#cozytober

Octoberfics Challenge #6

Title: Coming Home To You Fandom: K-Pop Demon Hunters Characters: Rumi, Jinu, Derpy Pairings: Rumi/Jinu Rating: G Words: 521

Prompts filled: @flufftober "Coming home" | cozytober "Relaxing in cozy, safe bedroom" & "Relief at crawling into bed at home"

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Octoberfics Challenge #7

Title: Set Up Fandom: The Flash (2014) Characters: Savitar, Frost Pairings: Savifrost Rating: G Words: 386

Prompts filled: @flufftober "Set up by friends" | cozytober "Coffee date" | sweetandshort "Mistake"

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Spencer Reid x Luke Alvez

Prompts: Cozytober 1. Hoodie 16. Falling asleep on someone's shoulder

Summary: Luke and Spencer wait for their baby to be born

Word Count: ~850

Warnings: Hospitals, anxiety (lmk if i missed anything)

A/n: this is the first non-x reader fic i ever post which is kind of bizarre?? constructive criticism is more than welcome and greatly appreciated <3

#11 - Broken Lock verse milena/lambert/aiden

#14 - Jaskier/Geralt

If any of those tickle your fancy, cheers!

Geralt feels the tension drain from his shoulders as he rounds the last bend and Kaer Morhen finally looms into view. It may be cold and bleak and full of terrible memories, but it’s still home as long as old Vesemir keeps the fire burning, as long as his brothers return each winter to drink and share stories and keep company together through the coldest months.

As long as Eskel makes it back, it’s home.

And thank fuck, when he leads Roach into the stable it’s to find Scorpion already in a stall, looking sleek and well-groomed, which is a damn good sign. Geralt untacks Roach and brushes her down and puts a blanket on her and makes sure her stall has water and oats and hay, and leaves her to get reacquainted with Scorpion and the handful of other horses - Lambert’s nameless gelding, Frank’s sturdy mare Easy, Gardis’s high-strung Jitters and Vesemir’s nondescript Stomper, and the ancient donkey which everyone just calls Bitey for good and valid reasons.

Geralt pats each of them on the nose as he leaves the stable, of course, even Bitey. Dodging the donkey’s teeth is good practice, after all.

Snow is starting to blow across the courtyard as he crosses it, and he hunches his shoulders and tucks his nose into his scarf as the bitter wind bites through his clothes and armor like they aren’t even there. Sometimes he thinks it gets colder here every winter.

The door is heavy, but it’s set into an alcove so the wind doesn’t blow it out of Geralt’s hands. He trudges up the stairs to the room he and Eskel share, setting his bags down near the door and hanging his coat on a hook and taking a moment to bury his face in Eskel’s cloak and breathe in deeply. No perfumer in the world would make a scent that’s mostly leather and blood and bitter potions ingredients and a strange sharp topnote that is probably pure Chaos, but Geralt thinks it’s the second finest scent in the world.

And then he makes his way back down the stairs, down past the main level to the kitchen-basement, and slips in through the half-open door to what may actually be the witcher version of heaven, or at least Geralt’s heaven:

A warm, well-lit room with a steaming pot of stew on the back of the fire and the scent of fresh-baked bread filling the air, and Eskel, his shirtsleeves rolled up to bare brawny forearms and his collar open almost to his navel, wielding an oven peel as skilfully as he does his sword. He pulls the last loaf out of the oven and sets it on the counter to cool, then hangs the peel on its hook and turns to Geralt, smiling the crooked perfect smile that Geralt dreams of when the Path is hard.

“Wolf,” he says softly, and opens his arms.

Geralt stumbles forward into the offered embrace, tucking his nose against Eskel’s neck and smelling fresh bread and clean sweat and sharp Chaos - Eskel home, Eskel safe, Eskel uninjured and relaxed, which is the actual finest scent in all the world.

“‘Skel,” he mumbles, and Eskel chuckles, closing his arms even tighter until Geralt can feel his back creak. He squeezes just as hard.

He’s not sure how long they stand there, clinging to each other, but at last Geralt sighs and lifts his head and Eskel’s scarred lips meet his in a kiss that starts soft and ends deep and hungry, and then because neither of them wants the lecture from Vesemir about appropriate places to fuck (which do not include the kitchen), they settle at the long battered table and Eskel breaks open a loaf of fresh bread and they eat warm bread dripping with butter and honey, shoulders pressed against each other, and Geralt thinks the whole long slogging year upon the Path was worth it for this moment right here.

Or for prompt #1 (sweater) maybe Cedric and Axel?

Gaetan does not laugh. He doesn’t.

Letho glares at him anyway.

The big Viper is wrapped in not one not two but three heavy wool blankets, looking like nothing more than a heap of brightly-colored and much-mended fabric, with only his nose and eyes showing. Gaetan suspects he’d have covered those, too, if he didn’t need to breathe.

“Fuck off,” Letho grumbles.

Gaetan smirks. “You sure you want me to do that?”

Letho huffs. “Get over here, moggy.” There’s a slight movement in the blanket heap that might have been a rude gesture.

“First you want me to fuck off, then you want me over there - make up your mind,” Gaetan teases even as he starts unlacing his boots. Letho just rumbles a wordless irritated noise.

Gaetan takes off his coat and hat and kicks out of his boots. Letho unwinds his blanket heap just barely enough for someone very small and agile to squirm their way in, which Gaetan promptly does, curling around his enormous lunk of a Viper and settling in to make himself as heavy as possible. Letho makes another grumpy noise and catches Gaetan’s hand, tucking it against his chest as he tugs the blankets back into place around both of them.

“Poor cold kingsnake,” Gaetan murmurs in Letho’s ear.

“Asshole,” Letho sighs. “If you weren’t warm I’d toss you out on your ear.”

Gaetan grins and snuggles closer. “But I am,” he lilts cheerfully.

“Irritating moggy,” Letho says, tone unmistakably fond. “Shut up and be warm.”

Gaetan chuckles and kisses Letho’s ear and settles in for a good long cuddle. Tomorrow they can start heading south to warmer weather.

Baking gone wrong | the smell of fresh baked goods with any or all of Lambert/Aiden/Milena/Voltehre please

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” Voltehre says mournfully, looking down at the absurdly heavy brick that was meant to be a loaf of bread.

“Me neither,” Lambert says, poking the brick experimentally with a finger. “Didja add rocks?”

Voltehre elbows him. “Prick! No, I did not add rocks.”

“Do you think it’s edible?” Lambert muses, trying to break a piece off. It’s surprisingly difficult; the burnt crust really is hard as stone. The insides, improbably, are gooey. Lambert pokes it with a finger and grimaces at the texture.

“I think it’s probably a bad idea to try,” Voltehre says, wrinkling his nose.

“What good’s being immune to poison if we don’t take chances?” Lambert argues.

“Counterpoint: we have to put enough disgusting things in our mouths, why add one more?”

“When you’re right, you’re right,” Lambert says ruefully, grimacing. “Throw it in the midden?”

“Probably for the best. We might want to stab it with silver first, though.” Voltehre grins. “Just in case.”

Lambert snorts a laugh. “Worried it’ll rise again?”

“No.” Voltehre smirks. “Worried it’ll rise the first time, since it hasn’t yet.”

Lambert guffaws. “Fair!” he says, and draws a silver dagger, impaling the bread-brick ceremoniously while intoning, “Avaunt, foul thing!” in his best impression of old Barmin’s creaky tones. Voltehre laughs hard enough that he has to lean on the counter to stay upright.

Lambert knocks their shoulders together. “Next time lemme help, yeah, honey?”

“I will,” Voltehre pledges, and scoops the bread-brick up to carry it out to the midden while Lambert cleans his dagger.

The next attempt is far less disgusting, thank the gods.

It's more Cozytember at this point, I think, but here you go!

Geralt is puttering happily about, messing with B.B.’s careful placement of the decorations mostly for his own amusement, when there’s a knock on the door. He glances up to exchange a confused look with Eskel, who is ensconced comfortably in the largest and squashiest chair they own, joyfully immersed in a book that could easily be used as a bludgeoning weapon. “You expecting anyone?”

“Nope,” Eskel says, showing no inclination to get out of his chair.

Geralt snorts and pads over to the door - it’s late enough that they’ve long since sent B.B. and Marlene to their well-earned rest.

“Papa!” the Empress of North and South, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, first of her name, the Lady of Time and Space, Beloved of the Great Sun, Defeater of the White Frost, says gleefully, and throws her arms around Geralt in an embrace that knocks the breath out of him.

“Ciri,” Geralt wheezes. She’s wearing simple clothing better suited to a witcher than an empress, and she doesn’t have any entourage at all. “Good to see you,” he adds, hugging back hard enough to lift her off her feet. Ciri giggles.

“Ciri,” Eskel says, light footsteps approaching rapidly before his arms close around both of them together. “What are you doing here?”

“A girl can’t want to spend Yule with her family?” Ciri asks, slightly muffled against Geralt’s shoulder.

“Of course you can,” Eskel says, “but I thought Nilfgaard had all sorts of ceremonies on Yule.”

Ciri giggles, and they all untangle themselves so she can come in. “The main ceremonies are on the solstice,” she explains. “I left Morvran holding the fort; I can’t stay more than a day, but I brought presents!”

“We don’t need anything,” Geralt protests.

“You’ll like these,” Ciri says, and beckons out the still-open door into the night. “Alright, now!”

Geralt sucks in a sharp breath as his medallion vibrates hard at the same time as the center of their empty little courtyard is suddenly filled with an entire wagon.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cries, leaping down from the bed of the wagon; he’s wearing a comically long scarf and a brilliant crimson outfit. “We’re invading for Yule!” He turns to help his companion out of the wagon; Priscilla smiles warmly at Geralt and Eskel as she steps onto the cobblestones.

“Jaskier assures me we aren’t going to be too much of a strain on your hospitality,” she says.

“‘Course not, you’re always welcome,” Eskel replies gruffly. Geralt is too busy gaping. Lambert is in the driver’s seat of the wagon, Yennefer is unfolding languidly from her perch beside him, and there are two more people in the back: Keira of all people, and a lanky man with an eyepatch who Geralt doesn’t know at all.

“Well, pretty boy, got a place I can put the damn horse?” Lambert drawls.

Geralt shakes himself into motion, giving Lambert the driest look he can. “Of course I have a stable,” he says, and leaves Eskel to get all the people inside and find hot drinks while he and Lambert stable the horse next to Roach and Scorpion and the patient, sturdy cob who pulls the farm cart and rejoices in the unlikely and inaccurate name of Swift.

“Who’s your friend?” Geralt asks as they roll the wagon under cover. Lambert makes a low grumbly sound deep in his chest.

“Aiden,” he admits. “Jaskier found him wandering around near Novigrad, half out of his godsdamned mind. Patched him up and kept him at the Chameleon til he could get Yen to tell Keira to tell me.”

“Huh,” Geralt says. Wasn’t Aiden the Cat he and Lambert avenged several years ago? The one Lambert clearly loved? Less dead than expected is a fucking nice surprise, in that case. “And that’s…working, then?”

Lambert grins, crooked and real. “Keira thinks he’s charming.”

Geralt hums and takes the opportunity as they go through the doorway to wrap an arm around Lambert’s shoulders in a sideways hug. Lambert flails but doesn’t actually object.

“Happy for you,” Geralt tells him, and dodges out of the way of Lambert’s halfhearted kick, striding ahead to join Eskel in the squashy chair. Everyone else has already found seats around the fireplace, Priscilla cuddled up against Jaskier and Yen and Ciri sharing a couch and Aiden lounging on the hearth-rug with his head in Keira’s lap. They all have mugs of mulled wine and contented expressions, and Geralt looks around the room and thinks that Ciri, bless the girl, could not have brought him a better gift than this:

His family, together, happy.