my fanfiction and other writings

What if...

“Plagg, claws out.”

“Huh? Wait, Adrieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—!”


He’s so tired. So dead tired.

He’s so tired that he can barely function.

Still, as the model Agreste son, he has to make sure to uphold his image, just as his father taught him.

So he straightens his back and adjusts the strap of his backpack against his shoulder, and enters the classroom.

His classmates are all quiet but he doesn’t mind. He’s too sleepy to care.

He stifles a yawn and takes his seat next to Nino, giving him a casual, “hey.”

“Uhh?” Nino responds blankly.

Huh, he must be sleepy too. What a true bro.

He turns around to greet Marinette and Alya.

Alya is gaping and has her hand out like she’s texting on her phone. But her phone seems to have fallen on her desk.

Marinette is staring at him like he’d grown fifty-seven heads and laid an egg.

Seems just like usual then.

“Good morning,” he says to them, hoping the smile he offers them doesn’t look too tired.

Marinette’s eyes widen like he just sprouted an additional fifty-eighth head.

He has no energy to contemplate that so he turns around and lays his head on his desk, hoping to catch a few Z’s before roll-call.

And it’s roll-call that wakes him only a few minutes later.

“Adrien Agreste,” the voice of Miss Bustier calls out.

So he raises his hand and says—

And then he is jolted awake when Marinette starts screaming from behind him.

What if… Adrien was so sleepy that he just walks into class as Chat Noir?

Marichat May (What If…)

  • 1. Go out to a public, but not overly crowded place and take a notebook with you. Remain there for 10 minutes writing down random overheard snippets of conversation. Afterwards, choose an interesting piece of dialogue and use it as your first line/stanza.
  • 2. Visit a thrift store or market and find 5 items that interest you. For each item imagine the kind of person that would own it and create a character based on it. Write about that character.
  • 3. Take a bunch of small pieces of paper, and on each one write a word that you like. Then, draw 3 words at random and try to incorporate them into a short piece. This can be anything as long as all 3 words are included. You could also try using a random word generator.
  • 4. Visit a library, and pick out 5 book titles that interest you. These can be fiction, non-fiction or both. Write a scene inspired by one of these titles.
  • 5. Pick up a book you haven't read. Look at the title and front cover. Write the story based on these alone. (Literally reading a book by it's cover)
  • 6. Pick out a random book from your personal book shelf. Open it onto a random page and pick out a sentence from this page. This is your opening line / stanza.
  • 7. Find a random page in any book, or any piece of paper with writing on it. Highlight every single noun on the page. Pick out a few of these nouns. Write 3 sentences personifying each noun. The first sentence should start with "I am the _____ ...."
  • 8. On a bus or in the back seat of a car, look out of the window at road signs. Write down words or entire phrases from road signs, and use one of them as the title for a short piece.
  • 9. Go to a clothing store and pick out a t-shirt. If the t-shirt has a slogan on it, use it as your first line/stanza. If the t-shirt has images on it then base your piece on the image.
  • 10. Turn on the television or watch a long YouTube video. Write down pieces of dialogue that are memorable to you. Choose one and write a scene around it.

Based off this very blushy art, aka, my KageHina Critical Hit spot T~T

Kageyama doesn’t get embarrassed, Hinata has discovered. Like, ever.

He’ll fall asleep in class sitting straight up with his eyes still open, the whites showing when they roll to the back of his head, and all his classmates laugh and pose for pictures with him. When he wakes up, he blinks at them in a daze, yawns, and then goes about his business.

He has shown absolutely zero shame discussing his bowel movements in front of people, up to and including Yachi, for which Tanaka and Nishinoya have given him several stern lectures.

He says stuff like “Even if it takes you ten years, or twenty, will you still stand with me? Even at the top of the world?” Most high schoolers would show a healthy amount of mortification, practically proposing to their crush and eventual boyfriend-to-be as abruptly as that, but not Kageyama Tobio. He’s immune.

Hinata, in contrast to Kageyama, is easily embarrassed by everything. He gets embarrassed when he’s called on in class and doesn’t know the answer (so, every single time), he turns red when he has an upset stomach before games, he starts stammering and shouting apologies when he hits the net with a bad serve. The time he puked in Tanaka-senpai’s lap on the bus on their way to a practice match, he almost died. It doesn’t keep Hinata down for long, but he and Kageyama are like night and day when it comes to this stuff.

So of course, when Kageyama confesses to Hinata (he just did it out of nowhere, too), it takes Hinata at least three minutes to stop hiding behind the volleyball he’s holding to accept his confession, and another two minutes to start breathing properly again. Kageyama has to say “Oy, dumbass,” no less than four times in order to snap him out of it. When Hinata finally looks up at Kageyama, he’s met with the usual severe frown he knows so well (and is weirdly fond of).

“So, do you want to?” Kageyama asks him.

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Cupcakes and a child’s love

Words: 2.9k

Genre: Fluff

Description:  Dan is working at the bakery “The Cake Whisperer” when a man and his child come into his life. All it took was a spiderman cupcake.

Warnings: none (mention of a creepy dude)

Read on AO3

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2016 Fic Masterpost; KageHina-centric

This is almost everything I wrote this year! Including fics in collections, here are 81 completed fics, totaling 376,418 words. I am a little bit proud :’) 

This is absolutely the most productive I’ve ever been and it’s because of this series and fandom. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart!!


Hunger - KageHina. Mildly A/B/O influenced medieval AU. 57k words total.

  • Hunger, rated E. Shouyou is a prince fleeing his kingdom, when he comes across a hungry Wolf in the woods. 32.6k.
  • Homecoming, E. Three small words. 7.1k.
  • Mercy, E. Heat. 4.7k.
  • Howl, E. Fitting in. 11k. 
  • Chill, E. Snow. 1.3k. 

Speed Demons - Street racing AU. 35k words total.

  • Speed Demons, M. KageHina. Hinata is desperate to race, but first must impress his grumpy mechanic partner. 17.4k.
  • Finish Line, E. KageHina. Road head. 1.7k.
  • Radiator, E. KageHina. Kageyama is just a really hot mechanic. 3.6k.
  • Jump Start, T. Gen. Pre-series Kageyama backstory. 12k.

Gods AU - Mortal meets divine. Standalone stories. 

Better Late Than Never - KageSugaHina one shots. 13.4k words total.

Collections (all KageHina)

Fics written for RC’s 30 Day NSFW Challenge

2016 KageHina Week [9/10] MasterpostRatings vary. 24.5k total.

2016 Kinktober MasterpostGenerally rated E. 83.7k total.

2016 Winter MasterpostSanta Baby + some extras. Ratings vary. 8.5k total.

Stand-Alone Fics (all KageHina)

Little things that fit nowhere else (all KageHina)

And now here we are at the start of a new year! I’m ready for 2017 :) Thanks again to everyone who read all or any of these words. 

Turn the Heat Up

Lance just wants someone to make his room warmer, and he gets more than he bargained for.

2,538 Words

Read on Ao3

Mornings around the castle were typically a breeze for Lance. He’d get up, wash his face mask off, and join the others at breakfast. On training days, he did the same, just ten times faster. That was why Lance was quick to proclaim himself as the team’s designated ‘Morning Person’, much to the annoyance of everyone around him.

That being said, Lance did not feel like a morning person today.

He groaned as he woke up, feeling a dull, persistant ache throughout his body. Jeez, did I sleep wrong last night? Lance let out a yawn, which turned into a brief coughing fit. Yep, definitely slept wrong. He grunted as he pushed himself out of bed and into his bathroom, where he halfheartedly scrubbed at his face mask. He glanced at his reflection and let out a gasp that would rival a telenovela star.

“What’s wrong with my face?” To anyone else, Lance would look perfectly normal, but he could see a monumental difference.

His face wasn’t as glowy as usual. And to top it all off, his cheeks were a light shade of pink.

The blue paladin pouted. This was unacceptable. He didn’t put this much effort into his masks for mediocre results. Lance sighed. “Well, nobody can be perfect all the time. Even though I’m pretty close.” He winked and made finger guns at himself in the mirror.

He cut himself off with another coughing fit.

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Chat Noir Finds Out (Part 2)

Summary: This is the simple, straight-forward tale of how Chat Noir found out Ladybug’s true identity and how he dealt with it.

He dealt with it expertly like the heroic cat he was and definitely didn’t mess anything up.

Nope, he didn’t mess anything up at all. 

Next Part || Part 1, 4 || Ao3 Link || Other Works

yells into the sun “help i don’t know what i’m doing!”

Chapter 2: The Day After Chat Noir Found Out

“Plagg, what should I do?”

Adrien was hysterical. It was only fifteen minutes before he has to be driven to school. He was going to see her and he wasn’t ready and he didn’t know what to do.

Last night was a complete blur, and it was a surprise he even remembered he just discovered Ladybug’s civilian identity. Actually, no, that was the only thing he remembered. What happened the rest of yesterday was a complete mystery to him.

To add to the mystery, that very morning he woke up—he didn’t remember falling asleep either—the first thing Plagg did was not ask for cheese, but to gently remind him that his name was Adrien Agreste. He couldn’t fathom why. At the back of his head, he vaguely remembered a lot of Marinettes, but it couldn’t have been so bad that he’d forgotten his own name, right?


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anonymous asked:

can u do a pharmercy prompt where angela smokes

It’s amazing that you requested this because after I saw this post I literally thought to myself “I really want to know what a smoking Mercy is like.” And I never wrote it because I thought it might actually be too out of character.

But now you’ve given me an excuse to do it anyway, so THANK YOU. <3

It isn’t a habit, entirely. She does not skip out in the day to come out here. She knows the medical ramifications, has studied them intently in school, and later, on her own; a morbid curiosity into her own self-destructive tendency.

Everyone has them, Angela reasons, why shouldn’t she? She is not an angel, for all she pretends. For all she hopes and aspires to. In her mind there is an ideal woman there: proud and strong and unbelievably kind. Angela endeavors, and she fights - as she always has. One day, she thinks, she may become the thing the world repeatedly tells her she is.

It is midnight, everyone is asleep, and she is sitting on the flat metal roof of the base in Gibraltar, mapping the constellations her father had once pointed out to her.

It’s the anniversary of his death - their death. The neural implant in her spine is dislodged by a fraction of a hair from a previous mission and it hurts.

Angela lights a cigarette, her knees pulled up and tucked under her chin and she accepts the pain of both these things as wisps of smoke float away, illuminated by the moonlight; there’s Orion.

The other night Angela had sat beside Fareeha and pointed out the stars, their significance - had talked about Greek mythology, a favorite subject of hers, and had listened to Fareeha recount what she remembered of Egyptian mythology from her time in school. Angela, studious to a detrimental degree and endlessly fascinated with the things Fareeha has to share, looked up more, learned more.

Angela breathes in; breathes in smoke, lets it burn her esophagus a little bit, thinks of how it is killing her a little more with each drag and admits to herself that she may truly love another person again.

It is terrifying.

It is terrifying because Angela cares deeply for life, in general, her friends in particular, but she knows that each string she ties to them, binds them to her, is a liability - the best medical professionals in the world are the ones who look first for results; last, out for the people around them. Statistically, their accomplishments are often more significant. Angela has always kept a professional distance - it is the best way she knows how to save lives.

Fareeha is a wild card. She is so brave and so loyal and so unbelievably beautiful, good, much more than Angela deserves. And yet she lingers; to eat lunch with her and invite her out to walk around town; to spend thirty minutes at a claw machine in a super market trying (unsuccessfully) to win trivial items. (Angela has the dinosaur shaped trinket on her bedside table even now).

Angela sighs, the cigarette is to the filter so she unfurls, presses it against the heel of her boot to extinguish what’s left and puts the butt back in the box, to be thrown away later.

Orion hasn’t moved, her parents are still gone, the pain at the base of her neck is nearly unbearable.

Perhaps nothing has changed.

Angela brushes off her pants, shivers against the chilly evening air and considers going back to her room. Walks there, in fact, but detours to walk further down the hall, to stop at a familiar door.

Should she go in? She has before.

Fareeha is undoubtedly asleep; Angela would be displeased if she wasn’t.

The door opens for her when she slides it. Fareeha, afraid of confined spaces, small rooms, does not lock doors. She has confessed this to Angela; not even bathroom stalls, she is especially adverse to elevators.

Angela removes her shoes, placed them by the entrance. Removes her pants and her sweater and folds them, placing them on Fareeha’s desk, so that she is standing in her shirt and underwear.

She moves to the bed, sees Fareeha there, sprawled out as she often is - the woman does not sleep as she had once assumed she might - curled into herself. She’s breathing through her mouth, her shirt loose, her hair splayed against her pillow.

Angela pushes her lightly and she stirs, she is a notoriously light sleeper.

“Hmm?” She hums, and moves slightly towards Angela. Angela crawls over her, lays in the space between Fareeha and the wall.

“Can I stay?” She asks, quietly.

“Of course,” replies Fareeha, wraps an arm around her middle to pull Angela into her. Angela is not always in this position, sometimes Fareeha hurts too, so they trade. But tonight Angela wants to be held and she is glad for it.

Fareeha buries her face in the nape of Angela’s neck and even that seems to alleviate the pain there (tomorrow she will have to fix it; tonight she cannot be bothered).

“I did not know you smoked,” Fareeha says eventually; it occurs to Angela she must smell the lingering traces there in her hair, or perhaps from her mouth as she breaths out.

“I don’t,” Angela says.

Fareeha squeezes tighter, seems to engulf her. She says nothing else and soon her exhales even out and Angela is left awake, feeling warm - so warm. Feeling okay.


Final Fantasy XV - StylishChocobutt’s Fan Art Collection;

Time for me to get real on a post for a moment. Above, you’ll see a collection of my FFXV fan art that I’ve completed since April. A variety of these have been noticed by their appropriate voice actors, and all of them have been loved and shared by you folks on tumblr.

If someone had told me a year ago ‘you’ll pick that tablet pen back up’ I’d have laughed in their face. I couldn’t touch that pen without wanting to cry, I’d had every bit of creative joy drained from me over the years of doing commissions for customers who more often than not could be quite hurtful with their requests after their piece was finished.

I gave up. I absolutely gave up.

And then I played FFXV, and started writing my first fanfiction: System. I saw a few other fanfics were getting fanart and I was like, nah, I can do that. So I did. Okay, NH-01987 (which isn’t above) didn’t get much notice, but I didn’t mind. I’d proven to myself I could pick up a pen. It was 17 hours of stress, anger, occasional moments of near giving up, but you know what, I finished it. I went on to do Promise, just to see if I could paint a scene like that-

And then, then I did ‘Turns out I’m one of them’ for Episode Prompto, way before it was released.

And holy shit guys, you sent that one well into 2k notes, and my follower count went from like 6, to well over 400.

Since then, I’ve done several pieces and done my best to try and push myself out of my comfort zone and into new types of landscapes.

I just want to thank you gys on here, because without you, I’d still be moping and hating myself for my art, when really all I needed was that little push in the right direction by such an amazing fandom. That’s YOU! I love you guys so much on here.

Everytime I get a comment, reblog, or like, I’m so freaking happy you don’t even know.

Thanks so, so much for the continued support!

Gonna tag some names of peeps I 100% adore and always see pop up too <3
Ilyall, everyone, every one of my followers, and even those of you who don’t follow but still support my stuff.

<3 @rogueheartedfiction @seerya @poisonous-panda @onpanwa @daemonchocobo @barcodechocobo @theasset6 @prompto-cam @galrainfused @weewildelass @destiny-islanders @asidian @rah-bop @chocobutt-trash

AND EVERYONE ELSE, I STG <3 If I haven’t tagged, I still love you, I’m just a plebe.

anonymous asked:

dude that'd be awesome if you can write all those AUs from the post where "chloe" was crying in her car

This is the link to the gifs that inspired this one-shot.

Chloe’s marriage has broken down. Her kids are asleep in the back seat. She’s packed up some of their things, left her husband, and is now parked outside Beca’s apartment but doesn’t have the guts to go up. Shortly after this set of Gifs, Beca knocks on her window, and tells her to come inside. Beca scoops up Chloe’s daughter. Chloe scoops up her son. They go inside together.

Chloe turned the engine of her car off and brought her left hand back up to the steering wheel. Her hands gripped the leather tightly as her surroundings fell silent, save for the sound of her two young children breathing at different rates as they slept in their seats behind her. Her babies. Her everything.

Her little girl, her beautiful little two year old whose smile shone like the sun regardless of the situation or time of day. The curls of Rosie’s fiery red hair bounced whenever she laughed, which was oh-so often. Chloe recognised so much of the way she had once been in her daughter. The way she used to be. Smiley, positive, full of life. Now at the grand age of 36, Chloe was a dark shadow of her former self.

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I wrote something!! For @hollyand-writes​, who prompted me with: F!Fenhawke prompt from that list you put up (if you’ve got time to write a ficlet!) “With my help, your flirting will be much more socially acceptable.”

I was inspired I guess: 

Why, oh why had she encouraged her mother to give a party like that. No, not a party, a ball. A ball! Hawke is still trying to get used to being rich at all but her mother has embraced the riches of the nightmarish expedition like she’s never been a malnourished refugee, begging to be let into the city gates.

Now she is holding court at the fireplace, laughing as some wealthy widower is flirting with her. She is dressed in a glittering gown that would have paid for the whole ship fare from Lothering to this city.

Hawke is currently questioning if the trip was worth it at all if it has to end with her being trapped in layers upon layers of starched folds. As much as the dress tries to show all of her humble cleavage, it also has a high collar, starched to the point of feeling like wood and it is scratching her chin whenever she turns her head.

Because of that, she has to turn her whole body to address the young man who offers his name and a glass of white wine. She would prefer red wine but apparently, red wine is too strong for ladies and it was hard enough to convince the young man to bring her any wine at all.

She takes a sip and puts on her nicest smile as she addresses the nervous young man. “Serah Desjardin, was it?”

“Desjardins, Serah Hawke, Marlon Desjardins” he repeats, emphasizing the S at the end. “Of the Desjardins of Lydes, Orlais. You might come across that name again some time, as my family is extensive and keen on travelling.”

“That is wonderful.”

The young man looks at her with his glass of red wine stuck half way on its way to his lips. “What is?”

“Travelling?” Hawke answers, heat crawling up her neck. This is the third young man, trying to strike up a conversation with her and he at least brought her a glass of wine, so she is trying her best, but… she knows that she’s failing. “Travelling is so rewarding, to see what Thedas is made of, the people, the land…”

Desjardins takes a big gulp of his wine and Hawke sips again, a tiny sip with her lips pursed. She’s adhering to the clear instructions by her mother that a distinguished daughter of the House of Amell does A) not drink Ale and B) only takes the tiniest sips. With pursed lips. There was a whole lecture about lips and the correct pursing thereof and Hawke is pretty sure that she will get cramps around her mouth tonight from all the pursing.

The young man has emptied his glass — oh how she envies him — and thankfully hides his burp behind a hand. “Well, travelling in Thedas is not quite as romantic as you seem to think. Half of Thedas is fleeing from the Blight or something and you can’t stop the carriage for five minutes anywhere without some dirty child or knifeear begging you for food.”

Red spots appear in her vision. “How unfortunate for the people who had made a living in the country, growing the food we all eat, that they didn’t have the means to stay on their farms.” She has to call on all of her self control to not punch him in the face for ‘knifeear’.

“Yes, it’s unfortunate but there’s plenty of ways to get to places like Kirkwall without harassing innocent travellers — ”

— the stem of Hawke’s wineglass snaps in half between her fingers and the bulb tips over, falls, and shatters on the ground. Shards scatter all over her feet and her silken shoes. Small spots of blood appear where a shard has cut the delicate material and pierced the skin on her feet.

Desjardins stares at her feet with a look of disgust and then turns his nose up and raises his hand. “Servant? Servant, please.”

The remains of the glass stem crunch in her hand as she gets ready to punch that nose all the way to the Deep Roads. But a hand on her arm and a deep and calming voice in her ear stops her.

“It is unadvisable to punch one’s guests with a fist full of broken glass,” Fenris murmurs into her ear.

“Are you sure?” she replies through clenched teeth.

“Very,” Fenris says with a chuckle. He takes her arm and leads her out of the ballroom into the kitchen. He holds her hand over the kitchen sink and opens it slowly. The white glove is already colored in a bright red from the cuts in her hand, just like the tops of her shoes. Fenris pulls the long glove down from her elbow and pumps ice cold water over it.

“Mistress Hawke!” Orana yells out when she sees the blood rinsing off.

“Not mistress, Orana,” Hawke says quietly.

“I’m sorry, Serah, but what happened?”

“Nothing terrible, I was trying to flirt with some orlesian kid and he turned out to be an ass.” She slips out of the shoes and hands them to Orana with the stained glove. “I don’t know if you can fix this somehow but I would be grateful if you could. My mother is going to make me chase the cows when she sees these shoes like that.”

“Of course, Serah Hawke, I know just what to do.” She gathers everything in a towel and hides it in a lower cupboard. “I’ll get to it after the party, so that your mother doesn’t get suspicious if she doesn’t see me bring in the food.”

“Good thinking, Orana, thank you.” Hawke tiptoes to the other side of the kitchen, to the stairs that will take her up to her room without having to cross the ballroom again. Fenris follows her, his bare feet just as quiet as hers. “I could almost be a Rogue, don’t you think?” Hawke says, just as she trips over a broom and sends it down the stairs with loud clattering.

“You’d be perfect for diversion tactics,” Fenris deadpans.

Hawke sighs. “With my luck, this will not be the last catastrophe of the evening.”

“I would hardly call a fallen broom a catastrophe.” Fenris follows her in her room and closes the door behind him.

“No, I meant that stupid, arrogant, good for nothing, rich stink nose of an orlesian cow’s ass down there.” She throws off the starched jacket with its stiff collar and vows to herself to burn it later. The dress looks better like this anyway, it falls softly over her shoulders and the red fabric is a nice contrast to her dark hair. In her closet she finds another pair of flimsy shoes. She can only hope that her mother will be distracted by all the glittering nobles around her and not look at her feet too closely.

“What is it with you and the cows?” Fenris has an amused smile on his lips as he stands there next to her door like a guard.

“Fereldan farmgirl, remember?” She slips into the shoes and crosses over to him. Stopping in front of him, she stares into his green eyes. She is slightly taller than him but she always feels dwarfed by his control and strength. “I guess, I have to get back down there now.”

He swallows, his eyes dropping to her lips before meeting her eyes again. “Yes, probably.” He smiles at her. “But you might want to avoid flirting with orlesians.”

She groans. “I could arm wrestle all of them in my sleep but talking to them?”

Fenris chuckles. “Maybe I can help.”


“At least, with my help, your flirting will be much more socially acceptable than that.”

Hawke clenches her fists and sighs. “Alright, what should I talk about?”

Fenris grins. “First and foremost, you should not talk but listen. Make the man feel important by listening intently, asking him questions about what he does.”

“But I don’t care!” she groans out. “They’re all so boring.”

“Ask me.”

“About what?”

Fenris bows towards her, one leg stepping behind him, his back perfectly straight. Hawke is astonished how perfectly aristocratic he looks.

“Serah Hawke, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Fenris. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Hawke struggles to get her knees to bend to the kind of curtsy that her mother has taught her. “The pleasure is all mine, Serah Fenris. What brings you to Kirkwall?”

Fenris gives her an encouraging smile and then falls back into his role. He stands straight, his head held high and it is a stark contrast to his usual stance of being ready to fight at all times. “I’m collecting books on elven and Tevinter history and I’m hoping to find a few rare pieces for my collection here.”

“Oh, how interesting,” Hawke says. “Have you found anything yet?”

Fenris interlaces his fingers and nods. “Yes, I saw a few promising places at the market this morning and I plan to return to it tomorrow. Would you like to accompany me for that?”

Hawke isn’t sure if this is part of the game or if he’s really asking her to go with him, just them, without the others. It would be a first. “Yes, I would love to,” she rushes to say before the moment passes.

Fenris blushes and opens his mouth but closes it again without speaking.

“Ehm,” Hawke stammers, “what do I do if I don’t know what to say anymore?”

Fenris swallows. “You could always ask for a dance.”

Hawke holds her hand towards him. “Would you like to dance with me, Serah Fenris?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he says and his voice has a new rasp to it. He takes her hand and holds it out to the side and wraps his other arm around her waist, pulling her close. The music from the ballroom is muted but still loud enough for them to hear.

He takes a careful step forward and Hawke lets herself be steered by his lithe form pressed against her. He leads her in a slow circle around herself, holding her so close that she couldn’t stray away from his steps if she wanted.

But she doesn’t want to step away. She doesn’t care for the party downstairs, where her mother is probably already looking for her. She wants to stay here, in Fenris’ strong arms, guided around her room to the faint sound of music. She leans into him, closing her eyes as her cheek rests against his ear.

She has never danced like this before.

The music stops and Fenris twirls her out of his arms and pulls her back again. She laughs, slightly dizzy from the spin and he holds her so that she doesn’t stumble. She catches a glimpse of his eyes and her heart stops for a beat. She can’t put into words what she sees in them but they pull her towards him like a force.

Their lips connect, softly, fleeting, barely more than a dash of wind across a rose petal.

They both freeze.

It can’t be more, not now, they both know. But it’s more than she has ever hoped for.

“We must go back downstairs,” he mumbles against her lips.

“I know.” She lets her lips stay open, softly pressing forward. She feels him hesitate but then he presses back, his lips open like hers.

The music downstairs swells up again and the moment shatters. They both step back, and Hawke takes a deep breath. She holds out her arm for Fenris to take.

He wordlessly takes it and leads her out of the room and down the stairs. When a group of elegantly dressed men turn around to look at her, her lets go of her arm and retreats into the background like a bodyguard.

He watches her, how she charms the men, her flirting obviously improved. Occasionally she glances over to him, giving him a smile that nobody else ever gets from her.

That is enough. It’s more than he has ever thought possible for someone like him.

I hope you like it @hollyand-writes. :D

Beauty and the Beast

Summary: Baz is overwhelmed with feelings for Simon at yet another school ball, and when a chance to be with his Prince Charming comes up, he seizes the opportunity. 

I wonder if Snow notices me watching him as he dances about with his precious Agatha. There’d been rumors about the pair of them breaking up. It was, much to my dismay, enough to get my hopes up. Perhaps I could finally have a chance with the bloke I’ve been swooning over since first year. I allowed myself to become overwhelmed with a sense of positivity. I would find a way to comfort Simon later in the private walls of our room, until finally he would lean in to kiss me with those soft lips of his.

As always, the scene was too good to be true. They were back to snogging after Political Science.

He’s wearing a cliché black tux tonight—which, mind you, I will not complain about. I like the way it clings to his body, it gives me a rare form of pleasure. I don’t quite know where he got the thing, because I sure as hell have never seen him in an anything other than school uniform. My money’s on Wellbelove.

I, personally, have gone with a black dress shirt and crimson vest. My hair is slicked back, as always. I don’t bother to socialize; this event isn’t for people like me. It shouldn’t be for people like Snow, either. I’m surprised he bothered to attend, it’s not like that sidekick of his is here. Bunce is probably off studying in some forbidden library. The pair of them think I don’t know about her sneaking into Mummers house, but I damn well do and damn well have since the very beginning.

There’s something about the way he’s looking at Agatha that doesn’t quite seem so natural. Even from where I’m standing, on the other side of the room, I can tell that he’s holding back. His eyes—blue and ever so mesmerizing—carry an uncertain gleam. And his hands, they hover before her hip. It’s as if he doesn’t want to touch her, to dance with her in this place, this setting. This lifetime.

I smirk. Simon Snow, the most powerful mage ever to exist, the very bloke who’s wish is our command, doesn’t want to dance with his girlfriend. I suppose I could use this against him in one way or another, what, by luring Agatha into flirting with me in front of The Chosen One himself.

That’s what he’d expect me to do, at least. He has it in that head of his that I’m constantly plotting. Which, I suppose, wouldn’t be wrong. The difference is that he perceives me to be plotting against him, whilst the reality is that I’m plotting towards him. The only plans I’m setting are the ones leading me to him.

On the dance floor, a group of fifth years have taken to trading partners, and grabbing the hands of those looming on the outskirts. I sneer at the few who dare glance my way, but no matter, a young girl—she seems a little tipsy, if you ask me—snatches my wrist and drags me forward.

This, this catches Snow’s attention. His head whips wildly to the left, and his eyes narrow at me. You, I imagine him snarling, you’re plotting again, aren’t you?

And I would say something snarky back in return. I could come up with a clever response in my head, too, but I’m too distracted by the fact that he was so clearly watching me from way beyond yonder. I smirk at the thought.

I allow myself to be passed from person to person, offering up a waltz to each girl whom lands in my arms. A few of them return my gesture by biting their lips, trying for their most flirtatious gazes. I amuse them, if only for their sake.

Well, no.

No, it’s for my sake. Because for every girl Simon sees me with, the closer he gets to being my dance partner. Not even figuratively. He, too, is alternating across the floor. We’re moving in, drawing each other like magnets. I can feel him and his raging magic calling me out to me. Baz…Baz…Baz…

One last person, and then he’s mine. This girl is a brunette. She wears heavy eye makeup and excessively tall heals. She could never be my type, even if I were straight.

Gazing over her shoulder, I meet Simon’s eyes. His stare is gentle, as if he’s taking me in, inhaling me like a whiff of his favorite cologne. It’s then that I come to terms with his beauty. It’s natural, you see. I could call him out of the ordinary, but it would be a lie. In all honesty, he is ordinary. Those blue eyes of his, they aren’t the color of the sky on a hot day, nor the ocean waves as they overlap each other. And while I suppose I haven’t been close enough to fully study them, I’m near positive that there aren’t specks of green or grey surrounding the pupils. They are average. A dull, unoriginal color.

 The boringness of his features doesn’t end there, either. His lips are small, his nose is big, his hair has managed to keep up with the trend—long on the top, short on the sides; though, the natural curls are a bit different than everyone else’s. The bronze color is fucking hot, as well. He’s far too thin, arms too long, legs too short.

Yet, I’m still astonished by him. Maybe it’s the freckles that pull me in. Ever since day one, I’ve wanted to take a fine tipped marker and connect the dots. I like to think they connect as easily as constellations.

It could be his voice, too. It’s chipper and sweet, while also low and seductive. He has some speech problem, acquired when he was young, after not being taught to speak correctly. He grew up in and out of children’s homes, leaving him little to no one-on-one time with speech therapists. And while I’m constantly giving him shit about it, the truth is that I love it. I love when he’s stuttering over his words, the look on his face as he glances down to his feet and bites his bottom lip. I’ve always wanted to wrap my arms around him and pull him close comfortingly. I would reassure him that everything will be okay. Calming breaths are key.

Instead, I rile him up.

Most of all, though, I suspect that it’s his movements, gestures, that get me going. When he wakes up every morning, he lays thoughtfully in bed before rising. His arms don’t raise over his head, stretching as he yawns. Rather, they slump in his lap. And at night, when he’s overwhelmed with drowsiness, his steps are heavy and slow. It’s in the moments before he falls asleep that he’s in his purest form. I wonder then, each and every night, if he would return my embrace, if I only took the chance to hold him.

Tonight, I’m going to do just that.

The girl passes me on to Simon, and his partner pushes Mr. Chosen One into my arms. Well, towards my arms. I’m not as welcoming had I intended to be, and I sure as hell don’t make a move to pull him in. I assume it’s the shock that’s making me like this. I never thought I’d see the day when Simon Oliver Snow was truly open to the thought of dancing with me.

He takes my dead, limp arms and guides them to his waist. “Don’t know how to dance, Pitch?”

I snarl at him. “Not with a bloke; and much less, an arse like you.”

Simon’s hands tangle around my neck, and I swear, if he tried hard enough, he could choke me to death right then and there. This should unsettle me, but oddly enough, I’m…comfortable.

“You don’t have to be so rude,” he says softly.

“I’m sorry, did my comeback offend you?” I return sarcastically. Snow rolls his eyes.

A new song queues up, and the room turns into a chaotic frenzy around us. While I should be passing Simon on to the next lucky girl, I don’t. I tug him a little closer without thinking twice; or at all, for that matter.

“What are you doing?” His whisper is barely audible against all else. And maybe it’s the shot I took beforehand fucking me up, but I’m damn positive he doesn’t mean it. The gleam in his eye gives it away. He wants me. And Crowley, do I want him right back.

“Part of dancing,” I start, overlooking Simon’s inquiry as if it were second nature, “Is moving along with the music. Now, do you know this song?”

It feels weird, standing still in a crowd full of movement. I wonder how many people are around us. I wonder how many of those people are staring, because damnit, The Mage’s Heir is holding a Pitch in his arms. It wouldn’t take much to turn my head and take a glance around. But I’ve never been this close to him, and quite frankly, I’m enjoying myself far too much to ruin the moment with something as silly as taking in the students nearby.

“Of course, who doesn’t know Beauty and the Beast? There are dozens of spells coming from this single song alone.” Simon is noticeably offended by my need to ask, but I pay it no mind. Not in the way I should, at least.

I betray my regrets by deepening the wound. “Look, just because you’re The Chosen One, doesn’t mean you should be.” Before he has the chance to make a snark reply, I push my chest against his and lean in towards his ear. “Simply follow the rhythm of the song. And if you can’t do that—because lord knows you have a terrible sense of direction—let me guide you.”

Simon, much to my own surprise, nods his head willingly.

I give myself an additional moment to grasp a hold on to the song, the tune, the movement. Along with, the feel of him. His hands are warm at the back of my neck, smooth and soft as they clutch onto me. And mine, they’re at his hips. Hesitantly, might I add. I’m afraid that if I rub off too eager he’ll be scared away. I can’t afford for that to happen, not after I made it this far.

“Tale as old time.” I take that as my queue, and guide Simon across the floor. We aren’t in the correct stance—we both knew that, clearly, as no one else in the room was tangled in the knot that we were, leading me to wonder if he really could return my feelings—but it takes us not a moment to rearrange ourselves. My arm his around his waist, my right hand interlocked with his. His extra palm rests on my shoulder.

He’s shorter now that I have him close to me, a surprising turn of events. I can just barely see past his head. I take advantage of the slight bit of view, soaking it in. It is an easy escape from the tension brewing between us. As much as I’d love to make eye contact with Snow, to look him the eye and smile during this raw, eccentric moment, the air is far too heavy, and I’m afraid of losing a hold of my breath. A dagger cuts cleanly through the crowd, giving me the perfect view of Wellbelove taking off down the grand hall.

“Your princess has left you,” I announce dully, just as the second line begins to ring out into the caverns of the ballroom.

“Hm?” There’s something about the way he says it that forces me to have to bite my lip to fight back a turned-on smirk. Perhaps it’s the obliviousness as he stares up at me, or more rightly so, my jaw line. I wonder what he thinks of me right now. It sure as hell looks as if he’s let his guard down.

I’m going to take advantage of his vulnerability.

“Wellbelove. Love of your life. Your soulmate. The Louis Lane to your Clark Kent. Who the hell else, Snow?”

Simon’s feet halt abruptly, catching me by surprise. He tears his hands away from me and folds his arms across his chest. I wonder what his bare chest looks like; I’ve only seen glimpses of his luscious body when he hasn’t closed the bathroom door all the way. I savor those rare moments.

“We aren’t together anymore, Agatha and I.” His blue eyes are narrowed at me, an unforgivable glare, just before they dart down to the floor.

“Barely even friends.”

I’ve never been good at reading people, if I’m being quite honest. I will tilt my head and allow Simon to notice my eyes drifting across his face as a cover up, but I will not take anything in. It’s like reading a book written in a foreign language. So, no, I could not tell you that his lips were tugged down in pure agony, as, for all I know, that’s his game face. It’s as I’m struggling to understand him that I cave in.

“Then somebody bends unexpectedly.”

I glance up at the stage, focus on the instruments that have been casted with dozens of spells to make them play themselves. The song is being played half a count slower than it is in the movie. I savor the melody for one last moment before turning back to him.

“I’ve never been in a relationship before,” I confess before I can change my mind.

Simon chuckles. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

I shrug. “Probably because everyone’s afraid of my, you know, fangs,” I tease, hinting at the rumors he’d spread about me. I regret it immediately, what, between the fearful look that sets in his eyes and the way this subject poke at me, drowning me.

It was never as easy as I made it out to be. I hated being called a vampire. Not because I was afraid of being exposed, but rather, because they were the very thing my mother hated. She died protecting Watford from vampires, and it is of the sickest irony that I became one.

Simon Snow, the almighty chosen one, he never quite understood that. It was so obviously a topic that he just couldn’t grasp. When it used to really get to me, I’d amuse myself and excuse his cruel behavior for his stupidity. He certainly was thick. When he first began to suspect my inhumanity, he would ask me questions about if I were immortal, or if I could see myself in the mirror. He’s always had the mind of a child.

But not the body of one.

He’s built like a prince. Not a god, not an emperor or lord. A prince. Simple but beautiful, young and innocent and pure. He’s thin, yet strong, and those eyes, god damnit those eyes, they will never not be beautiful to me.

I do not want a prince charming to see me as a deadly vampire.

I take my few, gentle steps forward, and stand silently next to him. We’re looking out at the great lawn through a wide set of windows.

“Just a little change.”

“Between you and me, I’m in love with someone. And no one else could ever be a suitable replacement.” With those words, a thousand weights get lifted off my shoulder.

He doesn’t bother to turn to me when he asks, “Who is it?”

My heartbeat quickens a thousand paces a second. I inhale a sharp breath and truly take in this reckless scene. The singer—some sixth year with a grand voice—carries out a new line with crisp words I will myself to devour. “Small to say the least.” Snow’s hand is a mere inch away from mine. His eyes are now wandering up and down my body. I think he’s noticed that I’m clenching and unclenching my fist in agitation. He doesn’t say anything, though. I would kill for him to murmur just a single syllable right now.

He’s just a boy, I think to myself. Don’t let him wreck you like this.

No. He is not just a boy. He is Simon Oliver Snow and I am hopelessly in love with him. He is the greatest Mage in the history of magicks, our very hope of defeating The Insidious Humdrum. He is the reason I wake up just in time to witness his heavenly form walk out of the bathroom each morning. He is the last thing my solemn eyes fall on before slumber. This boy is not just a boy. He is my everything, and I will not stand by whilst he is debunked of his true value.

I glance over my shoulder. No one is around to see, not truly. It’s the time of night when everyone is drunk off the secret booze they’ve snuck in, and their dancing is all hands no rhythm. No one will have to know; as long as he keeps his share of the secret.

With a mutter masked by my breath, I spell the red curtains behind us closed. We are alone, not in sound, not in presence, but in sight.

“Baz, what’re you—,” Simon’s words fade to silence when I pull him towards me, grabbing him roughly by the collar

“You, Snow,” I whisper in a hysterical tone. “It’s always been you.”

My fingers cup his face and I hold him there, an inch away from my face, for what seems like forever. I think I’m going to kiss him. He’s so close, and I can taste his breath on my lips. It’s cherry scones and milk and everything that’s sweet in the world.

“Don’t be cheesy, Basilton,” he mumbles through a grin.

And then he kisses me.

Sober - Part 1/2 - Nessian fic

Summary: In which Nesta and Cassian get into drinking contests.

AO3 : Inspired by this prompt (”everything is fuck”)


Nesta threw open the curtains of the bedroom and was rewarded with a grunt from Cassian. After securing the heavy fabric, she turned to the bed.

“Cassian,” she said, a reminder that the curtains hadn’t opened themselves, and that he had responsibilities to attend to.

A muffled sound came from the pillow. Sheets were wrapped around his hips low enough so that Nesta said a silent prayer that he wouldn’t move too much. And another simultaneous prayer that he would.

“What was that noise?” she asked.

Cassian lifted his head. “Everything is fuck.” He threw his face back down dramatically, gripping the pillow as if it would save him from the way the sunlight invaded his senses, or perhaps it might serve as an anchor in a room that wouldn’t stop spinning.

“Everything is most certainly not ‘fuck’,” she answered. “The weather is perfect for training, which is where you should be right now. Stop lazing about and setting a bad example.”

Keep reading

autistic!human!Cas shifting every five minutes in bed Because he just can’t get comfortable when he can feel the lining of his boxers and the creased bed sheet

autistic!Cas hearing every creak in the bunker as his hypersensitivity acts up

autistic!Cas going into to dean’s room and standing by the door frame because he doesn’t want to disturb dean

Dean can feel cas staring at him so he wakes and up he knows the drill so he tells cas to come here

autistic!Cas getting into the bed and burying his face in dean’s neck and breathing him in and blocking everything else out

Dean making sure to wrap his arms around Cas tight so cas isn’t freaked out by too light of a touch