#Prompt Response

[ky-landfill]

Helouda! Only if you want to… how about a Reverse!Robins with big bro Tim and baby Jay, or Dick… or both!! ;;_;; ♡

Thank you so much for sharing your art with the fandom!!! :"D♡♡♡

[yasmindifference]

Cheer up prompt #27

An anon and @this-was-a-terrible-idea also requested #27! A popular number apparently lol. I hope you all enjoy! ♡

"--and then Mr. Browsten said that with all the, um, the hullabaloo that it wasn't fair to make us take a test, so he cancelled it."

Tim pauses for breath and Mom hums an encouraging noise. When Dad makes that sound, it means he's not really listening, but he knows Mom's paying attention, even though she hasn't stopped curling her hair. From where he's lying on her bed, he can see her reflection in the vanity mirror, and she's frowning just like he knew she would.

Mom doesn't approve of canceling tests, which means she doesn't approve of Mr. Browsten, because he cancels them all the time.

(Mom says tests are important to know where improvement is necessary. Mr. Browsten doesn't seem to agree.)

"So we watched a documentary instead and it was pretty interesting, it was about puffer fish! Sarah asked what puffer fish have to do with grammar and Mr. Browsten said that learning is its own reward, but I think he just didn't have anything else ready so he took something from Ms. Cappola instead. She's the fifth grade science teacher and I heard her classes watch movies at least twice a week."

Mom tuts, which Tim was expecting, and sets down her curling iron.

"Ridiculous," she mutters. "I don't know why we're paying that school so much in tuition when they can't be bothered to teach you anything. It's a miracle you ever learned to read."

"It's because I'm smart," Tim informs her helpfully, and Mom smiles her special just-for-Tim smile.

"You are," she agrees. "And thank goodness for that. Now, would my smart boy do me a favor?"

Because Tim's smart, he already knows what she's going to ask. He rolls off the bed to his feet. "Curling iron?"

"Yes, please." Mom rolls her chair away from the vanity so he can crawl under it to unplug the curling iron. She plugged it in herself, but that was before she was all dressed up in her expensive dress. "Thank you, Timmy."

"You're welcome," he chirps, crawling back out.

Mom rolls back in front of the vanity, but Tim stays where he is, kneeling next to it so he can watch her put her makeup on. There are a lot of different bottles and brushes and powders involved, but Mom never hesitates. Tim doesn't know how she keeps it all straight.

He likes watching Mom get ready to go out. Sometimes--like tonight--she lets him pick out the jewelry she's gonna wear, and then she chooses her dress and hair and makeup all based on what he picked. Even when the colors don't match, it all fits together like a puzzle...a puzzle she pieces together in seconds after Tim's impulsive choice.

It's really cool.

Tonight, Tim picked pretty, dangly earrings with some kind of red stone (ruby, Mom said when he asked), so Mom picked a black dress. She said it would make the earrings pop, which he didn't get until he saw her wearing it.

Now, he watches her choose lipstick as red as the earrings and asks, "Does the lipstick make the earrings pop, too?"

Mom finishes smoothing it on before she smiles at him. "You tell me."

Tim studies her. The lipstick matches the earrings, but it doesn't draw attention to them the way the plain dress does. He already watched her do her eye stuff, and her eyes look bigger somehow, but they're not colorful like they were when they all went to the opera last week.

"No," he decides. "You went new...neutral?" He waits for her slight nod of confirmation, then continues, encouraged, "You went neutral with your eye stuff and red with your lipstick to make your lips pop."

"Very good," Mom says, smiling. She cups his cheek briefly before turning back to the vanity. "Clever boy."

Tim beams and watches in fascinated silence as she uses some kind of powder. Even though he's staring right at her, he can't tell what the powder actually does. All he knows is that when she's done, her face looks...different. Still pretty, but kinda sharper somehow.

Makeup is like magic, he decides. No matter how many times he watches her get ready, he can never figure it out.

"Can I try?" he asks impulsively.

"Try what?" Mom asks, a little distracted. The cap on one of her bottles is stuck and she's struggling to open it.

"Your makeup!" Tim takes the bottle from her and opens it by using the hem of his shirt to grip it better. Mom can't do that, her dress is all shiny and slippery. "You look pretty, I wanna try."

Mom pauses and then smiles.

"I don't have long before I have to leave," she warns him, "but I don't see why not. Do you want to pick out some lipstick?"

Tim absolutely does. He levers to his feet as, across the room, Dad finally stirs. He's been reading some stuff his assistant from Drake Industries brought by earlier, ignoring them both, but now he says, "Janet" in a weird tone.

"Jack?" Mom asks, even as she directs Tim's attention to the little circles on the bottom of her lipstick tubes that show what color they are. She has a lot of options.

"Janie, really," Dad says. He sounds unhappy, and Tim looks up from comparing two different shades of pink to find him frowning. "You can't mean to let our son--"

He stops mid-sentence and Tim bites back a wince. Dad's in trouble; Tim hasn't seen that look on Mom's face since he told her about his last nanny giving him whiskey to help him sleep when he woke up from bad dreams.

"My son," Mom says very deliberately, "is welcome to express himself however he likes."

Is trying makeup expressing himself? Tim just wants to see if it makes him as pretty as it does Mom.

Either way, that's not a good tone. Tim looks down and concentrates really hard on picking out a lipstick.

"Janet," Dad tries again, weakly. He obviously knows he's in Big Trouble, but for some reason he hasn't apologized yet. Tim tries to psychically tell him to cut his losses and back down, but his telepathy apparently still hasn't kicked in, because Dad says, "It's just that--"

"Do you know what you want to try, sweetheart?" Mom asks, completely ignoring Dad.

Tim looks between his parents, decides to let Dad dig his own grave, and hands Mom the red he settled on.

(If it's the red that most closely resembles the red in Robin's uniform...well, it's not like Mom has any way of knowing that.)

"Excellent choice!" Mom says. She stands up from the vanity and pats her chair. "Take a seat."

Tim does, excited. He's not usually allowed to sit at Mom's vanity.

Lipstick, he learns quickly, feels really weird. He has to sit super still while Mom puts it on him, and it makes his lips feel weirdly heavy, like there's something on them.

Which there is, actually, so...he doesn't know what he was expecting.

Mom hands him a tissue so he can "blot" his lips, just like he's seen her do a million times, and then steps aside so he can see his reflection in the mirror.

"Whoa," Tim says, leaning closer. He makes a few faces, pushing his lips together and out, transfixed by how bright and noticeable they are. It doesn't make him pretty like Mom, but he likes how it looks anyway. "Cool."

Behind him, Dad throws up his hands and leaves the room. He's angry, Tim can tell, but Mom is smiling down at him, so Tim's not worried.

"Do you want to pick eyeshadow next?" she asks.

"Yes, please!"

Prompt #27 was experimentation! Well selected! ♡♡

[enbyscript]

for the prompt thing could you do 1 or 13 w robby pretty please?

oh im absolutely gonna give u 1 that is my fave trope of all time!!!

hope its okay its gonna be a lil more trans/nonbinary reader as its easier to write what i know 😅

also i got lost in the sauce again sorry this took a hot minute. this really is my fave trope i couldnt stop myself.

you’d cursed gloria and all the big wigs at the hospital for hours. they couldn’t plan a piss up in a brewery, and because of that there was only one room booked for you and robby at the hotel you were meant to stay at while on the way back from a conference.

it was late when you arrived off the highway, and unfortunately too late to try to find somewhere else to sleep. robby tried to convince you to take the room while he slept in the car, but after a bit of arguing you agreed that you were both adults and could handle sharing a bed for one night.

you’d both promptly changed in the en suite bathroom before retiring to bed, doing your best to stay on your respective sides. you reckon a heart transplant would be easier, not that you’d every risk trying that, given the fucking bed on the reservation was a queen. robby muttered something about starting a rumor with princess and perlah to get back at gloria; you left that comment alone.

it was the middle of the night when a noise right by your head pulled you from your rather comfortable slumber. you eyes were bleary and body unbelievably warm. there was a weight around your waist, heavy and warm, and you nearly wanted snuggle under it and try to go back to sleep.

in fact, you probably would have if not for the low moan right behind your head and the distinct feeling of robby grinding his cock into your backside.

the slow, intense roll of robby’s hips froze you; a sharp inhale and sudden increasing heart rate. you were no longer on the edge of slumber, too aware of the body pressed behind you, and the realization that the weight on your waist was robby’s arm, and his fingers were inched just below your shirt. his fingers hot against your belly, another moan slipped from behind you, robby’s leg making its way between your legs.

“fuck—,” robby groaned, his voice thick with sleep. another grind against your backside and you realized how wet you were, his knee giving the perfect amount of pressure to your core. fuck, how were you gonna get out of this? this was your boss, in the same bed as you, having a wet dream and using you to get off. if you woke him up he’d flip his lid and actually go sleep in the car ‘til morning.

if this was a dream and not your reality you wouldn’t mind so much. you always thought robby was attractive, big shoulders and strong hands, pretty puppy dog eyes, and one of the smartest doctors you’d ever met. this would be pretty great if he wasn’t asleep and you weren’t caged in.

after a hard press of his knee made your lower belly burn with increasing pleasure, you had to stop him before you actually finished. how embarrassing would that be? robby waking up to you having an orgasm against his own fucking leg. you angled your hips away from his slowly, lifting your leg to ease off his own leg. you thanked all higher beings that he didn’t wake at your movements.

robby’s fingers under your shirt were starting to become a problem, rubbing small circles way too close to your waistband. you turned over as slowly as possible, watching his face for any sign of disturbance. maybe now you could fall back asleep and pretend this never happened; he was bound to make his way back to his side of the bed eventually.

“mm, feel s’good,” robby whispered, breath fanning over your lips. still completely in his own little world. you shut your eyes tight, if you kept looking at his face, or dare look down at his lips, you might lose it. you just had to fall back to sleep and soon enough it would be morning.

it felt like no time at all had passed by when you blinked your eyes open once again, moon still in the sky from the window you could see. now robby’s face was somehow closer, light reflecting off his long lashes as you could see his eyes move back and forth under his eyelids; still sound asleep.

his pesky knee was back between your fucking legs. god, if this wasn’t so awkward, and arousing, you’d laugh at the thought that robby was the type to cling in his sleep. your chest tightened with affection as you looked over his face, peaceful and without a care in the world. he whispered your name, and suddenly his knee rubbed right against your clit through your boxers and you couldn’t stop the moan that slipped from your lips.

the next thing you knew you were on your back, robby’s hips bullying themselves between your legs as he smashed his lips against your own. large hands squeezed your waist, pulling you down against his cock that nestled perfectly against you despite the fabric between you. you were lost for a second, forgot where you were, and kissed him back on pure instinct. robby languidly licking into your mouth as the pleasure in your core reached a dangerous high.

“fuck, robby,” you whined against his lips, your hips trying to keep pace with his own.

that did it.

the sound of your voice brought robby out of his dream and into reality. brown eyes wide open, pupils blown, staring at your fucked out face beneath him. his cock twitched painfully in his boxers, practically wet from your combined secretions.

“jesus, oh god, i-i’m sorry,” he hesitated, realizing what he had done. what he was about to do. “fuck, i’m s-so sorry,” he sounded like he might cry.

before he could completely extricate himself from your limbs you fisted your hand in his shirt to stop his movement. your brain scrambled, you wanted him so bad. all you could think about was how you were so close and how he’d said your name in his sleep. that had to mean something.

“wait, wait,” you panted. “talk about it later, but please don’ stop. i want you, robby, please,” you were ‘t above begging when on the cusp of an orgasm. robby took in your appearance, how your own pupils were blown out and how kiss swollen your lips looked as you spoke. leaning back a bit he could see the wet patch on your boxers sticking to you; how true your words were in that moment.

“fuck it,” robby surged back down to reconnect your lips, both sets of your hands scrambling to remove the layers below your waists. you sucked on his bottom lip, laving over it with your tongue as robby wet his cock between your lips with your slick. foreheads pressed together, breathing into each other’s mouths, robby notched himself at your entrance and gave an experimental thrust.

you were so wet and warm, like he was made to be in you, as if this was his destiny all this time. robby swallowed your moans with his mouth, setting a harsh pace as he fucked into you. you were both so close, all that sleepy grinding had you both at the edge for ages. you settled your hand at the base of robby’s throat, not choking or putting pressure, simply holding him.

“robby, inside, i’m t-there,” you whined against his lips, knees tightening around his hips to keep him close. robby shut his eyes tight, thrusting faster and harder to try to get you to come first.

“gonna fill you up, fuckin’ hell,” your muscles tightened around his cock as the heat in your belly exploded through your nerves. you moaned, lost in the drawn out feeling as robby’s hips faltered in their rhythm as he began to come, shoving as deep into you as possible.

after a few moments of simply holding each other in the wake of your combined ends, robby slowly pulled himself from your wet heat, slow as not to overstimulate too much, and laid on his back next to you.

“hell of a dream, robinavitch?” robby snorted, the ugly way that let you know it was real and uncontrolled.

“hell of a way to wake up.”

[loaf-of-cheese]

@eightbitpale and @notitlesapply

Thank you for the drawing prompts :)

Everyone who suggested something, I’ll definitely get to drawing those ideas too because this is doing wonders for my art block, but here:

Sorry if either of them are a bit scuffed, this is my first time properly drawing them lol.

Just the sillies getting caf and tea. I’m thinking Obi-Wan brought them to a very fancy café and told Cody to not look at any of the prices and panic because this was a treat for both of them. Also this was an excuse to draw them in casual clothes, because I am NOT confident enough to draw Cody’s armor yet lol

Some parts of the anatomy aren’t great, but I’m proud of this otherwise

[srue-on-fire]

These High Walls

Pairing: Stiles Stilinski x Derek Hale Words: 1500 Rating: General Audiences Prompt: #23. Do you even realize what you mean to me? Title: Louis Tomlinson's Walls prompt list 🩶 read on ao3

🐺.✨

Derek’s standing at the loft window, arms crossed, staring out into the rain. His expression is blank. Distant. Like none of this matters. Like he doesn’t matter.

That hurts more than any wound Stiles has ever taken.

His shoulders are locked up, tension running through his body like a live wire —the kind that makes Stiles want to march over and shake him. Or hug him. Maybe both.

Instead, Stiles settles for the next best thing he can do —yelling at him.

"What the fuck, Derek?" he snaps, voice sharper than he intended. It echoes through the loft, bouncing off the high ceilings and hitting Derek square in the back. His voice trembles —not with fear, but with frustration, with anger, with something so raw it burns in his throat.

Derek stiffens but doesn’t turn around. Of course he doesn’t. The guy has mastered the art of being emotionally unavailable, like it’s an Olympic sport and he’s in it for the gold. He stays exactly as he is, staring out at nothing, like he didn’t just nearly die for Stiles a few hours ago. Like he didn’t bleed out black in the dirt while Stiles begged him to stay awake, fingers slipping through too much blood.

He was too pale, too still. For a terrifying moment, Stiles thought he was really gone.

He takes a step forward, fists clenched at his sides. He’s been holding this in for too long, letting Derek get away with his usual brand of self-sacrificial brooding. But not this time.

"You threw yourself in front of me," Stiles continues, voice shaking, goading. "Like I was some helpless little human who needed saving."

Derek finally turns. His face is as closed off as ever, but his eyes —God, his eyes. There’s something there, something unreadable and infuriating and so DerekDerekDerek.

"You are human, Stiles," he says, like that explains everything. Like it fucking justifies what he did.

"Yeah, thanks, Captain Obvious,” Stiles rolls his eyes. “But newsflash, Derek, I’m not helpless. And even if I was, that doesn’t mean you get to put yourself in the line of fire for me. That’s not how this works."

Derek's jaw tightens. "It was the right call."

“I had a bulletproof vest!” Stiles yells. “You knew it!”

“I didn’t,” Derek says casually.

Years ago, when Stiles was still a little scared and got hot and bothered by Derek, he would’ve believed it. But now, Stiles knows when he lies. He knows what that eyebrow twitch means. He knows when that tone is used. 

“You knew,” he puts his foot down. “You knew and don’t lie to my fucking face, Derek.”

Derek doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t deny it again, doesn’t argue, just holds Stiles’ gaze like he’s waiting for him to run out of steam. Like this is just another one of their fights, like Stiles isn’t standing here trying to shake some goddamn sense into him.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most. The way Derek looks at him like he expects Stiles to give up. Like he’s already made peace with whatever reckless, self-sacrificing fate he’s doomed himself to.

"Jesus Christ," Stiles breathes out, raking both hands through his hair. "You knew I had a vest. You knew, and you still—" He cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes shut for a second before forcing himself to look at Derek again. "Why?"

Derek shifts, barely perceptible, but Stiles catches it. The way his fingers flex against his biceps, the way his throat moves like he's swallowing back words.

"It was instinct," Derek finally mutters.

"Bullshit!" Stiles snaps again. "Absolute, grade-A, werewolf martyr bullshit. That’s not instinct, Derek. That’s a goddamn death wish."

Derek flinches, and Stiles immediately feels sick.

Because he knows. He knows exactly what Derek thinks of himself, what he’s spent years believing. He knows the weight Derek carries, the guilt that wraps around him like chains, the conviction that his life is worth less than everyone else’s.

Stiles exhales sharply, shaking his head. "No. Instinct is dodging a punch or ducking for cover. Instinct is survival," he glares, stepping closer. "That wasn’t survival, Derek. That was you deciding I was worth more than you."

Derek’s jaw tightens. His shoulders go rigid, like he’s bracing for a blow. But he still doesn’t argue.

And that —that makes Stiles’ chest ache.

"Why do you do this?" His voice wavers, but he doesn’t care. "Why do you act like your life is disposable? Like you don’t—" he swallows hard, trying to get the words out. "Like you don’t fucking matter."

Derek exhales, slow and measured, but his fingers twitch against his arms, and Stiles knows him well enough to see the cracks.

"It’s different with you," Derek says, finally.

The words knock the breath from Stiles’ lungs.

Derek swallows, like he regrets saying it, but he doesn’t take it back. He just shifts on his feet and looks away, jaw clenching.

"You’re not—" his voice falters, then steadies again. "I don’t think about it. When it’s you, I just— move. It’s not a choice."

Stiles stares at him, heart hammering. "Derek."

Derek shakes his head, letting out a breath that sounds like defeat. "It’s instinct", he repeats.

There’s a whole new meaning to it. A whole new value that Stiles only came to know now.

It’s not about self-worth, not really. It’s not some calculated decision where Derek weighs his life against Stiles’ and finds himself lacking. It’s deeper than that. It’s his body, his blood, his bones —everything in him telling him to move, to take the hit, to protect Stiles no matter what it costs.

And Stiles— God, Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that.

"You can’t—" his throat tightens, panic and hope rising in his chest. "You can’t just—"

Derek looks back at him then, eyes dark and steady. "I can’t stop it, Stiles." His voice is quiet. "I don’t want to."

And that— that’s what makes Stiles’ stomach swoop and heart skip a beat.

Because Derek isn’t saying this like some tragic martyr. He isn’t throwing himself on the sword just to make a point.

He’s saying this is who he is.

This is how he loves.

Stiles breathes in, breathes out, and suddenly he’s moving. His fingers curl around Derek’s wrist, dragging his hand away from where he’s gripping his own arms, lacing their fingers together like it’s the only thing keeping him steady.

"I don’t care if you think this is your job," Stiles whispers, raw with emotion. "I don’t care if you think you’re supposed to protect me, or the pack, or the whole damn world. Because at the end of the day, Derek, I need you more than I need to be safe. So stop acting like your life is worth less than mine. Stop acting like —like losing you would be anything less than a goddamn tragedy of my life."

Derek’s eyes meet his eyes again, so vulnerable that Stiles just wants to wrap him in a blanket and hide him away from this world of pain.

"You think I’d be okay if you died?" His voice shakes, and his eyes water and he hates it, but he doesn’t stop. There are no walls between them anymore. "You think I’d just —what? Walk away? Go back to my life like losing you wouldn’t wreck me? Do you even realize what you mean to me?"

“Stiles”, Derek says, pleading and praying. 

“Derek,” Stiles replies, just as imploringly. “Derek, please.”

Silence stretched over them for a long moment. Then, finally, barely above a whisper. "I don’t know how to do this any other way."

"How to do what?" Stiles asks, already knowing the answer.

Derek clenches his jaw. "I don’t know how to not protect you."

"Then learn," he says, voice softer now. "Learn to protect yourself too. Learn to fight for you the way you fight for me. Not just as the guy who saves my ass when things go sideways. I need you, Derek. Alive. Here. With me. Because I swear to God, Derek, if you ever scare me like that again, I’ll—" His breath catches. "I can’t lose you."

Derek’s fingers twitch in Stiles’ grasp, and for a second, Stiles thinks he might pull away.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he grips Stiles’ hand tighter, like he’s grounding himself, like maybe —for the first time —he’s listening.

"Okay," Derek murmurs, voice rough. "I’ll try."

Stiles exhales, shaky, and lets his forehead drop against Derek’s shoulder. He’ll take it. Derek doesn’t make empty promises, not to him at least. So, he’ll take it. They can start with trying.

"Good,” he presses his nose against his shoulder. “Because if you ever scare me like that again, I swear to God, I’ll find a way to haunt your ghost and make your afterlife miserable."

Derek actually huffs out a small, reluctant laugh, a hand coming up to pull him closer. 

It’s enough.

For now. 

🐺.✨

A/N: dear anon, hope you liked this one. Thanks for reading! I'm starting a taglist. Drop a ��� in the comments if you wanna be added to it and know whenever I drop a new fic post!

[dejareves]

the left side

from @human-otp-prompt-generator's Nightmare Comfort Dialogue Prompts

#4 - "Touch me. Feel my skin. I'm real, see?"

Words: 1,200

Rating: G

Pairing: Lucanis x Rook (x Spite)

Warnings: Endgame spoilers!

--

Once he notices the nightmares, Lucanis takes to always sleeping on the left side.

Rook is grateful but unyielding, whenever Spite offers to handle them. Well, "eat" them, which Lucanis supposes may not be the most comforting phrasing to open negotiations with. Regardless, her refusal is firm. "I think I'm just about set on having my head messed with for a while."

"We are not. the wolf."

"I know. It's not you. I just… I'm alright. I promise. Thank you, though."

So instead, Lucanis sleeps on the left. When she jerks upright in the dead of night, gasping, reaching blindly towards her hip—it is him she finds instead of the dagger she looks for.

Tonight, a sudden smack against his stomach, and Lucanis is awake.

"Rook."

She's trembling, skin goose-pimpled and damp with cold sweat when he reaches out to lay his palm against her back. A bad one, then. She doesn't answer. "Rook."

A held breath, and then the taut muscle beneath his hands relaxes. Barely. 

"I'm sorry." She curls in a little when he sits to wrap himself around her, draws her knees up to her chest. The cadence of her breath is still too fast. "We really should switch sides."

"I like this side." A kiss to her shoulder, her temple. He waits until, at last, the tension begins to bleed out of her and she relaxes back against his chest. 

We could end this. Spite, more and more frustrated with this every time it happens. Why does Rook not let us help? Let me help?

Internally, Lucanis sighs. They've talked about this, even if… well. It doesn't matter, if he and Spite agree. She doesn't. 

Rook lets Lucanis ease her back down. She curls into his side. He thinks he'll never tire of it, the way she fits beneath his arm, the press of her cheek against his shoulder. Even like this, pensive in the dark as her breathing slowly evens out. 

But he'd take it from her, if he could. 

"The prison?" he asks, after a time.

Rook sighs. "Yeah."

"They seem to be coming more often, lately," he offers, carefully. If they are going to bring it up again, it'll need a… light touch. 

"Do we have to?" she asks, monotone.

Lighter than that, evidently. 

It's becoming increasingly familiar, now—the little catch in his throat when Spite wants to use their mouth to speak. So much easier than the choking, clawing feeling that had plagued him for so long. If Spite wants to try and argue with her—well. Better him than Lucanis, he supposes. 

"Why do you. want. to keep them?"

Rook's head snaps up, whirling on them. "I do not want to keep them."

Lucanis holds the hand not settled on her hip up placatingly. He is but a messenger, amor. 

Spite is insistent. "You do not. let. us help."

"They're just dreams, Spite." The twist of her mouth is weary. "They can't hurt me."

"But you do. hurt."

Spite who says the words. Lucanis who raises his brows. "He's not wrong."

Her eyes narrow, very slightly. On second thought, perhaps Lucanis should stay out of this. 

"I don't—" Rook begins, but then she stops. Lucanis can feel it on his face, the… plea Spite has stumbled over, night after night, not quite able to understand the sentiment. Maybe it's overdue, letting them settle it directly. 

Something flickers in her expression. She strokes her thumb across their cheekbone. Her lips twitch in a smile when one or the other of them turns just so slightly towards it, instinctively. "I do," she admits. "But it's real. As real as dreams get, anyway. I spent a long time not knowing what was real. I just…can't."

Lucanis understands. Spite does not. "Blood magic," he spits, indignant, the flare of anger spilling over the part that's him into the part that's Lucanis. Lucanis takes a deep breath, tempers it. "Not like us. We are not. him." 

"I'm not saying you are," Rook says, remarkably level for someone who was shaking like a leaf not ten minutes ago. "I told you already. It's not about you. I didn't know what was real. I couldn't trust my own mind, all that time, and I had no idea. No one did. What if—"

Lucanis who frowns, now, when she cuts off abruptly, lips pressing thin. Who shifts to prop himself up on his elbow to look at her directly. "'What if', what?"

Rook's brows draw together briefly and then smooth again, too quickly. Her eyes shift just slightly to the side, mimicking contact without making it. "This is hardly fair," she says, tone falsely light. "We should have some ground rules about how many of us are allowed to argue at once."

Another time, he would probably let the deflection be. Tonight, the tightness at the corners of her eyes, the way she's subtly working her jaw as if chewing on a thought she doesn't want to speak, unsettles him. "Rook," he says, more than half a request.

She is still for a moment, and then sighs, straightens up to sit facing him, crosslegged on the bed. She still can't quite seem to meet his eyes again. "Lucanis, he's holding back the fade. He had me having full conversations with a dead man for months and months. How am I supposed to trust myself with anything, after that? How am I supposed to know for certain there wasn't more, that any of this is—" Her voice catches. She looks down at her hands, clenched tight together in her lap.

Lucanis is very, very careful as he shifts his body until he is seated opposite her, mirroring her posture until their knees brush. Spite has withdrawn—watching, focused, but distant. Quiet. 

"I didn't know you worried about this."

"Every day," Rook says to her hands. "It's still hard to believe sometimes that all of this is real. Some days I'm not sure if I should."

He doesn't take her hands. Instead, he rests his in the space between them, open. "Touch me. Feel my skin."

She hesitates. He waits. Gingerly, her hands unclasp. She brushes her fingers along his palm, does not pull away when he curls his own to catch hers in a loose hold. "I'm real, see? Whatever Solas did or didn't do—this is real."

"Lucanis," she whispers, sounding broken. 

"You don't have to believe it. I'll still be here when you do. Still real."

"I don't want to hurt Spite's feelings." Her eyes are bright when she looks up at him, welled without spilling over yet. "I know he only wants to help. I'm just—I…"

"You're not there yet." Lucanis twists his wrist to change the angle, just enough that he can interlace his fingers with her own. Rook sniffs, blinks, but does not cry. Stubborn, as usual. "That's okay."

She gives his hand a squeeze, offers a small, grateful smile. "Maybe one day."

"Maybe."

And until then, he'll sleep on the left.

[littlejuicebox]

Hi! I'm not sure if you take requests so if you don't, please ignore this and I hope you had a wonderful Christmas.

I just read your Astarion X Tav fanfic where Astarion proposes. It is said that the ring he got glows whenever Astarion thinks of Tav. I was just wondering if you could write a slice of life about the ring glowing at the most random times. Maybe during a stealth mission where Tav has to stay hidden or when he is smiling in his sleep and the ring glows. I just thought it would be cute and fun to write about. You can get creative with it.

Thank you for taking the time to read this, whether you end up doing this request or not. I hope you had an amazing Christmas and I hope you will have an amazing New Year's!

Hi Anon! I don’t think this is quite what you were asking for but… this is what came out! 🤷‍♀️ The smut gods blessed me and I cannot deny their gifts. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! Smut below the cut.

If you haven’t read my other work and would like context, Anon is referencing a two part mini story I wrote. Click here for part 1, and click here for part 2.

Warnings/Tags: 18+ only please, smut, masturbation, sex pollen, swearing/cursing, game spoilers

Word Count: 1.5K

-----

“I think we’re just… a bit out of practice, darling. It has been nearly a year since we were down here last, you know.” Astarion whispers, crouched next to you behind a Funguswood tree. He’s wiping bits of dirt, twigs, and mushroom pollen off himself with a handkerchief.

“Admit it, Astarion. You just weren’t fast enough.” You respond with a small, teasing poke of your tongue as you rearrange your weaponry and count your arrows.

The pale elf finishes wiping off the debris, and you return your attentions to the mission. You’d been contracted to scout out the vampire stronghold in the Underdark and report your findings back to Wyll and the Flaming Fists. Rumor was that the vampire hoard had wreaked absolute havoc on the Underdark; the city feared the creatures would soon return to the surface if they could not find sustenance here.

“Would you have preferred I let that wild Rothé ram you into those mushrooms in my stead?!” Astarion hisses in return while rubbing his hand over his arm, which now felt unbelievably tingly and was starting to radiate significant warmth, “Hells, what mushrooms were those, anyway?!”

You stifle a chuckle, knowing your fiancé is already past his limits of patience. You two need to get to the scouting point, set up camp, and hunker down for a few days… all while avoiding detection from the vampires or any other nefarious creatures in the Underdark. Best to do it without an ornery Astarion by your side.

“I don’t know what mushrooms those were. I’ve never seen them before.” You admit with a small shrug, “Come on my love, not much further now and then we can get you properly cleaned up.”

Astarion follows behind you in silence, apart from the occasional cursing and swiping at his skin. Gods, the heat had spread up his entire arm now. The scratching seemed to make it worse, but by the hells, he couldn’t stop no matter how much he wanted to. The two of you finally got to the cragged rock that led to a small cave where you would make camp, and he never felt more relieved in his life. He couldn’t wait to clean himself properly and be done with this burning sensation.

You glance at him briefly and then begin climbing the rock. Astarion remains below to keep you covered in case anything decides to attack while you’re left defenseless. He looks up to watch your progress and cannot help but to notice the overwhelmingly attractive curve of your bottom. It was always attractive, of course, but something about it in this moment was entirely… irresistible. Had you been working out recently in preparation for the wedding?

You’re halfway through climbing the rock when your engagement ring bursts into a spray of light. It often glows significantly at the surface, but in the blackness of the Underdark, you’re practically a beacon. Your stomach drops. Gods, how had you forgotten to take it off?

“Astarion!” You hiss in a panicked whisper, “Cut it out! Every being in all of the Underdark will know our position.”

Astarion had realized the issue as soon as the light had flared, of course. He was trying desperately to avoid thinking of you and all the delicious things he wanted to do when you two made camp, but gods he couldn’t control it. What in the hells was wrong with him? He wanted to stop, to ensure your safety, but your plump, perfect ass was practically calling his name, begging for his attention, and he wanted nothing more than to bend you over and—

He shakes his head, trying to rattle the lewd fantasies from his psyche, “I’m trying, my love! I don’t know what’s come over me I just—“

Hags. Hideous shoes. Ghouls. Manual labor. Gale.

The pale elf tries to think of all the most grotesque, unsexy things he can and push you entirely from his mind. You continue to climb, hoping to quickly reach the top and take off your ring as soon as possible. The ring is still glowing like a single star in the blackest night.

Ogres. The smell of Araj’s blood. Rats. Gale.

Gods, it was useless.

Finally, you reach the top. You rip the ring off your finger and shove it in your pack as soon as your limbs land on the surface of the cave. Astarion quickly scales the rock behind you, and when he reaches the top, you’re positively glaring at him.

“Darling, I’m sorry! I really tried. It’s just— gods damn these mushrooms!” The vampire is ripping off his shirt and scratching at his skin as the two of you walk into the little cave. Before long he’s down to his knickers and cursing as he rubs desperately at his flesh.

You’re trying to ignore your fiancé and quickly pitch the tent so you can handle whatever the hells is going on with him. A sideways glance to your pack reveals that the ring is still glowing quite intensely… perhaps more than it ever has before. Was that even possible? At any rate, you can’t get closer to the stronghold with it glowing like that.

“Astarion, I don’t know what—“ You spin around, and you’re surprised to see the elf fully nude on his blanket, doing perhaps the most provocative thing you’ve ever witnessed.

Astarion is beaded in sweat by now, and his hands are wandering over himself, chasing the burning tingle as it travels through his body. Gods, the feeling was becoming absolutely unbearable. He kept seeing visions of you and him in the throes of passion in his mind.

He couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. Did he want to stop? He couldn’t decide. All he knew was the intense tingling and burning coursing through his veins and the wonderful fantasies filling his brain. He needed release from this torture; his limbs were on fire and the sensation was spreading to his groin.

The elf knows by the throbbing pulse in his cock that his erection is at full capacity, and he feels the dribbles of precum slowly sliding from the head, down the shaft. Astarion is, admittedly embarrassed knowing you are mere feet away and witnessing such an erratic show, but he grabs his own cock regardless— gods, it felt like being possessed. He needed release and he needed it now.

As his fingers wrap around his shaft, a burst of relief travels through his body. The tingling ceases for a moment. But then, it flares again and he’s consumed by the burning feeling and vulgar thoughts of the two of you once more. He pumps his hand a few times, bucking into the sensation, and once again the torturous tingle halts.

What in the hells?

Astarion is now rolling his hips towards his own hand, groaning in pure ecstasy at the relief from the burn as well as the delicious sensation of his hands stroking his uncharacteristically sensitive member. His eyes are clasped closed, and his other hand is still wandering over his torso, chasing that burning itch.

Through panting, shaking breaths he murmurs, “Darling, is it— oh gods, is possible that those— fuck — mushrooms contained sex pollen? I’ve never— mmh, fuck.”

You’d been so enraptured by the vision of your lover touching himself in such an uninhibited display of lust that you almost didn’t hear what Astarion asked. The slickness of your arousal was starting to become apparent as you instinctively squeezed your thighs together.

“I’m… I’m not sure, my love. I’ve read of such things but I’ve never come across it… until, perhaps, now I suppose.”

Astarion isn’t really listening. Instead, he’s bucking wildly into his own hand, chasing his own release. He falls apart in front of you, with his limbs tensed and mouth agape in pure, unadulterated pleasure, clasping tightly onto his own length. The gasping, strangled moan of relief that escapes him as he reaches his climax and shoots sticky streams of hot white seed onto his abdomen ignites a fire in your groin. He’s shuddering with the rippling aftershocks of his orgasm and you feel yourself dripping with arousal as you rub your thighs together once more. This display was entirely feral.

For a few moments the vampire is breathing contentedly, eyes still shut. He’s still holding his cock, which continues to twitch insistently despite its significant spend. Your lover brings his unoccupied hand to his hair and rakes it through his disheveled, sweaty curls.

You flick your gaze to your pack and notice that it’s no longer emitting that ethereal glow. But then Astarion groans in dismay and you see light flare from your bag again. When your attention returns back to your fiancé, he’s already grasping wantonly at a second rapidly growing erection.

“Darling, I can smell you,” He hisses desperately, now slathering his own milky juices around the swollen, reddened tip of his thick cock. The veins in his arm and on his shaft are pulsing as he begins to stroke himself again, “Don’t be coy just— come over here and help me with this. Please.”

And by the gods, he asked so nicely, how could you say no?

[shivunin]

Notes in the Aftermath

Prompted by @greypetrel for "a note between companions about Rook." Here is a series of notes from after Tearstone Island:

(Lucanis/ Rook Ingellvar | 341 Words | Major end-game spoilers, mention of character death)

A single page of notes, extending to both sides of the paper. It sports a large cut in the lower left corner and has been crumpled and smoothed more than once. 

Emmrich—

Is there any word from the Mourn Watch? Did you find that spirit of hers? It must know something. I am leaving with Davrin now to make contact with the Wardens. Please find me as soon as you are able. 

—Lucanis

Lucanis, 

I’m afraid there is no news to provide. Vorgoth and Myrna continue to monitor the Fade for any stirrings that might indicate that Rook has passed through. I was indeed able to locate Grief, who states that she felt Rook mourning Lace for only a moment before the sensation was cut off. “Cut off,” not faded, as such things do with time; I confirmed as much. She wished for me to tell Spite that she is sorry. 

I will continue to work on our secondary solution with Neve. Please feel free to seek me out once you have returned if you would like any additional details. 

—Emmrich

Emmrich—

Taash and I are leaving to seek a path into Minrathous. 

I have moved   She left her violin in my   Spite wouldn’t stop

Rook’s violin is on your desk. I think it will be safer in your library. Please take it to   make sure that  Please look after it until she returns. 

—Lucanis

Lucanis, 

Of course. I will make sure it remains safe until she returns. I have spoken with Neve, who has agreed to take this and some food with her when she leaves to find you. Our decoy is nearly complete. I will debrief the team when everyone has returned this evening.

Take heart, Lucanis. There is still much yet to try. We will do everything in our power to find her. 

—Emmrich. 

Below, a blade has punctured the page. The cut is followed by three words, pressed so deeply into the page that the letters have torn through in several places. 

BRING 

HER 

BACK

[justlookfrightened]

Picking sides

Based on a prompt from @shygryf: 1.Both Jack and bitty prefer the left side of the bed.

Bitty leaned forward to get a closer look at his face while he worked the dental floss between his teeth.

Nope, no need for a shave before bed. He’d shaved yesterday, and he wasn’t even showing the first signs of the fine, almost invisible stubble that signaled the beginnings of facial hair on him. Maybe tomorrow?

But for tonight, he just had to finish his teeth, wash and moisturize his face, and tuck himself into bed.

Into Jack’s bed.

Into Jack’s big, soft, king-sized bed.

Bitty and Jack were going to share a bed tonight. A bed made for two people, not like Bitty’s tiny twin in Madison that they had crammed themselves into in the pre-dawn hours when Jack was visiting and Bitty’s parents were still asleep.

Bitty peered around the open bathroom door at the bed. Made for two, maybe, but Bitty was pretty sure it could accommodate four of him.

Bitty dropped his used floss in the wastebasket and washed his face, determinedly not thinking about what would happen when Jack finished cleaning the kitchen and came to join him in that bed.

Better to think about how considerate Jack was — Jack, who had seen Bitty yawn as he carried his plate to the kitchen, and said, “You’re exhausted. I’ve got the dishes. Why don’t you get ready for bed?” and pretended not to see Bitty’s blush at the idea of getting ready to go to bed with Jack.

It wasn’t like Bitty was a blushing virgin. Well, not a virgin, anyway. Bitty snickered at the thought and got a mouthful of cleanser. He and Jack … well, they’d done plenty for Bitty to decide that the word “virgin” no longer applied to him in his childhood bedroom in Madison, in the bed of the truck while the fireworks exploded in the sky, even on Jack’s sofa this afternoon.

They hadn’t even made it to the bedroom after Jack picked Bitty up at the airport in Boston to spend the last week before he had to be back on campus with Jack.

Bitty rinsed his face, smiling at his own blush as he remembered what they’d got up to. He felt his dick twitch with interest as well, even though his stomach was fluttering with nerves about the … the adultness of it all.

Every time Bitty and Jack had been together — in a, well, sexual way — before, he’d felt like a teenager, sneaking around behind his parents’ backs, even tumbling onto the couch, pushing clothes aside in a hurry to get their hands and their mouths where they wanted them like there would never be enough time.

When they were done, Jack had pulled Bitty onto his chest as they lay there, and Bitty had almost dozed off, before Jack said, “We can shower at the same time, if you want, and then go to the market.”

And Bitty hadn’t known whether Jack meant “at the same time in two different bathrooms” or “at the same time together,” until Jack said, “The shower in the master bath is big enough for both of us,” and Bitty had noticed that Jack’s cheeks were pink too, and then he had felt much less self-conscious.

So they had showered, in a way that felt more intimate than sexual, then dressed and shopped for food and for the things that Bitty insisted Jack needed for a fully-stocked kitchen, then they had cooked and eaten together, and by that time Bitty had been wiped out. He really had not slept well the night before.

He finished with the moisturizer, made sure his toiletries were arranged neatly on the vanity, and went into the bedroom. Jack already knew he usually slept in a T-shirt and his boxer briefs; Jack had known that since they lived in the Haus together. Jack wouldn’t expect anything different now, would he? 

But if Jack wanted to — There was no reason Bitty had to wear anything at all to bed here. No parents or Hausmates who might knock and open the door. Bitty wished for a moment that Jack had gotten ready for bed first, or at the same time at least, so Bitty could follow his example.

Bitty gave himself a mental shake. Jack wouldn’t mind however he slept, and how he slept tonight didn’t mean that’s how it would be every night going forward. He would go to bed the way he usually did.

WIth that thought, he rummaged in the duffle that they’d brought up from Jack’s car, found Senor Bun and his phone charger, and plugged his phone in. Then he slid beneath the fluffy duvet — really, it felt like a warm cloud over him, tucked Senor Bun in the crook of his arm, and tried to relax.

It couldn’t have been much later when Bitty opened his eyes to Jack standing next to the bed, shirtless, in his underwear (the way Jack usually slept), looking a little … confused? Put out?

“Jack?” Bitty asked. “Is something wrong?”

“What?” Jack startled a tiny bit. “No, of course not. Go back to sleep.”

“You look like something’s wrong.” 

Bitty pushed himself up on his elbow. 

“Is it something I did?” 

Maybe he wasn’t neat enough in the bathroom? The room had been pristine when he and Jack has entered it to shower earlier.

“No,” Jack said. “It’s … nothing, really.”

“It seems like it’s something,” Bitty said, now becoming alarmed.

“No,” Jack said. “Nothing important. It’s just …”

He trailed off.

“It’s just?” Bitty prompted, sitting up now.

Jack ran a hand through his hair and sighed. 

“This sounds stupid, but that’s the side of the bed I always sleep on,” Jack said. “And you looked so peaceful. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“But you also didn’t want to climb in the other side?” Bitty said.

Jack started to walk to the other side of the bed.

“I know,” Jack said. “It’s —”

“Don’t say it’s stupid,” Bitty said. “This is your home and you should be comfortable.”

He rolled across the mattress.

“But I want you to be comfortable too,” Jack said. “And that’s obviously the side you’re comfortable on.”

Now they had both switched from the left to the right side of the bed, Bitty still sitting on the mattress, Jack standing at the side.

“Jack, sweet pea,” Bitty said, noting the way Jack’s shoulders softened a bit at the endearment. “I ain’t ever had a bed with sides before. I think I can get used to it.”

That started a chuckle from Jack, who said, “I think all beds have two sides, bud.”

“You know what I mean,” Bitty said. “But I guess, at home, the right side of my bed is against the wall, so the nightstand and all my stuff is on the left. So it just felt natural. But you have nightstands on both sides.”

Bitty leaned over to look at the wall behind the nightstand on the right.

“And outlets,” he said. “Can you just hand me my phone and the charger?”

“You really don’t mind?” Jack asked.

“Of course not,” Bitty said. “Maybe I’ll turn into someone who only likes the right side.”

Instead of walking around the bed, Jack crawled over Bitty.

“I doubt it,” he humphed. “I’m just … set in my ways, I guess?”

“Whatever,” Bitty said. “I really don’t mind.”

He took his phone and charger and plugged them in, and Jack settled himself under the covers and turned off the lamp. 

“Goodnight, Bits,” Jack said.

“G’night,” Bitty said, curling up around Senor Bun in the dark.

He was still awake, barely, when the mattress shifted, and he felt Jack curl up behind him, throwing an arm over Bitty’s waist.

“This okay?” Jack asked.

In response, Bitty scooted back so that he was pressed against Jack’s front.

Then he giggled.

“What?” Jack asked.

“Now we’re both on the right side of the bed,” Bitty said.

[velocitross]

Thunderforge 58

thank you for this one! <3 this one uhh turned smutty, which I guess I suspected it might, and it also ended up being almost 2k words

so anyway here's Rolan and Dammon locked in a small space! Again, smut, rated E(xplicit) so 🔞 and proceed with that in mind 🙏

Rolan scowls in the pitch black of the small closet, arms crossed, tail tip twitching down near his ankles as he stares at the door with narrowed eyes. His keen vision cuts through the dark, but there isn’t much to see. He’d been investigating yet another out-of-the-way room in the lower levels of Ramazith’s Tower and was intrigued by the prospect of a small library no soul had been inside for who knew how many years, only to find himself locked inside this tiny space behind a door that apparently only opens from the outside. And not even some esoteric tome for his troubles.

An enchanted closet, perhaps intended to trap such snooping souls as himself.

Finally he hears a soft tread thumping down the steps into the room beyond the door. A pause, and then Dammon’s muffled voice: “Rolan?”

“Yes, yes! I’m in here.”

A handful of footfalls, coming closer: the door swings open and before Rolan can utter more than a single syllable—“Don’t—”—Dammon steps inside what to his eyes must be a library, warmed by flickering magical lights, and the door swings shut behind him with a dull, decisive thud.

Rolan stares at it, eyes wide and expression twisting, aggrieved yet almost amused in a frantic, delirious way. He lifts a hand to rub his brow at the base of his horns and blows a blustering sigh.

“Zurgan.”

Dammon’s blue-and-gold eyes are the brightest thing within the closet. They stand squeezed together in the small space as the blacksmith raises his eyes to gaze around, an expression of bewilderment and resignation settling into his features by the time he brings his eyes back down to Rolan’s.

“What . . . ?”

“It’s enchanted,” Rolan says. He nods toward the door. “And it only opens from the outside.”

Dammon’s eyebrows raise. He turns to run his hands over the flat surface of the door the same way Rolan had at first, searching in vain for a knob or a handle or a latch. “Why?” he asks when he finds nothing, with the edge of a tormented laugh.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Rolan says. “A trap, perhaps, for wizards snooping through Ramazith’s secrets.”

“Such as yourself?”

Rolan snorts. For a while they’re silent, Rolan standing against the back wall with his arms crossed watching as Dammon runs his clawed fingertips over every crack and corner in the closet, persistent as always in his search for a solution. The other tiefling’s tail brushes Rolan’s legs as he moves. In spite of himself, Rolan feels his face warm; the closet is small enough to where Dammon’s restless movements brush their bodies together here and there, and the blacksmith’s warm, acrid scent fills the space to its corners. Rolan’s scowl deepens and he shifts uncomfortably as the heat gathering in his body tickles lower.

Dammon reaches the end of his fruitless search and heaves a sigh. “No way out I can find,” he says. He stands faced away from Rolan staring at the door. He glances back over his shoulder. “I hope you told Lia where you’d be.”

“Of course I did, I’m not an idiot.” Rolan’s eyes make a guilty dart away. “I also told her not to bother me until dinner.”

“Hells take me,” Dammon says, but he chuckles, good-natured as always.

The blacksmith shifts around, barely enough room for him to turn to face Rolan. This close, and with his senses heightened by the pique of arousal running his blood hot, Rolan can feel the heat baking off of Dammon’s body and smell the slight sharpness to his scent—sweat from his work beneath the sun. He keeps his eyes down and his teeth clenched.

“Guess we’re stuck in here for the time being, then,” Dammon says.

All Rolan can offer is a grunt of agreement. But the dismissive assent has the opposite effect to what he’d intended: Dammon’s eyes fix on him with more focus and curiosity. Rolan’s face burns as the blacksmith’s eyes track down his body.

“Wait,” Dammon says, and his tone makes the heat in Rolan’s face shoot out to the tips of his ears. “Are you . . . ?”

“Yes,” Rolan hisses. “And it’s hardly the time or the place for it.”

His eyes dart up to find Dammon’s in time to catch the slow smile spreading across the other man’s lips, and the lowering of his eyelids that always accompanies the blacksmith’s desire. It doesn’t help Rolan’s condition—he can’t help the soft catch of his breath as a twinge of pleasure begins stiffening his prick in his pants.

“Hardly the time?” Dammon asks, his voice soft and with an unmistakable note of want. “Can’t think of a better one.”

The blacksmith eases closer. Rolan bites at his lip but the moan escapes him anyway as Dammon’s body presses against his. The other tiefling’s hands brush over his waist and slide up Rolan’s back. Rolan’s tail finds Dammon’s leg and snakes around it.

They gaze at one another in the close darkness. Their breath mingles in the barely-there space between their faces. And then Rolan tips forward and takes Dammon’s lips, hard and hungry. They kiss each other breathless and part, huffing their humid breaths. Rolan slips a hand up to take Dammon’s face and pull him in, their lips meeting again and again, taut and fevered.

Rolan breathes a ragged moan into Dammon’s mouth as the blacksmith’s hand travels down his stomach to the stiff bulge in his trousers. Dammon’s fingers twist clumsily at the button of Rolan’s pants, then tug them down just enough to expose him in his briefs. Rolan’s eyes squeeze shut as Dammon’s fingers work at his own pants, and then the heat of their mutual arousal rubs together through both their underwear.

Rolan breaks the kiss on a final hard press of his lips to rock his head back and catch his breath. He looks down between them with his lips parted, a hard twinge of heat in his core at the sight of them pressed together. Rolan groans as Dammon lays his soft lips on his jaw and trails them down his neck. The blacksmith’s breath tickles over his skin, alternating with the feather-soft press of lips and the tip of Dammon’s tongue. Dammon’s hands skate down Rolan’s sides to his hips; he pulls them closer together and makes his own tight sound of pleasure into the crook of Rolan’s neck. He gives his first long thrust and then a second, holding Rolan’s hips to his.

They fill the closet with the heat and humidity of their bodies and their arousal, rocking their hips against each other and rubbing the firm lengths of their erections together. It’s not enough to come, but it’s enough to keep them poised right on that aching precipice, until they’re both gasping and panting, nipping and kissing, Rolan’s hair a mess from the needy grip of Dammon’s fingers at the back of his head.

Rolan can’t tell how long it’s been before he’s had enough. The frustration has built and built to its breaking point, his face flushed to his ears and down his neck, his chest heaving on his hard, desperate breaths. He thrusts his thumbs into Dammon’s underwear and yanks them down the other tiefling’s thighs, to Dammon’s appreciative little ah!

Rolan pulls his own briefs down, grunting a tense sound of relief as his cock bobs free, his sensitive head nudging against Dammon’s. He reaches down and takes them both in his warm palm. Rolan strokes as they kiss, hard at first and then distracted, lips together but moving slowly and intermittently as the pleasure builds. Dammon lays his hand over Rolan’s and they stroke as one, hips rolling to rub the ridging of their cocks together. They stroke slow at first, soft moans and sighs—and then faster, sounds growing sharper, Dammon’s hand squeezing around Rolan’s as they pump their joint grip down each other’s lengths.

“Gods, I’m—” Dammon gasps after just a minute or so of this, and he gives a tight, wordless sound as he thrusts forward into Rolan’s hand and comes. Rolan catches his warm semen in his fingers and strokes it down both of them. Dammon’s cock throbs in his grip and leaks another bead of cum at the smooth glide of Rolan’s fingers down his ridging.

A few moments later Rolan grits his teeth and cries out too, as the desperate, waxing pressure in him breaks and he spills his release over the head of his cock and Dammon’s.

Dammon’s knees buckle and he collapses forward into Rolan’s body, pressing him back against the wall. They stand there breathing hard, Rolan’s arms around the blacksmith and holding him up.

When at last they’ve recovered, Dammon gets his feet beneath him and stands again. Rolan gives him his teasing, smug little smile as the blacksmith collects himself, still flushed and with his hair mussed and pulled down from its tie. Dammon chuckles breathlessly and shakes his head as he pulls his underwear and pants back up and tucks himself away. Rolan does the same.

“See? Perfect time for this,” Dammon says. “What else are we supposed to do?”

Rolan’s smile fades. He fixes his yellow stare on the door again. “Yes, but we’re still trapped in here until dinner,” he says. “What now?”

“I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

Dammon tilts his head with his knowing, fond smile, and Rolan can’t help his bloom of affection and amusement for this man trapped here inside an enchanted closet with him, flushed, disheveled, and sweaty, and already thinking of another round.

“You’re shameless,” he says, with a softness to his teasing tone.

Dammon chuckles and leans in, and their lips brush as their arms slip around each other again.

*

By the time Lia’s tread descends the steps Rolan is half asleep, sitting on the floor with Dammon in his lap, the blacksmith’s hair down and Rolan’s fingers combing absently through it as they both fall asleep. They’d had each other until even Dammon’s appetite had been sated, and then they’d waited here an hour longer.

Rolan hardly registers the muffled but distinct sounds of Lia’s arrival until she calls out for them. He stiffens, shaking Dammon and then dumping the man unceremoniously out of his lap as he lunges to his feet.

“Lia!” he calls out. “Lia, we’re in here.” And recalling his previous mistake: “Open the door but don’t come inside.”

Dammon struggles to his feet to stand pressed against Rolan in the closet. The door swings open and Lia stands silhouetted against the sudden brightness from the room outside. Dammon winces and raises a hand against it. Rolan grabs Dammon’s hand and drags the blacksmith stumbling out of their confinement.

Behind them, it shimmers seamlessly back into the illusion of a library, pleasant and cozy, dust motes glinting in the warm, still, golden light. Rolan scowls and throws the door shut. Lia looks at him with her eyebrows raised.

“It’s an illusion,” he snarls. “We’ve been trapped in a tiny closet for hours.”

Dammon blinks at the room around them. He must have been dead asleep.

“I don’t want to know what you got up to in there,” Lia says, and rolls her eyes. “Come on, we’ll get you dinner and never speak of this again.”

“My pleasure,” Rolan says, and he follows Lia back up the stairs, Dammon coming along sleepily beside him with their hands joined and fingers pressed together.

[converse-luke]

7

Hehehehehe

Cyrrith holds the papers in his right hand. He doesn't want to accidentally destroy this hastily written will. Dorian is standing before him, brow furrowed as he tries to figure out what Cyrrith holds. "I want you to have this. I apologize for the terrible penmanship in advance. The mark has made it… difficult to write."

Dorian frowns and takes the papers, scanning over them. "This reads like a will."

Cyrrith nods stiffly. "That's because it is my will. Or at least the closest the Dalish have to a will."

Something dark passes across Dorian's face. "You're not giving this to me."

"Amatus please, I need you to execute this for me when I die."

Dorian drops the papers and backs away from Cyrrith, it makes his heart sting. "Don't!" He takes a deep breath. "You can't ask this of me."

Cyrrith goes to his knees and collects the papers so they're back in order. "I am, please Dor, I need you to do this for me."

"No. No, stop. Stop talking like that. You're gonna be fine." Dorian backs away again, hands held in front of him like that will stop Cyrrith from advancing again with the will clenched in his right hand.

"Dorian."

"Stop it," his voice cracks as tears well in his eyes.

"Dorian I'm dying." Cyrrith nearly chokes while saying it but he remains firm. "The mark is killing me. It's… it's been killing me since I first got it."

Dorian's mouth drops open. "You knew?" Tears drip down Dorian's cheeks. "All this time you knew?"

"I'm so sorry Dorian." Cyrrith can't help that tears start to lick down his face as well. "I know I should have told you sooner." He takes in a ragged breath, feeling the mark begin to crackle to life as emotions start swelling in his chest. Cyrrith scrambles back, papers scattering in his haste to get away. He doubles over, biting back a scream of agony as the room lights up with the green energy.

When it fades back Cyrrith whimpers, clutching his left arm as it throbs. He keeps his back to Dorian, too focused on the pain to hear him crossing over. He flinches when Dorian touches his shoulder. "Amatus," Dorian wipes away Cyrrith's tears as more of his own fall. "I… I'll do it. If you die I'll execute your will." He pulls Cyrrith into a bone crushing hug, feeling Cyrrith melt into it. "Just try and come back to me alright?"

Cyrrith sniffles and clings to Dorian's robes. "I promise."

[ky-landfill]

cries begs and screams for more pit withdrawal art. ur amazing.

[yasmindifference]

IMMEDIATELY asking for jason’s pov of the fake dating fic for the prompt meme. literally first and only thing that popped in my mind. i don’t have a specific scene in mind, any you want would be amazing

oh and i forgot to say happy belated birthday!! you don’t have to reply to this separately lmao

Thank you very much! I've always kind of wanted to write Jason's POV of the hickey scene in chapter two, so I hope you enjoy ♡♡

It probably made Jason a bad person, but how could he resist the opportunity when it was right there?

“You might not’ve noticed, but I’m a possessive kinda guy,” he said in extreme understatement. “When I own something—or someone—I make damn sure everyone knows. You need more than this if you’re gonna be mine.”

It was a lie. A shameless, shameless lie.

Was Jason the kinda guy who marked up his partners as much and as often as they’d allow? Yes.

Was there a single solitary person in Crime Alley who was gonna look at Red Hood’s boyfriend long enough to even realize he had hickies, let alone count them? Absolutely fucking not.

So it was a lie, and Jason knew it. Knew that Tim would be lucky to get eye contact as long as he was undercover, because nobody would want to be the moron caught staring at Red Hood’s boyfriend. Jason had never dated anyone as his crime lord persona before, so they wouldn’t know what kinda punishment he’d lay down for staring…but he was sure they could imagine, and it would keep all of their gazes firmly averted.

But the excuse was right there—right there like the hickies he’d left before, scattered across Tim’s neck and just begging to be joined by some friends—and who was Jason to ignore it?

Tim hadn’t answered. Jason felt like that was a good sign; better hesitation than an immediate ‘no.’

“So?” he asked. He couldn’t resist the urge to apply a little pressure to the mark below his thumb, treasuring the way Tim’s pulse jumped in response. “More, yes or no?”

Tim’s pulse evened out immediately, and not in a natural way. No, that was Tim applying Batman’s lessons in controlling his heartbeat. That was Tim needing to control his heartbeat, because Jason was absolutely getting to him.

“Sure,” Tim said casually. “Knock yourself out.”

“Great,” Jason said, matching Tim’s casual tone. Not easy, when the jealous, possessive thing in his chest was nearly purring in satisfaction. He’d had so much fun marking Tim up the first time and couldn’t wait to do it again.

…But half the fun was flustering Tim, and Jason was pretty sure Tim had a strength kink. (It would explain his baffling and infuriating affair with the super clone, for one, and also Jason was like seventy-five percent sure Tim had checked him out the last time he took advantage of the Batcave’s weights.)

So he took the excuse of their height difference to lift Tim right off his feet and put him on the kitchen island. Without asking. With no visible effort. (No effort required, it’d be so fucking easy to just pin Tim to the wall and hold him there while Jason fucked him—)

Tim was blushing. Fuck yes.

He also wasn’t asking why Jason had done that, which was an even better sign, Jason thought. Still, for the sake of appearances—

“You’re too short,” he offered in explanation. Tim didn’t so much as roll his eyes; another good sign.

He wanted to keep teasing Tim, see if he could get that faint blush darker and more obvious, but the other half of the plan called. They had a date to go on.

So he stepped up between Tim’s splayed legs and gripped his hips, yanked him to the edge of the island, and went to town.

Tim’s skin was soft beneath his lips. His shirt rubbed distractingly against Jason’s chest. And the quiet, hitching breaths he kept taking were driving Jason out of his goddamned mind.

He was obviously trying so hard to stay cool, to play it unaffected like he wasn’t bothered all by Jason’s attention, and he was failing. Calm, cold, unflappable Tim was being really fucking flapped by Jason giving him a few hickies.

It was hot as fuck—and, more importantly, it gave Jason hope. Hope that this plan might actually work after all. That he might walk away from this not only with his traitors dealt with, but with Tim finally being his as a bonus.

And if not…well, at least he’d have this memory: Tim’s stifled moans, the taste of his sweat, and his visible struggle not to arch up into Jason’s touch.

It wasn’t everything Jason wanted, but it was a damn good start.

[enbyscript]

6 or 8 from the prompt lists with dr robby !! whichever you like more!

oooooOOOOO ok ok ok heres what im workin with. let me know if you prefer these getting straight to the point or if the background/scene setting is important

sorry it took so long, saturdays r my napping days so i spend most of it unconscious lmao

you weren’t that inebriated, pleasantly tipsy after a night out with colleagues at the bar by the hospital. the alcohol warmed your belly and made your fingers tingle. but that heat started to pool lower than you expected, having spent a good 30 minutes squirming in your seat as santos and ellis talked loudly, everyone else more amused by the spectacle than whatever was going on with you.

from across the bar your eyes were trained on robby, leaning against the bar top with abbot talking his ear off. he looked so fucking good out of his scrubs, a dark green buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms thick with dark hair just out for anyone to ogle. the more you stared the worse your squirming got, discharge seeping into your boxers as you imagines those forearms littered with bite marks and wrapped around your throat.

robby’s eyes finally met yours, warm dark brown that made your blood feel like molasses in your veins. he was too aware, recognition on his face as he took in what could only look like discomfort. he raised his eyebrows, then his eyes flit to the back of the bar where you knew the gender neutral restroom was. a single restroom with a lock on the door. thank whatever higher being there was that robby was able to read you like a book, and had an empathetic streak.

you gave one swift nod, everyone at your booth still paying you no real mind. you excused yourself to the restroom and tried to walk slowly, despite the anticipation roaring blood in your ears. didn’t want to make it too obvious. after you shut the door behind you and leaned your back against the adjacent wall you waited, tapping your foot impatiently against the sticky floor.

thirty seconds passed by before a single knock hit the door and robby’s imposing figure slipped into the restroom, nimble fingers locking the door behind him.

his cheeks were pink, so you knew he wasn’t past the point of no return. his eyes were dark as he crowded you against the wall, hands heavy on your waist.

“what’s the matter, bub? lookin’ a lil antsy there,” his fingers began to trail under the fabric of your shirt, rubbing soothing circles into your heated flesh.

“s’too warm, robby,” you mumbled, nosing at the underside of his jaw. “can i have you now? please?” you let your tongue trail along his neck, a shudder running down the older man’s spine as you reacquainted yourself with his taste. the salty flavor of his skin making your core clench down on nothing, eager to feel him properly.

robby groaned, grinding his hardening cock into your hip. he let you mouth at his throat, wet open mouthed kisses trailing their way towards his lips. your lips met like a wave meeting the beach, an inevitable meeting of two forces of nature. robby’s fingers made work to undo your pants, bringing the fabric and your boxers halfway down your hips for easy access.

he gasped into your mouth a upon feeling how wet you were between your legs, your hips grinding down at the light pressure his fingers provided you, rubbing circles around your aching clit.

“oh my poor baby, i gotchu. gonna make it right, okay?”

robby guided you to the sink, bracing your hands on the edge and bending you over gently at the waist, one hand rubbing against your spine soothingly as his other released his member from his jeans. he’d been leaking pre since he recognized the pained arousal on your face in the busy bar, aching for something to touch you. for him to touch you.

he jerked himself languidly, wetting his member with the discharge from his tip and rubbing against your lips to collect your wetness. you whined, grinding back against his cock impatiently. “y’feel so good, robby.”

robby notched himself at your hole, hips pulling back and forth as he gently eased himself in. fuck you were so warm, his hands trembled as he wrapped one forearm around your shoulders, rubbing his furred cheek against the side of your head. “just a quick one baby, then we’ll get outta here. i’ll get you home,” he growled into your ear as he finally bottomed out, other hand coming up quickly to cover your mouth as a wail nearly ripped out of you at finally being full.

“gotta be quiet, can’t let everyone know how good ‘m treatin’ you,” your thighs trembled at the brutal pace robby set, his jeans rubbing the backs of your thighs raw from the material. you held onto his forearm, keeping you close with his front heavy against your back. he shifted his stance and rammed into you, the new angle making you cry into his palm as you leaned against the sink.

“there’s my guy, you’re almost there, bub. i’ve got you,” robby nestled his cheek against your own. he fucked into you harder, slamming into your sopping center. by the way you clenched and fluttered around him it was evident you were at the precipice. he kept his pace, holding tight and whispering how good you were for him and how great you were doing. the praise sent pulses into your belly as you finally hurdled over the cliff of your impending finish.

robby followed suit, moaning against your ear as his hips stuttered, keeping his hips flush with yours so every single drop stayed inside. his hand dropped from your mouth, giving you perfect opportunity to press your lips against the forearm still holding you.

the two of you stayed like that for a moment, basking in the after glow momentarily before untangling yourselves. robby helped pull your boxers and pants back up, turning you around so he could fasten the buttoning and kiss your forehead affectionately.

“now, you’re not feelin’ too good, so i’m gonna take you home and make sure you rest. that’s the story, bub, try not too look to pleased with yourself,” you grinned, staring up at robby with as much affection as you could muster in a single look.

[angstsplatter]

From this post/list -

Thanks @technicallysublimechild!

13. "can't--breathe--" TMNT, your favourite iteration

"M..ike...y..." The faint sound of Don's voice barely registered to Mike. Between the blood pounding in his ears and the who knows how many feet of dirt, not to mention whatever material the coffin was made of, that still separated him from Donnie, Mikey wasn't sure if he wasn't outright hallucinating what he wanted to hear. Don. Alive.

"Yeah," Mikey grunted between panting breaths as he shoveled away dirt by hand. "I'm here, Don. I'm coming." The last part came out more of a whisper than intended, for once panic stealing his breath instead of amplifying it.

For a moment, there wasn't any sound beyond Mike's grunting, panting, and the thumping of dirt being consistently tossed aside.

"can't--breathe--"

Mike's brain threatened to shut down. His raw, bleeding fingers trembled, but he grit his teeth and refused to give in to the fear. "I know, Don, I'm sorry." Dig, toss, dig, toss. "Just keep trying, okay? Meditate if you can." Shell, he felt stupid even saying that. This wasn't like he and his bros taking a ride on a spaceship, unable to really breathe the air but - together, at least.

Don had been missing for - hours? He could have been buried alive for hours. This was Don. He kept his cool. He'd probably been meditating because of course Donnie would be able to calculate how much oxygen he had down there. And Donnie would make the rational decision on how best to stay alive to save himself or wait for his brothers. If he couldn't breathe now...

Mikey growled and dug faster. He peeled through rocks and roots and whatever the shell else lay in this soil he was stuck digging through with his bare hands. "I'm close, Don. You still there?"

Straining his ears, Mike nearly screamed. No answer. Leo and Raph obviously weren't going to make it in time. It was up to him. If he couldn't move any faster, Don was going to die - maybe even was already dead - and it'd be Mike's fault. He'd live with this forever. Knowing he was the one brother with the chance to save their resident braniac and that he fell short like he always fell short - and Mike hit something firm and rough.

"Ow! Yes!" Normally, he'd whine and cry in pain for some attention, but there was no one here to give him attention. Not unless he got Donnie out alive. If he got Donnie out alive and breathing and fine, he could whine and hold this over Don forever. No one would take him seriously, and it wouldn't matter because at least Don would be alive. Please, let him be alive...

Knowing, finally, where the coffin was, Mikey was able to make quicker work of clearing the dirt to give him room to reach Donnie. He linked his hands together and used his whole arms and chest to press against the dirt and scrape it up the sides of his hole and out of his way, not caring about the ridiculous way he had to contort his body to get the maximum amount of dirt out each time. "Close your eyes, Donnie!" he screamed.

Lifting his nunchucks, Mikey kneeled on the coffin, situated his grip, and slammed, thankful he'd found wood and not some sort of metal. He had the presence of mind to aim for the sides, lower than Don's head should be. He was rewarded with the vicious splintering of wood. Hands already feeling it, Mikey shoved them down into the holes he created and ripped at the wood, tearing it away. He was gonna feel this tomorrow.

"Don!" Mikey couldn't help but shout as he tore through old planks of wood and found Donnie, pale and unmoving. He leaned down into the coffin and shoved his arms under and around Don's armpits, wrapping his upper body in a hug, and pulling him up. Hoping that the sadistic jerks who'd done this had only buried Don alive and not horribly mangled him or something.

Mikey pushed with his legs, desperately clinging to Don, refusing to put him back in the damn hole. The dirt held as Mikey carried them both out of the hole, finding solid ground to gently rest Don on. "Donnie, come on," he said, fumbling to get his fingers to do the delicate task of feeling for a pulse as he leaned down towards Don's mouth, trying to determine if he needed to do CPR.

Don's breath hitched. It caught for a moment. Then, as if Don's body realized there was fresh air, he took in wavering, strangled breath of air and the floodgates broke. Mike broke into gasping, heaving sobs, collapsing bonelessly next to Don, not wanting to crush him, but not wanting to not be hugging him right now. He hadn't cried like this for real in - since Leo. He never wanted to cry like this again. "Thank...shell," he choked out, trying to let Don know he was okay. Even if he wasn't okay right at this moment.

Don coughed. Hard coughs that wracked his body, causing him to jerk and twitch. Mikey soothingly rubbed his hand across Don's plastron, just like Master Splinter had done for them when they were kids and picked up the cold or flu or whatever other crud they came across. Mikey nearly jolted when Don lifted the arm on the other side of Mikey to gently grasp at Mike's hand on his chest. "Mikey?"

"Yeah, Don. I'm here," he said, nuzzling his face into Don's shoulder, trying to physically press back his tears.

"Thanks, bro," he whispered, moving his own head to nuzzle against Mike's forehead.

Mikey would be functional. He would get up and call Raph and Leo and seriously check out Don for injuries.

In a minute.

Right now, he need this. To be here. With Don. Comforting him. And Donnie needed it too.