#this snippet is (miraculously) trigger warning free
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Tiny snippet from imperfection, sad and a little sweet.
When Draco was twenty-one years old, he went to buy new towels.
Harry had his eye set on this purple monstrosity, extremely fluffy and very soft and terribly, horribly over-priced. Draco’s allowance hadn’t come through that month (or the one before), but more important was the uncontrollable urge to give Harry everything: anything he could want, ice-lollies and royal-blue pyjamas and another jumper, why the hell not. To spoil Harry rotten, the way he was always meant to be, to surround him with so much love he’d forget for a moment he was ever without it.
Draco wasn’t new to loving someone. Not, even, to doing so obsessively, inexorably. What was new was the look in Harry’s eyes, was being able to hold his hand in public (in—most places in the city). Was the way Harry said his name, the way his courage was stupidly infectious and his heart so big it didn’t fit in his chest, kept coming out in his smiles and in his hands, warm and soft and always generously offered.
Harry was only visiting. He didn’t, technically, live in Draco’s flat, but he didn’t, technically, have to return to Glasgow for another three weeks.
They made do with the time.
And Draco insisted that Harry must have his own things: his own bathrobe, his own pyjamas, his own toothbrush (fucking—gross, Harry!) and his own towel. Bringing them here, to the shopping centre with the terrible, tacky shop with the terrible, tacky things Harry wanted that terrible, tacky Draco would give his life to get for him.
Not in a dramatic way. In a—subdued, quiet way. In an utterly devoted, hopeless way that shouldn’t have felt nice, that still did. Everything felt nice about Harry. Everything but—
No, that wasn’t Harry’s fault, not even a little. Draco being disgusting and horrible was always meant to be kept secret. And it worked, when Harry lived in Glasgow and Draco in Oxford, it worked when they didn’t spend all their time together, but summer was long and tight and close and… and… and Draco didn’t know how to do this. To bare himself without fleeing, to give what he previously thought wasn’t in him, what couldn’t have been.
(Such as: his heart. Strange, no, that it actually belonged to him, when it never felt like it before. When it was wrapped so tight in strings upon strings, tying it to—other places, other people).
And Harry gave back. Everything Draco wanted to hand him, Harry insisted to return. To hold with care all of Draco’s sharp edges. And Draco was worried that he’d keep holding, even after Draco started to crack, and end up with hands full of shards of cutting Draco, end up—hurt.
Harry held the towel very close to his body. A bit like he worried someone might try to snatch it from him. Draco hated the people who raised him (a familiar, anchoring anger) and, out of spite, took his hand.
“Hey,” soft, like the towel. Harry looked up, his smile focusing, turning un-lost.
“Hi. Sorry. Fuck, you’re cold! C’mere.” Wrapping himself around Draco (uncaring for sharp, sharp edges). “It’s a bit expensive, though. There’s another set at half the price in—”
“Harry,” Draco said, “shut up. It’s from me.”
Meaning: it’s not enough for what I want to give you, for what I wish I could. (And Draco’s sad bank statement would be a worry for another day. He could do more hours at the book shop, if Father didn’t… if he stayed in Beijing for a little bit longer).
Harry squeezed him tighter. “You’re so sweet,” he said, and when Draco scoffed, “no, really,” and when Draco scoffed louder, “you are. You’re so—shut up, you’re maybe the sweetest person I’ve ever met, and—”
“Have you? met me, I mean. There’s not a single thing about me that’s sweet.”
“Your lips are sweet,” Harry said slyly. Draco refused to blush.
“Your hand is sweet,” Harry said, and brought it to his mouth for a chaste kiss.
“Your—”
“We’re in public, you fiend,” Draco said breathlessly, when Harry did no more than kiss the inside of his palm. Harry, being a fiend, laughed.
“God. I’m so fucking into you. It’s—come here,” drawing his face up to be kissed, not letting him shy away. Kissed the tip of his nose and his cheek and his left eyebrow. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
Draco couldn’t even attempt coherency. Outmatched, overwhelmed with the constant onslaught, Harry-Harry-Harry all the time, and so warm and so sweet and so there, for a whole week now he was there, staying for the month. What… how could Draco defend against him?
So he pushed away, rolled his eyes, hid his red-red cheeks in Harry’s shoulder and didn’t cry. Didn’t even wish to. It was very bright in the shop and the centre was overcrowded and too noisy, and inside it they were huddled together, a bubble of fluffy, purple towel, and them.
It had to be enough. This month, this—whatever Harry would give him, it had to be enough. Draco would be grateful and suffice with it, and not beg for more. And not be greedy, because greed was a punishable offence and terribly gauche and Draco was better than that, was a Malfoy, was a—yes, all that.
So they bought the fucking towel. Then went home, and watched a film, and ate ramen, and sat very close to each other, sharp edges and all.
#900-ish words#drarry fic#sweetness - mostly#fluff and a touch of angst#snippet of the whumpy one#considering reading the whole fic? please have a look at the TWs#they are plentiful and not at all exaggerated#this snippet is (miraculously) trigger warning free
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cake decorators, we need your help! our bakers (writers) have been working hard in the kitchen preparing something delicious, but now we need your help to make it look as good as it tastes!
throughout the week, we will be posting snippets and summaries from our bakers with a fic ID attached to them in order to keep the writer anonymous. please write down the fic IDs of the fics that you would be willing to work with, as well as the fic IDs of the fics you would absolutely not under any circumstance want to collaborate with.
at the end of all of these posts, we will post the artist applications for you to submit your answers!
FIC ID: S23
Pairing(s): Felix Graham de Vanily/Luka Couffaine
Rating: T
Archive Warnings (if any): N/A
Trigger Warnings (if any): internalized homophobia
Summary: On the three year anniversary of his betrayal of Ladybug and subsequent deal with Gabriel, Felix is back in Paris. His goal this time is simple: impersonate Adrien to get his cousin out of Fashion Week and hopefully in so doing restore some good will between them. But perhaps he should have known that his life never gets to be simple. A pesky snake and a nosy rabbit are making sure of that.
(That Luka guy is kinda hot though… wait what?)
Snippet: Felix had a certain… disdain for Paris.
Not hatred, no, of course not. It was a beautiful city—if a bit smelly—and home to one of his favourite people. It had good food; the people were toxic but friendly, just how he liked them; and with the blessing and the curse of his cousin’s face, Felix could get people to stop and admire everything he did.
It was also home to his least favourite person, who just so happened to be the city’s local supervillain as well as an international terrorist.// That was fine.
Felix didn’t have any business with his uncle. Not on this trip.
It’d been three years since they’d struck a deal on that fateful day. Three years since Felix stopped living with a perpetual cloud of fear over his head. He was a free man at last. There would be no more threats, no more blackmail, and no more death.
He hadn’t come back to Paris since. Despite claiming he was innocent, he didn’t put it past Ladybug to string him up by his ankles from the Eiffel Tower.
Today was a special occasion, or else he wouldn’t bother risking her wrath, or that of his uncle. Though he had nothing to fear from Gabriel now, the less he saw of that man, the better.
No, today was the beginning of rehearsals for Paris’ fashion week. Something Adrien couldn’t normally get out of, even though he was now nineteen and legally an adult.
Hence Felix’s emergency visit to Paris.
Adrien hadn’t specified why he wanted out of rehearsals, but Felix hadn’t dared to ask either. He and Adrien hadn’t always gotten along, but things had been downright frozen between them for a while. Adrien knew that Felix was the one who had impersonated him and sold out the Miraculous to Monarch. He couldn’t understand why Felix had done it, not until Gabriel was out of the picture, so to him it seemed an unforgivable act of selfishness.
And perhaps it had been
Felix still didn’t regret it, nonetheless.
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He typed quietly in the lively solitude of the cafe. Though he was tired from the repetitive modelling, he hadn’t come here for caffeine.
That made the cup of coffee in front of him all the more surprising.
Felix glanced up at the hand that had set it down, and thus the man attached. The waiter winked. His hair was black with blue and pink tips, his outfit slightly wrinkled, and his face alight with a bright smile. Great. Someone cheery and unprofessional. Exactly the type of person that he usually tried to avoid.
Still, Felix spared the waiter a second glance, mostly because of his distinctive appearance. Then he pushed the cup of coffee away and attempted to resume his work. “I didn’t order this.”
The waiter leaned with one hand on the table, looming frustratingly into Felix’s space. He continued to grin. “I know. A little rabbit told me you’d like it.”
“I believe the phrase usually goes ‘a little bird told me’.”
“I know.”
Felix leaned back slowly, abandoning his computer for the moment to more properly examine the waiter. A small nametag on his chest read ‘Luka’. His eyes glimmered with mischief and concealed knowledge.
“Well, Luka If you don’t mind, I am quite busy at the moment and would appreciate some alone time.”
“Sure thing, Felix.”
He hadn't mistaken Felix for Adrien, like most in Paris did. That alone caught Felix's attention. But he also made no move to leave, and Felix was hardly in a social mood.
He took the coffee at last and sipped it—mostly as an excuse to not continue the conversation. But as the rich flavour hit his tongue, he glanced up in surprise despite himself. “Breve?”
Luka winked. “The little rabbit told me that too.”
Felix set his cup down slowly. He’d always preferred creamier, sweeter coffees to the more concentrated, bitter varieties. For some reason, that continually surprised his peers. Something about how his coffee was sweeter than his demeanour, he was sure.
“Who is this rabbit?” He asked suspiciously.
Luka’s smile never faltered; he shrugged innocently and said, “Enjoy your coffee,” before he just walked off.
Felix glared at his back. Great, a mystery. Last time he’d uncovered one of those, he’d discovered the identity of a terrorist and secrets dating back twenty years. He’d also sold out the entire world to protect his own self interests, so there was that too.
“He’s cute,” Duusu piped up from Felix’s pocket. “You should ask him out.”
Felix choked.
#miraculous a la mode fics#felix fathom#felix gdv#felix graham de vanilly#luka couffaine#feluka#viperion
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Since the next chapter of The Mad Witch won’t be out until late December, and I still have my Secret Santa fic to work on, here’s a snippet of a post-canon Fallout 4 “fic” from back in October. I say “fic” because I was playing around with an idea for an OC, but don’t intend to write the full fic any time soon because, you know, The Mad Witch.
The OC in this snippet is Ros, the 21-year-old daughter of an Appalachian Vault Dweller who has made her way to the Commonwealth after her home was destroyed by raiders. She occasionally tags along with Nick—because after Ellie, Piper, and Nora, Nick has accepted his fate of forever being an adoptive uncle of the sarcastic young women that keep showing up on his doorstep. It’s a fun dynamic.
Anyway, here’s some writing. See you next month.
“Is it dead? Or just playing dead?”
“Well, let’s see.”
Ros, who had already been shifting nervously, flinched as Nick brought his wire cutters near the Mr. Gutsy’s “head.” If he hadn’t trusted her trigger discipline, he might have expected her to shoot him. But she kept her hands steady at least, keeping her rifle trained on the dented hunk of steel on the pavement.
Snip! Nick cut an exposed wire, the one linking the Gutsy’s “eyes” to its targeting card. In the corner of his vision, he saw Ros bend her knees, ready to bolt the second bullets started flying. It didn’t move, though, simply continued to lie there between the overturned transports, its many limbs bent at odd angles.
“It’s inactive,” he concluded unnecessarily.
“You couldn’t have, oh, I don’t know…taken away the machine gun before you tested that out?”
“It doesn’t need the gun to kill us.”
“It can certainly kill us a lot faster with it.”
He didn’t give her the benefit of a response, although he did swap his wire cutters for a screwdriver. Crouched on the cracked road, he worked the gun free from the bot’s arm—because Ros was right, even if she was a smartass. Inactive didn’t mean dead. Too many things in the wasteland had a bad habit of coming miraculously back to life. Or, more accurately, refusing to die in the first place.
“Here,” he said, shoving the gun in her direction before using his screwdriver to pry open the back panel of the Gutsy. A few more clipped wires and loosened screws later, and he had extracted the targeting card with care. He tossed it to her with less care. She clumsily caught it with one hand, struggling not to drop either the submachine gun or her rifle.
“I told you we should have grabbed Winnie from Diamond City,” she grumbled, wrestling to fit the items in her already bulky backpack. “We didn’t even stop at Diamond City.”
“Sanctuary’s not far now.”
“Yeah, now. Not like we walked from the opposite end of the Commonwealth or anything.”
“Okay, wiseass, if you want to turn around, by all means, be my guest.”
Ros muttered something under her breath, but she hauled the backpack onto her shoulders, waiting for him to stop kneeling in the grease and dust. He was being harder on her than he normally would, he would admit. But it wasn’t because he was annoyed. Quite the opposite. He liked that she was complaining, because the more she complained, the more okay she was. It was when she fell silent that he began to worry.
With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet. He could almost swear he could hear his knees creaking. “Nora will appreciate the salvage,” he added. “She’s been wanting to upgrade the Sanctuary turrets for months.”
Ros nodded, her face unreadable beneath her helmet. “Will we be able to stay put for a while?” she asked, all trace of annoyance gone. He doubted it had truly existed in the first place.
“I promised our darling General a week. I don’t see why you couldn’t stay longer, as long as you lend a hand.”
She sighed in relief. “I’m looking forward to the quiet.”
“Careful with that word,” he warned, only half-joking. “You’ll make it rain deathclaws next.”
She laughed. “Sorry.”
“Ready to hit the road?”
She responded with a mock-salute, before placing both hands firmly back on her rifle. He chuckled as he unholstered his pistol. The kid had regained her spark, that was for sure. Considering that it had taken walking across the entire Commonwealth to get it back, the sass was a damned welcome relief. After everything, if nothing had changed, he might have been tempted to do something desperate.
Like turn her over to Cait, for example.
Slowly and steadily, they picked their way through the rest of the rubble, cautiously poking their guns around the overturned transports. The military convoy may have been lying there since the bombs fell, but that didn’t mean there still weren’t active mines or assaultrons waiting for someone to take a wrong step. Around every corner, they were met with silence. Unsurprisingly. This close to Sanctuary, Nora had already picked the site clean.
Ros paused at the back of one transport, upright but half buried in the dirt. She increased the brightness on her Pip-Boy, illuminating the broken and empty crates inside. Like he had thought: picked clean.
“I don’t suppose there’s a suit of power armor hiding here somewhere, do you think?” she asked, holding a piece of metal plating up to the light. Another remnant of the poor Mr. Gutsy, by the looks of it.
“Doubtful. Our gal’s a thorough scavenger.” He gave her an amused look. “Why? Ready to make your Atom Cats’ membership official?”
She placed a hand on her hip, tilting her head to the side as she gazed at him. She was wearing the jacket and jeans Rowdy had given her, which, combined with her skull-like synth helmet, made for a rather interesting getup. Very Grim Reaper goes greaser. “Why not?” she said, a smile audible in her voice. “I did rock poetry night.”
“You and Winnie would finally be matching.”
“You mean me, Winnie, and you would be matching. We could form our own club. Move over, Atom Cats; here come the Steel Sleuths.”
“A power armor P.I.,” he said wryly. “The whole Commonwealth would be able to hear you coming.”
“I have a robotic horse,” she pointed out. “The whole Commonwealth can already see me coming.” Which is half the reason Nick had made her leave Winnie behind.
He lightly cuffed her upside the helmet. “Are you done, or are we going to wait till raiders decide to search this wreck too?”
With another laugh, she tossed the piece of scrap to the side, where it skidded to a stop against the treads of a tank that had turned turtle in a crater. The metal glinted in the sunlight, appearing to waver with the midday heat radiating from the cracked asphalt. “They’ll be in for a disappointment, then,” she joked as she took point. “Unless they have a thing for old d—”
A crash of thunder cut off the rest of her sentence. At least, that’s what it sounded like for a millisecond, before Nick saw the cloud of dust rushing toward them or heard the pinging of projectiles ricocheting into the surrounding vehicles. In the next millisecond, he had hooked an arm around Ros’s waist and shoved her back into the open end of the transport, where they both toppled against the crates, him falling down on top of her. It took a third millisecond for him to recognize this as a mistake. The back of the transport only had one entrance. Which meant one exit. Which meant no escape.
“Oh, shit,” Ros gasped from beneath him.
He rolled off her and propped himself up against the wall, pistol raised and ready. She continued to lie awkwardly on her backpack. With shaky fingers, she grabbed a Stimpak from her belt pouch.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Still breathing,” she said weakly.
Edging toward the opening, he peeked around the corner. Metal glinted by the tank again, and he barely managed to lean back before a wave of bullets whistled by, just missing the brim of his fedora. A commanding voice, garbled and staticky, shouted across the road: “Citizen! You…after curfew…must comply. Deadly force…authorized!”
“Oh, shit,” Ros repeated.
“It’s pinned beneath the tank,” he said. He flinched as a bullet ricocheted into the transport, burying itself into the floor an inch from his feet. “Goddammit!”
He hadn’t seen the second Mr. Gutsy until it had moved its arm; it looked so much like the rest of the rubble. With how many times this site had been picked over, it might have remained inactive for another hundred years if their luck hadn’t chosen this moment to run out. And, of course, out of all its limbs, the one that wasn’t pinned had to be the one holding the submachine gun.
“Sorry, kid,” he said. “Looks like I got us into a bit of a pickle.”
“No.” She depressed the plunger of the Stimpak with a grunt. “My fault.”
“We can debate that later.” Swinging his pack off his shoulders, he swiftly checked each and every pocket. Junk, extra ammo, Stimpaks and Med-X that he didn’t need, more junk, a Red Rocket’s worth of tools, undeveloped film, a camera that had run out of said film, even more junk… Found it. He still had one frag grenade left, tucked into a protectively-lined pouch.
Now there was just the matter of not killing themselves with it. This many vehicles in close proximity… They might get a bigger explosion than they bargained for.
“It has to reload sometime,” he said. “The moment it does, we’re going to run for the barricade, you hear?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, too hesitantly for his liking.
There wasn’t time to argue, though. While she picked herself off the floor, he began chucking crates out the back—all of which were shredded into splinters before they hit the ground. “Prepare…termination!” the Gutsy garbled amidst a rolling wave of thunder. Two shredded crates. Three. Five. Seven. No more crates. Now an empty ammo box, riddled with holes. Another with the same fate. A Nuka Cola bottle, shattered. A can of Cram…
Then there was a faint click. The Cram tumbled to the asphalt, dented yet intact. The thundering ceased.
“Go!” Nick ordered, and they bolted out into the open. Ros stumbled, and he grabbed her waist again, half-dragging her to the concrete barrier at the side of the road. She threw an arm around his shoulders, and he gritted his teeth as she leaned heavily against him.
The barricade was right there. Just a few more steps: ten, nine, eight…
“Citizens…failed…comply.” …five, four, three… “Reengaging!”
One-handed, Nick pulled the pin with his teeth and tossed the grenade behind him. He didn’t see where it landed—not before he had tackled Ros into the scrub behind the barrier. He braced his hands on either side of her, trying not to crush her as he shielded her body with his own. Her fingers curled against his back as bullets drilled into the concrete.
“God…bless…America!” the Gutsy’s distorted voice crowed.
Crack-boom! The ground trembled with the explosion. Pieces of shrapnel flew overhead to crash next to them in the grass. A ringing, near-silence followed, filled only by a faint whirring. He counted out the seconds: ten, twenty, thirty… At sixty, he poked his head (and pistol) over the barrier.
Smoking and blackened, the Gutsy twitched beneath the even-more cracked and damaged rubble. Its gun, fortunately, was nowhere to be seen. “I-initiating…i-initiating…i-intiatiating…” it crackled, “…self…self…self…”
“Huh,” Nick said. “I was expecting something a bit—”
Ka-BOOM! Flames and molten metal shot in all directions as the bot initiated self-destruct. He ducked, hanging onto his hat while the whole world shuddered. Boom-boom-boom-boom! The closest transports erupted in quick succession, turning the air orange with fire and heat. Twisted chunks of metal bounced off the barricade, while embers rained down, scorching his coat.
That had been more along the lines of what he had been expecting.
When the ringing silence fell, he counted to one hundred and twenty seconds before he poked his head up this time. It was difficult to make out one piece of wreckage from another, although it was safe to say the flaming husks of the transports had been cleared of any volatile innards. Funny how a single grenade could do what a nuclear explosion could not.
“Think they saw that from Sanctuary?” he said humorously, the joke stemming more from relief than anything else.
There was a soft thump at his feet. He glanced down to see Ros’s helmet roll to a stop in the grass, a scarlet handprint smeared across its face.
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cake decorators, we need your help! our bakers (writers) have been working hard in the kitchen preparing something delicious, but now we need your help to make it look as good as it tastes!
throughout the week, we will be posting snippets and summaries from our bakers with a fic ID attached to them in order to keep the writer anonymous. please write down the fic IDs of the fics that you would be willing to work with, as well as the fic IDs of the fics you would absolutely not under any circumstance want to collaborate with.
at the end of all of these posts, we will post the artist applications for you to submit your answers!
FIC ID: S06
Pairing: Chloe Bourgeois/Felix Fathom
Rating: G
No Warnings Apply
Trigger Warnings: None I can think of. Not a Trigger warning but like, point of interest? Aro/Ace Felix.
Summary: Felix prides himself on his skill and self control. When he forgoes the perfect chance to obtain the peacock miraculous out of pride, he must redouble his efforts to obtain it another way. An unexpected encounter with Chloé Bourgeois upends his world, disrupting his neatly ordered emotions and self-image all in a go. While plotting against Gabriel Felix must come to grips with both life and himself being more complex than he had thought. A brat becomes an ally, then a friend in need, and finally a... partner... associate? A something. Life comes with many labels, and yet sometimes none of them fit.
Snippit: Gold- He found it. He found her. She froze as he burst from the stairwell, her keycard still clutched in one hand. Felix skidded to a halt before her, fists clenched, blurred vision coalescing. The words broke free. “I am not Adrien.”
He was hunched over, gulping the cold conditioned air. It burned worse than the sewer fug had. There was more.
These words were a defiant growl, “I am Felix!"
Chloé's deep blue eyes were saucers. A protracted silence grew between them; no motion and the only sound in the hallway was Felix's panting breaths.
After an eternity her head snapped to the side. With eye contact broken her posture shifted into that easy aristocratic dismissiveness. Yet her first response was something mumbled and sincere, "Of course you are."
The spring unwound.
She, too, was not done. She looked back at him with her chin up and her smirk restored, "You're also filthy! Where have you been, playing in the sewers? Eewww. I always knew you were strange, Felix, but this is ridiculous, utterly ridiculous."
Relief; relief more acute than freeing himself from death's grip below. Felix very nearly collapsed on suddenly shaking legs. No- he did. Down on one knee, he gritted his teeth around a taunting smile of his own. "It's called work, Chloé. You might have heard of it."
"Of course I've heard of it. Plenty of little people do-" she paused, craning her neck to look around him. "Felix, you're bleeding. Ewww- all over the marble, and the rugs!"
He hadn't even regained his feet when she had his arm. His exhaustion made him weak and she yanked him along, keycard opening the door to her suite. She didn't even slow down, pulling then pushing him into her bathroom. Felix stumbled, still mentally reeling from so much contact. His hackles were up but she didn't give him time to bite back.
"Clean yourself up! Oh my God, you're such a mess. Wash! Wash everything! No, forget it. We'll burn those clothes." She swept around to her vanity and opening it pulled out bottles, boxes, and scissors, throwing them in his general direction. "That's something- hold on-"
She pulled out her phone, pacing.
"Daddy! I want the doctor up in my suite right now! Yes, now!" Chloe stabbed hang up and glanced back at Felix. "Why are you just standing there?"
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