#rarepair flash fics

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

I Am Being Held Hostage. Send Help.

w/o text:

[xdevilrushx]

Yuffie: It's just practice, okay?

Cloud: Yuffie, this is the fifteenth time you've "practiced" on me.

Yuffie: (rolling her eyes) OMG, obsessed much?

Cloud: How much kissing practice do you need?

Yuffie: Just a bit, okay? Don't make it weird, you big dork.

Cloud: With tongue?

Yuffie: (flushed) …

Artist: n_kamui

[mysecretwindowuniverse]

Jeromewald Text Meme 6/?

Part I | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

[arrow-v-flash-polls]

The two are great detectives along with being supportive fathers to hero children who don't always understand what's going on but are there to make sure good prevails. The two only met the once in cannon but do you like to see the two together romanically, prefer them more platonically or rather not see the two together at all?

[advena87]

Chapters: 5/5

Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Prince Adrien/Kiyan (The Witcher)

Characters: Kiyan (The Witcher), Prince Adrien (The Witcher)

Additional Tags: Modren Au, Artist/Muse, Painting, Rare Pairings, Fade to Black, Lack of Communication, Miscommunication, mention of suicidal thoughts, Not Beta Read

The doorbell rang to find Kiyan in the kitchen, half an hour after the reminder on his phone had alerted him that the meeting was about to start. Honestly, Kiyan thought his client wasn't going to show up, it wouldn't be the first time someone made an appointment and didn't turn up. It was extremely annoying, but there was little he could do about it. At the same time, since Kiyan had gotten used to the idea of a free evening, being half an hour late seemed even more annoying.

"You're late," he announced coldly as he opened the door for the man waiting on the threshold. Kiyan had no patience for people who wasted his time and made no attempt to hide his disapproval.

"Good evening," the man replied with a slight, almost apologetic smile at the corner of his mouth. It could be a sign of remorse, but Kiyan saw amusement in his guest's dark eyes. No, it wasn't remorse. A rather indulgent smirk from someone who thinks others should wait for him. "Sorry to be late, terrible traffic jams on the roads, I was caught in the rush hour".

Kiyan's eyebrow twitched dangerously at the man's casual explanation. He wanted to slam the door in his face, but he held back his violent impulses. Firstly, he was an adult and could control himself. Second, he was a professional and cared about his reputation. And thirdly, he needed the money and the guy looked rich.

He was a tall man, about half a head taller than Kiyan, and he had an impeccable figure that was accentuated by his very well-chosen clothes. He wore an expensive suit under his unbuttoned black coat, but no tie. The collar was casually open, and on his wrist was a gold watch, probably worth more than Kiyan's flat. Yes, the client was definitely solvent.

Regarding his appearance, Kiyan looked boldly into his guest's eyes and studied with satisfaction the symmetrical face, with pronounced cheekbones and a defined jaw, surrounded by a neatly trimmed black beard. The eyes were the perfect distance apart, large and dark, with long black lashes. The only imperfection in this handsome face seemed to be the nose, a little too long overall, with a slight bump, but somehow it suited him, giving the man's face more character and expression. The visitor's long black curly hair, neatly tied back at the nape of his neck, was also a lovely sight, and his smooth skin was a pleasant shade of golden brown. There was no doubt that the client was a very attractive man, so this job promised to be pleasant despite the delay.

"Does my being late mean that I won't be invited in?" the man finally asked, and Kiyan realized that he had been staring at the client, who was still standing at the door.

"Please come in," he replied, still somewhat distracted, and opened the door wider so that his visitor could finally enter. "To be honest, I didn't think you were going to show up."

"There is no way I would pass up such an opportunity." The man smiled brightly, but there was something predatory about it.

READ ON AO3

[unbury-the-gays]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Prince Adrien/Kiyan (The Witcher) Characters: Kiyan (The Witcher), Prince Adrien (The Witcher) Additional Tags: Modren Au, Artist/Muse, Painting, Rare Pairings, Fade to Black, Lack of Communication, Miscommunication, mention of suicidal thoughts, Not Beta Read

Summary:

"Does my being late mean I won't be invited in?" the man finally asked, and Kiyan realized he had stared, keeping the client still on the doorstep.

"Please come in," he replied, still somewhat distracted, and opened the door wider so his visitor could finally enter. "To be honest, I thought you wouldn't show up."

"I would absolutely not miss such an opportunity." The man smiled brightly, but there was something predatory about the smile.

[reduxulousoctopus]

"Resemblance"

Flash/Orion established relationship, post-JLU, slice-of-life/domestic, daddy issues, short story

(sorry in advance to fans of the New Gods for things I definitely got wrong, this is based almost exclusively on Orion's like 4? 5? appearances in the entire DCAU and even then mostly just the two times he was in the Justice League cartoon)

--

"You should let me cut your hair."

Orion doesn't respond at first, too focused on the latest drama unfolding between the residents of Wisteria Lane. It's only when the broadcast switches to a commercial break a few seconds later that he finally turns his attention to the other end of the sofa, where Wally is slouched with one bare, lean, well-sculpted leg slung casually over the arm of the couch. He's poking at the touch-screen of his phone, playing some sort of game that involves rearranging several brightly-colored sweets into rows and columns before smashing them apart.

"Did you say something?" Orion asks.

"Huh? Oh, yeah," Wally remembers with a smile. "I wanna cut your hair."

"Why?"

Wally shrugs one shoulder. "I think you'd look good with a buzz-cut. And lets face it, not everyone can pull off bangs."

He runs a hand through his own boyish fringe, which flops back down and sticks to his slightly damp forehead. This hemisphere of the Earth is currently going through its warm season and the air conditioner in Wally's apartment is only nominally functional. Even though Wally dressed light in just a pair of shorts and a tank top, he's covered in a faint layer of sweat. Besides its intended function, Orion has noticed a strangely erotic appeal to the way sweat glistens in the light and draws the eye to every contour, lending an almost tactile awareness of his human lover's body even when they aren't touching. Even the scent evokes memories of the many times he made Wally sweat.

After yanking his attention back from the turn his thoughts have taken long enough to remember what Wally said, Orion frowns (and expression his facial features are both familiar with and especially well-suited to convey) and tries to determine whether or not he should be offended. On the one hand, why should it matter whether or not he can 'pull off bangs'? He's a warrior feared by the vilest scum of Apokolips, not some well-coiffed pretty-boy like the actors on his favorite Earth broadcasts.

On the other hand... Orion has never felt so attractive in his entire life as he has since they started this odd, unlikely relationship. Wally is practically rhapsodic during their encounters, openly marveling at the thickness of his arms, the span of his shoulders, the ampleness of his buttocks, and the girth and form of his godhood. Even the rugged severity of his features seem to hold a beauty of their own in Wally's eyes.

If something so simple as changing his hairstyle would make him even more appealing to his human lover... perhaps it is worth considering.

--

The loud buzzing cacophony finally ceases as Wally turns off the electric hair-trimmer and steps back to admire his handiwork.

"How do I look?" Orion asks. He reaches up to touch the back of his head. His hair feels soft yet bristly, and shorter than it's been since he reached adulthood.

"Very hot," Wally assures him with a lascivious smirk. He runs a hand back and forth over Orion's freshly shorn head, brushing away any loose hairs, before unwinding the towel from his shoulders. "Come on, handsome, check it out for yourself."

Feeling his face grow warm at the still-unexpected compliments, Orion allows Wally to usher him into the bathroom. When the light flicks on, however, it isn't the reflection of his own supposed beauty that catches Orion's breath. He barely even takes notice of his new hairstyle or neatly trimmed brows, except for their culpability in what he does notice. His features reflexively furrow into a scowl, carving deep crags across his now fully-exposed forehead.

Orion glares into the mirror and sees the son of Darkseid glaring back.

"You don't like it," Wally guesses. He smiles to cover his clear disappointment. "Well, it's just hair, right? It'll grow back."

"It's not that. It... looks very nice," Orion forces himself to say.

"Then what's with the angry eyes?" Wally asks. He pouts while holding both his index fingers up to his own forehead, angled down in an imitation of a scowling brow.

Orion doesn't answer right away, unable to put what he's feeling into words. Besides, if he waits long enough, Wally will probably get bored and divert his attention elsewhere for a while.

Wally does get bored; his attention does not divert.

"Hellooo, Earth to Sega Genesis." He prods Orion's cheek with his finger. "Why the grumpy face?"

"Stop that," Orion growls after Wally pokes him again. Before yet a third attempt can be made, Orion smacks his hand away.

Wally sighs and leans his head on Orion's arm. "Sorry. I thought you'd like it."

"The obnoxious prodding?"

"The haircut. I didn't mean to push you into doing something you don't wanna do."

"No force in the universe could make me do something I don't want to do," Orion boasts. "I agreed willingly."

"So what's the deal?" Wally asks, lifting his head. "You know I'm not psychic, right? I'm not even smart."

Orion glowers down at him. "I would kill anyone else who said that about you. Don't assume that exemption will last forever."

"Okay, fine, I'm smart," Wally says, even as a mischievous smile tugs at his mouth. "Sometimes. When I try."

Orion grumbles.

"But what I'm not good at is figuring out what people are thinking if they won't just tell me." Wally gives a little half-shrug. "Sooo, what are we gonna do, here?"

With a heavy sigh, Orion braces his hands against the laminate countertop and gazes for a long moment at the hateful visage in the mirror before him. Finally he asks, "Quite the resemblance, isn't it?"

Wally's gaze snaps up guiltily from Orion's bent backside. "Hu-what? To who?"

"My father."

Orion watches in the mirror as Wally stares uncomprehendingly at him for a moment longer, before his mouth forms a small 'o' of silent realization. He nods, crosses his arms over his chest, and leans one hip against the counter.

"Fathers, huh?" he says with a bitter attempt at a laugh. "I know how that is. I mean, I can't claim that my bio-dad was the universe-conquering embodiment of all evil, obviously, but it's not a competition."

Wally has mentioned his birth father only once before, to briefly explain how he came to be adopted by his aunt and uncle. Apparently, the man abandoned his wife and son when Wally was only ten years old; however, Orion got the impression that there was more to it—that Mr. West had not treated his family well even during the brief period when he was present.

Perhaps it shouldn't be so surprising, that someone happy and kind had an unhappy, unkind childhood. After all, Orion was raised in the paradise of Celestial City by Highfather himself, yet turned out angry and cruel. Still, it's hard to imagine anyone choosing to hurt Wally when he was a child—at least, it's difficult for Orion to imagine without straining even Mother Box's ability to control his rage.

"It used to mess me up, how much I look like him," Wally continues. "There were days I couldn't look in the mirror without seeing his face. Here, I'll show you—let me see if I can find—"

Wally darts out of the room in a blur of superspeed. Orion hears one of the closet doors in the bedroom swish open, the rustling of clothes, a grunt of exertion, then a loud THUMP followed very quickly by a muttered expletive.

A second later, Wally appears in the bathroom triumphantly brandishing a photograph, which he shows to Orion. In the center of the image are a pair of human children playing with tiny facsimiles of terrestrial vehicles. The older boy is immediately recognizable by his unruly mop of red hair and bright blue eyes. Young Wally smiles as he demonstrates how to send the colorful little toy cars down a track made of bright orange plastic while a toddler with brown skin and short, tightly-curled black hair watches in amazement.

"That's my bio-dad, back there," Wally says, pointing to a light-skinned man with a mustache standing in the background of the photograph. He's holding a canned beverage in one hand and appears to be talking to someone standing just out of frame.

Orion frowns a little in confusion. The photograph's lack of resolution leaves some details to the imagination, but he can't really see much of a resemblance. The man is lean but not especially athletic or muscular. His hair is a dull, mousy shade of brown and his eyes are dark. His brows are sparse and unkempt, the bone beneath prominent and protruding. The nose is all wrong. The general shape of his face is somewhat similar to Wally's but his chin is too broad and his cheeks are too sunken and gaunt.

If he hadn't been told that this man was Wally's biological father, Orion would not have thought they were even related.

"I don't understand," Orion admits. "You look nothing like your father."

The smirk on Wally's face is unbearably smug. "Darkseid was a nine-foot tall monster with glowing red eyes and craggy gray skin. You're a normal-looking guy with a wrinkly forehead because you keep scowling all the time."

Orion scowls even harder as he looks back at his own reflection. His expression sours still further the longer he stares until, with great reluctance, he grumbles, "You... may... have a point."

Wally laughs. "Well, like Grammy Flash always says, even a broken clock is right twice a day."

After parsing the metaphor and realizing that Wally just called himself stupid again, Orion turns and, with the tiniest fraction of his full strength, effortlessly pins the speedster against the bathroom wall with one hand. He feels Wally's heart-rate suddenly accelerate under his palm until he can no longer discern the individual beats and it feels more like a constant vibration.

He lets just a hint of his actual voice through the illusion created by Mother Box as he leans in close and purrs, "I warned you."

--

"You know," Wally says several minutes later, rousing Orion from a light dose, "if you really want me to stop doing something, I'm not sure sex is the most effective deterrent."

Both of them are lying naked on the living room's faux- hardwood floor, skin damp with Wally's sweat (and other fluids). They'll need to clean themselves soon—and unfortunately, they'll have to do so separately, as previous attempts have proven that the apartment's tiny, lukewarm shower is too small for men their size to comfortably occupy at the same time.

If Wally only asks, Orion would have a luxurious human-style shower constructed in his quarters at Highfather's citadel, large enough for them both. They would share a bed larger than the two of them would ever need, a never-ending pantry and larder full of all of Wally's favorite Earth foods, and an enormous flatscreen television with all the channels—including the premium cable package. Wally would never go hungry, never have to worry about paying rent, never need to work for any reason except personal gratification and fulfillment, for the rest of his all-too-short mortal lifespan.

If only Wally asks.

Orion smirks as he peers at Wally through one cracked-open eye. "Are you complaining? I granted you mercy, but if you'd prefer..."

He turns onto his side and lays a hand on Wally's throat, not quite squeezing, but firm enough to tease at the possibility that he might do so. Orion feels his mortal lover's pulse quicken with excitement again.

"No, no," Wally hastens to reply in a slightly strained voice. "Just pointing out that it's a bit, uh, counterproductive is all. Maybe try positive reinforcement instead."

"Sex as a reward for good behavior," Orion surmises, while idly stroking his thumb in the dip between Wally's clavicle bones.

"Exactly. Now there's some cognitive therapy I can get behind—or in front of and underneath."

Orion huffs a rusty laugh. "Have you considered that I'm actually rewarding myself for good behavior?"

"Oh. In that case, I'm glad I could help."

"You help me," Orion says, sliding his hand back up the length of Wally's neck to cup his jaw. "More than you know."

In the conversational lull, Orion belatedly realizes that they left the television on. The screen is turned away from them, but he listens in for a moment and recognizes an episode of Scrubs he's already seen before—not exactly the ideal soundtrack for an afternoon tryst. He hooks his foot around the powercord and pulls it free from the outlet, allowing a pleasant quiet to settle over the apartment. Though the white noise of Central City's hustle and bustle continues outside, the apartment itself feels all the more peaceful by contrast. In moments like these, Orion can almost understand why Wally likes living in this squalor.

Even so, whether it's a side-effect of his mortality or the accelerated perception granted him by his superspeed, Wally can't allow the moment to last without filling the void with talk. "Seriously though, daddy issues aside, do you really like your new haircut?"

"I haven't given it much consideration, yet," Orion admits. "Does my opinion really matter?"

"Yeah? It's your hair, man."

"I'm not the one who has to look at it."

"Well, I think it looks good."

"So it does."

"Fine," Wally replies, annoyed and fond all in one; his due, given how often he inspires those same feelings in others.

"It will take some getting used to," Orion relents after a moment. "But it's good to see myself with fresh eyes, even if I initially tricked myself into seeing something that wasn't there."

--

[katwriteswitcherthings]

Fandom: The Witcher (The Witcher 3 specifically)

Relationship: Prince Adrien/Kiyan

Rating: M

Additional Tags: AU - Modern Witchers, Light Angst, Fluff, Slice of Life, Museums, Established Relationship, Getting Together, Assholes in Love, Murder Husbands, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mentioned Past Torture, Soft Prince Adrien (The Witcher), Soft Kiyan (The Witcher), Vampire Prince Adrien

Summary:

Adrien loves to walk through art galleries and museums. Kiyan follows him loyally; his ever-present bodyguard. Adrien has a surprise for his most loyal companion.

A/N: Prompt #17 fill for @reverseprompts and The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #61.

This tried so hard to become smut, but alas, I ran out of time. I found this post after I had already written this, so it doesn't quite work for Adrien to be wearing (I don't think those shoes would click on hardwood floors), but I want him to be wearing it so badly and I thought you should know.

[lambden]

back with another flash fic challenge— the first one since spring of this year! I wrote some cahir/eskel in a very loose space AU. featuring a healthy dose of weird kinky wireplay and some characterization that I entirely stole from people who write cahir much better than me. enjoy!!

E, 5.7K, angst & smut but no actual smut, sci-fi AU Also on AO3!

The meal replicator emits a simple six-note song when it finishes its task, and Cahir glances over to carefully consider the small machine. People find the sound more pleasing than a routine electronic noise, even if it serves the same purpose and triggers the same chemical reaction in the human brain. Even though his brain is not wired to receive the same satisfaction, Cahir mimics the song. His voice is far from melodic but the noise still calms him— until the replicator beeps again, then he hurries to open its door.

Cahir carries his mug out of the dining hall, humming to himself. His own quarters are right next to Emperor Emhyr’s, a fact that embarrasses and satisfies him in equal measure. He understands that his proximity to the Emperor is only for convenience’s sake, but on lonely nights like this he likes to believe that Emhyr placed him there as a sign of trust. 

He places a hand against the Emperor’s door as he does every night but doesn’t knock, just holding his palm to the solid metal. Soon, upon his leader’s return to the space station , this door will be opened again and Emhyr will call on him for evening strategy sessions. And it will be soon; Cahir is sure of that.

Naturally, his own quarters are more modest than the Emperor’s. He has no paraphernalia from home or furniture with which to entertain guests, because his role on the station is not to host or provide entertainment. But despite the lack of a bed there is a small bedside table, and Cahir sits on the ground beside it now, humming the song of the replicator. 

His fingers curl around the hot mug until his pain receptors are almost activated, then he pulls back in time to avoid burning his skin. While Cahir has no taste for hot cocoa, or most human foods, he understands the appeal. The sweet smell and warmth are comforting, and the funny gelatinous marshmallows bobbing up and down in the hot liquid coax a smile out of Cahir for reasons he can’t entirely place. He only wishes that he had someone here to actually drink the cocoa.

But his role here is certainly not to complain. Cahir raises his chin to stare out the window, taking in the expanse of space outside. In the far distance stars twinkle at him; he wonders if those are the same stars visible from Vicovaro. His home planet, though windy with unruly weather, had always had the most beautiful sunsets. He and his siblings used to stay up to watch it; of course, they never slept anyway, but waiting out the long night was always more tolerable when you weren’t alone.

Vicovaro is a subject of internal conflict for Cahir, and thus he doesn’t like to spend much time thinking about it. He holds a great deal of nostalgic affection for where he was made, but he also recognizes that the planet was politically dominated by the Empire. Had Vicovaro been less pathetic, or boasted any military strength, perhaps they could have put up a fight against the invading forces. But Nilfgaard rightfully took over the planet of small manufacturing facilities and farms, and so Cahir’s greatest journey had begun.

He turns his thoughts away from his old planet and cups his hands around the hot cocoa once more. Despite the lonely stars, the skies are devoid of movement. Cahir watches for the distant white flame that he knows will arrive any day now, signifying the triumphant return of Emhyr’s ship. His Emperor will dock onto the space station, and he’ll find it just as pristine as when he left almost a month ago. No— even more pristine.

The hope soothes him. Cahir stays silent, watching the sky for the approaching ship. He hums the song over and over, until the station’s automated lighting system reaches its morning brightness. Still no light appears on any horizon.

Cahir gets up, stretching his limbs and lifting his arms over his head. Time to prepare for his regularly scheduled rounds. He retrieves the now cold cup of cocoa and heads back out into the hall. Almost as soon as the door shuts behind him, a small shuttle careens towards the station.

-

“If this is the last you ever hear from me, I want you to know I love you,” rumbles Eskel, his thumb jamming down the communicator button as he reaches around the dashboard to prepare for docking. “And also I want you to tell everyone that I died in a much, much cooler way.”

“You aren’t going to die,” Geralt snorts, his voice tinny through the ship’s speakers. “We’ve scanned this hunk of junk over and over for any signs of life and there’s nothing on any radar. No shields, only some outdated cloaking.”

Looking up at the massive space station, it’s easy to see what his brother means by outdated. Some of the outer panels are in dire need of repair and the engines obviously haven’t been maintained in decades. The landing bay doors are swinging open, beckoning him in. Eskel is reminded of a carnivorous plant waiting to trap its prey. He shudders, glaring at the station. “The lights are on.”

“But nobody’s home,” supplies Geralt. Eskel supposes he’s right; they would have picked something up by now. “Come on, it’s basically buried treasure without any guards. Grab as much as you can carry; hell, tow some vintage parts behind your ship. They won’t notice a thing missing. Vesemir said that no activity has been flagged here in a few decades.”

“Right,” Eskel says, still uneasy. “... Keep the lines open?”

“I’m here,” Geralt reassures him, even though he’s nowhere near here. If there really is a threat aboard this old vessel, his family will never make it in time to help him. Eskel lets go of the mic, instead reaching to secure his weapon in its holster. He braces himself for whatever awaits him.

He couldn’t have possibly braced himself enough.

The ominous landing bay welcomes him aboard, although all posted signage is in a language he doesn’t recognize. A quick scan reveals it as Nilfgaardian, and Eskel frowns, forwarding the translation to Geralt. Although they tend to have their fingers in many pies, Nilfgaard doesn’t spend much time on this side of the galaxy. Their efforts have been focused on Cintra and Redania, and on claiming old, long-uncontested territories and dwarf planets. Maybe a hundred years ago he would have been scared to sneak onto a Nilfgaardian vessel, but their empire is practically archaic now.

Following the translated signs for 'cargo hold’, Eskel keeps his wits about him and explores in silence. As far as he can tell, all the lights are automated and kept on a planetary schedule; it must be mid-morning back on Nilfgaard. But the elevators are surprisingly clear of dust and none of the lights have burnt out, so this station must have some mechanical method of maintaining itself.

The cargo hold yields no remarkable hidden treasure, save for an extremely unusual garden. Eskel has yet to remove his helmet or suit but the presence of plants is promising; he pauses to run a quick test of the air. It’s not dissimilar from Morhen air, and the pressure is lighter than he expected for a ship. 

Bemused but curious, Eskel kneels at the edge of the garden, photographing the plants. He can’t identify all of them but the ones he recognizes are harmless, mostly herbs and flowers. The garden is only a few metres wide and the plants are short instead of overgrown. Eskel reaches to one of the herbs, twisting the stem between his gloved fingers. The growth has been carefully clipped back. Maintained, just like the elevators and halls. His blood runs cold.

“Geralt,” Eskel rumbles, pressing down the button on his arm that will signal his brother. “I don’t think I’m alone here.”

-

Two days from now, Emperor Emhyr var Emreis will have been on his crusade for a month. Cahir awaits the anniversary with nearly unbearable excitement, because he remembers his leader’s advisor, a rather unpleasant human named Vilgefortz, bragging about how the away mission would undoubtedly take little time under Emhyr’s command. ‘At most, a month,’ Vilgefortz had boasted to the gathered navigators and soldiers in the control room. No one paid him much mind, all bustling about to prepare for their imminent departure. But Cahir, the sole occupant of the station who would not join Emhyr on his journey, had clung to the words as religious humans cling to the words of their holy preachers. At most, a month.

And now, twenty-eight days after the departure of his emperor’s vessel, Cahir expects his arrival any hour now. He kicks into high gear— literally— and adopts a rigorously productive schedule. He cleans areas of the station that aren’t even on his cleaning docket, scrubbing the high ceilings of the command centre and carefully wiping down Commander Morvran Voorhis’ array of weapons. Cahir hums to himself all the while; he’s sure he sounds about as melodic as a half-dead robot bird built by a child, but he can’t help it. He wasn’t created to sing, but until his master’s return (at most, two days from now!) no one can stop him from humming.

Over the sound of his own voice he nearly doesn’t hear the footfalls from the open door. But his sensors are better than any human hearing, so Cahir whips around, rag in one hand and antique sword in the other. He half expects to see his Emperor silhouetted in the artificial light from the hallway, standing tall and strong and waiting for Cahir to come and kneel before him.

Instead, a stranger stands in the open door. Cahir’s system begins overheating as he struggles to process the sight before him. The stranger is broader than his emperor, and taller, wearing a bulky space suit and helmet unlike any technology Cahir has ever seen. In his hand is a gun that will not do much to immobilize an advanced model like him, but Cahir still shakes, afraid despite himself.

The big stranger stares through his visor. He doesn’t shoot, but he doesn’t lower his weapon, either. Instead, he speaks— it takes Cahir only a moment to translate the language. It takes him longer to try to wrap his mind around the soft, nearly kind timbre of the man’s voice. For the first time, Cahir sees his eyes: dark, and gentle. “Are you the only one on board?”

“Yes,” Cahir answers proudly, before realizing in a panic that he probably should have bluffed and said no. But he has never been expected to act in a forceful capacity, only as a cleaner— Emhyr’s most trusted cleaner, to be sure, and the last line of defense, but he isn’t exactly a security robot. He would have to download a whole new set of processes to even learn how to wield the scimitar in his hands. He clings to the blade’s grip anyway, hoping it will intimidate the stranger. “That is, I thought I was until just now.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” The man raises his other hand. “Are you… why are you here?”

“I work for the Emperor,” Cahir informs the stranger, who seems inappropriately unimpressed by this declaration. “Emperor Emhyr…? Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morv— ah. The White Flame Dancing On The Graves of His Enemies, I suppose, would be the translation in the common tongue. He’s on an away mission at the moment, so— I— why are you here?”

Beneath his helmet, the man’s face twitches. “There’s been no signs of life in this quadrant for a very long time.” His tone is still too kind. Cahir can’t remember the last human who spoke this kindly to him— he immediately distrusts it. “I’m a… um, mechanic. I was flying by and saw the lights, and I thought maybe you were stranded.”

“I am not— we are not stranded,” Cahir corrects. “We are cloaked. In fact, you should not have been able to board the vessel without our security system evaluating your threat level. How did you board?”

The mechanic blinks. “The doors were open.”

Were he human, Cahir might blush. He had opened the landing bay doors, but only because he thought a passing comet was Emhyr’s ship and he hadn’t wanted to delay the White Flame’s entry for even one moment. He should have known better than to leave them open; he curses, privately making a note to adjust his own impulses. 

“Well… that is because I saw you coming,” bluffs Cahir, taking a leaf out of Vilgefortz’s book and trying to copy his confidence. “And in order to properly prepare for the Emperor’s arrival in two days, I thought that I would enlist your services.” The mechanic’s gaze flicks to the scimitar in his hands and Cahir quickly replaces it on the shelf.

“Two days, huh?”

“Yes.” He wrings out the damp washcloth and places it over his shoulder. “Your arrival is well-timed, as I need someone to examine all the technology on board and ascertain that everything is up to date.”

Still watching him with that curious twist in his mouth, the mechanic asks, “Why not just examine the hardware yourself?”

“... I am not permitted to do that.”

“Alright.” Finally, the man lowers his weapon— only to holster it, and fold his thick arms over his broad chest. The thought occurs to Cahir that by human standards, this man would be considered very beautiful; the strange scars across one side of his face are all that mars his visage, and even those are a sign of worldly experience. What Cahir doesn’t like as much as his appearance is his persistence, and defiance, as he asks, “Well, what’s in it for me?”

“Is loyalty to the Emperor not enough motivation?” The stranger just frowns, and Cahir sighs. “Fine. What would you like? I cannot offer much.”

“I want to look at your hardware,” the mechanic says without an ounce of shame. Cahir’s internal fan picks up speed, and he hopes the man can’t hear it. “See if you’re up to date too.”

Such an offer would be considered unbelievably rude by most, and Cahir should tell the man to get right back in his spaceship and go back where he came from. But awaiting the crew’s return has unlocked a new loneliness in him, and despite this man’s size and weapons and unfamiliarity, he doesn’t seem… bad-natured. So Cahir finally relents, hissing, “No permanent changes.”

“Hey, no, of course not,” says the mechanic, raising his hands. “You can stay online and walk me through the whole thing, alright? I just want to help.”

“I need no help,” Cahir spits at him. “... Would you like a hot cocoa before we begin?”

“What?”

-

Seemingly forgetting the rag slung over his shoulder, the service bot cleans out a ceramic mug with another dishcloth. Eskel watches from across the dining hall, fascinated even as Geralt asks him question after question. “You’re fine? Nobody’s holding you hostage? You’re not in any danger at all?”

“Don’t think so,” Eskel whispers back. The android turns to glance in his direction, and he covers his mouth with his wrist, mumbling into his communication system, “I’ll tell you later, okay? But I’m good. Found something weird.”

“You and Lambert and all your weird discoveries,” gripes his brother. “You know what I do when I find something weird on a looting run? I leave it the hell alone and mind my own business. Have you ever heard of the concept? Minding your own business?”

“Gotta go,” Eskel mutters, and switches his comms off. He’s sure Geralt won’t be happy with him, but whatever’s going on with this bot is way more interesting than he’d expected. The android is still staring, so Eskel raises his voice to clarify, “Sorry. Just my brother checking in.”

“Oh,” the android replies in an odd voice. “You have a brother?”

“Two of them, actually.” Eskel takes a seat on a hard, unwelcoming bench; he guesses Nilfgaardians prioritize function over comfort.

“I also have two brothers,” volunteers the android. Eskel stares; he hadn’t thought that robots ever followed traditional family models, not unless they were brought into a human family to act as a family member. “And three sisters.”

“Are they… Nilfgaardian too?”

“No.” He sniffs— it is such a distinctly human action that Eskel can’t help but smile. “I was made on Vicovaro.”

“Oh, I’ve been there! Beautiful place.” Last time he visited Vicovaro, he got chased off the planet by the local police for looting an old cruiser for parts. But he’ll leave that out of the story, especially since the old tech could have been parts of this android’s siblings. “So you got drafted, then?”

The android meets this question with silence. Fair enough; it’s a little personal, even though he had been the one to offer information about his family, and to ask about Eskel’s.

Unfortunately, Eskel is starting to like this weird little robot. So as the android places the mug down in the vintage food replicator, he presses, “You don’t have to tell me your whole story, but we’re gonna get up close and comfortable pretty soon here. So we can at least exchange names, right?” This doesn’t get a response either, so he offers, “I’m Eskel. I’m from Morhen.”

“I have many names,” the android finally says. “CM-DAC-1268 is what you might— um, see.” Seemingly embarrassed by the reminder that Eskel is going to open him up soon, he twists away, watching the machine pour hot cocoa through the translucent door. “Back home, my maker gave us traditional Vicovarian names in the hopes that we would sell better. So my full name is Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. But please just call me Cahir.”

“Cahir,” Eskel repeats, committing the full name to memory anyway— as best he can. Cahir doesn’t turn back to face him, not until the hot cocoa is finished pouring. The replicator plays a jaunty six-note song, and Eskel chuckles. “Catchy tune.”

When Cahir finally spins around with the mug of cocoa in his hands, Eskel catches the hint of a smile on his face. Compared to the latest model of android, Cahir is plain— no bells, no whistles. But he’s pretty, and his light blue eyes shine as he carries the drink over to the table. Eskel might be in a little bit of trouble here.

-

The space station is equipped with a standard laboratory for android upkeep, but Eskel seems to find the place wanting. He keeps asking Cahir about items that he hasn’t heard of; probably a translational error, but it gets annoying. Finally Cahir paces over to the table and strips out of his uniform to prepare for the operation; Eskel lets out a gasp, and Cahir spins to look at him. “What?”

“No, no, nothing,” Eskel bleats, very much not looking at Cahir. “I didn’t think, um. Shit! Never mind.”

Cahir glances down at his own naked body, frowning. “Surely you weren’t expecting exposed circuitry. I was made better than that.”

“Yeah, clearly,” says the mechanic, his voice thick. “It’s fine, I just… I didn’t think they made, um… service bots with… all the parts.”

Slightly amused, Cahir tells him, “My creator didn’t know what I would be sold for. I’m equipped for several roles and functions.” Eskel finally glances his way, and his gaze roams over the length of Cahir’s exposed skin. Nervous goosebumps travel along his arms and thighs, and his system begins whirring a little faster. “Is that… is there something wrong with that?”

“No,” Eskel says quickly. “You’re beautiful, that's all.”

The words stun him. Eskel still has yet to remove anything other than his helmet, but judging by his broad neck and kind eyes and the shaggy hair that falls over his brow, Cahir thinks he’s rather beautiful too. But he’s never had any opportunity to return any sentiment like this, because it’s never been directed at him before. Puzzled, he frowns, and then proposes, “You should take your suit off too. I don’t want to be the only one on display here.”

“Ha,” Eskel huffs. He doesn’t immediately move to undress, though, fidgeting with one of the tools Cahir laid out. “You might not like what you see.”

Cahir’s confusion deepens. “Why?”

The man just stares, his own frown tugging down in the scarred corner. He doesn’t offer any further explanation so Cahir returns his stare. After a long, charged moment, Eskel reaches up to unfasten the top of his suit. He slowly pulls down a zipper to reveal his chest, and instead of the undersuit that Cahir had expected, he’s only clad in baggy shorts and a loose tank top. Some scars are visible under his clothing; their webbing stretches around his shoulder and pectoral muscle to his back. 

Cahir pays his scars very little attention, too wholly consumed by how broad his entire body is, even without the spacesuit. His arms and shoulders are tense but even if he wasn’t flexing his muscles he’d still be a good deal larger than Cahir. His stomach presses against the tank top and his shorts hang low on his hips, revealing a patch of hair that creeps down his stomach and leads between his massive thighs. His chest has thick, curly hair too. Cahir was not built to want. Inexplicably, defying science and his own system, he wants.

Voice shaking with obvious nerves, Eskel shatters the silence between them: “It’s a little cold in here.” A flimsy excuse, especially when he won’t meet Cahir’s wandering eyes. He reaches down to grab his suit where it’s gathered around his knees, and Cahir launches forward to stop him, touching the backs of his hands. Eskel stops, startled, and finally looks up at him. His eyes are the exact colour of cocoa.

“I can assist with that,” Cahir says. Eskel’s pupils balloon out until they nearly eclipse his irises, but he does not move away or push Cahir off. Carefully, Cahir scoots around him, heading for the temperature control panel on the wall. Eskel watches him go with a slightly amused expression that Cahir doesn’t know how to begin to understand, so he doesn’t worry about it. He raises the temperature, and somewhere deep in the station the heat kicks on. “I’m not used to hosting humans,” he explains. “Like I said, everyone else has been gone for a month; I suppose the settings are not exactly suitable for mammals.”

Eskel’s eyes are still dark but this gives him pause. He begins to say something before thinking better of it. “Here,” he mutters instead, kicking his suit away and carefully moving Cahir’s uniform to a chair. “Lie down,” he instructs, and Cahir does. 

The mechanic carefully drags his fingertips down Cahir’s sternum, looking for something— he doesn’t find it. Cahir frowns, trying not to shiver, and he reaches for Eskel’s hand. He pulls the mechanic over to the right place; the button to access his command centre is on his right side, around where the human liver would be. Guided by Cahir, Eskel finds it and presses down gently.

His chest cavity pops open— Cahir feels nothing, thankfully. Androids are never given pain receptors in their chests or backs to allow for easier access when they need hardware updates. Eskel still winces, his eyes bulging out of his skull. Cahir snorts softly. “I thought you were a mechanic.”

Distracted, and almost slightly guiltily, Eskel replies, “What?”

“I only meant that you should be used to this by now.” Cahir gulps, glancing at Eskel’s thick wrists. “Right?”

“I mostly work with ship parts, not robots,” he concedes. “But I… um, the models I have worked on have been. Different. Their chest opens up…” He raises his hands so that Cahir can see, and parts them down the middle. “Two doors, not one.”

“Two doors?” Derisively, Cahir snorts. “I don’t know how they do things on Morhen but I have yet to see an android with two chest doors.”

“They’re called rib plates,” Eskel tells him, his voice as gentle as his touch. “They’re quite common, actually.” He reaches down into Cahir’s wiring, picking up a fistful of crossed wires to examine it closely. 

Cahir’s breath hitches, and he abruptly regrets getting fully undressed. His body is immune to most physical reactions, but androids tend to react in other ways when touched— and Cahir’s insides have always been exceptionally sensitive. He considers warning the mechanic, just so that if Eskel glances down between his thighs he won’t be surprised. But before he can say a word Eskel carefully separates a bundle of wires, and Cahir bites back a gasp. 

Abruptly, the man stops. But his fingers are still tied up in Cahir, whose breaths are coming faster and harder now. “Does that… hurt?”

“Not hurt,” Cahir pants. “No! Definitely not hurt. It’s— I’m sensitive.”

“Oh.” Eskel swallows, hard. “Would you like me to stop?”

Violently, Cahir shakes his head. Eskel seems to get the message; he eases up a little, but the gentler touches just drive Cahir crazy. It’s like he’s riding the edge of satisfaction, and Eskel won’t just give him what he needs. He can’t focus on anything— not until Eskel pulls a stopper out of a port and plugs him into a smooth, small tablet. 

The wire is sleek, dark and thin and Cahir can’t feel it at all; he reaches to touch it, mystified. Eskel looks at him sharply, surprised, but Cahir doesn’t pull his hand away. He demands, “This one doesn’t feel like anything at all. Why?”

“It’s newer,” Eskel mumbles. “Usually, they don’t— um, usually androids aren’t sensitive the way you are. So hardware updates are a very routine process. If I’d known it was going to be like this, I would have wined and dined you a little more, I mean; uh, that is to say, I, I feel, you know, sort of awkward.”

“Don’t feel awkward.” Cahir frowns, letting go of the wire so that he can hold Eskel’s wrist instead. The veins inside are a comparable size to the wire, except they’re pulsing quickly. His blood must be rushing— Cahir’s system speeds up at the thought. Then he realizes that Eskel can probably see the strain on his system performance on that little tablet, which, of course, only makes his fan run faster. “I like it,” he hastens to say. “It feels good.”

“Yeah. Fuck, I bet it does.” Nilfgaardians have their own curse words, and hearing something as common as fuck goes right to Cahir’s exposed anatomy. He leans his head back against the table, baring his throat; Eskel glances right at his neck, and swallows hard again. 

Once more, Cahir is overwhelmed by a wave of wanting. The desire does not fall in line with his programming, and doesn’t make any scientific, rational sense. But try telling that to his cock. “Touch me,” he begs, his eyelids sweeping shut. “Please, it feels… Please touch me, Eskel.”

“I want to,” Eskel groans, sounding almost pained. “You have no fucking clue how badly I want to. But I… I think something is wrong.”

A sudden sinking feeling erupts in Cahir’s stomach. Fighting off the dread, he opens his eyes to see Eskel frowning at the strange tablet. He props himself up on his elbows, trying not to jump to any fear-based conclusions before he sees the evidence for himself. “What is it?”

“I don’t want to overload you, so I’m going to say this as gently as I can,” Eskel tells him, unnaturally calm. It feels forced, and sets Cahir off more than if he’d just blurted out the bad news. But his chest door is still swinging open and he’s still connected to Eskel’s computer by a wire, so he’s helpless to do anything but watch as the mechanic pulls up a seat beside the table. “You said that you’ve been waiting on your crew for thirty days.”

“Twenty-eight,” Cahir corrects, his erection flagging instantly. “They said it would be a month, at most.”

“They were wrong.” Eskel flips around the tablet; on its screen is a list of tiny, bright statistics. Cahir sees the attribute ‘system date’ and the fact ‘actual date’, but the glowing numbers swim before his eyes and he can’t make any sense of it. Eskel sighs, but he doesn’t look away. The weight in his eyes is heavy, pitying; Cahir doesn’t understand why. “They’ve been gone much, much longer than that.”

Cahir’s mouth twitches downwards into a pout, and he blinks rapidly. “Thirty days,” he suggests.

“No.”

“A… a few months.”

“Cahir—”

“I can read it,” he insists, furiously, even though for some reason he can’t. It’s like his programming won’t let him process the information on screen; as soon as he has that idea, the sinking dread in his stomach solidifies into a stone. With horrid certainty, he knows that that’s exactly what’s going on. Still, he pleads, “They’ll be back soon. They promised!”

Eskel’s kind, brown eyes fill with tears, and Cahir can no longer bear to look at him. But he has no way to block out the sound as the human tells him, sadly but firmly, “That was ninety-three years ago, Cahir.”

Behind his eyelids he sees it all so clearly: the mission succeeding, Nilfgaard establishing a new trading port and taking control of another planet. They command other space stations, bigger ones; soon they have command over sprawling metropolises. Maybe someone challenges the Emperor and his empire— their empire succumbs. Maybe Nilfgaard grows and grows until it becomes an intergalactic power. A universal empire. 

Either way, they move on from the space station that they assigned a service bot— Emperor Emhyr’s most trusted service bot, but a service bot nonetheless— to maintain. They decide that the trip back to reclaim the station wouldn’t be worth the fuel. Not when the station’s only occupant is an antiquated android with no status and no ambition. His greatest drive above all, to serve Emhyr and happily await his return, had kept him occupied. They had ensured that it would; they had fucked with his internal clock. For him, it’s only been twenty-eight days. For everyone else, nearly a century.

Which means Emhyr is dead. A dull thrill races through Cahir’s system at that, which he instantly and violently denies and rejects. But it is— it must be the truth; the emperor is dead, his advisors dead, his commanders dead, his subjects all dead too. Except for one lowly, lonely robot; his only remaining subject. Not dead, but locked in purgatory. Abandoned but not wiped. Forgotten.

“That’s fine,” Cahir hears himself say, quite neutrally and levelly despite how badly his voice is shaking. “That is fine.”

He opens his eyes to see Eskel staring at him like he’s lost his mind, which he sort of has, really. “What?”

“You checked to see if I was up to date,” he says. “And obviously, I am not. That’s fine. I still have a mission; I still must keep the station maintained for when Nilfgaard returns.”

Eskel’s hand meets his, and their palms slide together. Humans are so warm— Cahir had forgotten. With tremendous, unbearable sympathy, Eskel says, “Cahir, they aren’t going to return.”

“They still may.” Cahir sniffs. “I cannot abandon my post just because of a programming error.”

“It wasn’t an error.” Eskel flips the tablet around. Unwillingly, Cahir reads it. The ‘system date’ and ‘actual date’ data are now accurate to each other, but underneath is another date that he has trouble processing. ‘Termination date’: six years and nine months from now. Cahir glances at Eskel for confirmation, and he nods, devastated. “They only insured this place for a century. When that runs out, they won’t care about maintaining it anymore, and you’ll go offline.”

“Well— well— they— well—” Cahir rereads the date over and over. “They might come back then. In six years and nine months.” Even to his own hearing, he sounds desperate.

Eskel squeezes his hand. “But if they don’t?”

“Then I’ll have served my purpose.” In his mind, the White Flame extinguishes itself.

To his credit, the man actually considers Cahir’s wishes before gnawing on his lip, and finally shaking his head. “I… No, I… I can’t. I’m not going to leave you to die here for no good reason! Listen, I’m not— I haven’t worked with vintage parts before, so I don’t know how to fix this. But I have contacts, and they probably could find a way, alright?”

The room suddenly seems smaller than it ever has before. Eskel’s hand in his is warm, like the hot cocoa he makes to hold every night. It takes him a millisecond to compute that he must have made over thirty four thousand mugs of cocoa. What a ridiculous waste of Nilfgaardian resources— he bankrupted his own empire without even knowing it. And all so that he could cradle something warm in his palms and stare out the window for a light that would never, ever come.

“I’ll come with you,” Cahir agrees, surprising them both.

Eskel launches forward to hug him— in doing so, his chest presses against the exposed bundle of wires, sending a thrill through the android’s system. After a moment of trying to get his synapses back in order Cahir hugs back, awkwardly and probably incorrectly. But Eskel doesn’t complain about his technique, just holding him tightly and muttering under his breath, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. And thank fucking god.”

Cahir doesn’t believe in any god, and doesn’t know anyone else alive who does. But Eskel’s zeal inspires a similar fervour in him, and he grips the human tightly in response. “And in six years and nine months,” he breathes into Eskel’s bare shoulder that tastes of sweat and salt, “you’ll bring me back here?”

After a heavy pause, Eskel nods against his throat, and releases him. “If that’s what you want.” 

It is the first time in Cahir’s life that any human has ever acknowledged what he might want. He makes a note to treasure the memory forever.

[aiyexayen]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Chapters: 1/1

Words: 1642

Fandom: 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV)

Relationships: Ā-Yān & Wēn Níng | Wēn Qiónglín

Characters: Ā-Yān, Wēn Níng | Wēn Qiónglín

Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Canon Compliant, Friendship, Love, Queerplatonic Relationships, Self-Acceptance, Ableism, (referenced in introspection), Souls, Neurodiversity, Sweet, Happy Ending, Fluff

Summary: A-Yan goes on a walk and has opinions about souls.

written for the Women of MDZS Flash Exchange

[trohpi]

killerqueen microfic [cross-posted on ao3]

@marauders-rarepair-fics • september 18: dragon • 996 words • CW: age gap (barty is 18, sirius is 22)

“Why, Sir Black,” Barty drawls, sleazy grin just as crooked and bloodied as his freshly broken nose. His eyes slowly trail down the length of Sirius’ armour before darting back up, uncanny green meeting steely grey. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Sirius ignores the flutter in his chest and takes his helmet off, tucking it under his arm as he shakes his hair out. He levels an unimpressed look at the boy on the floor. “I would ask if there’s something wrong with you, Lord Crouch, but I already know the answer to that particular question.”

“And I would say ‘Lord Crouch’ is my father, but I’m afraid ‘Barty’ is also my father so it appears I’m rather short on options.” The younger pointedly tugs at the binds around his wrists. “Now, if you would be so kind as to untie me, darling.”

“Yes, please do,” Rosmerta, the old barmaid who is the reason why Sirius came all the way here with Padfoot in the first place, says with a huff. She shoots a look at the knight that would put the fear of death in Magic herself. “Escort that scoundrel the Viscount calls a son out of my tavern. Now, please.”

“Of course, Madam,” Sirius says with his signature polished high-born smile while he grips Barty by the upper arm and yanks him to his feet. The abrupt movement pulls at his bound wrists and he grimaces, recoiling with protests on his lips. A warning kick to the back of his leg cuts him off.

“I apologise for him,” Sirius continues smoothly, ignoring the slight indignant squawk from Barty. Rosmerta watches on with a raised brow, expression somehow both amused and exasperated. “He lacks good form, despite his noble upbringing.”

“As if you were any better at his age,” she says dryly. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten the mischief you and Potter got up to. Would still be getting up to if his father wasn’t passing on the crown soon.”

“Oh, you know you miss us, Roz,” Sirius says, voice slipping from the courtly tone he’d put on to something more roguish and playful. The older woman rolls her eyes.

“I can assure you I do not, Mister Black. My tavern is far better off without spoiled youths starting fights within its walls.” She shoots a pointed look at Barty, who flashes her a shameless grin in lieu of a reply. Sirius has to bite the inside of his cheek to hold back an inappropriate snort. Shockingly, his little brother’s annoying best friend can occasionally be funny.

Only occasionally, though. He still gets under Sirius’ skin like no other, and most of the time their interactions are thick with tension. James says it’s because they’re so similar, and that they would most certainly get along if they spent more than five minutes together without picking a fight. Sirius dutifully ignores him.

He clears his throat and puts his helmet back on. “Right, well, apologies again. We’ll be on our way.”

“You’d best be,” Rosmerta warns before leaving the corner of the tavern she’d banished Barty to, tied like a prisoner while she waited for someone to collect him.

She’d contacted the palace looking for Regulus, but James— the traitor— had taken his brother out for the day and refused to allow Sirius to come with. Teasingly said he could manage without his knight for a few hours, and if anything were to genuinely happen, well. Regulus could handle it with his magic.

Perks of being Blessed, Sirius had thought sardonically. You can publicly court your brother’s princely best friend without needing said brother’s protection.

Sirius makes quick work of the ropes on the young Lord’s wrists and drags him outside, into the bustling streets of Hogsmeade, the outermost village in the kingdom.

“What is the matter with you?” he hisses as they make their way through the crowd, periodically shooting a charming smile at the townsfolk who stop and stare. “Starting tavern brawls? Seriously?”

Barty rolls his eyes. “Don’t pretend you care, darling. We’re not friends. Don’t you have your precious Prince Potter to be guarding, or whatever it is you two do?”

“Stop calling me darling,” Sirius shoots back, ignoring the warmth in his cheeks. “And James is with Reggie, so it seems you’re stuck with me. You’re lucky I didn’t just leave you there when Rosmerta called.”

“Oh, lucky me. The handsome Sir Black came to save the damsel in distress. However may I repay him?” Barty faux-swoons into his side. Sirius bites his tongue.

“Padfoot’s just over here,” he says instead of the acerbic reply he’d wanted to, tugging Barty through an alley away from the throng.

“And you left your dragon here, why?

“Well, it’s not like she can fit in the streets,” he huffs as they round the corner and catch sight of her.

Padfoot’s magnificent, her iridescent black scales shimmering softly where the sun hits her. She’s curled up like a cat in the empty backstreet, massive head resting on a pile of old crates like a pillow. Big yellow eyes blink sleepily at their approach, only to widen when she sees who they are. Padfoot chirps happily and clambors upright, exhaling a soft puff of smoke.

“Hello, love,” Sirius croons, letting Barty go in favour of running his hand along her side. Her dense body begins to rumble with crackling purrs.

With a heavy clang, Sirius carefully undoes the chain around her back leg and double checks the fastens on the saddle.

“Alright,” he says after a moment. “Hop on. Do be careful, though. Padfoot is known to have an appetite for insufferably gauche bastards.”

“Why, I wonder how you’ve evaded being eaten this long, then,” Barty comments lightly.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Crouch.”

“Make me, Black,” Barty grins, a mixture of mirth, enmity, and some third thing Sirius can’t quite name swimming in those striking green eyes. Sirius swallows, throat dry.

“Just get on the damned dragon.”

[resident-gay-bitch]

May 20; Flowers

Ship; Barty x Lily (Bartylily/deathflower)

@marauders-rarepair-fics

Barty's not really good at all this shit.

You know, all that pish posh romance crap.

He's not really cut out for the nice stuff. He's loud and crude and rough around the edges. Never really grew up experiencing what real love is supposed to feel like, and now he's just confused about it all the time. He thought love was bullshit, actually. A total load of steaming shit.

Until Lily came along.

She rolled her pretty, pretty, pretty green eyes at him and bossed Barty around and now he's head over fucking heals in love with her. Doing just about anything to get her attention, all he wants to do is look at her, and keep her close and safe, and get her to look at him.

She's even got him making a fool out of himself, trying his hand at romance. Regulus and Evan laughed at him this morning, when on their walk around the grounds, he began to pick flowers.

It was Valentines day after all, and walking up to the girl you're in love with and asking if she'd like a shag isn't really boyfriend material. But flowers are, right? Girls like flowers, right?

Bloody hell, what does he know? He only knows that his stupid heart is beating out of his stupid chest as he stands here, with his hand outstretched, with a bouquet of (mostly weeds, actually, but Barty doesn't know the difference) flowers, dead silent, staring intently at the girl who's snatched his heart.

"Are you going to say something, or just stand there like a statue?"

Barty swallowed so thickly he could hear it, "Uh- Uhm, yeah- or- I mean..."

"Barty?" She asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Shit, fuck- shit. Here!" He said, shoving them at her chest, "Date... Date. Me... I mean... please?"

"Are you asking me out on a date?" She asked, putting her quill down to take the messy bouquet. Now that Barty thinks about it, he could have made it look a bit nicer.

He nodded his head quite aggressively, pinks embarrassingly pink. Behind Lily's shoulder, over on the other side of the library, Regulus and Evan were laughing so hard at him they had tears in their eyes.

Lily glared up at him, and Barty thought he might die, "Is this a joke?"

"No!" He rushed out, his voice cracking he was so embarassed, "I... fuckin' hell, I fancy you, Lily. Ain't it obvious?"

Lily's cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink, matching one of the flowers in the bunch before her, "Oh... then yes, I'd love to go on a date with you. How about Friday? Do you think that's enough time to figure out to speak in sentences that consist of more than two words?"

Barty nodded his head, never having felt so excited in his entire life. In a flash, he lent down to kiss the top of her head before rushing back over to his friends. He thinks he might make her up a better bouquet of flowers before their date, maybe he'll break into the greenhouse.

"What the fuck?" Evan said, staring at him blankly.

"I can't believe that worked." Regulus said, clearly confused.

Barty could only grin, feeling like he was on top of the stupid fucking world.

[wisteriagoesvroom]

For your drabble writing thingy🫶

Pairing: Carloscar

Word: satisfaction

Let the rarepair enthusiasts froth at the mouth (me included)! -lo

how satisfying (human behaviour)

a carloscar flash fic rated m 1.3k words read on ao3

dedicated to @lovelylotusf1 for the prompt, and @carlosheinz who is the resident carloscar preacher of the parish.

preview:

Today: Oscar’s hotel room. Too-big bed. Oscar catalogues sensations. A part of his mind, cold and detached. His life on exhibition, behind safety glass. A sign: not too close, please.  Mattress, softer than he’d like. Linen, scented in a forgettable hotel way. Minty mouthwash fighting the horrid cinnamon gum, an overwarm taste he has come to know as Carlos. Oscar spent time earlier, pulling different sounds from Carlos. Biting a point on Carlos’s neck, to feel the engine of him growling under Oscar’s own jaw. Minutes slipping onwards as he worked Carlos into a point of sharpened need. Now, Carlos is sprawled out on his back, beneath Oscar. Their two faces flushed, breathing just a little heavier. They’re both proud, and never like to let the effort show.

(this was meant to be a small drabble and i LIED, i'm sorry, the carloscar prompt was just too good. here i am submitting my application to be a permanent resident of carloscar nation.)

[bulkyphrase]

AmeriHawk: a Clint Barton/Steve Rogers rec list

A few of my favorite fics from an underappreciated rarepair!

Found Your Husband by sara_holmes (@captn-sara-holmes) (Teen And Up Audiences, 8,824 words, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Summary: Clint was never any good at strategy. He's pretty good at putting his foot in his mouth, though. Never to the extent where he ends up accidentally marrying someone he's not seen in twenty years, though.

Third Wheel or 20 Dates by cakeisnotpie (Explicit, 9,748 words, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Summary: Steve and Clint are the third wheels around the tower. Basketball, classic movies, plays, and late night workouts ensue. Turns out, they may have been dating the whole time.

More below the cut!

Contractually Obligated, at Least Out of Uniform by snack_size (Explicit, 57,833 words, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Summary: A chance encounter in the SHIELD hallway leads Clint and Steve, post-Avengers, to get to know each other better when everyone else is off having adventures. Things develop slowly, and awkwardly, and probably only thanks to one well timed comment by Tony. From there, Clint and Steve try to navigate a new reality, each other, and their various past traumas.

You were good for her by marmolita (@marmolita) (Explicit, 2,364 words, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Author's Note: "This fic is a followup to quigonejinn's Beast of Burden. It may not make much sense if you haven't read that one first, so please do."

Summary: "Clint, I want--" Steve says, pulling back. Clint looks up at him, one hand on Steve's shoulder and one on the side of his ribs. Steve blinks, looks away. "I want you to hurt me."

Ghosts by AvaKelly (@intermittently-ava) (Explicit, 22,931 words, Graphic Depictions Of Violence)

My Note: This fic and the next one are the reason I ship AmeriHawk. Before I read them I hadn't even considered the ship as a possibility.

Summary: "Under the ice, I was awake." When the words settle in his head, Clint feels dizzy with comprehension. And yeah, there it is, the ripping that slices into his ribcage, sharp and painful, as if trying to erase everything that had touched his chest before. He shudders violently. "How are you sane," a whisper slips out unabated, voicing Clint's realization. "I'm not really."

Illusions by AvaKelly (@intermittently-ava) (Explicit, 26,362 words, Graphic Depictions Of Violence)

Summary: Hawkeye looks at him unblinking, unwinds his muscles with an upturn curl of a corner of his mouth that flashes a hint of teeth into the sunlight. He extends a hand, grips Steve's jaw a little too tight. "This is what kills people," he warns, like he refuses to acknowledge it as part of him. It sends a pang of hurt through Steve, because Clint can see a lot, but how can he not realize that it's Clint speaking through Hawkeye's mouth? They are not separate, but of one being, killer and conscience. That is what makes them soldiers instead of murderers.-- Alternate telling of Ghosts from Steve's perspective. Why you should read it: It has about 3 extra chapters from Ghosts of the boys in the tower. Here we dive into what reality looks like for Steve, after the years in ice. The Cat was here.

A Lifetime Of Dreaming by shatteredhourglass (@shatteredhourglass) (Explicit, 15,541 words, Graphic Depictions Of Violence)

Summary: "Clint," someone calls out, and Clint blinks. Alternatively titled 'Clint Barton And The No-Good, Shitty, Very Bad Day.'

If I Don't Wake Up Dead by copperbadge (@copperbadge) (Mature, 30,756 words)

Summary: Clint Barton -- subby, ex-carnie white trash, spy -- isn't the kind of guy Captain America goes for. Nobody informed Captain America of this.

in the day by harcourt (@haforcere) (Not Rated, 2,586 words)

Summary: For this prompt, where Steve is a man out of time, and things really were better way back when. Today, Doms control every aspect of their subs lives, more like ownership than a partnership. And when Steve wakes up, every one expects him to slot neatly into society because he comes from a time when "Doms were Doms and subs were subs," right? Also available as a podfic read by GoLBPodfics (@godoflaundrybaskets)

Chase Away the Winter's Chill by drmcbones (Teen And Up Audiences, 4,461 words)

Summary: Everybody sees Steve as the invincible Captain America, the hero who bounced back from being frozen for 70 years and went straight back to kicking ass and taking names. People forget that he's still a human being who underwent a horrific trauma. So Clint is thrown for a loop when he visits Steve's apartment and finds him in the midst of a panic attack brought on by his first winter since his near death in the arctic. Cue Clint doing whatever it takes to look after his teammate and remind him that he is not alone.

Boundless by AvaKelly (@intermittently-ava) (Teen And Up Audiences, 931 words)

Summary: Steve gets rewarded for his sacrifice with the choice of roaming the world as an invisible spirit while he's frozen and he takes it. One day, he meets a boy and makes a promise.

(my heart is) A Church of Scars by Kangofu_CB (Teen And Up Audiences, 4,384 words)

Summary: "Steve." It was a gentle correction, but implacable all the same. "It's Steve. And you never belonged to Loki because I'm pretty sure you belong to me." He reached for the buttons at his throat and began loosening them, revealing pale collarbones and smooth, hairless skin, but before the stripping could get really risque - and some distant part of Clint was deeply disappointed - Steve stopped unbuttoning the shirt and instead pulled the edges of it aside, so that his right shoulder was showing. A right shoulder that was marred by a very distinctive, starburst-shaped scar. The kind of scar an arrow left. Clint's vision narrowed to pinpricks, and he could feel himself panting in short, choppy bursts. In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, Clint finds something to hold on to.

Another First Kiss by Sineala (@sineala) (Explicit, 22,645 words)

Summary: Clint and the rest of the Avengers are alive and safe, home again after Onslaught. The team is getting back together. Life is great. And, what's more, Clint has woken up to one of his longtime fantasies, come true at last: Steve Rogers is naked in his bed and is very, very happy to see him. Everything would be perfect... if only Clint could remember anything at all about how Steve got there. Uh-oh. Okay, so he has a bit of amnesia. There's only one thing to do: wing it. The memories are bound to come back, any minute now. In the meantime, Clint can absolutely, definitely pretend that he knows what he's doing, who all these new Avengers are, and how the hell he ended up dating Captain America.

[vesselsart]

Trigun Rarepairs Bang Outline!!

The time has come! It is now posting week for the Trigun Rarepairs Flash Bang that I took part in - head on over to Twitter and follow @/trigunrarepairs where you can find all of the art and fic made for this event as it is being posted throughout the week! There is also a fic collection on AO3 if you want to browse the works!

I am sharing the sketchbook pages that I put together whilst planning for this project. This page features general notes about the bang and some snippets from my writing partner’s fic!

[sporksaber]

While im on my naruto au bullshit, those genin exchange program fics, Id love to see one with a more political focus.

Ive seen a fair number of fics that go into the political power difference between sakura and the other genin in her year (usually its to find a watsonian answer from the doyalist perspective where sakura wasnt originally meant to be as important as a character). The general idea is that konoha's academy system sucks because it only really exists for clan kids to make connections and for the village to get canon fodder to keep the clan kids alive durring wartimes. The reason sakura is the only civilian is explained as she is literally the unlucky too competent (the most competent of the civilian borns who dont have any recources) canon fodder. Ive seen it used as character motivation and a tool to build team bonds as sakura realizes she's put there to drop out or die and panicks about it.

Anyway

The genin swap fics are something i see most often as a tool to allow rarepairs/crack ships. But because we dont see a lot of foreign shinobi who are genin, the character who goes to konoha is usually a really important person.

Applying the power difference idea, sakura is training in the foreign village and is told about the person she swapped with. She promptly freaks out and sees her life flash before her eyes because oh god, oh no, im not worth (this though popped up bc i just came across one using chojuro as her swap) a kekkai genkai/a sworsmen/a political figures kid. If they find out she's a nobody who was sent in place of a clan kid she and a lot of other people are going to die.

If i were to write it id have everyone already know, and there were either some other political reasons were the imbalance was done on purpose or the person who swapped with her wanted to go. But a genuine "my village set me up and now i have to learn to fake it or ill die," plotline would also be fun.