#saf drabble

[missholloween]

Something something curtwen drabble🥺🥺 possibly🥺🥺

I will never say no to curtwen 🫡🫡🫡

I was debating between something more cute and fluffy for the holidays or something angsty, but ansgt won (thank my partner). This was loosely inspired by Eat Your Young by Hozier <3

The light in the facility was dim, barely enough for Curt to see the end of his legs. He didn’t remember how he got there, or why he was tied to a beaten-up chair. He also didn’t remember much of his week, or the week before. If his temple hadn’t been bleeding, Curt would have thought this was simply another one of his nightmares.

Once his eyes accustomed themselves to the light, and his survival instincts had awoken from a four-year slumber, Curt started to notice things around him: there were bloodstains old and new on the floor, mere centimeters away from him; there was a table full of tools Curt knew far too well to call anything but torture equipment. However, all the details slipped out of his mind when he crossed eyes with another man.

The first thing Curt noticed were his eyes. At first, he thought his mind was once again playing with him: there was a thirst, a hunger he only thought animals could show. When he noticed Curt had awakened, he smiled with crooked and sharp teeth. The spy quickly realized that he was in a predator’s din, and there was nothing he could do to get out.

“Have you ever been to a gala, Mega?” said the man, as he moved his fingers through the different tools at his desk.

Curt tried to speak, only to discover that his throat was as dry as his eyes had been for months. How much time had he been down there?

“The drinks, the suits… A spectacle of lights and frivolity that only the crème de la crème of society could enjoy. Them, and of course, their little lap dogs.”

After some thought, the man picked a knife. It wasn’t the finest at the table, and it didn’t seem the deadliest. However, Curt didn’t take long to see it was the sharpest. Whoever his captor was, he had given it a good use.

“They love to exhibit them around, show their tricks every now and again so that others know how powerful they are.” The man continued, getting closer and closer to Curt.

The former spy tried to flee, to lose the string that had burned itself into his wrists. However, Curt quickly learned he didn’t have the strength, not even to turn his head away from the man who was now mere millimeters away from him.

“Everyone loves pets… As long as they are obedient,”

A cut on his cheek. It only scratched his skin.

“… unless they bite…”

A cut in his arm. The remains of Curt’s shirt absorbed most of his blood.

”… or until they fail.”

The knife was aimed at his neck. However, the cut was in his clavicle. Curt felt his body burn.

The other man’s eyes were ignited with a rage that didn’t fit his face. His factions were too collected, his mouth moved as if disconnected to his body. If Curt could only think with clarity, he would’ve seen a mask.

However, all his strength was used to ask a simple question.

“Why… Why are you doing this?”

His torturer kneeled near him, almost caressing his face with a knife now bathed in his blood. “Oh, this isn’t personal, Curt. Believe me when I say it wasn’t for them either.”

[kairithemang0]

something I was doing at work because I haven’t been able to stop the urge to write all day so you’re getting this (may be edited and posted to ao3 later we’ll see I have no idea what I’m doing with this I’m just bored)

Warmest Goodbye

Owen leaned his head against the barrel of Curt’s gun, his eyes burning as he resisted the urge to fall to his knees all over again, to let them scrape against the staircase, to grab Curt’s leg and pull him down with him. He felt the cold barrel against his forehead and held a breath, “Pull the fucking trigger, Mega,” it came out as a whimper, he didn’t mean for it to sound that pathetic, that pained, but it did.

Owen opened his eyes the slightest bit to see Curt looking at his with tears streaming down his face, real tears. He had never seen Curt cry, he was just as beautiful as he was when he was laughing or yelling at him or bleeding out on the ground. “You know I can’t do that, Owen,” he muttered, his voice cracking as his eyes pierced Owen’s, making him shiver, “Don’t make me, please Owen, don’t make me do it.”

“Why can’t you? Why the fuck can’t you do it? Are you scared or something? Grew a heart?” Owen choked out a laugh, his face red and his palms burning.

“A heart wouldn’t be too bad,” Curt shrugged softly, his tear stained lips breaking into a small smile.

Owen wiped his eyes, pressing his head to the barrel again before Curt moved the gun out of the way and took a step closer to Owen on the staircase, letting Owen’s head fall to his shoulder, “I hate you so damn much.”

“I hate me too,” Curt let the gun drop from his hand, “You’re going to kill me later, aren’t you?”

“I would’ve killed you already if I could,” Owen told him, leaving them both with a painful silence for a moment.

“Fuck you,” Curt muttered again, hearing Owen laugh into his shoulder.

“Fuck me yourself,” Owen joked, a joke they were both familiar with that usually led to them curled up together under the morning sunrise the next day. Owen didn’t know if he wanted that tonight, if he wanted that ever anymore.

Curt touched his hand to Owen’s back, feeling him shake under his palm, “You’re never going to want to see me again, are you?” Curt asked softly, almost worried Owen would respond at all.

Owen stayed quiet, digging his head into Curt’s neck, “I want my jacket back,” his nails gripped the leather and dug into Curt’s skin through his clothes.

“You can have it, I don’t need it anymore. I’ve got enough of your jackets anyways,” Curt told him softly, feeling Owen drag his hands over Curt’s back and began to take the jacket off, Curt letting him drag it down his body and letting the leather fall off of him.

“This was always my favorite jacket,” Owen let it fall to the steps, watching Curt shiver in the cool facility air.

“You know it looks better on me,” Curt chuckled as he finally got a good look at Owen’s face as he took his head away from Curt’s shoulder to wipe his face.

“Whatever,” Owen grabbed his jacket and tied it around his waist, moving away from Curt down the staircase, “I’ll see you around, Mega?” He asked softly as he turned away from Curt, putting his hands in his pockets and began to leave, to let his life go on and to never see Curt again. That was the plan. To never see Curt again. He’d be free, and Curt would be gone.

He felt Curt grab his arm for a moment, turning his head, “I’ll see you around, Carvour,” his smile was warm as he fell to the same step as Owen, patting his shoulder and looking at him.

“Your mother is still alive, isn’t she?” Owen asked, Curt nodding his head, “Tell her I said hi. Maybe I’ll stop by one of these days for dinner.”

Curt smiled gently, “Cool, maybe I’ll see you then.”

Owen nodded as he left the facility, Curt turning around to grab his gun because leaving, he and Owen walking in different directions and hardly looking back to see if the other was following.

Sorry I need them to have a cute goodbye where neither of them die but they also know they can’t be together anymore I wrote this wayyyyy too quickly but it exists now I guess will probably end up getting rewrote a ton if I post it somewhere else we’ll see.

[safrona-shadowsun]

One Song, 100 words

"Damocles"- Sleep Token

{ Song Here }

"Courier...."

"...courier..."

" --only THE Courier--

It was a self-perpetuated title so many knew to call her by. Perhaps they'd mark "Courier" on her grave when this body no longer served her, and nothing else. There was a time that she was the professional fortress that was built by the name. But today, she did not want to be defined by it. She was worn of it all. She was tired of the mask and its professional obligation. They could do without her for one day.

Her jump from the cliffside into the sea had been aggressive, and now she floated with a strange peace only the deep provided. Reinforcing her lungs with an unnatural breath by a gift of the Demonic, she opened her eyes on the curious depths below her, where the deep blue was indistinguishable from starless space. Intimidating and fascinating, all at once. It was a wonder if her feet would ever find purchase.

It seemed like a good day to sink into the Unknown and find out. Forgotten depths often held things waiting to be discovered. Perhaps something long forgotten could have it's time again in the light.

{ Enjoy @preachersooc <3 }

[mercysought]

Orla Mercar (Rook), Inquisitor Asharen Lavellan and Magister Maxima Aurum discuss what to do about Fen'harel now that they have an opening towards Elgar'nan previous drabble

Asharen knew the room was warm, but she felt herself burning while standing there. Morrigan to one side, Émilie to another. Rook and some of her companions pouring over the maps of the city. The copy of the dagger at her hip alongside the real one. To her center and front Magister Aurum stood by the fire, to the left of Dorian and Magister Tilani who spoke in quiet whispers.

Magister Aurum, the only person so far that had made their way from the Archon's palace, seemingly having survived something that had lead all within this room believe any attending magister had died in Elgar'nan's attack. It seemed that it too more than an ancient elvhen God to kill one such as Maxima.

It was her that the Inquisitor followed most closely. The bandages around her wrists and arms growing darker with each passing moment that they spoke. It was not her place, but it was clear that the woman was pushing the luck that had been graced to her upon her survival.

A clicking of the tongue. Maxima Aurum turns from her colleagues and looks squarely at the table, taking a step forward until she is against the surface.

   "After everything he has done, I cannot believe we are seriously discussing giving him a potential out." the Magister's voice is loud, louder than one would expect and firmer too, given the woman's injuries. Her face drowned in the darkness as she cut against the flames of the fireplace opposite to where Asharen stood. Quiet, carefully taking notes from time to time, trying to keep her hands and her mind busy to keep the panic and the want to speak out of feeling than her mind with firmer arguments from spilling from her mouth.

But the Magister looked at her, directly, unflinchingly. And Asharen could nothing but stare directly back. Her tone and eyes hold nothing but pure accusation and indignation "To meet him with mercy?"

Her face had started bruising. Her clother simpler, far simpler than she had ever seen anything Maxima Aurum wear. The deep purple and reds on her face, the swelling, the unbrushed hair - for a figure that had been larger than life any time Asharen had seen her, she now looked as she truly was: as fragile and frail as any other person within those same walls. For all the glitter and gold, she bled just the same as the red of them.

Asharen pauses. Placing the quill down. Her light eyes stare back at the Magister's, darker now due to the shadows that sink deeper into her face.

   "To meet him with an open mind." the Inquisitor corrects, her tone kept even.

The Inquisitor had, as she would continue to do, brought up the hope that they would not need to trick Solas. And that tying him and his life to keep the Veil up would not be necessary. She hadn't had an answer when asked what other solution could they hope to have. That was what occupied her mind the most now. The swiftly growing panic alongside bile in her stomach.

   "He aided multiple groups of wounded into the saf—" she hears Emmrich's voice raise softly. The Inquisitor doesn't look towards him, however, keeping her eyes on the Magister as she saw her expression twist.

   "I care not for the mortal conscious or redemption of a would be God that only cares for the people he harms when he is arms deep in their blood!" the magister snaps, pushing herself up, straightening her shoulders with a sneer. Barely giving Emmrich a glance, the human pushes herself off the table, slowly circling around slowly. Bare and dry lips taught into a thin line as bruised hands raised to her forehead.

   "Killing him will not fix this." she repeats the same thing she had said to Orla and sees the same flash of anger flash before the Magister's eyes. The truth was simple and cruel, but it was still worth saying. The Inquisitor simply followed the woman with her eyes; however, she felt her knuckles growing colder, the hold upon the quill tighter "Binding his life force to the Veil as it has been discussed will not fix it either."

And with this, she turns to give a significant look to Rook. The Inquisitor holds the gaze, her own lips growing into a thin line that she tries hard to suppress alongside the sadness that pools in the back of her eyes, in the tightening of her throat. It would not fix it, but it could end up being the kindest of the options.

It is cruelty but using a different name. And she knew this. She understood the aspects of it likely better than anyone in that room. But what could she do?

Is this something that I could do? Her eyes fall on the dagger, the real one, for but a second. The terrible thought dawning on her mind like a terrible sunrise. Her eyes fall back down to her own brass hand, resting atop the table. Was it necessary the blood of an evanuris, or adjacent, to bind one's life form to the Veil?

And, if so, could the Well mimic the necessary ingredients and strength well enough? Would she be enough?

   "And therefore all is forgiven?!" Magister's Aurum's hoarse voice brings her back to the conversation at the table. The magister's face twists beyond just the swelling and bruising. Finally, she turns to the Inquisitor after glaring at Orla from across the table. Leaning into the wooden surface and maps, "I do not want your Fen'harel dead, Inquisitor."

The magister inhales sharply, painfully, it tenses her body as she keeps talking.

   "I want him to be judged for the harm he has done," she keeps talking, but Asharen's eyebrow arches, her lips tightening "the destruction he has wrought upon us all."

Her eyes meet the Magister's, expression slowly shifting, brows furrowing. That was not happening as long as she lived. He needed to restore what was lost, yes, aid in whatever capacity, but not in Tevinter chains.

Émilie softly moves forward, her hand over the pommel of the thin blade and eyes darkening, landing on the Magister. Rook's steps are not audible, not until she steps fully between the Inquisitor and the Magister at the corner of the table they all stood in.

   "We have a plan. Magister." Orla's heavy accent echoes across the silent and tense room. The Inquisitor can only see the back of her head, the dark hair pooling at her shoulder. Magister Aurum's eyes remain on the Inquisitor, only after her title is called her dark eyes motion to stare down Rook. Asharen keeps her lips tightly shut, the thin outline of the quill's spine snapped in the closed palm of her flesh hand. Orla continues with a firm tone "Whatever you say isn't going to change it. The Inquisitor has said her piece."

Maxima's brows arch. Her mouth hangs open in a twisted, angry smile for a second. A scoff, pained in nature, is dragged out of her mouth.

   "And you—" she turns on her heels, Maxima's voice is kept low accusingly glaring at the two other magisters in the back of the room. Dorian and Maevaris who look at her "— you both agree to this?" she sneers, not waiting for the answer, instead just shaking her head, pushing herself off the table "Un-fucking-belivable!"

And with it, she walks with intent and with the vigor of someone that shouldn't be bedridden out of the door towards where the rest of the injured and dying were. From the outside, she could hear her voice still. Calling for whatever templars were still in the city to form a perimeter outside of the Archon's palace. To get and organize more beds. Her voice cutting through the crowd as she moved beyond the corridor.

Asharen's eyes only move from the door when she feels a warm hand on her shoulder. Dorian looks at her with a worry that makes her stomach drop. It made her feel small, and the shadow that fatigue held over her mind and body grow "I will handle this."

He says simply and then he too is gone with Maevaris in turn. Émilie watches them go and only then does she move once more to Asharen's side, quietly watching the shadows dance from the corridor as more and more people hurried.

   "Her father was a cunt," Orla cuts into her vision, her gloved hand motioning to the Inquisitor's flesh one. With her palm up, she asks the Inquisitor to lift it. When she does, Rook takes the broken quill from her hand placing it back on the table without so much of an acknowledgement of the act "I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the cunt tree."

Orla gives the Inquisitor a small smile, meant to give her assurance, perhaps, and yet the Inquisitor felt nothing but a growing sense of dread. A small smile is still given, though her mind is far away and her eyes motion once more to the corridor that would lead them out into the destroyed city. Orla follows her eyes and gives a small sigh "Some fucks really just have nine lives."

[mythuzalasheir3]

MORE SAF IWTV AU DRABBLES

I wanted to write Lestat!Owen so here’s the end of 1x01 where he turns Louis!Curt :)))

@paranormaltheatrekid @missholloween

~*~

Curt's desperate pleas for absolution and redemption for his weaknesses— his disreputable businesses, the shame he pretended never existed as he was normal and sane and a proper man, and the guilt over seeing his cousin, his only friend, fall off the roof— fell on deaf ears as the confession booth shook and the priest screamed and fought against something attacking him.

The wooden booth stopped moving and someone emerged.

The door to Curt's half of the confession booth was torn off and he was horrified at the sight he was greeted with.

There, in a white shirt, stained with blood, was Owen Carvour, his dark hair loose and pupils blown out as his face was covered with blood.

The British Devil smiled and Curt recoiled, sick to his stomach at the carnage behind Owen. The pews were on fire and there were at least two corpses in sight.

"You think God heard you in there, love?" Owen asked. "In that box with that charlatan? How can you humiliate yourself like this?!"

Thunder crackled outside as something dawned on Curt in horror.

"You killed Lily." He said, afraid and shaky. "It's not fever in town… It's you."

"I give death to the deserving." Owen offered a slight bow. "I'm not the Devil, love, you're wrong about that. But I'm able to give you death."

Curt was stunned into silence and Owen stopped speaking to sprint across the room at an unnatural speed, grabbing a surviving priest by the throat and shoving him against the wall. He savagely tore into the man's throat, spraying his blood across the wall.

"This country shackled you into permanent exile, trapping you within all the roles you've had to play. All of them false, not your true nature."

Curt hated how that made sense. He hid parts of himself, buried so deep that he couldn't face them and wouldn't be able to for a long while. He had to play these parts, so he and his mom would have a decent life, so he would be taken seriously among the older businessmen he rubbed shoulders with on the regular, so no one would suspect that he was… defective, for lack of a better term.

"I saw from the first time we met, how you choke on the rage and the sorrow, like I had." Owen walked closer and took Curt's hand, guiding him out of the confession booth. "I can take that away."

Curt stumbled and they sat down on the floor, Owen's bloody face staring on top of him.

"I can give you the death you begged that degenerate God for." Owen gently cupped Curt's cheek, smearing blood across the human's cheek. "But I will make it pleasant. I can end this life of misery and give you a dark gift, power that you couldn't even dream of. You just have to ask for it. Not even that, just nod that lovely head of yours and say yes."

A part of Curt wanted to protest, to say no, to throw up at all this carnage. But it was continually silenced as Owen truly saw him, the first person to ever do so in his life. And what he was promising… freedom from everything that caused him hurt and destroyed him.

He couldn't help but nod and accept what Owen was promising.

"You are loved, Curt." Owen said gently, his fingers feeling the pulse point of Curt's neck. "And I have seen that reflected back toward me."

"…Truth be told, It frightens me as much as it does you." Owen looked down at the ground nervously before looking back at Curt. "Be my companion, Curt. Be every last part of yourself, and be it without apology. Forever."

Then Owen wiped his mouth before he carefully extended his fangs and bit into Curt's neck, the same place he had taken that 'little drink' weeks ago. 

It was not painful, being drained to the point of death. 

Curt's head spun with a heady mix of fear and pleasure as he gripped onto Owen's arms, his grip weakening as he lost more blood.

He let out a small gasp as Owen removed himself from his neck. Then Owen offered his own blood to Curt, letting it drip into his mouth before Curt latched on to his arm.

It started with a dull roar, rumbling loudly in Curt's head as he drank, letting it fill him.

Then a loud, even drumbeat reverberated loudly, and Curt began to feel it in every last inch of his body, in his temple, his fingers, his teeth. A second drumbeat joined the second, sending Curt's head spinning. The drumbeats were loudest and most prominent in is veins.

Owen finally removed his arm from Curt's mouth, the wound sealing up quickly. Curt laughed breathlessly as he realised what the drumbeats were. His heart and Owen's, beating in sync.

Curt opened his eyes, seeing Owen on the steps a few feet away from him, the fire behind him making him look radiant.

They sat there, giddy smiles on their faces, in throes of increasing wonder.

[ryoko-akari]

I wrote this as a drabble a few nights ago and the SaF discord server coaxed me to post it here so a little scene of my headcanon about how Chimera lovebombed Owen early on.

Owen had lost track of the time that had passed, countless surgeries followed by half-concious recoveries certainly had that affect on people, and he was no exception. *Especially not in the sorry state he was in.* But he'd been rescued from that hellhole of a holding cell the Soviets had held him in a while ago now if the steadily diminishing number of bandages on his body was any indication. Regardless though, the pain persisted. A throbbing pain that had settled deep within his bones and pulsed through him in irregular beats. Some days were certainly worse than others, and he was grateful for the lighter days.

*Today however, was not one of those days.* He hadn't even made an attempt to cover up the groan that slipped its way out as he slowly woke back up from another dreamless slumber. Gentle beeping and whirring of machines surrounding him doing nothing to soothe the throbbing deep in his skull, nor the way it pounded through his cracked ribs and thundered through his splintered spine and shattered thighs. The pain echoed through every bone in his body, but those points made their protests louder than anything he'd known prior to his fall.

"Agent Carvour? Everything alright in here?" *Oh right, the nurse.* Owen groaned again, and they rushed through the door into the odd little room he'd been kept in. "Oh dear, another bad day is it?" Owen tried to nod, he really did, but all it did was amplify the drumming in his head and he winced with a loud hiss. "I know you've been adamant about it, but if its bothering you so much let us help you."

*There's the angle.* *"No."* Owen knew how it'd go, it was well researched in his field. The way medications, especially the stronger pain medications they wanted to administer, would make anyone loose lipped faster than a torrential downpour. No, he’d kept his mouth sealed for this long, he was *not* going to risk losing control now. He still didn’t know why this, *Chimera* group had decided he was worth risking a rescue for, what they could possibly be after that he was important enough to pour countless resources into mending his every injury and wound without a single corner cut. There was too much at stake to risk giving them anything until he knew more, and his damned migraine was not helping matters in the slightest.

“I understand your apprehension.” They said it so plainly, so calmly, Owen almost missed it. But they continued regardless if he did or not. “But you’re safe here.” They smiled, Owen more so heard it than saw it, his vision still blurred behind a wall of pain, too much to process anything he saw anyways. “We can make a deal, you don't have to talk, just let me give you something, not a full dose but *something* to help tide you over. You can ask all the questions if you’d like. I will answer whatever you ask to the best of my ability and with every bit of truth I know. I swear it.”

Owen kept his expression neutral, and by neutral that meant knitting his brow in pain as he considered this. There must have been a trap. Some kind of loophole he was too delirious to find that they could exploit, throwing him further into a spiral of muddled thoughts until he was nothing more than slop they could squeeze for whatever they wanted. The Soviets had tried and failed to do it by making his injuries so much worse, barely keeping him on the living side of death's knife-thin edge. Now they would try to do it with substances he had no chance of fighting off in his current stage.

They sighed, not out of frustration, not out of annoyance, not out of confusion, and not out of impatience. They sighed out of *pity,* a remorseful tone that he hadn’t an idea where it’d come from. “So talking scares you huh? Smart, but there's no need for that fear.” Owen stayed absolutely still, waiting to see what they would do. “How about a different deal then, we’ve got a library of all kinds of literary works, pick a title, any title you can think of, and I’ll get it. Let me give you something to take the edge off your agony and I’ll read it to you, no conversation. I’ll even promise to stop you if you try to interrupt with anything.”

*“‘m not a child.”* He mumbled, his own scratchy voice grating on his ears the more he used it.

“You aren’t. I’m simply offering because trying to read anything on your own is only going to make that migraine of yours worse. I’d not even offer at all if it wasn’t important to ensure you don't have an adverse reaction to the first few doses. Don’t need you developing an allergic reaction and making things worse on yourself, after all.”

Owen stayed silent, considering their offer. It wasn’t a terrible option, it scared him to no end but, the ache in his body had grown stronger by the minute, and from their previous encounters this nurse hadn’t given him reason to believe they’d lie to him about his treatments. It unnerved him, sure, but they’d always been truthful with their statements, and kept to the promises they’d made as far as he could tell. It certainly couldn’t *hurt* to give this option a shot (if he was in a better state of mine he might have chuckled at that prospect), and it might bring him that much closer to being able to function as his own person again.

“Alright, um-” He paused, suddenly sheepish at the way his memory evaded him faster than fog at the first sign of morning light, “I seem to have forgotten your name. I’m sorry-”

“Angel.” They smiled, and Owen could just barely focus on the glint of their teeth in his circus mirror vision. “You can call me Angel, everyone does. Now, what would you like to read?”

[finnattack26]

Little Saffron Drabble

With all of the chaos going on recently with you trying to manhandle Crescent to at least not cause any trouble while you’re working, it’s meant that you haven’t been able to really get to know Saffron – not really. Sure, you’ve seen him around when going to fix another ride and always wave back at him when he tips his hat in greeting from his usual position leaning against Ruby while keeping an eye on the children feeding the lambs, but you’ve never really had a chance to stop by for a chat just to see how he’s doing. 

It hasn’t been easy getting an idea of his personality either since he’s chosen to hover in the group call, never striking up a conversation out of boredom or to rant of any of his interests like Whirl tends to do. It’s always an eerie silence from his end and, to be quite frank, you’re getting very concerned. You are used to introverted bots but this Aussie has been acting very differently from how he had when first introducing himself. There has been a positive to his rather unorthodox entrance; Crescent doesn’t dare to step anywhere near the farm because of Ruby. 

Snatching your jacket from its place draped across the back of your chair, you close your laptop, stuff it into your bag and shrug your backpack on. Turning off the lights, you scan your card and wait for the sliding sheets of metal to rise. Distracting yourself with your watch, you check for any more maintenance requests and take a step forward right into something hard. Yelping at the sudden pain in your nose, you stumble back and look up, eyes brightening at the turquoise dots looking down at you. 

“Saffron! I was actually just going to look for you.”

“You should really watch where you’re going.” He sniggers, tone bright and tinged with the aussie accent you’ve always enjoyed hearing online. 

You squint at him. “Well, to be fair, I wasn’t expecting a six foot eight animatronic on the other side of the door. Do you need something fixing?”

“Nah, I just wanted to see you.” He says, eyes sharpening. “Ruby’s been grumpy, she’s been missing ya.”

“I’m not quite sure how to respond to that.” You reply, honestly. It’s not as if being missed by an animatronic animal is something of a daily occurrence for you – though it might as well be, all things considered. 

He rolls his eyes and backs out of the doorway. “Well, I came to fetch you for her.”

You nod slowly, leaning against the doorway and folding your arms. “Right…and this is Ruby that’s feeling lonely, correct?”

“Yup, so are you coming or not?” He asks and for a second, you swear there’s a small waver in his confident tone. 

“Dude, you came to fetch me.” You point out with a snort. “I have no idea where we’re going”

He blinks at you, faceplate blank.

“I’m waiting for you to lead the way, Saf.”

His eyes widen slightly in recognition and he nods, “right, right, right. Uh, she’s at the barn.”

“I thought she wasn’t allowed in there?” 

“She’s not.”

He isn’t looking at you, gaze going anywhere but your face. You watch as he runs his thumb over the lasso in his hand and feel your eyes soften. Grabbing his hand, you begin leading him away from the workshop and he stumbles after you, a buzz of surprise escaping his voice box. “Come on then, let’s go see her.”

You pretend not to notice the way his hand relaxes in yours.

[good-beanswrites]

A Fuuta + Tears drabble for @erimnar, featuring Mahiru :D Thank you for the request!! It was really fun to write out some thoughts I've been having about the irony in Fuuta's crime... It takes place sometime after Haruka's T2 verdict but before Fuuta's.

Mahiru always prided herself in her friendly disposition, even if it was what had landed her here in the first place. She would never turn away someone in need. It would break her heart to ignore someone when she could help, even if they had never gotten along with her to this point. Even if they were the type to shun her help, anyway. Even if they were a total asshole who drove her up the wall most days. 

She steeled herself before entering Fuuta’s cell.

The two had never gotten along during the first trial. (Then again, Mahiru was learning that getting along with someone meant little once she was labeled with a verdict.) She’d managed to hold a few more conversations with Fuuta than usual, but he still proved poor company. In all honesty, she would have continued leaving him to his self-isolation if it weren’t for the sniffling she could hear through the bars.

“Hello?” Following a gentle knock on the door, she wheeled herself inside.

She figured things must be really bad if he didn’t even yell as she let herself in. He simply lifted his head from where he was hunched in the corner. Then he dropped it again, red hair falling over his face. Tears fell into his lap from his left eye. His breath hitched now and then.

He looked… defeated.

Mahiru tried to hide her surprise. The last thing he needed was someone gaping at his pain. “I can go get Shidou. I’m sure he has --”

“No.” 

He returned to sniffling without elaborating. Mahiru folded her hands in her lap. If he was hurting that much, she didn’t think curling in on himself like that was doing any favors to his bruised and fractured chest. But maybe the real issue was his eye. She couldn’t imagine what that must feel like. She was about to make another offer for help when he spoke. It was so soft she almost missed it.

“What… have I done…?”

She blinked. “Fuuta?”

He looked up at her. He was difficult to read. It wasn’t as defeated as she’d originally thought. He appeared angry, like usual, but it was layered with a new desperation. Horror. Confusion.

“How could I do this? Me? I never thought... I never meant to... Fuck!”

His fists clutched at the restraints on his uniform. In an instant, Mahiru realized his tears weren’t from any physical agony.

His voice broke. “I was supposed to be a hero, you know? All my life, that’s all I wanted to be. I was supposed to help people. I wanted to… this wasn’t supposed to…” He made a strangled sound. “What have I done?”

Mahiru instinctively reached down to touch his arm. He flinched.

“I don’t-” he hiccuped “-don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity.” She had to stifle the tears that had sprung to her own eyes -- she was the type to cry easily when others did. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone, either.”

“It’s more than that!” His body shuddered. “I wanted to be the one that people looked to for help. I wanted to clean up all those scumbags, one at a time. Make the world better. I knew I wasn’t cut out for anything else -- I’d never make it as anything in this society. But I thought, online… I really thought… I could still be a hero…”

He sank his head into his hands. Mahiru got the sense he wasn’t actually expecting any response. He probably could care less if it were her beside him, or anyone else, or no one at all. But she would help. That's what she did. 

“Fuuta… you haven’t given up, have you?” 

He stayed silent.

“You stood up from Yuno, after her interrogation,” she said. “You reprimanded me and Kazui for taking the situation too lightly, and not leading the other prisoners. You’ve spoken a lot about escape plans.” She didn’t mention that they had yet to sound possible. “Your conversations with Amane have kept her spirits up. At least, I think so… You’ve kept an eye on Haruka to make sure he’s safe. And I heard you yelling at Es about what happened to me, even if it wasn’t their fault.” 

She smiled gently. She knew his explosive rant in the corridor the other day had been more out of anger than love. Still, thinking of it always made her heart flutter a bit. Fuuta would’ve made a horrendous love interest from the romance novels she’d been reading, but at least he knew how to stand up for a woman like one.

“So what? Get the point, I don't give a shit.” 

Horrendous, see?

Mahiru sighed, keeping her expression kind. “We all have done horrible things. I’m not saying it’s okay. But in here, you have been a hero. So please, you can’t stop now.”

He let out a single bitter sound -- something caught between a laugh and a choke -- before he resumed his crying. Shaking, sobbing breaths filled the cell. 

Mahiru’s face fell.

"Ah... I'm sorry."

With that, she wheeled herself outside. Fuuta had given up. And once again, she’d said too much. She only wanted to show him kindness. To tell him how much she cared. To remind him of the good that was still going on. She should know by now that her love only made things worse. It was best that she left so quickly. No need to endanger him, as she’d endangered others before. She shouldn’t put anyone else at risk.

“Hey -- !”

She whipped her head around. Fuuta was standing outside. His cheeks still shone with tears, but he clenched his fists in determination.

“I’m not giving up, you hear? I’m not that weak!” His expression was wild. He looked ready to fight. Mahiru knew he was, right now. “I’m not fucking giving up on us!”

[eternalyraven]

Oh, you write?? What've you got going at the moment?? (This is your free space, go wild about anything you want :) )

- @starpirateee

Hello, thank you so much for asking.

So I mostly don’t have any energy for writing these days so my Notes app is full of writing prompts and ideas and lines that come to me but just get saved there.

However I have done some work on my novel “Eternally out of Time” and it’s possible sequels. Unfortunately I think I might have to scrap “out of time” because I can’t seem to get it far enough from its fanfic roots. So I’ll have to make one of the others the first book (though realistically I’ve been working on this for years and it will probably only be seen in parts on this site). It focuses on my immortal character Chance being brought back in by her former organization in order to lead a team of misfits into the past in order to stop someone whose trying to stop the formation of this organization. I love the characters and the world so much but I suck at dialogue. I might start posting longer bits and maybe an overview if people are interested. Everyone seemed to enjoy when I did that reblog and get a quote thing awhile back.

I’m also eyeing my play “Written in Hot Pink Lipstick and a Lady’s Tears” in order to possibly workshop it and maybe get it in next year’s Fringe.

Mostly when I have the energy to write I do my fanfic short challenge. I’ve got some great ones lined up and I’m planning on making a new section for stuff that doesn’t fit with the others. Most of the challenge drabbles are for tv shows cause my rule was that the characters involved have to have been in multiple episodes. However my latest fandom obsessions are not series so I’m going to make a category just for them. I have some Hatchetfield stuff and some SaF stuff and yeah. I’m really enjoying just being able to shoot off something really short and be able to call it a day. Some of them I’m really proud of actually. Writing short little snippets can be trickier than I thought, especially if it’s a crossover piece but I just love when I get it right.

My Challenge ficlets are here if you’re interested in taking a gander, don’t think I have anything up in any fandoms you’d be interested in yet but I’m working on some.

(Also if I get my butt in gear there is a whole folder of quotes from movie and tv villains that are begging me to use them as fanfic prompts.)

Like I said mostly I just don’t have the energy nowadays to actually write like I would like so I just write great ideas with no execution.

[missholloween]

For the mwarch thingy you reblogged - Curtwen with 2 or 14?

2. An accdiental kiss - Curtwen

Even though those two had many kisses against walls, I had to go with this one

“In all th… In all the years I’ve been working for the agency, there’s no one that has ever beaten me in arm wrestling. Ever.”

After a mission in the French capital, both spies had decided to celebrate their reunion with some drinks to catch up. It had been months since their last job together, and none of them wanted to admit that they had missed each other’s company. That’s why, way past midnight, Owen and Curt were drinking and laughing.

“Curt, you can’t be serious,” Owen said, dragging his words. “There’s no bloody way no one has beaten you–”

“Haven’t you seen these bad boys, Owe?” Curt flexed his biceps, kissing one at a time. “They’re undefeated. Unbeatable. Invincible. ” 

Owen couldn’t help but laugh. “Sure, love.”

Curt noticed his face grow hotter. ”What do you mean, ‘sure’?  

“I’m sure you aren’t lying or exaggerating at least a little bit with this one, old boy. Whatever you say.”

“Hey, I’m not a liar!” 

“Of course not! You’re just… Creative, with this colorful anecdote.”

Curt hit the table in front of him, putting his arm on top of it. “I can prove it to you if that’s what you’d like.”

“I don’t want to destroy your ego, Curt–“

Curt put a finger on his mouth, making signs so that they would listen to their surroundings. “Do you feel that?

”… Feel what?”

”That’s right, fear.” Curt gasped, faking surprise. Then, he mimicked his partner’s accent. “And I’m afraid it’s coming from you, love.”

Owen stood up, grabbing Curt’s hand with strength. Curt saw that his taunt had been effective. “You’re going to regret this, Curt.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll regret… That I didn’t close your mouth before!”

Owen rolled his eyes, as both men got closer to the other. Curt could feel Owen’s breath on his arm, smell the traces of whisky on him. His breath was uneven, but so was his. Curt was confident, though: there was no way someone as slim as Owen could beat him.

“Don’t you want to change hands? Get a little advantage for those feeble arms of yours?”

If smiles could kill, Curt would’ve been dead where he stood. “And don’t you want to back out? All that chatter makes me think you’re the one afraid, love.”

Owen felt a stronger grip on his hand. He smiled.

”On the count of three.” Curt said, with his eyes fixed on their hands. “One… Two… Three!”

Even if Curt had wrestled many times before, none of his rivals had previously had a strategy. That’s why, when Owen made a quick but strong movement, Curt lost his balance and fell onto his partner’s face. 

Owen quickly let go of Curt’s hand, grabbing his face and raising it ever so slightly so that their mouth would meet. All the force, all the passion that should have gone to the fight, had been poured into a quick but intense kiss. Owen felt a strong grip on one of his arms, as Curt felt how his partner was pulling him in. None of them fight it.

When they separated, they were both out of breath, smitten. 

“Maybe we should finish this upstairs?” Said Owen, as he regained his breath.

“Yeah. But don’t think I’ll go easy on you, Cavour, I’ve seen what you’re capable of.”

“Don’t worry, Mega– I’ve got plenty of tricks on my sleeve.”

[kairithemang0]

Little drabble I thought of

In a strange way, Curt could say his heart and the bedsheets next to him had so many similarities. Empty, a hole left by the spot where Owen Carvour, his partner in spying and in more, slept hours before, skin to skin, his spot growing cold as seconds rolled by. Curt gripped the empty sheets, the once hot room now causing him to shiver, knowing it was only so hot because Owen was there next to him, his arm draped over his bare chest, because it was never that warm in the middle of winter in a hotel room like this, dusty and old, paint chipped off the walls and the bed squeaky, although Curt could've blamed that on the two of them.

Owen always took the early flight, whether that was his own decision, or one made by MI6 he never shared, which made Curt believe Owen just didn't want to see him in the mornings. Who would? Curt was always clingy, but it was more bearable after a night of Owen himself clinging to Curt, his nails scrapping into his unclothed back leaving scratches that made it hurt to shower, hickeys that made Curt have to explain he had a one-night stand with a woman who just loved to kiss his neck, and that that was every woman he ever slept with after a mission with Owen Carvour.

If Owen was good at one thing, it was making Curt's life hell.

And Curt couldn't get enough of the hell he caused, Owen a fiery demon to Curt's pathetic sinner, a metal chain around his neck that Owen found joy in tugging at, or seeming to from Curt's end.

He scratched his back, feeling the marks Owen had left, the rough skin red and dug into like the type of ditch they buried bodies in on the few times they had to do that. He rubbed his eyes, which had been coded with dark bags from days of barely sleeping, certainly do to the fact he had Owen on his mind. One night wasn't enough, how could that ever be enough? And for Curt, Curt so clingy and desperate for attention, he couldn't just take one night, certainly not one night where he woke up alone. Sometimes their nights together felt like a dream, so perfect and bright despite the dim lighting, everything picture perfect, and yet that could never truly capture the moment to it's fullest.

Maybe Owen left so early because Curt was so clingy, so desperate for Owen to hold him and stay with him, to ask him to run with him until they passed out and their legs stopped working, until they found a spot to call home, found a spot that wasn't some hotel room they'd never see again.

Curt's favorite nights were always the ones where he and Owen found themselves at Curt's Mother's home, where they sat in Curt's childhood bedroom and Owen didn't need to leave so soon, where they could string their hands together and bury their heads in each other's neck, warm breath on the others skin, tainting it with a smoky haze, drug-like, tasteless, but potent all the same. He stared at the empty spot in the bed, the once cramped room felt so large, the air so thin, Curt's head pounding as if it was his heart beating, his body aching with frustration and loneliness, the empty spot in the bed feeling colder still as his skin felt an icy chill where Owen's hand used to rest. He wanted a place to call home, not something so empty like this.

Empty wasn't what Curt wanted to say his morning felt like, and yet he couldn't escape the fact that that's all he could call it.

[mvanqsh]

i promis im aliv i promise ican somewhat write

[veiyx]

WANDERER/SCARA - 2

[to-be-a-dreamer]

It's just a Tumblr AU for now, but I have a oneshot posted on AO3 called "Brother I Watched The Sky Burn"! It's a Julie and the Phantoms AU but you don't necessarily have to know the show to get it! There's a few posts and drabbles under the tag "#saf's jatp au" but here's the main post if you wanna get the vibe

Hmmm…was there ever an fic or au with Singer Jack Kelly x Pianist Davey Jacobs? Just asking for a friend.

[sweetsmalldog]

Secrets kept Close

Summary: Cynthia secretly protective of her best agent (and slightly less secretly dislikes his boyfriend)

Warnings: Implied murder and swearing

Authors note: Insomia fuels my Spies are Forever writing it seems

Cynthia glared daggers at the picture. Fuckin Owen Cavour. Of course that arrogant British prick seduced the only agent she actually cared about.

She hated to admit she cared about any agent, it was unprofessional and would cause issues when they inevitably died. But she cared about Curt Mega. He wanted to make the world better something most agents didn’t care about. Sure he was an idiot but all agents were, and he had something on most agents, he was legitimately good at his job. She would never tell him any of this of course. It would all go to his head and inflate his already too big ego.

But of course she wasn’t the only one who saw the kid’s talent, Owen fucking Cavour had to go and seduce him. The picture showed her best agent and the dickbag with their lips locked. Because of motherfucking course he had to make her life harder. She refused to let her best and brightest agent’s biggest secret be found out and if that meant trying to get Cavour in her agency so she could keep her eyes on him and keep MI6’s eyes off of Curt, so be it.

She took a long drag of her cigaret as she looked at the photos, “Susan”

“Yes?” Her assistant asked ready to do anything Cynthia needed, one of the only reliable people she had even met.

“Burn these photos, destroy any copy of them, and bring the photographer to me.” Cynthia ordered as she put her cigaret in the ashtray on the corner of her desk.

As Susan left Cynthia walked over to the table by the wall in her office. At least the walls were sound-proof Cynthia thought to herself as she clicked the safety off her pistol and Susan will have as big a mess to clean up as I will.

[redrobinfection]

(4) “Disappearance”

SociallyAwkwardFox’s Spooktober - Day 4 “Disappearance”

JayTim/Jason & Tim | Gen | Silly | Escaping boring social commitments | Want to write with me? Find my prompt list here!

~*~

Jason makes his first public appearance since his death at one of the Wayne-hosted galas, per Bruce’s request, so as to allow the family to properly mark the occasion of his (legal) resurrection. It's awful, naturally.

He spends an hour thoroughly hating himself for agreeing to this sham, but then he spots Tim from across the room, schmoozing it up like the good little Drake-Wayne heir he is.

Jason tries to cut his way across the ballroom to Tim, but by the time he gets there Tim is gone. He looks everywhere, until, finally, Alfred takes pity upon him and asks him to "look in on the kitchen, please, to make sure all is well."

It’s an odd request, but once there, he finds Tim lounging in the breakfast nook, bow tie undone, dress shirt unbuttoned, undershirt untucked, and tuxedo coat tossed aside.

"I see you made an appearance tonight," Tim observes, raking his eyes over Jason's tux clad body with a suave grin.

"I see you made a disappearance tonight," Jason shoots back drily, affecting a look of disapproval.

Tim laughs.

Jason shakes his head and sits down. "But seriously, man, you're like a ghost: there one second, gone the next."

"Sometimes a guy's just gotta ghost down to the kitchen for some milk and cookies, y' know? You want some?" Tim pushes a plate of Alfred’s cookies toward him.

Jason makes a face. "Milk and cookies? What are we? Four?"

Tim makes a face right back at him. "Ugh. I'd rather be four and tucked away at the kid’s table with cookies than out there schmoozing until my brain rots while sipping the driest champagne ever bottled."

"Bruce does like it dry," Jason admitted slowly. "And… ugh, same. Okay, send some of those cookies my way."