一道 (ichi·dou)


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Now he hadn’t been lacking for activity. Cid envied Vincent — not so much what he was doing, because he still didn’t want to get anywhere near Hojo Junior’s notes, but when he was up and walking and doing things he couldn’t help but want to join him. Instead all he could do was watch as Vincent tried to make the house habitable again. Apparently he hadn’t been able to make much progress in the six weeks Cid had been comatose, and it was only now that Cid was awake that he could branch out a little more. The entire place had been overrun with monsters when he arrived, Vincent had said, and he’d gotten Nanaki to help him clear the place out just so he could start making it livable.

Apparently a couple of candles and some bedding that had been washed this century counted as livable. Then again, this was coming from a guy who’d slept in a coffin for thirty years. Cid decided to count his blessings.

i love writing cid narration you don’t even know

vincent narration would be about how this made perfect sense and is perfectly logical

cid is just like gurl r u 4 real rn.


"Why do you use a spear, Highwind?" Vincent interrupted. "When was the last time anyone used a spear in battle? No one fights on chocoboback anymore. A blade or a gun would be more efficient, and far quicker.”

Cid scowled at him. “My dad used one, alright? My uncle did too. It’s family tradition. ‘Sides, I’m good. Don’t see you complaining about all the times I’ve saved your ass ‘cause my reach is longer than a goddamn sword.”

i’m posting a lot of excerpts today but ok seriously

chocoboback is the best word i’ve ever written


excerpt from soulflare, the second of three fics i’m writing for nanowrimo 2013.

in this scene vincent is illuminating cid on some family history, which cid isn’t so quick to accept.

Vincent was irritated. “Cid, you do realize you’re a direct descendant of the Highwind dragoons, don’t you?”

"What."

"You can’t possibly be this dense."

"Dragoons," Cid said flatly, "are legends. They’re not real. And my name has nothing to do with it.”

Vincent rolled his eyes — and this time he even did it slowly enough for Cid to see it. He must really have been pissed. “So it’s coincidence that the dragoons of legend have the same abilities as you’ve shown on countless occasions, along with your name?

"Yep." Cid puffed on his cigarette. "Sounds about right."

Vincent gave him a withering look. Cid was tempted to give him a rude gesture back but decided looking insufferably smug was obnoxious enough.

Vincent was being ridiculous anyway. He’d heard of the legends in passing, though he didn’t know them particularly well. Thought it was funny they had the same name, but it was just coincidence. Didn’t mean he was descended from them.


dragonchaser excerpt

excerpt from dragonchaser, the first of a cid/vincent trilogy i’m writing for nanowrimo 2013.

i’m gonna be honest, i’m just happy i have a stupidly melodramatic vincent line. you can’t tell me that shit’s not in character.

He looked back at the clone, feeling Reeve’s eyes on him and caring nothing. He was sure. There was no soul there, nothing for him to take to the Lifestream. It was another empty shell. But the rest of it was real. The clone was agitated, hands fiddling in the cuffs, as if he didn’t know what to do without a cigarette between his fingers. His eyes were bloodshot, sleep-deprived the way Cid would be if he’d been running himself ragged, the way he always did when he was stressed. Between the lack of nicotine and the exhaustion, Vincent was surprised the clone wasn’t more upset.

And then came the curses. “Reeve! Hey! Fucktard! Let me outta this box already! I ain’t a fuckin’ prisoner! When I get my hands on yer little cat I’m gonna stuff him where the sun don’t—”

Reeve cut off the microphone for the interrogation room. “He keeps doing that,” he said, wiping his hand over his face. He turned his back to the room, finally unable to bear the sight. “I… Vincent, when you told me, I never realized…”

"That it would be this real?" Vincent said quietly.

Reeve looked back at him, stricken, and Vincent sighed. He gave the clone one last look and turned away. “The first clone had months to fool you. You were so used to thinking of him as ‘Cid’ that when he was gone, it was like a bad dream. It faded. This nightmare is only beginning.”


under your skin

ichidou:

wash/york, a kiss along the hips. prompt from turian-tsuntsun.

i did say i wanted to write dom!wash fic… coughs. nsfw, set in wastelancers verse because that’s the established dom!wash/sub!york verse i have.

York hasn’t stopped moaning for a good few minutes now, and Wash hasn’t even touched his cock. He grins. Nips another mark against his hipbone, a fresh one that goes nicely with the crisscross pattern of fingermarks he’d left earlier. Curls his fingers again just to feel York’s fingers tighten in his hair.

"God, Wash, your hands—” York chokes out, and then Wash’s thumb presses tight against his taint and he’s all moans again. Wash chuckles and trails his kisses down the arch of York’s hip, idly swirling his tongue against a pressure point just to hear him whimper.

"Well, if it’s just my hands you’re interested in,” he starts, drawing his mouth back, and York tugs at his head, needy. Wash hums, buries his face in the crook of his hips, bites at his thigh. Hasn’t made enough marks there yet, and he’s occupied for a moment sucking at tender skin, leaving a hickey York’ll see every time he takes off his pants. If Wash ever lets him put pants back on, anyway.

He twists his fingers in York’s ass— he’s up to three, now, and York’s just about losing it. “Wash— Wash, please, I’ve been good—”

"You have," Wash allows. He hums against his skin as he leaves feather-light kisses along his other hip. “You’re always so good for me, aren’t you— mmm.”

His lips slide down around York’s cock, tongue curling under his head and lapping up the precome that’s been leaking down his shaft. York jerks beneath him, moaning and bucking his hips up into his mouth, and Wash swallows him easily, letting him do as he likes after so long being denied. It’s how things work, Wash teasing and holding back until York’s mindless with want, and it’s so good they can barely keep themselves from stopping.

York clutches at him tighter, and Wash takes the hint and quickens his pace, fucking him open with his fingers. A few more rough strokes and York spills hot down his throat, wordless moans tearing from his lips, and Wash works him through it with long swallows and licks until he’s spent.

God, he loves seeing York all sprawled out and sated after he’s come, and Wash grins as he drinks in the sight, knowing it’s all for him, and his own cock throbs between his thighs. “You don’t know how good you look,” Wash murmurs.

York smirks up at him. “So tell me.” York kind of looks of like his limbs are made of jelly, after an orgasm that good, but when he lifts his arm to take off the blindfold, Wash pins his wrist to the bed.

He can see York’s breath catch in his throat. And now he’s the one smirking.

"I’ll tell you when I damn well want to," Wash says, his voice dropping to that low, dark tone that means they’re nowhere close to being done. “Turn over. And leave the blindfold on.”

rebloggin’ for the evening crew c:


under your skin

wash/york, a kiss along the hips. prompt from turian-tsuntsun.

i did say i wanted to write dom!wash fic… coughs. nsfw, set in wastelancers verse because that’s the established dom!wash/sub!york verse i have.

York hasn’t stopped moaning for a good few minutes now, and Wash hasn’t even touched his cock. He grins. Nips another mark against his hipbone, a fresh one that goes nicely with the crisscross pattern of fingermarks he’d left earlier. Curls his fingers again just to feel York’s fingers tighten in his hair.

"God, Wash, your hands—” York chokes out, and then Wash’s thumb presses tight against his taint and he’s all moans again. Wash chuckles and trails his kisses down the arch of York’s hip, idly swirling his tongue against a pressure point just to hear him whimper.

"Well, if it’s just my hands you’re interested in,” he starts, drawing his mouth back, and York tugs at his head, needy. Wash hums, buries his face in the crook of his hips, bites at his thigh. Hasn’t made enough marks there yet, and he’s occupied for a moment sucking at tender skin, leaving a hickey York’ll see every time he takes off his pants. If Wash ever lets him put pants back on, anyway.

He twists his fingers in York’s ass— he’s up to three, now, and York’s just about losing it. “Wash— Wash, please, I’ve been good—”

"You have," Wash allows. He hums against his skin as he leaves feather-light kisses along his other hip. "You’re always so good for me, aren’t you— mmm.”

His lips slide down around York’s cock, tongue curling under his head and lapping up the precome that’s been leaking down his shaft. York jerks beneath him, moaning and bucking his hips up into his mouth, and Wash swallows him easily, letting him do as he likes after so long being denied. It’s how things work, Wash teasing and holding back until York’s mindless with want, and it’s so good they can barely keep themselves from stopping.

York clutches at him tighter, and Wash takes the hint and quickens his pace, fucking him open with his fingers. A few more rough strokes and York spills hot down his throat, wordless moans tearing from his lips, and Wash works him through it with long swallows and licks until he’s spent.

God, he loves seeing York all sprawled out and sated after he’s come, and Wash grins as he drinks in the sight, knowing it’s all for him, and his own cock throbs between his thighs. “You don’t know how good you look,” Wash murmurs.

York smirks up at him. “So tell me.” York kind of looks of like his limbs are made of jelly, after an orgasm that good, but when he lifts his arm to take off the blindfold, Wash pins his wrist to the bed.

He can see York’s breath catch in his throat. And now he’s the one smirking.

"I’ll tell you when I damn well want to," Wash says, his voice dropping to that low, dark tone that means they’re nowhere close to being done. “Turn over. And leave the blindfold on.”


miranda/femshep, 4 (forehead kiss) uwu from zoomalark

Miranda gets this little furrow in her brow sometimes, when she’s especially worried, and it’s not like Shepard doesn’t give her reason to worry — Shepard gives everyone on the damn ship reason to worry, day in and day out. But just telling Miranda it’ll be all right would never ease her fears, so Shepard goes for the simple approach, and presses a kiss right against that furrow in her too-perfect brow.

Miranda won’t admit it, but it helps.


things i never knew i needed in my life until this very instant:

a series of letters between the chairman and stacker pentecost

dear marshal,

it has come to our attention that your shatterdome has gone significantly over budget for this quarter. as advised in our last correspondence, we simply do not have the resources to supply you and your men indefinitely. i suggest that you find a way to get things under control, marshal, and soon, or your next request for materials may not go as smoothly as you desire.

sincerely,

malcolm hargrove, the chairman of the oversight sub-committee


catch.

ichidou:

I pretty much wrote this for the last line. Set in the future of a Wash/fem!York AU where she breaks him out of Project Freelancer; at this point they’ve been married several years, the war is over, and so forth.

Or: I am a giant sucker for writing Wash as a dad. Oops.

She’s always kept Wash on a routine, ever since she broke him out of Project Freelancer, and though at first it had simply been one of the treatments they’d used to help bring him back to sanity, it’s become a regular part of their lives in the years since. York knows that by the time she gets home from work every day, he and Teddy will be flopped on the couch watching cartoons after a long day out and about, the cats curled up at Wash’s side.

Teddy’s old enough that he doesn’t take naps anymore, but she’s found the two of them curled up together more than once, and sometimes she doesn’t bother to disturb them, just settling onto the couch beside them and wrapping her arms around her two favorite men. There’s nothing like the way Wash smiles at her when he wakes, turning to press a kiss against her cheek, and Teddy never fails to light up at the sight of her, crawling over Wash’s lap and into hers with a grin so wide she wonders how it even fits on his face.

She knows things can’t stay this way forever, but they’re good now, and honestly, after all the shit they’ve been through, York’s glad for it.

They spend Sundays at the park around the corner, and Wash has improved his cooking enough that York can trust him to make a couple sandwiches for a picnic lunch. Delta always stays by her side, when they go out, even if there are other dogs running around the park, and York can’t help but think that for all the ways the little brown retriever is nothing like the AI he’s named for, he always seems to know when she’s aching for his company.

Teddy’s always full of energy, bursting at the seams, and she tries to give Wash a break on the weekends, knowing he’s worn out from looking after their son every day, but some days all Teddy wants is to play with his dad. York gives both of them a wide smile as Teddy tugs Wash towards the open field, pushing the baseball glove at him, and just seeing the way Wash reacts to him, letting out a mock sigh as he pulls it on, is worth every minute she’s away from them.

York’s always encouraged Wash to find things he likes to occupy his time, and to leave the business of making money for them to live on to her, but not even in her wildest dreams had she thought he’d take so well to fatherhood. He’s more content spending his time looking after Teddy than he ever was in the long months he spent rehabilitating, once Epsilon had loosed his grip on the tattered remains of his mind. Every now and then, she’d thought about suggesting that he find something more, something to make him feel like he’s doing something productive, but he’d loved spending time with Teddy so much that it turned into a moot point, after time.

Teddy is their lives now, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

York leans back on the ratty old picnic blanket, the one she knows she really ought to replace one of these days, and curls one arm around Delta, fingers playing against his smooth green collar. Her other hand slips down over her stomach, over the curve she’s still getting used to all over again, and just watches Wash and Teddy run back and forth, tossing a baseball back and forth under the summer sun.

“Dad! Hey, Dad!” York just smiles to herself as Teddy jumps up, throwing the ball as hard as he can into Wash’s glove, and though he’s never been the loudest child his words carry across the wind. “How was that?”

“That,” Wash calls back, beaming back at his son with all the pride in the world, “was the best throw ever. Of all time.”

Reblogging because it’s father’s day and it’s the best stupidly cute fic I have. Deal with it.


Maine had never been loquacious, but he’d turned brevity into an art form after his injury, one that only Wash had ever mastered. The other agents often tried to puzzle out the meanings behind his growls long after Maine had grown tired of waiting, and even after Sigma became his translator Maine hadn’t had much to say. (He wonders, now, just how much Sigma ever said was Maine’s at all, if he’d simply taken root and spread until he was too much to control, but there’s no way to know, now, and he sure as hell isn’t going to ask.)

that moment when you find a fic you forgot you wrote

and it’s better than you thought it was