#Prompt: Loyalty

[charlietheepicwriter7]

"Grandfather."

Ra's knew who the boy was the moment he'd snuck into the room. He'd allowed the child--more man than child now, but everyone was a child compared to him--moments to steel himself while Ra's refrained from acknowledging his presence. The boy's breath was barely audible but unsteady, and a drop of something fell to the floor.

His grandson was injured. "Danyal," he greeted and finally gazed upon him for the first time in seven years.

Danyal had grown into his father's height, yet stayed lean in regards to his musculature. His black hair had grown out of the League-regulation haircut, held back in a messy braid. He held himself as strong as he could, but kept an arm wrapped around his stomach. His shirt--standard American teenage garb, he dismissed--was spotted with blood and he could see bandages poking out from under the cloth.

With great care, Danyal knelt before the Demon Head and recited the Oath of Loyalty.

Ra's watched.

The boy's tongue, fat with English, spoke the League's variant of Arabic with the grace of a mace to the head, yet his words were clear. He took his time speaking the oath, carefully sounding out words, working hard to avoid mispronunciation. The Oath in question was the older version, from before Deathstroke's insurrection, but Danyal spoke it with a calm certainty that it would be accepted.

And without a doubt, it would be accepted.

Talia's eldest son had been born from her body instead of through science, a mistake that nearly cost her the child and damaged him upon birth. While the best doctors in the world saved his life, Danyal Al Ghul would always be weak in a fight, always prone to illness, always struggling to excel. When it became clear that the boy couldn't become the next Demon Head, Ra's sent Talia to create a replacement while arrangements were made for her first child to be taught business and science, for the betterment of the League. Danyal, very much his father's child, thrived in his intellectual pursuits while Damian grew and developed into a budding assassin.

But Danyal was more like his father than he'd ever knew. Ra's couldn't miss the signs of one of his family turning away from the League. Not the mission--Danyal had written several university level papers defending the environment by the time the boy was 10--but Ra's methods...

Ra's had a conundrum. Danyal was a dedicated conservationist; once the boy was an adult, Ra's was certain he'd take the world by storm and bring the League to new heights. But if he forced his methods onto Danyal, he could create an enemy of him, just as his father was.

Ra's gave Danyal an offer; Danyal would be allowed to leave the League and live a normal life if and only if he faked his own death in such a way that reinforced Damian's loyalty to the League of Assassins.

Danyal had been hesitant at first, but past his test with flying colors. Instigating one of the more unstable assassins into organizing a coup, cutting the insurgents off near immediately, but "dying" protecting both his younger brother and mother. It was a masterful performance. Even Talia hadn't known about the deceit.

And yet, here he was, on his knees, pledging loyalty. Danyal knew what that meant, knew what he was returning to, which morals he would be allowed to keep.

"And what do you bring with you, child of no one?" Why should the League accept the return of this child, who left once before?

Danyal met his eyes. "I bring with me, my team, who are loyal to me and me alone. I bring with me, research surrounding the Lazarus Pits, in origins and further uses for the waters." Ra's raised an eyebrow, and Danyal smirked. "I bring with me, my knowledge, nurtured within this very home and sharpened in the world outside. I bring with me, my weapons, built with my own hands. I bring with me... my body, finally healthy and whole." He brought his head down to the floor, trembling with pain. "I bring my whole self to the Demon's Head, for Him to accept or reject."

Ra's smiled. "By the shadows that guard our order and the blood that binds us, I accept this oath. From this day forward, you are an instrument of the League, a harbinger of justice, and a weapon in the hand of Ra's Al Ghul."

Danyal returned to his feet, swaying percariously. He needed immediate medical attention. Despite this, he continued, "Long live the League of Assassins. Long live Ra's Al Ghul."

And he collapsed onto the floor.

[whumpster-dumpster]

"You weren't supposed to get hurt. You weren't supposed to follow me."

"I don't care. I'll follow you anywhere."

[defire]

Whumpee tropes with their own perfect method of torture...

Submissive whumpees--getting confused about what their master wants them to do, and now terrified of punishment

Stoic whumpees--getting worn down by repetitive, relentless abuse until they crack and let out a sob... And then they just crumble

Defiant whumpees--being slapping/beaten for speaking, gagged or muzzled, tied up, left in stress positions until they beg

Living weapon whumpees--beaten for failing a mission, and also, being tortured by an enemy group for their owners' secrets

I think the key is an inner conflict (between their personality and what they want) when deciding how to respond under immense pressure.

[veinsfullofstars]

“If the Fountain itself considers you worthy…

then so do I, my liege.”

⭐MetaDede Week 2024 Day 7: Loyalty ⭐

(ID: Kirby series fanart of King Dedede and Meta Knight leaping up together in triumph, the former alight with boisterous laughter, the latter heroic and graceful, his great wings framing the two of them as they rise, their hands clasped, their weapons - the Star Rod Hammer for DDD, Galaxia for MK - held aloft in a flurry of bright stars and crackling lightning respectively. END ID.)

Partially inspired by this post thread by @acutestar.

Previous Days | Prompt List (made by @/mtddweek)

Started 08/25/24, finished 08/27/24.

[gingerly-writing]

Prompt #3516

“He abandoned you,” the hero said, genuine concern crinkling around their eyes. “[Villain] won’t come back for you, he never does.  You don’t have to stay loyal to him. You probably shouldn’t, actually. Spill what you know, and I can get you out of here.”

“I can’t do that. I won’t do that.”

The hero just looked sad. “He doesn’t feel the same for you.”

“What is loyalty worth if it crumbles the moment it’s not reciprocated?”

[tennessoui]

prompt --- meeting in prison au (maybe Anakin is serving a few years for crossing the line in defense of his mom and Obi-Wan is a volunteer teacher/lawyer?)

[this is in response to a prompt game i reblogged a year ago, but hey! wanted some dark obi-wan this evening so i'm finally getting around to it!] [warnings for hints of non-con typical for a prison trope fic where one is a pretty boy, also for dub-con and power imbalance] [obi-wan is another prisoner here] [supposedly] [2k]

It’s not actually something one asks here, which comes as a surprise to Anakin. He’d thought—well, he’d always assumed that was just something you traded in prison, like deathsticks and dirty holos maybe. Information, what are you in for.

Anakin had been worried that first night in his cell, mind shuffling through a cascade of concerns and memories and landing on one that seemed inconsequential, stacked as it was against the other contents of his life, but gripped him with a fear he hadn’t felt since he was small. What would he say, when they asked him what he was in for? 

Massacre is what’s written on the record. It’s some variation of the truth as well, though Anakin can’t even remember his own crime. Just the sting of the sand, the heat of the dying day, the blood on his hands. Mostly true, though Anakin thinks of it still as justice. Vengeance. The reality of bartering on Tatooine. A life for a life. A village for a mother. 

He could say massacre. As far as crimes go, it’s one that carries weight, could earn him a certain amount of respect among his fellow criminals. 

But then they would ask him how he did it. He isn’t necessarily small, but he’s hardly a man. Nineteen years old and lanky with it. His master used to assure him that he would grow sturdier with age, grow into his frame. 

His master hadn’t even looked at him once during the trial. It had been the security guards on Coruscant who had cut his braid.

So his fellow criminals would ask how he did it, how he killed an entire village of Tuskens when he is nothing but a nineteen year old boy.

And he would have nothing to say. Because being a Jedi…even just a Jedi padawan, even just a failed, ex-Jedi…it would attract too much attention. Too much of the wrong sort of attention. After all, the Jedi Order was probably responsible for half the prison sentences of the criminals here, and Anakin doesn’t think that any criminal would be able to just set that aside. Even if Anakin had barely had a hand in any sort of galactic-wide justice.

Even if the Jedi Order and Anakin don’t exactly agree on what justice is.

So he’d been afraid, that first night in his cell. Afraid and made powerless by the Force suppression cuffs locked tight around each wrist. Afraid that they would ask, that others would find out that he used to be a Jedi and punish him for it. Beat him as if they could beat their captors through him.

But no one asked.

Apparently, information like that isn’t shared or bartered. No one actually seemed that interested. And no one asked that first day. Not that first week. Oh, Anakin was told sometimes what other people did, how they came to be here, the length of their sentence. But only by the criminal themselves. There were rumors he heard about others, sometimes. That was all.

It eases some of the fear he feels that first week, that no one calls him as a Jedi, that no one seems to care about his past.

And with that fear taken care of, he has room to realize something else.

He’s pretty—and those in his cellblock have taken to noticing.

It’s nothing much at first. Lingering stares on his face, his lips, during mealtime. Lingering stares during the communal sonics. Out in the rec rooms. In the yards. He has no cellmate, at least, an empty bunk on top of him at night.

Thank the Force for small mercies.

Lingering stares turn into loud whispers that make Anakin want to scream. Perhaps the Force suppression bracelets smother his connection with the Force, but they do little to dim his Force-gifted hearing. It’s indecent. It’s skin crawling, what they say.

It’s also incredibly useful. Surprisingly so.

“Don’t know why I gotta respect some sleemo’s claim,” he hears from across the yards as he bends down to put the weights he’d been using back on their rack. “Man’s not even in the block and the boy’s mouth’s made for it.”

“You don’t have to,” someone else says in response as Anakin forces himself to keep his shoulders relaxed and low. He feels like prey. A piece of meat, ready for the taking. “That’s your grave dug though. It’s not just any sleemo. It’s fucking Sol who’s got his name on him.” 

“Fucking Sol,” the guy repeats with angry passion. “Been here two months and he thinks he owns the place.”

Two months. Where was Anakin two months ago? On Coruscant. At the beginning of his trial. Realizing too late that he’d done something he would not be able to undo. 

“--cut off a guy’s arm with a sharpened piece of plastoid,” the other man is saying when Anakin tunes back in. “Cause he was fucking bored. He can own this shithole all he wants. I’m not getting on the wrong side of him. Even for a round at Skywalker’s ass.”

Anakin beats a hasty retreat from the yards after that, though he can’t help but turn the new information over in his head.

He’d been wondering when the heated stares from the other prisoners would turn into attempts to—touch him. It’d been growing as a fear in the back of his mind. Without the Force, his defenses were shot. He was strong and well-muscled, but some of his fellow prisoners could almost certainly hold him down.

But apparently—they won’t.

Because someone else—some mysterious prisoner, Sol—already has first dibs.

The thought makes Anakin shiver, and it keeps him up for half the night. 

“You’re up rather late,” a voice murmurs through the cell wall a few hours into his restless pacing. The sound jolts Anakin into sudden stillness. “Oh, no, please don’t stop on my account, darling,” the voice says.

Anakin blinks. That’s a Coruscanti accent, though the prison is located in the middle of nowhere on the edge of the mid-rim. “What do you want?” he snaps automatically, arms crossing as he stares at the wall in front of him. On edge. Prey. Powerless.

“To talk,” the man says. “Obviously.”

Anakin’s eyes narrow of their own accord and he steps closer. “No one’s been in that cell before,” he states. “You’re new.”

“Oh, well done, you,” the man replies in a tone Anakin can’t decide is grating or pleasing. “You’re an observant one, aren’t you, Anakin?”

“How did you know my name?”

“Darling, the whole prison knows your name, I’m sure,” the man says with a chuckle that makes Anakin’s skin dimple. Fear? “Though I would hazard to say I know a little bit more than they do.”

“What do you mean.”

“Your past, darling. Your Jedi roots.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Anakin snaps, even as his heart rate picks up. Jedi. He hasn’t heard that word in ages. He never wanted to hear it again. This man knows. This man knows.

Danger. Danger.

“I can hear your pulse from here, Anakin,” the man says, sounding calm. Sounding amused. Anakin blinks at the wall in front of him. Danger. Danger.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says again.

“Hm,” the man says. “You’re afraid, I take it. Of others finding out.”

Anakin pinches his lips together, quiet. Silent.

“No need for that though,” the man says, as if this is a conversation between two friends—not one of Anakin’s worst nightmares brought to life. “You are under my protection.”

The words make Anakin’s stomach drop. “Sol.”

“To some,” the man—Sol—agrees. “I’d rather like it if you called me Obi-Wan though. Obi-Wan Kenobi. For now at least.”

Anakin sneers though the other man can’t see it. His heart races even faster now. Sol—one of the most dangerous men in the prison, if not the most dangerous one. Sol—the man whose name carries enough weight that he was able to claim Anakin as his own—what, bitch? What, plaything?---even from another block of the prison.

Sol, who somehow managed to get transferred between blocks, to the cell right next to Anakin’s own.

Who wants Anakin. 

For what?

“What do you want from me?” Anakin whispers. He clears his throat, tries again, louder this time and more insistent. “What do you want from me?” “I do think that is for me to know, darling, and for you to find out,” Sol—Kenobi—replies, tone light. Amused still. “But we can start with the simplest thing. Tomorrow morning, during our recreational hour in the yard, I would like you to come to me.”

“No kriffing way—”

“So you would like them to know of your past, darling? I’m sure I could forget myself. I’m sure I could…renege my claim rather easily. If you would prefer a more…brutal touch. Touches.”

Anakin’s skin crawls. The meaning and the threat in Kenobi’s words is clear. Either Anakin does as he is told or the other man will take away the protection currently keeping Anakin unmolested. And he’ll tell the others that Anakin was a Jedi. How many would jump at the chance to fuck a Jedi?

It’s not an option. It’s not a future Anakin would survive. He knows this.

But can he really—submit himself to another man, to this man? This dangerous, cruel man?  

“I don’t know anything about you,” he says roughly. “I don’t…”

“You will learn,” Kenobi says, dark promise coloring his words. “I will be beneath the chromometer. Tomorrow in the yard. You will come to me then.”

“Do you wish for me to crawl?” Anakin snarls, anger and powerlessness raging through him. His fist hits the wall between him and his executioner. It changes nothing. 

“Did I ask you to?” Kenobi snaps back, voice sharp as a blade. A moment passes. Another. The man lets out a breath and then says, “I do not want a dog, Anakin.”

“Then what do you want?” Anakin asks again, voice breaking under the weight of it all. He has always hated traps. He has always hated being powerless. Imprisoned.

Kenobi is silent as he appears to mull over the question. “I want an apprentice.”

Anakin has no idea what to say to that, and so he says nothing. Kenobi too is quiet. He remains so for the rest of the night.

In the morning, when Anakin is released from his cell after a sleepless night, he looks automatically to his left, but the door to Kenobi’s cell stays shut with no indication that there’s anyone in there.

He comforts himself with the thought that perhaps he imagined the whole affair up until the moment he is led into the yards during the morning rec hour.

It is immediately and painfully obvious which of the prisoners is Obi-Wan Kenobi. Sol. Even without the instructions that he’d been given, Anakin thinks he would be able to pick out the other man, just from how the others treat him.

Sol stands alone, back against the far side’s prison wall, ankles crossed and a deathstick in his hand. No one gets within several meters of him, giving him a wide berth. Out of respect? Fear? Both?

Anakin swallows.

This is not the man he thought he’d be when he was younger. This is not who he wanted to become.

But somehow he is here. Somehow this is the man he has become. Somehow, after a decade of freedom, he has been found by a new master.

Sol’s eyes flash golden in the weak sunlight as he watches Anakin approach him slowly. He tilts his face to examine him, to look at Anakin examining him in turn. His beard is neat and well-kept, as red as his rather long coppery hair. His smile is crooked when Anakin stops in front of him. He’s shorter than Anakin. It feels like a hollow victory, especially when the man plucks his death stick from his mouth and places it between Anakin’s lips.

“Good boy,” Obi-Wan purrs and Anakin feels a roar of emotions roar up in him at the words. Sickness. Hatred. Anger. 

And strangely, out of place and unexpected, a thrill of excitement.

[neonwizardheehee]

Cherik fic idea in the style of "the professor' husband" aka the students being amazed by Charles and love doing the missions and stuff and he helps them and all. He also talks fondly of his husband whenever they ask if he's single and goes on how amazing his husband is and all of that. They don't know it's Erik. The mansion is too large and Erik doesn't come around the student quarters.

Shenanigans happen when some students spot a strange guy lurking in a second kitchen or seeing Magneto walking out of Charles' bedroom and the students think he's been kidnapped.

[ragnarockz]

“I can’t stay” from the prompt list. HURT ME, PAL.

Tip Jar 💰

ASK AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE! 😤

also me like ohhhhh i know, i know....you want vidaltofuckagneswithherownstrapigetitIGETIT

"I can't stay."

Agnes felt her stomach drop and the instant warmth of embarrassment and fear cover her neck and face. That three word sentence knocked the wind out of her when Agent Vidal mumbled it under her breath in the early morning light that peeped through the blinds and casted stray lights over them in bed. Vidal was still wrapped up in the navy sheets when she spoke and knew in that moment, Agnes was awake beside her.

Vidal knew Agnes had been awake for quite some time and it was only now, that Vidal had gotten the guts to speak what needed to be said.

Agnes tried to shift closer to Vidal under the covers; tried to reach her hand out to touch Vidal's arm. She wanted to pull her in close and hold her tight and maybe someway that simple act would make the agent change her mind. She knew it was futile; knew that Vidal was pretty clear on her decisions. That was something Agnes admired in the other woman, the way she would come to a conclusion and hold it tight and very rarely, if ever, sway from what she believed in. For once, Agnes wished she could stray from her determination.

"Why?"

Barely a whisper and close to a sob; Agnes had to clear her throat to keep herself in check. She wasn't going to crumble now; not so early on. She couldn't show Vidal that she was weak or soft and that, something like this, something so routine was going to break her. That was a death sentence Agnes believed, a sure way to never have Vidal come back to her in such capacity as this.

"Why, Vidal?"

Another passing moment of silence and Agnes heard the sheets rustle beside her as the agent tried to move away once more. She could tell Vidal was on the cusp of possibly changing her tune; maybe even thinking over what it would mean if she did stay with her. How much would she lose? How much could she possibly gain? Would she want this for another day longer with Agnes and, was it worth it? Was she worth it? Agnes held her breath and waited for Vidal's answer to hopefully make itself known.

No words came out of Vidal's mouth but she did turn herself over to face Agnes in the semi-dark room. She could see the pain and worry and defeat etched into the detectives face; lines of worry and loss that must lay there countless times over and over in moments exactly like this. How many other women had she brought to her bed and pleaded the same words? How many other woman had she asked to stay and they, couldn't give Agnes what she wanted?

Could she do that now for her and would she want to? Was this something she thought would be a good idea in the long run? Would Agnes think it would be good for them, to continue on this way? Two people working in different capacities with different lives and histories that started off pretty rocky, pretty tumultuous.

Vidal swore Agnes hated her guts the first day she walked into the police station. Vidal swore even in this second that Agnes still hated her guts; held something over her because she was a little 'higher up' and a little more 'polished'. She held things against Vidal because she didn't come across as hard and rough and filled with obvious pain and grief. Vidal was the light that Agnes shielded her eyes to. Would she want the light in for longer than a night? Longer than a day?

Vidal watched as Agnes' face changed; something stoic and nonchalant. The usual mask she wore at work that deemed her a 'hard-ass' and 'not easy to get along with'. Cold and calculating and maybe a little bit laced with pride, Agnes pushed the sheets away that covered her and exposed her naked self. Vidal eyed her hungrily; soaked in all the lines and curves and swells of the detectives' body like it was the first time she was seeing her naked. It truly felt that way and Vidal, caught the lump in her throat.

It was risky and maybe even a little pathetic but Agnes didn't care in that moment; couldn't let her decision make her second guess herself and how badly she needed to show Vidal that she was meant to stay with her. She hovered over the Agents' body before making her way down in a familiar way she had done just hours ago when the room was darker and the light from the lamp casted a warmer glow. The detective heard Vidal suck in her breath as Agnes made contact with her skin; lips pressed against her as she kissed her way down starting from Vidal's neck.

Vidal could only listen to her body and what it wanted, what it craved. It craved Agnes; again and again. Over and over. It was like a disease; an addiction. She wanted to go and move on but she knew truly she could never; so tangled up in this mystery of this woman she was so determined to crack open. Maybe that was the agent in her or maybe, it was because she saw so many things on the borderline of being so in sync and so similar to herself it made her afraid.

Agnes, she realized as the detective made her way down and nipped at her hip bones, was exactly like her.

"Agnes..."

The detective quickly looked up at the agent and tried to read her face; tried to determine then and there if she was going to stay or not. The slightest head nod and curve of Vidal's lips gave Agnes the answer she had been hoping for. She bowed her head once more and continued until she got just below Vidal's navel; lifting her head back up and pulling her body away.

She wanted Vidal to chase and beg; wanted her to show and tell Agnes that yes, her choice was hers and she needed her and the decision to stay was final. She didn't need to leave and break off whatever it was they had now. Agnes needed it so badly as her gaze burned into Vidal's naked body that had been uncovered by the sheet seconds ago. They were both vulnerable and naked; both baring their souls and hearts out to one another. Agnes suddenly felt lightheaded as she sat back onto her legs and watched Vidal very, very closely.

A predator waiting to strike its prey; she watched closely what its next move would be.

Vidal moved from her spot in Agnes' bed; pulled herself up to her hands and knees and crawled towards Agnes. Her hand reached forward and gripped the base of Agnes' cock that was still set between her legs. She hadn't taken her harness off before falling asleep last night. Had told Vidal that she wanted her to feel her press up against her while they slept.

It was not lost on the agent that this was a part of Agnes she could not sever nor fully remove. This was how she saw herself and Vidal, understood Agnes completely.

A shaky breath pushed from Agnes' lips as she stared down and watched as Vidal stroked her off. Slow and precise her hand moved while Vidal, brought herself closer. Her lips made contact with Agnes' stomach as they kissed under her navel and out to the sides until she met her hip bone. Kisses turned soft bites and she felt Agnes push her hips towards Vidal's hand; a reaction to internal even Vidal didn't question it.

"...tell me what you need..."

Maybe they had both said it at the same time but it was a question that posed between them in both of their minds simultaneously. Agnes wanted to do whatever she could to keep Vidal here and Vidal, wanted to do whatever she could to show to Agnes that she wanted to be there.

They moved in tandem as Agnes' hand ran through Vidal's hair and Vidal, moved her head down to the base of Agnes' cock before her mouth made contact with the head. There was a unity they couldn't break; unspoken in their mutual understanding of one another even if they didn't recognize it right away.

The pang and twitch between Agnes' legs that shot up right through her clit and made her moan as she tugged a little harder on Vidal's hair. The heaviness in Vidal's throat and the saliva that pooled under her tongue made her moan as she took more of Agnes into her mouth. They were playing a game only they understood; something that had existed in them long ago that they couldn't place.

Vidal pulled herself away; unwound the fingers in her hair and released the silicone from inside of her mouth. She gasped loudly as she tried to catch her breath; looking up at Agnes with only what could be described as a look of desperation. Agnes felt that burning pit of desire in her lower abdomen only spark and grow higher, wilder.

Vidal reached forwards again and grabbed the base a second time. Her left hand came to join her right as she carefully removed the toy from its nest inside of the o-ring. She could cut the silence in the room with a knife and could sense the curiosity that burned inside of Agnes only growing with each passing second. She removed the toy fully and left Agnes bare with just the harness around her hips. They locked eyes for only a split second before Agnes gave the quick nod of her head and the outwards jut of her chin before she untucked her legs from underneath herself to lay back down onto her bed.

Agnes had at one point, thought Vidal to be too green to push herself in any which way that wasn't by the books. She had debated if she could even tap into the sort of things that filtered through Agnes' head; things she hadn't even dared to speak out loud. Such things, she had never said to anyone; no partners or hook-ups before. Thoughts and feelings and emotions that lived in the deepest, darkest parts of her mind that she barely touched.

Vidal got behind her and pressed herself up close; tangled her legs with Agnes' as she dropped her left hand over the woman's side so that she could reach up and cup her breast as she teased the toy between Agnes' legs at the same time. She held the base still as she used the head to trace around Agnes' labia and upwards to her clit. Sharp sucks of breath that sounded icy caught in Agnes' throat and Vidal, brought her face into the crook of Agnes' neck. Agnes pushed backwards while Vidal kissed and licked and sucked at Agnes' tender skin. The second Vidal bit down onto Agnes' earlobe was when she felt the different sensation of weight on the other end of the toy and realized, Agnes had grabbed the front of it and was guiding it into herself.

She was impatient; that was a fact that Vidal had learned very early on with working with the detective. Agnes wasn't one to sit on her hands and hope something would come along. Always the first to pounce, to move. She had to take a crack at things before anyone else even realized they could. She guided her own cock inside of herself and pressed back into Vidal; pressed hard until she could feel just how wet Vidal was as well on the back of her legs and against her ass. Vidal moaned into her ear as she kept her hand holding the base of the toy as well; didn't want to let go just because Agnes took the other half of the control they both so eagerly fought for.

"...that'sitAgnes...keepgoing...keepfuckingyourself...keepgoing..."

Up against her ear with the wetness of Vidal's breath against her, Agnes pressed herself back once more and tried her hardest to feel every inch of Vidal's hot and sweaty skin pressed to her own. It was a necessity of needing to absorb Vidal; become meshed so perfectly together she could feel the agent inside and out of herself. The silicone cock with their hands both holding the shaft and pumping it was merely an extension of what Agnes felt inside and the desire to have Vidal stay.

It was no longer just an extension of herself, Agnes came to realize as she tightened up her muscles around herself. She could feel the pressure building until it was close to spilling over the edge; her toes and fingers curling as they tried to hold onto something while her head pushed harder into Vidal's shoulder she was sure her bones would crack under the pressure. The phantom limb that made itself known and familiar to her was not hers any longer but theirs. This extension, transcended her own body in such a way that when Vidal used it, it had become hers, too.

Vidal's movements got harder and rougher; faster which caused Agnes' hand to go limp and fall off. She basically rolled over and Vidal followed until she was on top of her now with her hand reaching around Agnes waist to keep up the movements as she fucked her down into her mattress. Face pushed down and fingers gripping at the navy sheets, Agnes felt her eyes close and her mind clear and the sudden realization washed over her as her orgasm did that Vidal, was not going anywhere she wouldn't be.

[sweethoneyrose83]

Liminal Space Father - Home Dialogue Prompts

“You came back… but I thought you said you'd never cross that hallway again.”

“This house remembers you, even if you don't remember it.”

“I keep setting the table for three. But it’s only ever been the two of us. Hasn’t it?”

“Don’t open that door. Some rooms are meant to stay forgotten.”

“I built this home for you, brick by brick. Even the silence was handcrafted.”

“She left us here. But I stayed. I always stay.”

“The wallpaper peels differently when you're upset. Did you notice?”

“You were born in that room. Or maybe you died there. Hard to tell anymore.”

“The hallway’s longer at night. It stretches with your guilt.”

“I never left. I’ve just been waiting where time doesn’t pass.”

“This used to be your room. Don’t you remember? You left the light on when you vanished.”

“I built this hallway for you. It only leads back to where you started.”

“Dinner’s ready. We’ve all been waiting, even the ones who don’t eat anymore.”

“The house grows when you’re not looking. I keep boarding up the doors, but it still remembers you.”

“Why do you keep calling this a dream? You were born in this house. You died in this house.”

“That door? You should know better. We don’t open that one after midnight.”

“Your footsteps echo wrong. Did you bring something back with you?”

“I repainted the living room. The old color kept bleeding through.”

“Mother left years ago. Or maybe she never did. Sometimes I hear her humming upstairs.”

“You were gone a long time. I had to make another version of you. This one doesn’t wander.”

“The static on the television says you're not real. But I told it you are. You are, right?”

“This photo… You’re in it, but you weren’t born yet. Why do you look afraid?”

“The basement doesn’t like it when you lie. Be honest—did you go down there?”

“The wallpaper peels in your absence. It’s how the house grieves.”

“You’re not supposed to be here yet. The house isn’t ready to remember.”

“I locked all the clocks in the attic. They were counting backward again.”

“I called you for dinner, but only echoes came down the stairs. Then you walked in.”

“Don’t mind the others. They’re just versions of you that stayed.”

“You can leave when the lights go out, not before. That’s the rule.”

“I’ll walk you home. Oh… this is home, isn’t it?”

[meimeiherokitten]

Because I'm trying something different for a prompt on my bingo card...

You know, everyone talks about Izzy's loyalty...mostly because it's like 3/4 his personality (the other 4th being bitch), but no one ever discusses Ed's loyalty. Because he's at least passively loyal to Izzy (in unhealthy, destructive, possibly manipulated ways), otherwise ed could have totally chucked him overboard in favor of Stede and made things tons easier.

Of course that loyalty goes utterly tits up once Stede leaves and Ed goes off the cuckoo cliff.

[phantomrune]

[ REDWOOD ] for merrill hehe

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐀 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐒/accepting!

>sender lashes out at receiver when it isn't their fault.

For once, for once...she had wanted a moment to grieve. It was selfish, she knew, to want to have a small moment to herself. To weep over the loss of the Keeper, the final severance from her clan. Everything she'd striven for all these years, gone within an instant. Because she could never consider the possibility that someone might take her place in all this. No one should have, if everyone would have just listened...

And there she'd been, her frame wracked with sobs as the other promptly crossed her threshold, and staunched her bleeding heart. She knew it would only be to put it in a vice grip...what he had to say was honest, but it was not kind, and it only twisted the knife in her side.

I told you. I told you. I told you. Every one, another dagger.

...but her shaking ceased, and her grip loosened on her arms, and she did her best to stop the sniffling, even if she couldn't help it much. And she stood from her table, wiping her eyes as they fell once more to the Eluvian...the very thing that started this all...

"...I thought...I really believed I was doing the right thing. I hope you understand that much..." Her voice was broken from weeping, scratchy and pathetic and a mess. "...But I was stupid, and ignorant and blind...the last thing I wanted was for anyone else to get hurt, but all this brings is pain."

She leaned over then, to take up her staff, running her fingers along its wooden curves. So many knicks it had taken over the years; each one another memory she could never get back...what was one more, etched into its frame?

"...and I don't want pain anymore...not like this." She lifted her staff, and a cry escaped her as she swung it down against her beloved Eluvian. She felt another sob wrack her body as she leaned against her weapon, her legs shaking as her eyes trailed across her floor, scattered bits and pieces decorating the floorboards. It would never be restored again...

But maybe it was never meant to, if it meant fragmenting what was to come.

[lucky-clover-gazette]

marcela alvarez from 3% is one of the characters ever. she does yoga. she's a war criminal. she serves cunt. her son is a disappointment. her dad is disappointed in her. she was a painter. she commands an army. she murders a guy to get a promotion. she likes vr gaming. she hates sand. she steals an infant. she bribes a 20 year old into committing arson. she disrespects any authority that isn't herself. she wears eyeliner. AND SHE'S A MILF.

[mybellabellabella]

“I Would.”

I would. I would follow you blindly. I love you enough, too much even, that if I thought you were intentionally leading me deeper into the maze, I’d scold myself for thinking so badly of you, and tell myself that the only way to escape was to go through.

You wouldn’t have to lead me anywhere, though. We walk, side by side.

All you’d have to do is tell me that everything is going to be okay, and as I always have, I’d believe you. Even if it was a lie. I’d still believe you.

Because that’s just what a lovesick person like me would do.

[luxurysystems]

Irwin,

I’m probably the last person you want to hear from. You’re also probably wondering how I got your email address—blame Ken. I know how you are so I’ll get straight to the point. I’ve come across a lucrative deal that I just can’t ignore, and I need you. I need you for one last job.

Even though we’ve ignored each other for— God knows how long— I just had to reach out because you’re the only one I trust. Should you choose to accept this job, I’ll split everything down the middle and I swear this’ll be the last time that you’ll have to protect me.

-Ted

P.s. If all goes well, I’d love nothing more than to catch up. I’ve missed you. There is so much that I need to tell you.

<-previous

[musewrangler]

The Admiral's past as a pirate hunter comes back to kidnap him and leave him to die in a most unpleasant way. Can his people get to him?

[heirtoharrenhal]

@withguilt : I don’t want an arranged marriage. / ines ( answered prompts )

𝐈𝐍   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖   𝐎𝐅   𝐈𝐓,  𝐇𝐄    𝐇𝐀𝐃   𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐃    𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 for tears, for the trembling fury of protest, or perhaps the cold stone wall of silence that left more unsaid than spoken. He had readied his armor for the familiar, for emotions wielded like blades or cloaked in retreat, but what met him instead was honesty, a silent arrow loosed from a bow he hadn’t seen drawn. And in that moment, stripped of pretense, he remembered: truth, when spoken plainly, could unravel the heart more swiftly than a seam split by a master’s hand. Harwin wondered, absently, how many times the gods had been audience to such declarations; vows flung like stones at fate, brimming with fire and desperation. Likely too many to count. But how often had those words been spoken by someone who meant them? ( Truly. )

Rarely, he imagined. And rarer still from a woman who looked as if she would raze the heavens and salt the earth before allowing the world to claim her as anything less than its sovereign . . . let alone its bride. He plucked a leaf from a low branch as he passed and crushed it between thumb and forefinger. The scent bled out; green and sharp and fleeting. ( Like youth. ) Like honesty. Like women who said things they weren’t supposed to say. “ Isn’t that the way of it, “ he murmured, his voice low and worn at the edges. “ They press you into a mold, then call you ungrateful when you shatter. “ 

The old gods, if they listened at all, gave no answer, and Harwin turned then, at last, his gaze a sudden spark, like flint to stone, burning only for a spell.