. 

There’s a moment where no one makes a sound -- save Alucard, who’s back to gasping -- and then Sypha whispers their names. 

“‘M fine,” says Trevor, who’s really not, but now that he can see Alucard, the poor bastard’s not just half-drowned but chewed, from neck to waist, and Trevor figures his various traumas can wait. “Seems like we’re all in trouble, though. Nasty business, that...” He waves toward the water, then lets his head fall to the ground. 

“I have been saying that,” says Sypha, loftily, icily, “for days. Now? Now you listen to me?” She wads a bandage against the worst of the bites on Alucard’s chest, then squelches her way through the mud to Trevor. “Idiot.” 

She says it fondly, her hand against his cheek. And she’s so warm, all bright hair and brighter eyes. 

“Well,” he says, leaning into her touch, holding out his hand as Alucard staggers forward. “Getting my arse kicked was a good support for your argument. It was your turn for an I told you so, anyways.” 

#fictober19 #Castlevania #trephacard #Trevor Belmont #Sypha Belnades #Alucard #adrian fahrenheit tepes #how do I tag Alucard!!! #beefic #also I know rusalka are not native to Wallachia BUT COME ON #RIVER MONSTERS!!!! #also I give myself a strict time limit to write these otherwise they'd all be 2000 words long #so forgive any mistakes!!!!

[carisi-dreams]

Fictober 2019

Prompt number: #31, “Scared, me?” Fandom (AU if applicable): Law & Order: SVU Pairing: Sonny Carisi x Reader Rating: T Warnings/Tags: warnings: none; tags: Halloween themed

-----------------------

“If you get scared, I’ll hold your hand,” Sonny offered as the two of you settled back on the couch with snacks in hand.

“Scared, me?” You laughed and shook your head. The aroma of cinnamon and apples wafted up into your face from the mug in your hand and you paused to take a sip of the spiked cider. “These movies aren’t really scary.”

“That’s why you spend half the time with your face hidden in my shoulder?” Sonny asked in amusement. He flicked the television on and paged through the screens in order to get the first movie queued.

“Excuse me, what if I do that just because I want an excuse to cuddle up to you?” You wiggled your eyebrows. “Ever think of that?”

Sonny lifted his arm and draped it over your shoulder to pull you snuggly against his side. He dropped a warm kiss to your temple and you buried your pleased smile in your mug.

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

When you glanced up at him he was smiling and you strained to catch him in a kiss before he took pity on you and leaned down to better close the distance. It was only when you accidentally sloshed the cider over your hand that the two of you came up for air. Sonny gripped the offended hand and blew on it before licking the cider off with a practiced sensual look.

“Baby,” you whined. “Movie.”

“Mmhmm. It’s not going anywhere. Besides, making out while a 90s teen scary movie plays in the background is just honoring the source material.”

With that he plucked the mug from your hand, pressed play on the remote, and pressed you back into the couch as you laughed.

#fictober19 #sonny carisi #sonny carisi x reader #sonny carisi imagine #halloween #my writing