#and that this is pretty much the same thing i wrote a few prompts ago

[forgeofthenine]

The bachelors are bachelors no longer! How would they grow old with you? Secondarily, how would they respond to being grandparents?

Ironically I wrote this while staying at my Nans house. I'll be here for the holidays so the next few posts will also be written here, I just thought this was particularly thematic. Halsin was also a perfect fit for this prompt too, so I hope you don't mind me adding him in :)

How would the bachelors (+Halsin) grow old with you and respond to your growing family

Dammon

This blacksmith was sure he'd live the bachelor life for the rest of his days

Who'd want to marry a man so obsessed with his forge that he's basically personified it?

Apparently, he's found the one person out there that can appreciate all his quirks

As the two of you grow older I actually see him stepping back from his forge more

He's already taught your children how to handle the family blacksmithing business, giving over the running of it to your eldest daughter and son-in-law with one of your younger sons happily working there too

As much as it saddens him the aches and creaks in his joints make the work too hard on his aging body, and his hands aren't steady enough for the delicate detail work he used to do

You can't keep him out of the forge completely though, and he still visits regularly and helps with drawing the designs of new projects and commissions

When he isn't hovering over your children's work, he's with you and the grandkids

Dammon settled into a domestic life surprisingly well, and he's a very doting grandfather

He's the type to insist you buy extra treats because he knows a specific grandchild likes it and will be coming over to visit

He always volunteers you two for babysitting as well, the spare rooms in your house that were once your children's now belong to their kids

It's a life Dammon is content with, a large family surrounding him and you by his side, he really couldn't ask for more when he never expected to get this much

Zevlor

Zevlor is built to be a granddad, I'm saying it now

He loves you, his kids, and his grandkids more than anything

As an even older gentleman he's actually still very active

The type of old man to insist on going on long strolls after meals, and he quite happily runs your little hobby farm with the help of your kids

You have a smaller, close knit family

With children living just down the road, while your kids work or take care of the home you and Zevlor happily take the grandkids for entire days

He shows them the same things he showed his kids, things like how to tie shoelaces, to ride a horse, and to wield a sword

You'll see them all trudging back in for lunch, covered with dirt and grinning as they try and hide from you

Even in his older age he's very patient, happily listening to his grandbabies babbling as he feeds them

Speaking of food, Zevlor would want his main meal of the day to be at midday

Once he gets older he doesn't like the feeling of sleeping so soon after a big meal

He does start to take naps, however, and sometimes you'll see him passed out on a comfy chair with a grandchild sleeping on top of him

If no grandchildren are around he'll likely drag you into napping with him too, there's something special about napping with someone else

Zevlor lives a very charming life at the end of the day, and he couldn't be happier about it

Rolan

Rolan is the grumpiest old coot on the block

Absolutely the type to yell at kids to get off his lawn, if he actually had a lawn

Alas, he only has a tower and instead he teaches your only child the art of mastering the weave

As he grows older he somehow seems to grow grumpier and even more introverted

Without you there to drag him out of Ramaziths Tower people likely would've assumed him dead years ago

The only people that see his softer side are you, your child, and your grandchildren

And your grandchildren love coming to the tower, wanting to look at all the pretty things and see their granddad do magic

You know the magic shows that Rolan did for his siblings? He does them for his child and grandchildren too

Speaking of Cal and Lia, he's a doting uncle for their kids and grandkids

It ends up with all three of your families meeting up at the tower for all gatherings and holidays, despite Rolans prickly attitude

It's absolute chaos, and the wizard secretly loves watching everyone joking and having a good time

On a random note, he absolutely teaches your grandkids how to read and do arithmetic at a young age

He insists on reading them bedtime stories whenever possible too, and they love it because he does the voices

Rolan is the one that thought he'd be least likely to be a family man, but it turns out he fits that role quite well

Halsin

You and Halsin run an entire orphanage together, you end up with absolutely loads of kids

Only a handful are your biological kids and you also end up with a full-grown owl bear, but you love them all the same

Halsin is very long lived, even for an elf, and if you're equally long lived then you'll end up keeping the orphage going for literal hundreds of years

Over that time the two of you might see three or four generations of humans grow up, your former charges often coming back to visit with their own children and grandchildren

You end up being a pair of old, happy parents with an impossibly large family

Halsin revels in it, finding a true passion in raising kids into happy and functional adults

It's apparent in the way he grows into the role, happily spending decades retelling the same favourite bedtime stories about him and his companions saving the sword coast

He continues to dote on you too, no matter how old you both get

The elf always reminds you how beautiful you are and how much he loves you

Halsin adores his grandkids too, often having them come for sleepovers or to play with all the other kids

He loves nothing more than seeing everyone safe and content, an owl bear happily trodding along after him

You'll find he insists on running the orphanage for as long as possible too, almost on deaths door by time he finally passes it on to his children to take over

Halsin is a very passionate man, and his giant family is one of his greatest passions

[sillyrabbit81]

Cold

Prompt: Slow & Romantic, Cock Warming from @florxdexcerezo (x) Thank you so much for sending the prompt in. Sorry its taken so long.

Pairing: August Walker x Female Reader

Word Count: Approx. 600

Warnings: Smut, cock warming, p in v sex

Authors Note: I wrote this a few weeks ago, but wasn't feeling up to posting it. I'm still on semi-hiatus, going to be a couple of months more at least, but here is a thingy I did. Hope you like it. Thanks to @nashibirne for reading.

Edited by me, there will be errors

Dividers by me.

Masterlist

Celebration Masterlist

Your eyes fly open. A heady rush of adrenaline pumps through your veins as your hand slips under the pillow on the empty side of the bed and curls around cold steel. You keep your breath slow and even as if you're still asleep and listen carefully.

But you’re too late.

A firm hand covers yours and a heavy, hard body traps you beneath it.

“Don’t scream,” he says, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

You loosen your grip on the pistol and allow the hand to take it away. In the dark, you hear the thunk of the gun being placed on the nightstand.

“You could knock,” you point out.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“And yet, here we are.”

The weight on top of you shifts and you think you can just make out a small smile on his moustached face. You reach for the lamp, but he stops you.

“Leave it off,” he says.

“August, please,” you whisper. Your hands cover his whiskered cheeks briefly before he shakes you off.

“Leave it.”

He stands. You vaguely see his outline as he removes his clothes. He’s moving stiffly, slowly and breathing in soft grunts and rough exhales.

“How badly are you hurt?” you ask.

“Nothing so bad that a good night's sleep won’t heal,” he says, dismissively. Sometimes it scares you how easily and smoothly he lies to you.

“Then why are you here?” you ask with a rueful laugh. “The last thing you ever do here is sleep.”

You see his shape pause. You stare at where you assume his eyes would be, he needs to know you aren’t stupid; that you know this thing between you won’t result in a ring on your finger or a pretty white dress.

The longer he stands there unmoving, the harder it is to keep looking into the darkness. What is he thinking? You open your mouth to ask, but close it with a small shake of your head. It's not like he’d be honest anyway.

He starts to undress again. You lay back in bed. Does it really matter if he’s here to fuck you or sleep next to you? You’ll give him what he wants, you always do. You can’t help yourself.

He slips into bed, curling himself around your naked form. His hands begin a long exploration along your hip to your ribs and back again while his face is buried into your neck. You can hear him draw rough, ragged breaths, his mouth is so close to your ear, his lips graze along its edge.

Driven by a primal instinct, you arch your back, lean against him and open your legs in an invitation that needs no explanation. He doesn’t hesitate and quickly you feel the smooth, warm head of his cock sliding over your folds, gathering your wetness before sinking deep inside.

By the same instinct, you begin to roll your hips, relishing the feel of his length as your pussy glides over him. But his hand clasps your hip and holds you still, your ass and back pressed firmly against his chest.

“When I’m gone, I dream of this,” August whispers, “of being inside you.”

“Then please move.”

“No,” he growls, “I need to be inside you. All night.”

You moan and he throbs deep within you. His nose presses into your hair, his arms wrap around your chest, holding you tighter and tighter until you think he’ll crush you. 

“You’re so warm,” he whispers as he softens his hold on you. “I need you to keep me warm. I’m so fucking cold without you.”

[dreamersparacosm]

austin butler - clumsy

warnings ; none

prompt ; in which your celebrity crush causes you to become a flustered, blubbering mess.

a/n ; a little something fun i wrote during the fall but never published! it’s basically anxious!reader and honestly how I imagine myself reacting to meeting aus so enjoy xoxo

Okay, don’t panic.

Do not panic.

It’s just a man. A man with blonde, curly locks, blue eyes, over 6 feet tall… but still, a man. Nothing special. You could probably find ten of him walking down Rodeo Drive.

Except that’s probably not true either.

It is Austin Butler, after all.

You hike the tail of your dress higher as you descend up the stairs to the red carpet, inhaling as much oxygen as possible to tame your nerves. It does nothing for you beside provide a placebo effect of calmness. Your publicist, Jane, stands next to you with her eyebrows furrowed in permanent worry, a crinkle she’s had since the day she took you on. “[Y/N], did you get a chance to look at your seating arrangement?”

“Uh, no, not yet,” You respond slowly, wincing slightly as you brace yourself for her reaction. She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose before turning towards you.

“You know what, that’s fine, sweets. Just go stand on the carpet so we can take these pictures,” She goes back to her clipboard full of tedious things like timing and interviewers and stupid seating arrangements, and you’re trying to stay focused, but how can you do that when Austin Butler is standing 8 feet away from you, posing on the red carpet?

You’re pretty sure you’re drooling.

Whoever keeps leaving his shirts unbuttoned is a menace to society and needs to be locked away for endangerment to the general public.

This whole idiotic schoolgirl crush began relatively long ago, when he was still deeply in love with Vanessa Hudgens and playing a teen heartthrob on The Carrie Diaries. You weren’t even famous at that point, just a mediocre commercial actress trying to get her big break. Once you finally booked your first big role, the crush faded away (only the tiniest amount) but that all came crashing down like an avalanche when you saw Elvis with your best friend.

They probably could’ve posted the entire movie on a porn website and made the same amount of money. And, thus, your crush ensued, full throttle and invading your every thought at the worst moments. Including this one.

Jane kicks the back of your leg, cursing under her breath as you tear your eyes away from him. You’re not new to this scene, you’ve been in major leading roles and you’ve been nominated for Oscars. But that doesn’t take away from the fact that at your core, you are a complete and utter mess. A klutz. A loser with some money in the bank.

So, you take the pictures, with not too many mistakes as you expected, just a few shots of you blinking while smiling. You’re sure they’ll end up on Twitter where your fans will laugh about it while saying how much they love you.

This part always goes by fast. It’s camera flashes, smiles that are strained under the bright lights, talks with interviewers that always go far longer than expected, and then before you know it, you’re being ushered into a tight room with celebrities you had only dreamed of seeing in real life. Jane is glued to your side as you wait for your turn to enter the theater.

Despite the cool temperature of Los Angeles, you’re somehow drenched in sweat. You’ve done this before, you know that. But that doesn’t stop your entire body from going into fight or flight mode, teetering towards flight.

“What’s the hold up?” You hear a female’s voice yell out, and you almost think it’s Jane before you hear her chuckle beside you.

“Speak that truth. I am so sick of these fucking Oscars dimwits wasting my time,” Jane says loudly enough for the girl to hear it, and before you know it, they’re enthralled in a full-blown conversation. If you weren’t trying to fan your armpit sweat, you might’ve joined.

Maybe it’s a good idea to find out where you’re sitting. Probably will need to know that before you enter. You can only assume they’ll sit you next to your last co-star, Timothee Chalamet. What a delight that would be (and that’s not sarcasm, he always smells like cashmere and some type of forest.)

You turn your body slightly, eyeing Jane and the girl she’s talking to. She’s a redhead, also wearing a suit and clearly another publicist that has been in the position for far too long to enjoy it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a male figure standing next to the redhead. Hm. A black suit. Your eyes trail over his body, a soft black lace shirt that is half-unbuttoned peeking over the hem. How nice. You love that look on men.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuck.

Your body freezes. Mouth runs dry. Sweat shrivels back up into your body only to start forming at impossible speeds. Heart palpates so quickly you think you might be going into cardiac arrest.

In front of you, is Austin Butler. And he completely, totally, entirely, caught you checking out his entire body, head to toe.

There’s a smirk on his face that is undeniably directed towards you, eyes glimmering with amusement. You can’t even believe that you’re looking directly at him. He can’t be real, he has to be a figment of your imagination.

“Come here often?”

You did not just speak.

No, you didn’t. That couldn’t have been real. That couldn’t have been what you just said. After years of dreaming about this moment, that can’t have been what your brain and tongue agreed on.

He chuckles, a deep one that rumbles through his chest, and says, “I try not to make it a habit. You?”

You entangle your fingers with each other, hoping the sweat that has gathered on them just slides right off. “Me either. Trying to cut down on my presence and all that.”

He raises his eyebrows quizzically, that soft smile that curves upon his lips widening a little, “Well, can’t say the Oscars is the best place to do that.”

“Yes, well…” You trail off. Thoughts empty. Brain just a shallow void with nothing but dirty, filthy fantasies about him floating around. Oh god, get a grip.

And he should end the conversation right there, then back around and not acknowledge the weird girl who clearly hasn’t had enough media training. But, he doesn’t. Instead, he sticks out his hand for you to shake, and says, “I’m Austin. Austin Butler.”

“I know,” You say almost immediately. His facial expression contorts into something unreadable, and your lips flap again to try and salvage the rest of your dignity. “I’m [Y/N].”

You shake his hand, praying to some otherworldly creature above that he won’t feel the sweat on your hands. It’s a little weird, when you touch his hand. Feels like you’re envisioning yourself with him, like you’re some kind of wizard that can tell it won’t be the last time you see him. It feels a little like something out of a rom-com, with the electricity zap and the sounds of your hearts beating erratically.

You both pull your hands away, smiling to the ground. You really, really, really hope he’ll keep talking to you.

“Nervous?” He asks, taking note of the way your thumbs twiddle and the sidestep you keep doing with your heels.

“A little. Kinda. Maybe,” You let out a sigh of relief. “I’m not really the most organized.”

“Hm. Well, I’m sure you’ll be great,” His grin widens just enough to show off his pearly white teeth that glimmer under the remaining sunlight that California has to offer.

“Thanks,” You smile back. “How about you? Nervous?”

“Always,” He responds, almost taken aback by the transparency he’s having with another celebrity. He’s never had a conversation about nerves, never felt validated enough by someone to open up about the fear that comes along with being at this level of fame. “It’s my first Oscars.”

“Right,” You say, “Well, I’ve been to a few, and honestly, I’ll let you in on a secret. Even Leonardo DiCaprio shits himself a little when the nominees are announced.”

He lets out a laugh, a real one, one that sounds like all good things in the world and you would be more than happy to capture it in a jar and keep it on your bedside forever. “Somehow, I don’t doubt that,” He switches gears, shifting his body around a little. “What afterparty are you going to?”

It’s a simple question, one you’ve been asked numerous times by other people in the industry. It usually offers a sense of dominance over who got the better invite. “Er, yes, that would be a question for my lovely publicist, Jane, because I don’t have a rat’s ass idea of where I’m supposed to go.”

He laughs. Again. Part of you is enthralled, part of you is confused as to why he thinks you’re a comedy show. Maybe he thinks you’re a joke. Yes, that makes good sense. “That honestly makes me feel better because I don’t really know where I’m going either,” He admits.

“Are you kidding?” You ask incredulously. “You look like that and you don’t know where you’re going? I think the President of the Academy Awards has a personal invite waiting for you.”

Okay, maybe you shouldn’t have said that. But really, it has to be blamed on the fact that there are a swarm of murderous bees flying around in your stomach that are making you feel woozy.

His cheeks turn a crimson glow, “Like that?”

“Oh, you know…” You trail, slowly laughing to brush off the fact that you basically just admitted your undying love to him. “Just…. That’s a great black shirt. I’m gonna buy one for my brother.”

His lips curve upwards a little more, blue eyes sparkling like little oceans. “Thanks. And, you know, you don’t look bad yourself.”

You blink twice. Did he just say that?

Before you even whip up a flirty comment, or even a funny one that’ll have him doubling over in laughter and proposing to you by tonight, you feel Jane gripping your forearm tightly. “Stop dicking around, [Y/N]. We need to go in.”

“Right, yes, totally,” You smile awkwardly over to Austin, and he returns it. You feel soft and warm and glowy inside, like you might levitate off the floor.

And then you really are levitating off the floor, because your feet miss the step and you’re falling before you even have a chance to stop yourself. Your arm extends to try and delay your inevitable fall, but it doesn’t work and you’re really sprawled out. Immediately, Jane rushes down to try and drag you up, hurriedly asking if you’re okay.

You nod slightly, balancing yourself on your knees. Thankfully, you think the vast majority of people have entered the theater and missed out on your embarrassment of epic proportions.

Well, maybe not everyone.

Suddenly, like a light peeking from beyond the clouds, you see an outstretched hand to your right. It’s tan, a male’s hand for sure. You look up to see who could possibly be nice enough to help you up. Maybe it’s God telling you it’s time to pass away.

It’s Austin. And he has a really worried look on his face that you’re shocked by, but his expression falters once he sees the look on your face. You’re smiling, a real big goofy one, because it’s so ridiculous and he’s so ridiculous and you’re pretty sure one of your heels is broken.

You place your hand in his, and his other hand wraps around your waist to help you up and steady yourself against him. Once you’re finally standing, he grins, leaning into your ear, “Remember, even Leonardo DiCaprio shits himself at the table.”

You don’t even realize his arm is still wrapped around your waist until you notice the absence of it. You giggle lightly, biting your lip. “Of course. And I think I saw Brad Pitt throw up in the bathroom last year.”

“Austin, we gotta go,” His publicist grabs his hand, and you feel a pang of disappointment. You almost think he does too, his blue eyes turning grayish as he looks back at her.

“Right,” He clears his throat. “Well, good luck tonight, [Y/N]. I hope you win.”

“You too,” The smile on your face is probably permanently tattooed on. You feel Jane’s hand on your back, slowly moving you away from him although your feet beg to stay.

“Oh, and [Y/N]?” You turn back around to face him, “Big fan of your work.”

With that, he turns away with his publicist to go and find his seat amongst the crowd. You watch him disappear, an indescribable feeling washing over your entire body. You’re also being whisked away to your table, greeted by familiar faces and friends. But it’s pretty clear that’s not the reason why you’re smiling.

Some part of your brain decides on one thing: this won’t be the last time you see him.

▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

You decide that you like California. Not a whole lot, but enough to make you sign a contract for a new film. Normally, you believe that Los Angeles and all its surrounding cities are a dreadful structure that encapsulates all the worst features of privileged Southern California lifestyle. But the food is undeniably tasty, and your new apartment is decorated with high ceilings and well-lit rooms, so you’ll make do. You’ll be filming in sunny Calabasas, where the houses are painted a perfect shade of white, where time stills a little and every cloud is just the right amount of fluffy.

The Oscar’s had came and went, and you won, to no one’s surprise but your own. With that accomplishment came offers. People really, truly wanted to work with you, and although it baffled you, Jane was having the time of her life coordinating auditions and interviews.

Everything was truly perfect.

You flip through the pages of your fresh script, your manicured nails turning through the warm pages, the black ink bleeding onto the sheets. Jane sits across from you, feverishly scribbling something, negotiating your pay for your new film. She’ll deliver. In the end, she always does.

She hangs up her call, sighing from relief. You’re about to ask her how it went, if you got the price you wanted, before her phone blares again with that god awful ringtone she refuses to change. She answers it, a cheerful tone in her voice, “Kate? So good to hear from you! What’s going on?”

You tune out of her conversation, focusing your eyes back on the mass of paper in front of you. A new story to be told. A new character to embody. A new chapter of your life. It’s all very emotional and sappy and you almost want to cry tears of happiness, but you’ll save that for later, once you get home and crack open a bottle of wine.

You hear Jane place her phone down, and your eyes flicker back up to her. There’s an expression on her face that’s unreadable, and you’re unsure of how to process it. Oh, no. If you didn’t get the price you wanted, that would suck. Or, maybe you did and she’s just unsure on how to process emotion. You always thought she was a robot.

“I just had the weirdest phone call,” She finally speaks, scratching her forehead quizzically.

“What’s up?” You ask mindlessly, certain she’s going to tell you something personal like her cousin getting married to a farmer.

“That was Austin Butler’s publicist. She said he’s been asking about you since the Oscars.”

There’s no fucking way. She’s pranking you. Any second now, Ashton Kutcher is going to pop out behind the doorframe and say “You’ve been Punk’d!” and then maybe he’ll also bring out Austin to further your embarrassment.

“Excuse me?” You blink.

“Yeah,” She seems just as baffled as you are. “She said he’s been trying to find a way to get in contact with you, but turns out, you guys don’t have a lot of mutual friends.”

Well, that makes sense.

She continues on, “Anyway, she gave me his number and then said he wants to ask you on a date. So, do with that what you will.”

She unlocks her phone, slides it across the table to you, and you see a phone number typed into her notes. Your hand trembles as you pick up the iPhone, copying the number into your own contacts. You feel woozy, just like you did on that red carpet, just like you did the moment you locked eyes with him.

“Right, well,” You clear your throat. “I’ll just step outside and call him real quick.”

She nods, raising one eyebrow. There’s a small grin that appears on her lips, a knowing one, and you slide out the door into the hallway.

You don’t know what comes over you, or what demon compels you, but you click the number. You hear the ring. There’s a pause. Your heart drops as you think that he might not answer.

And then you hear him. His voice.

“Hello?”

“Uh, h-hi. Hi. This is, um, [Y/N]. Your publicist gave me your number.”

It almost sounds ridiculous.

“[Y/N]. You know, I’ve been trying to get ahold of you but turns out you’re not an easy person to reach,” You can hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, you know me and my presence. All time low,” You say sarcastically, and he chuckles.

“Right. Well, congratulations on your win. Very well-deserved,” His voice is deeper than you remember. There’s a slight desire that pools between your legs for a moment before you snap yourself back into reality.

“You too. Some would call it the performance of the year,” And you can’t even believe it’s happening. You’re really flirting with him.

“Thank you,” He says so softly, so charming. He’s always grateful and humble, and it makes you even more attracted to him. If that’s even possible at this point. “So, do you think there’s a chance you would allow me to take you out to dinner? Somewhere lowkey, you know, for your presence and all?”

The question is so unbelievable that you can’t even take it in. You make a few sounds, splutter over your words and trip over them like you did your own two feet at the Oscars. Your heartbeat travels up to your eardrum, pounding with every ounce of blood that travels through you. “U-uh, umm… well, you know, let me go ahead and check my schedule.” There’s a pause. You cover the reciever and scream a silent yell into the void, jumping a few feet high.

Clearing your throat, you say, “Hm. Seems like I’m free tomorrow.”

“You can’t do tonight?”

The question takes you aback. Surely, he can’t be asking that because he wants to see you. “Oh, why? Are you leaving California tomorrow?”

“Not at all,” You hear him shuffle. “I just really want to take you out.”

“Right, yes, of course.” You let his question hang in the air. You know your answer, but you like letting him think there’s a possibility you might reject him.

“I am free tonight.”

“Great,” His voice is upbeat, a newfound excitement peeking through. “Well, text me your address. I’ll send a car to pick you up.”

“Yup, totally. Super duper cool. Looking really forward to it,” You babble on, pacing the hallway you’ve trapped yourself in.

He lets out a low laugh, “Me too. I’ll see you tonight. Bye, [Y/N].”

You say your goodbyes, leaning against the wall for stability before you collapse into a puddle. Later, a janitor might come to find your lifeless body glued to the wall. Cause of death? Man built like a Greek god asks woman on date.

But, everything is fine. You’ll somehow make it.

There’s a ridiculous feeling in your heart, a warmth that spreads to your toes and fingers. Now, everything is perfect.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

[tennessoui]

hi kit i swear to god someone sent in 35 from the prompt list for 'one of them is trying to get the other off of drugs' but someone must have deleted the ask from your ask box.

oh no! who could have done such a thing. after i already wrote 3k for this prompt and everything!

(but in seriousness i KNOW someone sent me that prompt i just can't find it rn!!! but i enjoyed writing this so much it really literally could be the first chapter of a multi-chapter fic......we'll see)

(also this is what i wrote for the same prompt from a few years ago)

35. one of them is trying to get the other off of drugs

(3k) (warning: non con drugging/attempted date rape drugs used -not by main characters)

Obi-Wan’s got a heavy mind most days. Heavy heart too, but it’s been a while since he checked in with that part of himself. Mind’s easier.

Right now, he’s mostly annoyed at the cantina crowd, but that’s a most days thing too. After all, the cantina’s in the middle of the spaceport, best watering hole around. Only watering hole around, really, and it gets him all sorts of people walking through his doors.

Some days, he really wishes Linell’s hadn’t closed, mostly so he could send the roughest looking folk that way instead. He doesn’t care much if smugglers decide to get wasted at a bar before hopping in the cockpit of their ships, but he doesn’t necessarily want it to happen at his cantina.

Mostly because when smugglers get drunk, they get rowdy. They get dangerous. They get handsy.

And Obi-Wan’s not under any sort of illusion here, he knows what sort of cantina he runs, knows the crowd it attracts, knows no one’s ever gonna bring their youngling past the doors—knows that no Jedi is ever going to stop in for a drink. 

But that doesn’t mean he’s going to allow for that sort of ruckus. The Temple raised him better than that, for whatever that’s worth. They instilled a pretty solid understanding of morality in him at a young age; then the AgriCorps gave him an appreciation of organization and tidiness that even after two decades away from it all, he hasn’t managed to shake.

It makes for bad business anyway, to allow the rougher-looking crowd to linger in the back corner, swat at the passing serving girl, call out harassments to other customers. And perhaps this wasn’t the life Obi-Wan thought he’d have, but it’s the life he does have. And he’s in no mood for his cantina to go under as well because of morons like Chak Tuuel getting too drunk and causing a scene.

It was easier four years ago, Obi-Wan has to admit. It was easier to keep a tight hold on his cantina when he could openly use the Force to pull patrons off of each other, push one back to his chair and spirit the other to the far side of the room. It was easier when all it took to convince a pirate that he’d be better switching to water was a well-placed Force command.

But the rise of the Empire saw the criminalization of Force users, even ones who can’t be called Jedi, like Obi-Wan.

It’s been bad for business, the Empire has. That’s the only thing Obi-Wan cares about, the only reason he has to hold such hatred in his heart for the emperor. It has nothing to do with the massacre of the Jedi, the fall of the Temple. It’s because it’s bad for business. That’s all.

Now he has to be ten times more discerning about who he lets into his cantina because he has to actually reason with them now. On more than one occasion in the past four years, since the Fall of the Temple, he’s chopped off a patron’s hand. Arm. Whatever. 

That’s also bad for business in general, though it’s not as if he can actually get into much trouble for it, considering he owns this cantina. And it’s the Outer Rim. Anything goes.

His eyes survey the cantina as his hands busy themselves making a drink for a rather quiet patron at the bar. Most likely a businessman of some sort, given how often Obi-Wan’s seen him come in and out.

It’s rather late in the night, as much as there is a night at the spaceport. The cantina’s full of the usual sorts, and the place is loud. There’s a group of five men in the back, dressed like smugglers. Obi-Wan has been watering down their drinks for the last two rounds, but they’ve yet to notice. Their eyes are ravenous as they look around them. Most of them are big, all are human. There’s one small one amongst the pack, and it’s him that Obi-Wan’s eyes stick to.

There’s something about him. Maybe it’s the way he holds himself, tense and with his shoulder hunched. Maybe it’s because of how smaller he is than the companions he’s chosen. Maybe it’s because he’s so pretty.

Even from all the way across the cantina, Obi-Wan knows the boy is pretty, can see his pale pink lips and dark golden curly hair. He doesn’t look like the sort of person who tends towards the crowds of pirates and smugglers that populate the back corners of Obi-Wan’s cantina. He looks out of place, misplaced. 

Sith’s hells, Obi-Wan probably looks more like a smuggler than this boy. Even the scar across his face, through his eyebrow and trailing down his cheek does little to make the boy look dangerous. Even his outfit—a black cloak on top of other, darker clothes—cannot make him look as dangerous as the men around him.

But they had come in as a pack, the boy in the middle of them. It had been the boy who had talked with the serving girl, Challa, who sat them. It had been him who’d ordered the first round of drinks.

The Force is screaming, a loud reverberation of a warning filling up his head and making the beginnings of his headache twenty times worse.

If someone dies tonight in Obi-Wan’s cantina, Obi-Wan is going to make Challa fill out the flimsiwork. It would be what she deserves for allowing this crowd in.

A moment before Obi-Wan looks away, the boy looks up from his drink and catches him staring. His face freezes as it is, held tight as he looks at Obi-Wan looking at him. For a strange moment, it looks like his eyes flash gold before they fall away, attention grabbed by the kid next to him.

Obi-Wan’s own attention is claimed a moment later.

“Whatcha looking at, boss?” the second bartender on shift asks, resting their arms on the counter beside him. “You look mighty disgruntled.”

“So you thought adding yourself to the situation would help,” he says automatically, caustically as he turns away from the group to stare at his employee. “Naturally.” “Naturally,” Saak agrees with a pointy smile. “I’m a saint.”

“Hm,” Obi-Wan says, even though he quite likes working with the twi’lek. These days, Obi-Wan keeps much close to his chest—especially his affection.

“That’s not an answer to my question,” Saak points out, looking back out at the cantina. “Who’s caught your eye? Because me and the crew in the back have a bet going about if you’re ever going to take someone home.” “I don’t mix business and pleasure,” Obi-Wan says, eyes staying resolutely away from the boy’s table.

“See, that’s part of the bet,” Saak says, easy as anything. “We don’t think you have pleasure.”

Obi-Wan frowns and turns to look at them fully. “What.”

Saak shrugs. “I don’t think I’ve seen you smile once, and I’ve worked here for three years. You don’t come out with us after work, you throw out every comm sequence customers leave you-–and trust me, I know there’s been a lot, you never mention anyone at home. In your personal life.”

“I enjoy a healthy amount of privacy,” Obi-Wan snaps, clenching his fists tight on the towel between his hands before he carefully tosses his irritation into the Force.

He understands almost immediately that his anger isn’t even at Saak for prying or at his employees for gossiping.

It’s because he knows Saak is right. Not about—well, not about abstaining from sex, as Obi-Wan gets a rather sizable amount of sex at any given time. But about the distance. The lack of pleasure. Even the sex doesn’t light him up the way it did when he was seventeen, fresh from leaving the Agricorps and setting out across the stars. A consequence of age probably.

“Hey,” Saak’s tone changes, turning from cajoling employee into something much more concerned. “That table in the back, look—I don’t think that guy is doing alright.”

Obi-Wan snaps out of his thoughts instantly and looks at where Saak’s gesturing.

He knows before he even sees them that it’s that Force forsaken table in the back.

And Saak’s right, shit.

The boy Obi-Wan had been staring at looks—looks rough suddenly. His head is reclining back onto the body of the man beside him, eyes half-lidded. He’s flushed a flattering red, lips parted and stained an even darker color.

He could just be feeling the effects of the alcohol he’s been consuming for the past hour now, but it’s the way his companions look at him that has Obi-Wan rounding the bar and crossing the cantina. They look hungry. Eager. Anticipatory.

In the Force, the boy’s muted presence has become fuzzy. Muted.

Of course the moment Obi-Wan turns his gaze away from the group, they drug the boy. It suddenly seems so inevitable that it’s almost funny. Of course this was going to happen. 

“What did you give him,” he demands as he reaches the table. The anger licking at his chest is new. Useful. Righteous. 

One of the smugglers, the one next to the boy, tosses him a sleazy grin, wrapping his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “No need to kick us out, mister,” he says. “We were just leaving.”

“Yes, you were,” Obi-Wan nods sharply. “Without him.”

The smuggler’s grin slides off his face. “He came with us.”

“You drugged him!” 

The boy in question looks up at Obi-Wan as much as he can with his eyes half-way to shut. “Oh,” he says. “That’s what it is.”

His voice is slow and deep. A byproduct of the drug?

He blinks at him in syrupy slowness, and his eyes are tawny. Why had Obi-Wan thought they were blue from across the cantina? They shine golden now.

Something about his eyes, his face, the way he’s looking at Obi-Wan makes his thin sense of control snap. “You will leave now,” he commands, Force reverberating through the words, so strong that the smugglers stand to attention immediately, repeating the order mindlessly. 

Even the boy struggles to obey, pushing up on his feet in drunken surety. 

“Not you,” Obi-Wan snaps. The boy sits back down like his strings have been cut, a sigh of relief at the release.

It’s entirely too orgasmic to be appropriate. 

And the way the boy looks up at him is entirely too trusting for someone who’s just been drugged by his companions. 

“I hope you have another form of transportation off here,” Obi-Wan says with a sigh. “I imagine you will not want to travel with them tomorrow.” “I’ll kill ‘em,” the boy mumbles, letting his head fall back.

“Sure, kid,” Obi-Wan tells him. He looks like he couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone kill a man, but he’s also not entirely sure the boy would appreciate him pointing that out. He looks like a kid who’s decided to try and play outlaw.

This is what happens to kids who try to play outlaw, he thinks dispassionately.

“Not a kid,” the kid says.

“Sure, kid.” He’ll need water. Obi-Wan grabs at his chin and forces his eyes up. His pupils are so dilated it’s hard to even see what color his irises are. Paired with the flushed cheeks, the poor coordination, and the slurred but cohesive speech, Obi-Wan’s pretty sure he knows what sort of spice they used on the poor kid. 

And the comedown is legendary for how rough it is.

Obi-Wan barely resists the urge to sigh. It’s even harder to resist the urge to scream.

He hates the men who laced the boy’s drink. He hates Challa for letting the group of men into his cantina, thereby making this his problem. He hates Vynny for crashing his speeder and forcing Obi-Wan to cover his shift while he recuperates from the loss of both legs.

And he hates the fucking ghost of the Jedi Order for instilling in him the importance of doing the right thing.

“You’re coming home with me,” he says, unable to stop himself from sighing.

The boy blinks at him. “If you touch me, I’ll kill you too,” he warns, but his eyes are still much too trusting. “Slowly.” “Noted,” Obi-Wan snaps, reaching down to fish the boy out of the booth. “And when you’re sober again, you’re going to be paying for the entire tab you and your lot racked up.”

The boy pouts, even as he allows Obi-Wan to drag him to his feet. “What if I let you touch me instead?” “I don’t want to touch you,” Obi-Wan says. “I want the credits.” The boy giggles and presses his face against his neck. Obi-Wan waves to Saak behind the bar, gesturing to the boy and then to the doors, trying to convey I’m going home to take care of this absolute youngling because I am a better person than you and you need to take care of my cantina and lock up behind you and no, this does not count as taking a customer home with me.

Saak gives him two thumbs up, so Obi-Wan is hoping that means the message has been received. It had better be received.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asks as he navigates out of the cantina. Thank the Force, his own cruiser is close. The boy is heavier and bigger than he’d looked amongst the rest of his group. Firmer and more weighted with muscle. And Obi-Wan is no waif, but he doesn’t care to lug around a man who is actually, well. Taller than him.

“Vader,” the boy mumbles, nuzzling into Obi-Wan’s touch. “Why do you feel so good?”

“It’s the spice they gave you,” Obi-Wan mutters. “Makes touch feel good, makes you…want.”

“Oh,” Vader says, rubbing his face against Obi-Wan’s neck like a cat. “I don’t want it.” “Me neither, kid,” he assures him, propping him up against the side of his ship so he can unlock it and key in the code to have the ramp descend.

“Good,” Vader says. “Keep touching me.”

Obi-Wan bites his lip so he doesn’t tell the kid that he doesn’t take commands, not even from imperious little boys who sound as if they’re very used to being obeyed.

It adds more evidence to his theory that Vader is some spoiled rich kid looking to rebel.

“What were you even doing with them?” He mutters as he drops Vader into the seldom-used co-pilot seat of his ship. “Not the sort you’d want to hang around with, are they?” “Bellion,” Vader replies loosely, waving a weak hand. “As’ —assign—assignm’nt.”

It takes through takeoff for Obi-Wan to realize what he’s said. “The Rebellion? You were on an assignment for the rebellion?” Vader makes a noise and turns his head to look at him, eyes almost shut. “Bellion,” he agrees, before promptly passing out.

“Huh,” Obi-Wan says.

Of course he knew that there was a rebellion against the empire, that they were building in both power and numbers as the years grew. He’d even flirted with the notion of joining it himself, but he’d always stepped back. The rebellion was too close to the Jedi. And the Jedi had made it clear that they did not want him.

Why would the rebellion be any different?

When he’s entered hyperspace, he looks over at the boy who has turned his head away from him, exposing the long lines of his neck.

He really is quite beautiful, for better or for worse.

The boy shifts, restless. He pushes himself further into the seat, leaning back and spreading his legs. Obi-Wan would wonder what he’s dreaming about, but before he can, the boy’s cloak shifts.

And there, on his hip. The handle of a lightsaber.

Obi-Wan is moving before he can help it, stepping over to Vader’s side of the ship quietly, eyes glued to the ‘saber.

It’s been so long since he’s seen one. He never got to hold his own. Never made one himself.

But here is one now, on Vader’s hip. Vader is a Jedi. A Jedi! 

It is part greed, part agony, and part disbelief that makes Obi-Wan reach his hand out and carefully detach the blade from Vader’s belt.

The boy does not even notice, except to push his hip up further at the ghost of Obi-Wan’s touch.

It’s a heavy weight in Obi-Wan’s hand, and he takes a moment to just—look at it. It’s darker than he would have crafted his own, sturdier and longer too, as if Vader wields it with two hands. He probably does—Obi-Wan still remembers his forms, remembers each stance down to the footwork. Vader has the body to be a formidable Djem’So user. Or Atari. Obi-Wan had favored the latter when he was an Initiate. 

Vader is a Jedi. Perhaps—perhaps in the morning, after the spice is out of his system, he can tell Obi-Wan about the Temple in its final days. Surely he was not there, Obi-Wan doesn’t know how anyone could have survived the massacre, but he must know. He does not truly look so young that he would have been an Initiate. He must have been a Knight.

Perhaps Obi-Wan will tell him about being raised there. He can share in his pain, if only a little bit. After all, Obi-Wan spent thirteen years of his life at the Temple. The Jedi will always hold a part of his heart. He has never before wanted to admit that, but now—Vader is a Jedi. He would understand. 

Obi-Wan’s mouth is dry as he drops his gaze back to the saber.

He wants suddenly, terribly, to flick it on. To hear the buzz of the ions of the blade. To see the color of Vader’s kyber crystal. He wants to take pleasure from the sight of it, the enduring symbol of it, of the Order.

He knows he should not. He knows he has no right to it. If he were meant to hold a lightsaber, his life would have worked out in thirteen thousand different ways. 

But—Vader is asleep.

And no one would have to know.

If just for a second, Obi-Wan allowed himself to give into his want.

He flicks it on and then almost drops it from the sheer surprise he feels as it powers to life in his hands.  Because the blade is not green. It isn’t blue. It isn’t even purple, like he remembers Master Windu’s being.

It is a sickly looking red.

It is not a blade of a Jedi.

Obi-Wan flicks it off and tucks it back onto Vader's belt. Then he sits down in the pilot's chair once more, head spinning and heart racing.

And he directs the ship to drop out of hyperspace to his homeplanet anyway because---well. What else can he do? He'd promised to take the boy home and see him off the spice.

The fact that the boy is---is a Sith does not change anything. It cannot.

[imtheindiekid]

Supermarket aisle.

Prompt: Reader goes to the supermarket for the monthly groceries, and while running errands she encounters familiar yet unfriendly faces at one of the aisles. Great thing her mommy Gwen is there to scare them.

Ship: Gwendoline Christie x fem!reader.

Warnings: mid foul language, Gwen's big d1ck energy (yassss), reader is not a minor! Fluff FLUFF in the middle of chaos, reader obsessed af with mother Swift (Taylor's version lmao), reader being the lil shit she knows she is and making mommy proud; just reader and Gwen being goals relationship for almost two thousand words.

A/N: I'm back (? 🙉

-----

The supermarket wasn’t full. And thanks, the universe for that.

Doing groceries every few weeks it seemed like a complicated affair, in the words of Y/N, who seemed to completely want to avoid people in general when stepping outside. Yet, she loved going through the market aisles and double checking nothing was missing from the list she wrote patiently on the morning – so even on a Monday afternoon, dutifully Y/N went to buy the monthly groceries at the local supermarket.

Although the music at the building was nice and low, she did not like to run errands without her chunky black headphones and a Spotify playlist; lately she had gotten into hearing Taylor Swift, so reputation blasted through the speakers while she concentrated in her task. It also made a statement to other folks: do not talk to me, because I will not pay you attention on purpose. Benefits of being an introvert, she guessed, while inside her little bubble, nobody could annoy her.

Well, until now.

In retrospective, Y/N should’ve have surmised that not even England was big and far enough to build a bridge between her and the old life she had. That and the fact that Catherine Dean is still rich enough to places like this for vacation or whatever. And what’s worse, her whole bunch of plastic rich barbies were with her.

Some years ago, Y/N would’ve been gone the moment she encountered them, not wanting to deal with their mean taunting and overused insults in the form of harmless chat. Now, it’s pretty much the same, but at least she had the decency of flipping them off and tell them to eat shit – a little violent, but enough to having those plastics leaving her alone.

“Well, look who we bumped into. Dear dummy Y/N.” Said Catherine, with a smile full of amusement. The mentioned only stared at her and the others, Taylor’s voice filling her ears with her high notes. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

“Did you say something? I can’t hear you over the sound of Mother Swift.” She didn’t really have the energy to nor wanted to remove her headphones, in any moment delicate could start playing and God knew Y/N loved way too much that song.

Catherine now changed her smile into a scowl, it was not the result she expected ever since she saw Y/N at the supermarket. Which bring the question about miss Dean: why on earth she was doing in a supermarket, when she could be anywhere but there?

The curiosity stirred inside, wondering by herself if there was once a time where Catherine Dean went into a store like the market. Apparently, the smaller woman fell into a deep trance figuring things out when another two people appeared into the aisle and snapped her out of her wondering.

Both were blonde, but one more pale than the other and taller; Y/N knew both of those people very well, one from a long time ago while the other was more recently. It was indeed strange to look at them side by side, and that made her smile softly – many things have changed, but not her taste in people. The taller one, a pale blonde woman made hastily her way to her while she carried a single biscuits box which were drop into the shopping cart; then, she smiled and kissed the messy mane that was Y/Ns’ short hair.

The other blond, this time a man looked utterly confused and kept glancing between the two parties, then proceeded to speak.

“Um hello everyone, what’s going on Cat?” A voice Y/N thought she would never hear again asked. Once she marveled at the tone and rhythm of it, but nothing compared to her lover’s silky voice.

“Just having a chat with your dear Y/N, that’s all Alex.”

Oh, so that was it, Alex Heughan is the new dumb boyfriend of Catherine Dean. It explained so many things; Y/N giggled, making everyone in the aisle to look at her. A slender hand went up to her neck and then one of the headphones sides, which carefully pulled them down and made Taylor Swift fade away for the moment.

Distracted by it, the small woman lifted her head up to look at her lover, whom she had a soft smile and a glint on her sapphire eyes. Gwen then combed very delicately her little one’s hair, tucking loose strands of hair out of her face; a pinkish flush appeared in Y/N's cheeks, but that did not stop her from clinging to the other woman’s touch.

“Why are you giggling kitten?” asked calmly the blonde, now petting her beloved in her chin, rubbing smoothly her fingertips along the skin.

“Dummy Alex is now Catherine’s dummy boyfriend, mommy.”

“MOMMY?” a series of voices exclaimed at the same time, all of them a mix of horror and amazement. Now Y/N could totally feel the stares of the plastics, her ex and other costumers who passed along them doing their business. All because the way she addressed the older woman.

Guess the cat is out of the bag then, Y/N Bennet is someone’s baby and it’s to a very tall and gorgeous woman. Three wonderful years and counting with her dear mommy Gwen, the one who loved her fiercely and showed her how much money she could spend just for the sake of making her happy. It was so fucking great.

She took with her smaller hands the one that was petting her so lovely, holding it and placing a small kiss in the middle of the palm; and after making her mommy melt with love, she then finally turned to the others. Y/N smiled smugly in many years, pride rising in her body at seeing the faces she once hated with her guts so much, full of utter shock – it was no secret that Bennet loved both men and women, people as she calls it, because she rathers love and care for someone's heart no matter who it is.

Well, she thinks that is debatable when it comes to certain people.

“Cat got your tongue, Cat dear?” asked with false innocence; her mommy chuckled behind her. “I don't think I've introduced you properly. Plastics, dumb toy, this is my mommy. Mommy, these are the little shits who made my life hell back in America.”

She then smiled as she were buying a pair of Jimmy Choos or a seasonal dress from Miu Miu, and oh, how she loved smiling just like that. Getting everything her heart desired. Mommy knew the game she was playing, and always liked the way her little dove became a ferocious beast – so, without asking questions, mommy Gwen followed her. Y/N was pulled by her hips into the lean and strong body of her mommy, who kept her secure in her embrace.

“I can't say I am pleased” mommy stated, voice full of disgust. “nor expected the fuckers who pissed off my little dove.”

Alex then stepped in, perplexed by the whole situation. “I'm sorry miss, I believe there is a misunderstand. I never hurt Y/N in any way, I swear it! Must be Catherine and the others you are talking about.”

“Yes, I do know very well your history with Y/N. Ex boyfriend, always right to her and all that stuff. Yet you are on their side.” Gwen glanced at the rest. “Not very sure where your loyalties lie, mister.”

“Not with them.”

“Dumb toyyyyyyy. Look, mommy? He can't see past his own dubmness.” Responded Y/N, midly desinterested. This was getting boring, groceries were almost done and she really wanted to go back their penthouse to get some snuggles.

“Shut up dumb whore, you can't even afford a decent life and you have to fuck someone to get money.” The irritating voice of Catherine Dean said, and God help her, she seems to meet the wrong end of mommy.

It's not that common for Y/N to see mommy being angry, let alone furious; yes, she has seen her annoyed or frustrated, but never full of ire that she might scalp with her bare hands someone, in this case Catherine Dean. But oh well, the idiot got herself in trouble, and Y/N won't be stopping her beloved to ripping the ugly one appart.

Her bets were with mommy. Always with mommy.

“Then you must be talking from experiencie.” Gwen answered, barely contaning her spite and anger while never letting go of her baby. “Although my sweet can afford a very comfortable life by herself, it is me who keeps her within luxury and thousands of hundreds worth lifestyle. And why? Because she is my princess and she deserves everything.”

A smile tugged Y/N's lips as she heard the rumbling of her mommy's voice through her small frame; how she loves her. Her and the big heart full of love only for her.

“Mommy.” The soft tone made the taller woman return her gaze to Y/N, who looked at her with such big adorating eyes. Gwen couldn't help but kiss her nose and stroking her short hair, calming the anger that still boiled inside her body.

“Yes my love?”

“I want to go home, dumb people tires me.” Y/N casted a smirkful smile and look at the group of former classmates, who responded with mixed reactions and not a single word.

Gwen laughed silently and pressed another kiss to her baby's nose, gently tucking her into one of her own arms, while pushing the cart around and far from the aisle. Neither of them looked back nor wanted to, right now, Y/N and her mommy were the only thing that mattered at the moment. And her shopping cart full of groceries.

At the self-checkout, as they were putting out their items, Y/N turned to her mommy and asked.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, my darling?”

“How did you know I was there, in that place?"

The blonde laughed and held both of her hands out for her princess, who she eagerly welcomed them by placing them in her waist and get pulled against her mommy's chest. Gwen observed for a moment the face she fell in love with, tracing in her mind all of her curves and lines of it; her dear baby was absolutely perfect.

“Well, everytime we go grocery shopping, you always spend too much time looking for the fluffiest loaf bread you can find. And all because you love when the bread of your sandwich is soft as a cloud.”

Y/N giggled, nodding at the fact that she liked fluffiness and soft things.

“I know where to find you, sweetling, because I know which supermarket aisle is your favorite.”

-----

The end.

[cuubism]

I don’t even know if you accept writing prompts, but just *Imagine* this

Dream, has no fuckin idea how Hobs immortality works

His sister just said “you could find out” and gave no other word other than the IMPLICATION that hob is immortal, so aside from knowledge that hob has been withheld from her gift, dream doesn’t know how the whole immortality thing works for hob

Meaning the first time Dream sees Hob DIE

I feel like he’s in for a ride

I always pictured Hobs immortality as a Deadpool kinda thing. He does TECHNICALLY die from whatever killed him, but he pops back as soon as his body heals. Not a fun experience, definitely some trauma involved (being drowned as a being that doesn’t die permanently seems ROUGH) but all in all Hob can walk away from everything pretty alright.

Now if Dream DOESN’T KNOW THAT. If he thinks hob is simply un killable, that could lead to a WORLD of delicious Temporary or Presumed death angst.

*looks at the ancient unfilled prompts lingering in my inbox from years ago* of course i take prompts what do you take me for! :D 😂 i love them, i don't always manage to write them

in retrospect 'you could find out' is QUITE mysterious and ominous, thanks Death.

yeah i usually imagine Hob's immortality working like it does in The Old Guard, where he basically does die but he comes back after a few minutes. i'm still undecided on whether he heals faster than normal, like, for plot purposes it's easier if he does, but there's something compelling also in the idea of hob having to struggle through the same long healing process as other people, just with the certainty that he will heal. i also always ask myself, can hob be permanently injured? like, if he lost an arm, would it... grow back? i don't know the answer to that. i like the idea of him being able to have scars for Symbolism, but him not having scars is also compelling, like, having no real record of anything that's happened.

drowning would... suck, especially as it probably took him ages to break free of his restraints so he probably drowned over and over and over...

dream seems to get in the 1789 scene that hob couldn't be killed by being attacked. but i feel like... like Death is not the only powerful force in the universe and she isn't all powerful. i could see dream being worried about hob being like, destroyed in some other way? like his... Being being destroyed? i don't think there's any being or creature in the story's universe that can't be killed in some way, even Dream can be killed - or, I guess, Morpheus can, is more accurate. so the fear could still be there. either way, seeing hob die would still be a hell of a shock, even knowing it's temporary.

i actually wrote something really similar to this in an as-yet-unfinished fic so i think instead of starting another wip (i have soo many ack) i will just share that scene

[ preface - there was a whole Fight and the Corinthian cut Hob across the throat (rip) and then Bounced because Dream was kind of, well, distracted ]

--

When Hob woke, Dream’s hands were around his throat.

Pressing, holding. Trying to keep him together.

And he was… just absolutely drenched in blood. It lay slick on his hands, smeared up his wrists, soaked in blacker patches on his black shirt and coat, he’d even managed to get a few droplets on his face. Dear God. Hob had almost forgotten how much blood could come out of a human body. It had, fortunately, been quite a while since he’d had to watch somebody exsanguinate.

Their gazes met. Hob’s bleary, Dream’s swirling with colliding galaxies.

“See?” said a voice out of Hob’s eyeline. “I told you he’d come back.”

Hob craned his neck carefully to see. A woman was sitting on the couch, arms crossed, apparently unconcerned by the scene of theatrical death and carnage playing out before her.

“Dream,” she repeated, when Dream didn’t move. “I told you. Let the man breathe.”

For all that her words were spoken lightly, there was a note of concern underneath them. Hob didn’t think it was directed at him, though, even if he had been to one to get his artery sliced open. The woman’s gaze kept flickering over to Dream.

“I had to be certain,” Dream ground out. His voice rumbled against Hob’s ruined throat.

“You don’t trust my word?”

“I had to be certain,” he repeated.

Hob wrapped a careful hand around his blood-soaked wrist, squeezing until Dream looked at him again, and rasped, “Hey. Can’t die, remember?”

Then his chest spasmed and he coughed up a truly horrific amount of blood. Dream released him, with some reluctance, allowing him to turn on his side, and Hob coughed until his throat was clear.

“Fuck,” he gasped, and spat one last clot of blood onto the absolutely destroyed living room rug. “Goddamn. That was a new one.”

“See?” said the woman, gesturing at Hob. “He even has a good attitude about it!”

Dream did not seem comforted by this. His hand fell to rest on Hob’s shoulder and gripped tight.

“Oh, I’m Death, by the way,” said the woman, catching Hob staring at her and waving at him. “Hey.”

“Um,” said Hob.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Death hastened to reassure him. “I’m not here for you. Or, I mean, I kind of am, but not to collect your soul, just because my brother here is a worry wart.”

Hob looked back and forth between them. “You… were worried Death would take me… so you… called her here?” he asked Dream incredulously.

Death sighed. “Not always the brightest bulb.”

Dream watched him intensely. “I needed to be sure she would not.”

“Dream, I told you—”

“I had never… seen you die before.” He held Hob’s gaze, but his expression wobbled into something close to fear. “It was… challenging.”

Hob supposed that knowing, abstractly, that your friend couldn’t die didn’t hold much water when seeing your friend die.

“Oh, Dream,” he murmured. Dream only looked more pained when Hob said his name. Hob found his wrist again and squeezed it. “Hey, it’s alright, yeah?”

Dream swallowed, a very human, nervous thing. “Evidently.”

“Come on, let him up,” said Death, and helped Dream haul Hob up to his feet. They dragged him over to the couch, where Hob sat, hand pressed to his still-aching neck. What a strange moment this made, he reflected. Two Endless, one covered in blood, dragging a half-dead human across the living room. Hob was going to have to give up on his life making a lick of sense anymore.

Dream’s fingers flexed, still slick with Hob’s blood. He wavered on his feet, then said, “I should— the blood,” and disappeared in the direction of the washroom at a rapid pace.

“Can’t he just—” Hob waved his hands in a gesture he hoped conveyed change his clothes magically.

“Could,” Death agreed, perching on the arm of the couch. “But he’s feeling an emotion so I think he needs a minute.”

“Ah.” Dream’s stricken expression hovered in Hob’s mind. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like seeing that forced split in his friend’s composure at all.

“You’re good for him, Hob,” continued Death.

“Because… I got my throat cut and kind of almost died and upset him?” Hob said, expecting her to correct him.

“Yup!” Death agreed cheerily. Her eyes lingered on the hallway that led to the washroom. “Among other things.”

As if any of that was reasonable. Hob leaned against the back of the couch, rubbing his eyes. “You all are so cryptic.”

Death laughed, but didn’t elaborate on what she’d said any further.

Hob lingered on it, though. You made him upset. Hob hadn’t seen Dream upset before, not like that.

Did he ever get upset like that? Or, rather, did he let himself?

Hob quickly found himself also watching the hallway for Dream’s return. He half-wondered if he’d just bolted back to the Dreaming, or maybe gone after the Corinthian, if he’d escaped after Hob had… died.

When he didn’t return for several minutes, Death let out a long breath and got up to go after him.

Now alone on the couch, Hob clenched his fingers in the fabric of his pants, gritting his teeth as a shiver of shock ran through him. Sort-of-dying sucked, but often, Hob had found that the aftermath was worse – human bodies were meant to either die or live, not land somewhere in between, and each time he’d recovered from situations he should have died in, he’d faced a sort of belated panic response, fight-or-flight kicking in with no danger present.

He stood jerkily, stumbling to his bedroom, where he stripped off his absolutely ruined shirt – he was going to have to burn that, he’d look like a serial killer throwing it away – and jeans, and scrubbed off the blood as best he could with a spare towel considering Dream was still hogging the washroom.

He’d just gotten on a clean pair of jeans and was reaching for a shirt when the door clicked open. Dream stepped in, so quiet he was less person and more shadow. Gone were his long coat, and his boots. His black skinny jeans and long sleeve shirt were functionally identical to what he’d been wearing before, but Hob had a feeling the actual blood-soaked ones from before had been destroyed – if they’d ever existed outside of dreams in the first place.

He stepped quietly, barefoot, over to Hob, and Hob looked up and down at this change in attire. “Planning to stay awhile, love?” he asked, a weak attempt at levity.

Dream stopped before him. His eyes were deep and very dark. “You are shaking.”

Hob chuckled self-consciously, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah, turns out that sort-of-almost-dying is a bit of a shock to the system. It’ll pass, though.”

“It will pass,” Dream echoed, expression unreadable.

“Has before,” Hob said, tension prickling up his spine at the utter stillness of him now. And not the relaxed stillness that Hob had become accustomed to when they sat and drank together at the inn. No, this was the stillness of water about to overflow. Surface tension.

“Before,” Dream repeated, again.

Hob smiled weakly at him. “Promise.”

Dream’s night sky gaze flicked over his face. His shoulders were even narrower without his coat, and the lack of structured fabric made him look softer, human, normal.

But Hob’s friend, his love, his stranger had never felt less normal. He moved in like the approach of nighttime, hovering clouds and darkness and rain, a blanket pulled over one’s head that might cocoon or suffocate.

Hob would have accepted either.

Dream caught him by the jaw with fingers soft as lamplight, murmured, “Promise,” and kissed him.

[chanyeolsbiggestfangirl]

Synopsis:- After your failed attempt at a confrontation with Chanyeol, you decide to do what seemed best at that time, run away. Even with his indifference towards your feelings, you just couldn’t let go of him, the thought of him, the phantom touches he imprinted upon your soul caressing you in ways more than one. But running away is never a good solution in the long run, for unfinished business will always catch up with you.

Pairing:- Chanyeol X Fem Reader

Genre:- Angst, Smut

Author’s Note:- so, it is finally happening, the unnamed sequel to the request i wrote a few days ago. my heartiest thanks to @scuzmunkie for the heartwarming comments that made my day and prompted me to write a second part. also my deepest gratitude to all those who gave their love to the previous piece. this is for you all.

Prequel 

. . . 

You were a coward, a goddamn coward. You still remember that night and the aftermath of it pretty clearly.

Packing your stuff in the middle of the night with impulsive precision, your heart hurt but your mind was clear. The only way to save yourself and end your suffering was to leave, with no trace left behind. The only way to save your heart from hurting at the sight of his beautiful face was to make sure that he isn’t the first thing you see when you start your day. Your heart longed to steal one last look at him before you stepped out of the door, but the sensible part of you that had been ignored so long wasn’t having any of it. The first step is always the hardest and right now the first step was to not give in to the urge to see him. It was hard, but your mind urged you on and away. So you did it. Without sparing even a single glance at the tall male who held your heart in his hands, you stepped out.

Even now you have no idea of how you managed to do it all, but the memory of Chanyeol’s nonchalant shrug was what made you call your cousin and tell her that you’ll be staying over for the few days till graduation. The memory of his empty emotionless eyes was what drove you to block his number and then delete it for good measure. The memory of his cruel words borderlining on a rejection, was what drove your deepest instincts, all of it was what drove you to put some very much needed distance between you and the him.

In the few days that stood between you and the graduation and the ultimate freedom from all of this mess, you spend all your time alternating between gardening with your grandma and taking with Minseok for hours on end.

When the graduation came, you entrusted Minseok and Sehun to help you get through without running into Chanyeol. But even then it was too much for you. Being in the same space with him suffocated you, override all your senses. The possibility of even a single eye contact, a single interaction was enough to make your stomach hurt. You didn’t stay after the official ceremony, didn’t attend the party, you just told your friends that you’re done for the day and headed home. 

You felt a certain pair of eyes on your back, but you took deep steadying breaths and did not look back even once. 

Three Months Later 

There’s always room for improvement in life, only if you put your mind to it. It has been three months since you got your beloved masters degree, three months since you last felt Chanyeol’s gaze on you, three months since you moved across the city into your brand new apartment near your workplace. 

Three months of trying to heal in peace. Trying to wrench your heart away from the handsome giant. You wouldn’t say you’ve forgotten Chanyeol or moved on, you just made yourself busy enough to never have time to think about him, until he was all but a distant memory. 

But seems like the universe was done, done letting you get away with unfinished business. 

The morning started hazy, the sun made it pretty clear that it couldn’t be bothered to come out. You huffed a breathe as you looked out of your floor to ceiling window, you were honestly done with today and it hadn’t even properly started yet. 

You were always in a somewhat hurry to catch the elevator, it was not that you were late, it was just that the building that housed your office also had other establishments in the lower floors, complete with a high class soundproof studio occupying the entirety of the topmost floor. 

As usual, it was packed, enough not to suffocate and yet enough that you grateful for not slacking off. Usually, you’d always have someone else who was heading for the same floor, who’d already pressed the button to the 15th floor, but it wasn’t the case today. Finding that it wasn’t pressed yet, your hand itched towards it, only for your fingers to brush against someone who just entered. 

You looked up at the somewhat towering figure, only to be greeted by a familiar face. 

A painfully familiar face actually. 

There he was, his currently blonde hair swept back, his full lips jutting out in an early morning pout, dressed casually yet immaculately, brown orbs looking back at you with equal amounts of surprise and something that looked painfully like... longing. 

No 

You scolded yourself internally, trying to stop yourself from plunging into an endless abyss filled with thoughts of him and him only. But it was too late. The damage was already done. You pulled your hand back, averting your eyes, willing yourself to not give away the fact that he had initiated a torrent of emotions within you. You withdrew further into the flock of people in the elevator, putting some distance between you and him, head down, waiting until your floor comes up. 

You were breathless when you got on your floor, you massaged your temples with your thumb and forefinger. 

There goes my sanity for the rest of my existence. 

Turns out, the studio on the highest level was his. You were more than tempted to move places, ask for a transfer to another office, anything, anything to save yourself from running into him. A part of you was begging you to run away again, but the other begged to stay, to grow some fucking nerve. You finally discarded your impulsive letter requesting a transfer and prayed that today would be the first and last time you’d run into Chanyeol. 

If only it were the case. 

You stayed late at work, the lights on the worktables around you shutting off one by one as the time passed but you stayed. It wasn’t the work, it was him. You were working late just so that you could avoid running into him in the lift. When the clock struck eight, you finally stretched your arms and got your things and made to leave. The floor was all quiet. 

You stepped into the lift, mentally making plans to make instant ramen and watch your favorite movie. You were so engrossed in those that you didn’t notice that instead of descending, the lift climbed higher, stopping on the floor you dreaded. 

You were pulled out of your reveries when the doors pinged open and you stepped out only to bump into a warm and hard chest. You looked up and found Chanyeol looking at you. 

Oh no no no no NO 

You were fast to turn, but Chanyeol was faster. His arm came around your waist, pulling you to him, your back against his chest, his lips at your ear as his deep voice sounded in the empty area.

“Y/n please... please hear me out. I.. I am sorry. I really am, about that night. Please...” 

He sounded so... weak and vulnerable in those moments. His hand holding onto you, his broken plea. His hard body against yours shook slightly, awaiting your reaction, half dreading it. 

You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to tell him that you didn’t want to hear it. You wanted to pull away from him and say some really mean words and hurt him just the way he hurt you. You wanted to be far far away from him. 

But you were a weak woman when it came to him. You were weak for him. You were weak for his touch upon you. You were weak for the words voiced in that deep voice of his. You were weak with the way that voice took such control of you and your coherence. 

Had it been some other man, you would have pulled away, released your pent up frustration and then left. 

But Chanyeol wasn’t some other man. 

So you didn’t do any of those things, sighing deeply against his body, you nodded wordlessly. 

He turned you so that you faced him, hand still around your waist, holding you close, his face inches from yours, his hot breathe caressing your face. You didn’t realize you were cold until the warmth from his body seeped into yours and you found yourself leaning into it involuntarily. 

His brows were slightly furrowed, he looked at you with a pained expression,  such longing and sincerity in his eyes that the expression made you feel bare in front of him. Your heart was hammering in your chest, letting out breaths in small puffs as you tried to tell your mind to calm the fuck down.

You expected an apology, a half assed explanation perhaps. But what he said caught you off guard. 

“I missed you.” 

The words felt foreign on his tongue, felt unfamiliar to your own ears. Chanyeol had said a lot of stuff to you. But never these words. 

“Liar.” 

The word was out of your mouth before you properly process it, flinching inwardly at the unintentional yet somewhat intentional bite in that singular word which managed to capture your current feelings towards him. 

“I’m not lying, y/n. I missed you. Every single day, every single moment, I missed you.” 

His words and his grip around your waist were laced with fear and desperation, and gods, you wanted it, your heart yearned for it. Yet, another part of you was equally conflicted, whether or not to let him in again and let him destroy parts of you that you were trying to heal so desperately. 

He was making you weak for him all over again, with just a few words. 

You shook your head, “Chanyeol... stop. Whatever you’re trying to get at here, just stop. I... can’t take it! This is just like earlier again. You ask for an in, I let you in and then... and then you leave. Again. So, stop. Please.”

He sighs deeply, pain flashing across his features, his arm around you tightening as he pulled you even closer. His breathe mingled with yours when he spoke.

"Don't go. Please."

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying not to tear up again from the sheer force of all what was running through your mind. A torrent of buried emotions was resurfacing and you couldn't stop it. Your voice broke over the tears you tried to stop.

"You... you're hurting me. Don't you understand that?!? One moment, you want me and the other, you don't. That's so fucking confusing!"

It felt cathartic, to scream those words out to him, you took deep deep breaths, mumbling a little at the end.

"You ruined me. Hurt me. And I thought I was okay but seeing you now, I know I'm not and that's all your fault!

That's when you push him away, trying to put some distance between you both. He reached out with a hand, lips trembling and you could almost see the cogs in his brain moving, thinking on what to say.

"Y/n... I'm.. I'm sorry. I missed you so much. I can't- "

"Stop, Chanyeol. Stop it! Can't you understand!? I hate this all of this. I hate how my heart still holds onto you after what happened that night. I hate how all I've ever wanted is to be yours." You were panting now, head shaking side to side in internal denial, getting worked up at how ridiculous this situation was. When you spoke again, it was nothing less than a whisper, having spend all your energy on the heated exchange.

"I hate how I still want you even after all what you’ve put me through.”

Chanyeol closed the distance, his hands on your cheeks as he tilted your face, his lips crashing against yours, his tongue seeking entrance, which you readily granted in a heartbeat.

Your arms found their way around his neck, fingers tangling in his silky blonde locks, holding him close, pressing your body against his.

Your heart hammered in your chest, but this time there was a twin beat that hammered right alongside yours. There's just something about his touches, the lips that felt perfect against yours, the warmth from his human furnace of a body seeping into yours. 

There was just something about him that made you let go of all pretenses at reason. 

You missed him. You missed him so fucking much. You were just running away. Planning to fake it till you make it, but Chanyeol beat you to it. You missed his lips. You missed his searing kisses that would steal your breathe away. 

Each and every thing about him, whether big or small, made you stupid. It made you want to believe in his words. It made you want to give him chances, endless chances.

You were still very much in love with Park Chanyeol. 

He pulled away, resting his forehead against yours, breathing heavily.

“Don’t go, please.” The words were a breathless whisper, a chant in his head and heart. He sounded so broken, so vulnerable, it squeezed your heart until you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight. 

. 

He took you home, and you let him. Chanyeol’s lips and touch were like a drug and you’d gladly let yourself be intoxicated by him. You knew it was bad for you, letting him in again so easily, but what could you do? 

The moment you stepped inside the door, his hands were on your waist, turning you around, his lips on yours, his hands pulling you impossibly closer. His lips molded against yours with a fervent need burning in them. It was surprising how he made your head swim and he hadn’t even done anything to you yet. 

You expected it all to be just the way it always happened, the frenzy of lips and tongue and teeth and clothes, impatient hands roving all over you, his touches setting fire to all reason. 

But it all changed when you legs hit the mattress and he did something you weren’t quite expecting. He turned you both, him landing on the bed with you on top of him, he pulled back a little and with the height difference now, he was literally looking up at you. 

This time, it was different. 

It was different when his lips found their way to your neck, leaving a trail of chaste, close lipped kisses. It was different when his hands found purchase in your hips and held you impossibly close as if scared that you would vanish into thin air the moment he let you go. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Those words broke your reveries. They were a breathless whisper against your skin, as if he was trying to imprint the words there, Each and every touch of his upon your heated skin felt as if murmuring an apology. His gentle fingers that explored every curve and plane seemed to echo that apology. As the fabric of your clothes slid off your skin, the lingering touch seemed to murmur in an apology. 

As his clothes and yours found a new place to be on the floor, his arm wound tightly around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest as if scared that you’d push him away and leave without a trace just the way you did three months ago. The heat from his skin seeped into you, you who’d been cold for so long without him. Even as your lips detached from each other’s, they brushed together, your breathes mingling with his. 

You pulled back further, sitting up on his lap, allowing him to adjust the weight, the hooded look in his eyes mirrored yours, his hands were at your sides, fingers brushing against the underside of your breasts, eyes travelling over every bare inch of you with such adoration in his eyes that you could have sobbed. When your lips found his again, his tongue explored your wet cavern like he needed this, needed you more than his next breathe. 

A low moan reverberated against your fingers as you explored the expanse of his chest sculpted from perfection, marveling at each and every plane and curve, his body shivering slightly. His other cradled your head, brushing aside stray strands of your hair.  As his lips leave yours, they began a downward trail, along your jaw and down your neck, down and down to the place between both your breasts.

“I’m sorry.” The words were breathless whisper, brushing his lips tenderly over the spot again and again, as if trying to imprint the words there. He kissed and bit and sucked on that spot, sure to leave a mark. His arm around you tightened, pressing his hips firmly against yours, eliciting a choked moan of his name from your parted lips. “I’m so fucking sorry.” 

Your head was in the clouds, your senses in a haze, you couldn’t bring yourself to either simply nod or say something to him, especially not when his lips on your skin and his hips grounding against yours was enough to make you forget your own name. Your sweatpants weren’t much of a help, rather a nuisance. He pulled away with a final nibble, getting you both rid of your remaining clothes. 

It was fast, yet slow, same yet different. Your breaths were fast, yet it felt as if you couldn’t get enough oxygen in, your mouths moving against each others in a primal, fervent sort of need, in wet, sloppy strokes. Each and every touch of his brought back a part of you that had been lost since forever. You missed him so much, so fucking much. You had been so bleak, so empty without him. You loved how he made you feel like yourself again. 

It was mutual, the need and desperation with which both of you clung to each other, it was mutual. The need and desperation with which Chanyeol held you in his arms as you finally sunk down on his length, his swollen lips parting in a broken moan of your name, head falling back against the pillows, eyes struggling to stay open and maintain contact with yours. The need and desperation with which you moved your hips against his, hands against his chest as you rocked against him. 

“Beautiful. You’re so beautiful, y/n.”

When the words registered against your clouded brain, you wanted to sob and beg, beg the heavens that this at least this meant something. That his words meant something, his apology meant something, his mighty heart thundering against your fingers meant something. That the position you were in, you on top of him and him at your mercy, it meant something. You were lightheaded, with the unspoken emotions coursing through you, with Chanyeol’s girth hitting all the right spots and making you see the stars, with the weight of all these sudden occurences upon your mind. 

Your thighs ached as you tried to keep up the pace you had set, your fingernails digging into his perfect skin and leaving little crescent moons, leaving your mark on him just the way he left his on you. Your skin was on fire as he trailed his hands over every inch of you, mapping it out as if trying to etch it to his memory. He gave you a few moments before he shifted, hands gripping your backside as he thrust up into you. His arms came around your hips, holding you tight before flipping you, with your back to the mattress, his thrusts increasing in pace, your plush lips parting as moans of his name filled the moonlit room. 

You struggled to keep your eyes open, the urge to give in to the pleasure and close your eyes was overwhelming. But you kept them open, looking up at Chanyeol. 

He was the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.  

His beauty felt unreal. The way the soft moonlight illuminated his handsome features, skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, every bare inch of his body glowing, literally glowing. As he bend forward and tilted his head to claim your lips in a soft, sloppy kiss, you ran your hands through his silky locks.

You could never get enough of him. You could never move on from him. Just looking at him pulled at your heartstrings, throat constricting with all the unknown and unspoken and unexplored feelings and words you are not yet ready to embrace, even though you knew. He brought his hand to your cheek, tentatively brushing the sensitive skin under your eyes.

“Chanyeol...” Your voice was nothing more than a breathy whimper, he pulled his hand back, rising up and kissing you on your forehead, your name a chant on his lips, his blood, his soul, his existence. He slid his hand between your bodies and rub into you, making your stomach clench.

“Please. Don’t go. Please....” Even with the way he was above you and writhing under, he sounded so broken, so desperate. It was as if all his pleas were slowly but surely banging of the ironclad walls of your heart and with this one, his length filling you up wonderfully, fingers making you clench in euphoric pleasure, this one was the final nail in the coffin.

You rose up on your elbows, brushing your lips against his, breaths mingling as you whispered against his lips, “I’m not going anywhere, Chanyeol.”

That was all what the tall man needed and few more of his miraculous touches, you unraveled under him, his name a string of chants and you spilled all over him. his body jerked above yours, tumbling into the abyss with you, his grip on your hip so hard that you knew it’d bruise.

Your thighs quivered as he pulled out of you, his body fell alongside yours, the room that was filled with moans and pants and whimpers was now silent, yet it was abuzz with unspoken questions and uncertain answers. The silence was broken with his deep voice.

“Please, y/n. I know my track record of dating isn’t that impressive but please... give me a chance. Small steps? Please.”

You turned to look at him, his eyes were downcast, he was fidgeting with his fingers, fear of a looming rejection written all over his features.

You sighed, tilting his chin with a finger, you let your lips brush against his, not really a kiss but rather a fleeting contact. You pulled back as you said, almost fearful of your next words.

“You can start by not leaving, Yeol.”

He heaved an audible sigh of relief at your words, arms wrapping around you as he pulled you close, burying his nose in your neck, taking a deep breath and peppering featherlight kisses. Your fingers moved softly through his hair, eyelids heavy as you found yourself drifting off into the land of sleep to the sound of his steady heartbeat.

Chanyeol held your weak heart in his skillful hands and all you could do was pray that he didn’t break it again.

.

You opened your eyes to the sunlight filtering through your curtains and you found a small smile making it’s way to your lips at the warmth that seeped into you, at the heavy arm slung around your waist, the grip nowhere suffocating rather comfortingly tight, the kind that makes you feel safe.

Yes, the road ahead was uncertain and was filled with a lot of obstracles to overcome, but you’ll find a way.

Together. 

But right now, all you wanted to do was bask in this feeling. In this wonderful feeling of being in his arms, being his.

. . . . .

Final Note:- and it is over. i know i’m perhaps being too sentimental but this fic means a lot to me. The prequel of this piece was my first ever request as a writer. it is very special for me. writing this was an experience i will never forget. thank you all once again. oh and yeah, HAPPY BIRTHDAY EXOLS! Let’s Love for a very long time! ily <3333

[tangerinesgf]

1 or 5 or 10 Fora Tangerine? I know I have no right to ask this, but the last piece you wrote emotionally destroyed me 🥲, could this piece not be angsty...super pretty please????

Tangerine x reader (gender isn't specified, but reader is described as having the body of a fab) 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

Tags/warnings: nsfw, smut, pwp, overstimulation, slight praise kink, oral(fem receiving), it's pretty filthy

A/N: Of course you can ask me that, don't worry this won't be angsty. I combined prompt 5 and 10. Hope you enjoy it and that it makes up for the last fic :)

Prompts 5/10; "Come on, I think you have one more in yourself for me." "Shh, relax, I've got you."

"Come on, love, I think you have one more in yourself for me."

"'s too m-much.."

Tangerine had just come back from yet another successful job and as usual he couldn't wait to celebrate it with you. The second he walked through the door his hands were all over you. On your way to the bedroom clothes were dropped all around the apartment.

You loved it when Tangerine got like this. Successfully completing his jobs gave him a significant amount of pride, adding to his self-esteem. It was like he could take on the world and that confidence translated itself to the bedroom.

Your hands were holding onto his hair like your life depended on it as Tangerine was currently building up your 4th orgasm of the night. He'd started with his fingers and managed to make you cum twice on his cock. In conclusion; you were completely fuck drunk on him.

Even after he was clearly exhausted from his own climax and fucking into you at a brutal pace, Tangerine decided he wasn't done with you yet. He could taste the mix of both juices from previous orgasms that were dripping from your cunt as he was eating you out.

"You're doin' amazing, luv, just one more, I promise." his voice was soft in comparison to the assault he was currently unloading on you pussy.

You wanted to call him out, tell him that he said the same thing one orgasm ago, yet showing no signs of stopping. However nothing except a whimper managed to leave your mouth as he managed to hit just the right spot. You were completely at his mercy.

He pulled you over the edge as he kept hitting your g-spot over and over again. Your hands let go his hair, your body falling limp on the mattress beneath you as he ripped another orgasm from of you.

"Tan.." You couldn't stop the moans from leaving your mouth as your orgasm washed over you. Tears were streaming down your face from the overstimulation and you shut your eyes to prevent more of them from slipping out. Your breathing was ragged and not a single coherent thought could be formed in your head.

"Shh, relax darlin', I've got you." Tangerine muttered as his tongue skillfully worked you through your climax. "You did so well."

Slowly you got your breathing back under control, eyes still closed. And after a few minutes, you were relieved that that had actually been the last one tonight.

You realized how wrong you were when you felt his thumb slightly pressing down on your clit. You opened your eyes to see a huge smirk on Tangerine's face, his mustache covered in both your juices . Before you could even question him on the look, he pushed two of his fingers back into your dripping cunt.

"Tan!" You squealed in surprise.

"Just one more, luv."

A/N: I actually really like this, so hope ya'll did too!

[silenzahra]

Fics I'm working on ✨

Hey there! I just thought that, since I'm a veeeery slow (and chaotic) writer, I could let you guys see a list of all the fics, AUs and HCs I'm working on or intend to work on in the near future! ✨

@itsavee4117 @vulpixfairy1985 @keakruiser @peaches2217 @bberetd would you like to take a look? 🥰

Since I take my notes mostly in Spanish, I'll comment and translate a few things:

-Firstly, two of those fics were inspired by two beautiful pieces I LOVE and could stare at forever: this one and this one. Guess the fics they've inspired are both pretty obvious 🤭😝 ("chillando" means "screaming" btw 🤭)

-Secondly, you'll see two AUs that are not mine, but to which I'd like to add my personal take! I'm pretty sure you're all familiar with @multicolour-ink's Anastasia AU 😍 I did write my own version of the ballroom scene, but still gotta go and correct it very deeply (that's actually what "corregir muy a fondo" means). Also, when Multi posted their Hunger Games AU, I mentioned that a few months ago, I went and wrote what could be the beginning of the Hunger Games with Mario and Luigi in the roles of Katniss and Prim, so that's there too! ("repasar y editar" = "revise and edit").

-Thirdly, I wanna go and finally finish my Luigi's Mansion fic, since the third and last chapter is long overdue! The Dream Team one is only a mere idea right now (haven't even taken notes yet), but regarding Superstar Saga, I have written one of the two fics that I mention up there! I gotta go and edit it and then write the other (for this one I have taken notes). Oh, and that Luigi's Mansion 3 fic you see there... Yes, it happens to be the angstier thing I've ever written 🤭 Gotta work on it so I can start posting it soon!

-... Yes, I have four AUs in mind 😬 I've actually written down notes for three of them (and I have the fourth in mind), but... The first two are based on two shows that I don't know how famous are around here? 😬😅 So I'm pretty unsure about posting them 😅 The other two are based on two famous movies, so I do intend to bring them someday. I just don't when yet 😅

-I also have a few HCs that I'd like to share with you guys soon! And of course they had to be focused on Luigi, my favorite Mario character, and Luaisy, my favorite couple 🤭 I love them so much I just couldn't resist! (Also: "cuquis" means "cuties" and is pronounced exactly the same way as "cookies"! 🥰) And about that last one... I've been wanting to write Luaisy smut for a few months now, and @itsavee4117's fic (please go read it if you haven't yet!) inspired me to give it a try (and your words of encouragement too 💖), but I'm still so insecure about it! 😅 I don't know if it'll end up happening someday, but hey, at least the intention is there! ("quiero pero no estoy segura socorro" literally means "I wanna but I'm not sure help" 😂 So yeah, you can see I am truly doubting on this one 😅)

-Last but not least, please allow me to bring back something from almost two months ago: this post. Yes, it's been too long, and I feel terribly sorry for @peaches2217 and @itsavee4117 since you both sent me prompts back in January (which I'm deeply grateful for 💖) and I still. Haven't. Answered. 😬 Dishonor on me and my cow for real.

But hey, you see the first two fics I've listed? Those are the prompts that you sent me and both have been written and are almost ready to finally be shown to the world! 😁 I actually intend to post one of them later today, so if you finally wish to see your questions answered, stay tuned! And again: sorry to keep you waiting for so long. I really hope the wait will be worth it 🫂🤞💖 (Also, thanks to @keakruiser, who also sent me a prompt from this list back in January, I wrote this fic based on Dream Team, so thanks a lot for your prompt, Kea! 💖)

This is it for now! If you have anything to say or ask or comment or whatever, feel free to do so! My asks are open! 💖 (I'll answer my pending asks tomorrow, btw! Promise! Thank you for sending them and sorry for taking too long to answer, I'll really work on fixing that 🫂💖)

Here's my AO3 in case you wanna go check any of the fics I've posted so far! ✨

If you read everything, thank you so so much! 🫂 Love you, dear friends! 💖

[ferindencadash]

And now for a little shameless self-promotion!!

@spectre-requisitions-exchange 2024 has officially ended and the authors have been revealed! Which means I can talk about all the stuff I wrote! (I may have gone a little overboard...)

In addition to my first assignment, I picked up a pinch hit. And then I was feeling so inspired I wrote another two treats! I have been on a writing bender and it feels good! Not gonna lie, I'm pretty proud of myself. 😌

So my fics this year were:

T-rated (my first non-explicit fic!! 😅) FemShep/Ashley pairing. For @biotickaidan

Set in ME3, Ash has a crisis of fate after her near-death experience and talks things through with Shepard. A romance is rekindled.

People have been SO NICE about this fic?? I have never had so many comments before, it's honestly blowing my mind. Y'all are so sweet. 🥹

E-rated Jack/Kasumi (t4t!!) for @krahka

Be gay, do crime! Set pre-ME2, Jack and Kasumi accidentally end up committing the same crime. Hijinks ensue™️ and things get a little sexy.

This was ridiculously fun to write and very challenging. I watched a ton of heist movies to prepare for this one! 😂

E-rated MShep/James Vega for @ginbiscuit

Set between ME2 and 3, while James is guarding Shep in lock up. Shep is bored and entertains himself by being an incorrigible flirt. James tries to behave. You can guess how well that goes.

I think this is actually my favourite fic I have ever written?? I really think it's quite good. I fell in love with those two idiots while they fell in love with each other. Ethan Shepard may just have some future adventures, cause goddamnit HE IS CUTE. And I'm proud of my baseball metaphor (gods I hope someone notices 😭).

Please read this one? For me? 🥺

And finally! M-rated Tali & Jack for @beltsquid

Set during ME2. Tali is having a bad day. Jack is having a bad day and is making it everyone else's problem. Together they clean out the Normandy's bar and an unexpected friendship(?) develops.

I literally just finished this one a few hours ago. 😅My first gen fic! The prompt was fantastic and super inspiring. These two are so great together and I had so much fun exploring their relationship.

There were even more fantastic prompts I really wanted to write, but time is short! So I'll save them for next year. ;)

Now that I am finally done writing, I am going to delve into the rest of the fics available in the collection! There are SO MANY I'm excited to check out! So definitely look out for a recommendation list in the next few days. Or just go poke around the collection yourself!!

[lucy-sky]

Ink (Griff x f!Reader)

Tushy Tuesday prompts: doggy position; spanking (well... just once :'D)

You've got a surprise for Griff for your anniversary.

Warnings: you can see them in the prompts + a bit of fingering and Griff being kinda possessive; also please think before having someone’s name tattooed on you :DD

Words: 752; AO3 link if you prefer reading there

A/N: Literally last minute kind of thing - I wrote it late at night after visiting my relatives and having a few glasses of champagne, also I've never written Griff before, so I apologize if this one sucks :'DD

“Whoa!” Griff exclaims as you open the door, “Damn, sweetheart… You missed me that much?”

Being with Griff sure as hell is a wild ride. He could disappear for weeks, hiding from the police after another criminal shit he got himself into, then storm back into your life like a hurricane sweeping you off your feet. Your friends told you you’ve lost your mind, and maybe they’re not completely wrong after all, but… You know Griff loves you in his own way, you know he would fight for you, and maybe that’s what keeps you together for such a long while. Today’s your first anniversary - a year ago you met him at a local bar and the spark between you was so bright that you ended up in bed together on that same night. Who knew it’s gonna be something more than a drunken one night stand?

You’re well prepared for the occasion: a new set of lingerie only slightly covered with a silk dressing gown that you didn’t bother to tie up, heels (you’re not really into them but something tells you you’re not gonna walk much tonight) and stockings, of course. From the way Griff is eyeing you right now, licking his lips as if you’re his favorite dessert, you can tell the outfit choice was right.

“Course I did, baby… I always miss you,” you smirk, impatiently tugging him inside and closing the door shut before wrapping your arms around him. “What about you, tough guy? Did you miss me?” 

“How d’you think?” he goes in a low raspy voice before crushing his lips on yours in a fiery kiss as if he’s about to devour you. Griff’s kisses are furious, possessive, almost bruising, all teeth and tongue, and it never fails to make your knees go weak.

“I got a surprise for you,” you whisper in your most sultry tone as you push Griff’s jacket down his shoulders.

“Oh yeah, is that a good one?” he chuckles, squeezing your backside in a firm grip to pull you even closer.

“You’ll see.”

His clothes are quickly discarded as well as your dressing gown somewhere on the way to the bedroom. Your lips are already swollen with passionate kisses as you land on the bed.

“Shit, look at you, sweetheart - you’re fuckin’ gorgeous! I’d eat you alive, I swear,” Griff might not be the most poetic guy when it comes to compliments, but he always sounds like he hundred percent means it. “Wanna get on all fours for me, darlin’?”

There it is, the moment you’ve been waiting for. Biting your lip, you obey, slowly turning your back to him, revealing a new tattoo on your lower back.

“Wait, uh… Is that real?” you can feel his fingers brushing against your skin.

“It is, yep,” you reply, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Lost my tattoo virginity a couple of weeks ago. You like it?”

“That’s pretty hot, not gonna lie,” he leans down, pressing kisses along the curve of your spine while his big hands squeeze and knead your buttcheeks. “Is that your surprise, huh?”

“Well it’s actually even hotter if you look closer…” you hint. You’re actually kinda proud of this design. At first glance it looks just like a random pattern, but an attentive viewer can notice the letters…

“Holy shit, is that… Is that my name?”

“Uh-huh. You like being an inspiration for my very first tattoo?” you chuckle.

“Shit, babe. That’s real sexy of you. Get over here,” he groans, seizing your hips. You giggle as he keeps grunting while tugging down your panties using his teeth. Being too impatient though he helps himself with his hands, and you gasp out loud when his fingers find their way between your folds.

“That’s my girl. So wet for me,” he praises, curling his fingers at exactly the right angle, his thumb grazing against your clit.

“Hey sweetheart,” his voice rumbles above you as you melt in the blissful sensations of his fingers inside you. “Did you uh… When you got the tattoo… you didn’t have to take off your pants, did ya?”

“What?” you snort, “Of course not, are you kidding me? It’s not on my butt or something, why would I- oh!” you let out a whimper when his free hand lands on your butcheek with a hard smack. 

“Good,” he hums contently, withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with the tip of his cock. “‘Cause that sweet ass of yours only belongs to me.”

Thank you for reading!

[geo-winchester]

Hello, love! Firstly, you don't need to apologize for taking some time to write, that's completely normal and understandable! Second, may I request an imagine of Taron showing off his gf on his story (close friends, public or post whatever you'd like!) and just being an amazing and supporting bf?

Take all the time you need! No rush at all!!!!

BOOK THIEF

A/N: hi lovely anon, thanks you so much for you’re request and for your patients, I hope this is what you want, and also I hope that you wouldn’t mind that I used this photo prompt from @writer-wednesday I saw it and I thought about this story, I hope I didn’t disappoint you and that you like it!!🩵

Taron Egerton masterlist

——————

If you were honest, these days were your favorites, when you don’t have anything to do but to go to the local market and just see what they have. You also have another reason why you love this kind of places, you remember it pretty well. A few years ago you find this market, sometimes you went after your shift ended or, just like that time, you were free and decide to look at the local business, after a few locals, you found this little van, full of books, you were amazed about the amount of it, you took your time reading all the titles, you read them all three times, trying to figure it out which books will come home with you, you were about to take one of them when someone took it at the same time, the guy in front of you were taller than you, with blue eyes, brown hair and he was giving you a smirk.

-Excuse me this is mine- you said I was a little defensive.

-Huh, really?- he said -Can I see your name in it?- you took the book as you wrote your name in it.

-There it is- you said with a smirk.

-Nice to meet you, Yn.

-I like to say the same thing, book thief.

-Taron, my name is Taron Egerton…

-Mr. Egerton, I can’t believe you’re buying in my bookstore, take it, it's in the house- Taron notices you’re surprised by the reaction of the old man.

-Excuse me- he said -do you have any other copies of this book, my friend over here wants one too…

-It’s useless I didn’t see another copy on the van- the old man nodded.

-Last copy sir- he said before he went with another customer.

-So, book thief, you’re famous?

-Kind of- you nod.

-This isn’t the only store where you were robbed?- he laughed.

-I’m an actor- he said -I was a thief, I played Robin hood.

-Oh my God… You’re that guy from robin hood? I can believe it- he rolled his eyes at your acting -you deserve it.

-How can I repair to you- You thought for a moment, before you took the book again and wrote something down before you handle it to him -I tell you what, I have a few other book here- you said as you show them to him -when you finish that book, maybe you can let me borrow it?- he nodded- my phone would be on the book so you won’t forget about it.

-I can also buy you a cup of coffee that day- you smiled.

-That would be nice- you said before you pay the old man and leave.

Taron stood there a couple minutes watching you disappear in the crowd, he took a photo from the van and posted it in his Ig stories, he started to look at other locals when he got a text from instagram he smiled at the phrase.

“Book thief”

It’s been a while since that day, you start to spend a lot of time together, and in one moment you start a relationship, at first you were a little private about your relationship, but you start to appear more often on his social media, his favorite photos are when you are playing with Nelly, you always took embarrassing photos about him, something he pretend to hate, but he love its because it make you laugh. That day you decide to go to the same market you met, he keep taking pictures of you with Nelly, he took one when you were giving her a threat, but the two of you stop when you saw the van full of books, you took your time watching the books, you started to collect the books you were going to buy when Taron took one before you did.

-And the book thief attacked again- You said making him laugh -By the way you never let me borrow that book.

-You never asked about it- he said.

-I always had the intention to ask for it but I was always distracted by something else- he smirked.

-Ir was me, right?- he said.

-No, it was this beautiful girl- you said as you pet Nelly -yes lovely, it was you, who’s a good girl- you heard the sound of the camera and looked at taron, he showed you his phone.

-Did you just call Nelly a girlfriend thief?- he shrugged.

-I’m starting to think that you’re just with me because of her.

-shit you just found out my plan- you said dramatically -they said that the dogs are like their owners, book thief.

-You love to call me that, aren’t you?

-It’s still your name on my phone, I just put a heart in it- he pretends to be offended -I never thought I would fall in love with a thief.

-I love you too, love, very very much- he said -and I’ll buy you all the books you want.

-Fuck, I fall in love all over again- you said making you giggles, he put his arm around your shoulder and kiss you temple.

-come on love, let’s get you your books.

[meggie-stardust]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Thanks to the ever lovely @lucky-bishop for the tag! <3

How many works do you have on ao3?

74! Which feels both like a lot and not that much at the same time.

What's your total ao3 word count?

270,119?!

What fandoms do you write for?

Right now primarily Teen Wolf and I recently revisited my first fandom of Gundam Wing. I've also written a ton for BBC Merlin, Percy Jackson/Heroes Of Olympus, BBC Sherlock, Harry Potter, Newsies and random other things...

Top five fics by kudos:

Act of Man | BBC Merlin | Arthur/Merlin

Nightmares | PJO/HoO | Percy/Jason

Looking for the Thing We Lost | Teen Wolf | Peter/Stiles

Here I Am (Stuck in the Middle With You) | PJO/HoH | Percy/Jason

Know How A Man Becomes a Beast | Teen Wolf | Peter/Stiles

Do you respond to comments?

Yes, on all of my stuff from the past few years. There are older fics that I've opted not to respond to comments on for varying reasons, but I do read them all.

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

When I have angst, I like to have it with a happy ending, but I would probably say this fliclette I wrote based on the prompt: "Can you do a Jasercy fic where Jason is trying to comprehend the fact that Percy's gone, preferably death, but it doesn't have to be."

A Slow Deep Panic | PJO/HoO | Jason/Percy

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I really like the end of Stuck Between Stations. After putting Stiles and Peter in the Wild Hunt and in time loop, the least I could do was give them a happy ending.

Do you get hate on fics?

Not hate, but I have gotten weird comments. I usually just ignore if they are just odd, but I have also deleted comments that are boarding on hate.

Do you write smut?

Yep!

Craziest crossover:

Aside from one HP/Sherlock fic that was co-written with my bestie and that we both abandoned, I don't really do long form crossovers (and that one wasn't crazy anyway). That said, there was a tumblr prompt game years ago, that was for 3 sentence fics and almost every prompt I got was a crazy crossover:

Dean and Castiel. Fight Club

MJN crew (bonus points for including Herc Shipwright). Supernatural hunters.

Sherlock/John. Teenagers working at Mooby's (View Askewniverse).

Jack/Spot, Night Vale AU.

Arthur and Eames. Exorcism.

You can read all of these and a few others: 3 Sentence Fic Collection. And actually, this was a fun trend, we should bring it back.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware of, and knock on wood it never happens.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes! A few actually, and it's always so, so, so flattering:

Acts of Man was translated into Chinese

Black Sails in the Sunset was translated into Português

Looking for the Thing We Lost was translated into Russian

This is a perfect time to say that I am always open to my fics being translated, podficced, remixed, etc. Just let me know so I can gush about it!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes, the aforementioned abandoned HP/Sherlock fic, but it's been ages. @punchedbymarkesmith and I have kicked around some collab ideas, which I think would both be a blast and also for a potentially niche audience. Maybe 2024 is the year this happens!

All time favourite ship?

Steter is the one I've stuck with the longest, but I do have a few that I will always return to in the same way you might eat a comfort meal.

What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Look, I really, really want to finish It's Only Forever. I have like 1, maybe 2 chapters left. But it's been so long and I feel like my writing has changed, and idk. Every year I say I'm going to work on it, and every year I don't... le sigh.

What are your writing strengths?

I think I'm really good at finding a small moment in canon and then diverging from that. I also think I'm good at authentic dialogue and I think I'm pretty good at world building.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Action/fighting. Keeping things short unless it's a drabble/other restrictive format.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

I am not fluent enough in any language other than English to do this confidently. Instead, I would write something like:

Stiles cursed at them wildly in Polish.

or

Peter responded in French, then turned back to Stiles and resumed their conversation in English.

First fandom you wrote in?

Gundam Wing. All of my old fic from *cough* 20+ years ago is lost to the annals of time (actually some is still on archived GW 1x2 sites if you look hard enough). And if you are one of like 7 people who remember my username, you can find my Newsies and Harry Potter fic (my next two fandoms) still on ffn. After I got out of a bad relationship that kept me from my own interests, including fandom, I returned with BBC Sherlock fic, which you can still find on AO3 if you scroll to the beginning of my profile.

Favorite fic you've written?

Gosh, I feel like this changes all the time, but I am particularly proud of At This Truth We Have Arrived. I loved exploring certain aspects of Peter's character, and doing a different take on Nogistune Stiles. I was also able to incorporate a lot of different themes and elements into it, as well as get my own closure with Monroe, something that has bugged me since the finale. Plus, I think I was able to accomplish a reveal that would add extra elements if anyone went back and re-read the story (even if I somewhat show my hand if anyone paid attention to the epigraph).

I have no idea who has done this yet, since I sat on this for a bit... so no pressure tags for @lolahardy @mirrorthoughts @myletternevercame @punchedbymarkesmith @midmorning-bomb @like-lazarus

[yellowsunflowerheart]

Prompt idea:

IronStrange no!powers AU wherein Stephen goes into education after his accident, adopts America, and realizes that he has a passion for working with kids, so he takes a job teaching biology and chemistry at a private academy for gifted children in K-12 in upstate New York. It isn't long before he becomes the PTA liason for the school, and immediately he's proven to be great at his job.

Meanwhile, Tony Stark has been divorced for a few years now, but his family has only grown with the adoption of Peter and Harley. After discovering that the boys have been struggling with a bullying problem, Tony decides to move all three of his kids to this academy Pepper and May had told him about, and buys a house in the area. All three of his kids thrive there, and Peter and Harley won't shut up about their new science teacher, so when they come home with a flyer from him asking parents to volunteer for the annual autumn carnival, Tony finds himself attending a PTA info meeting and immediately becomes smitten with the alluring Doctor Strange. Pretty soon, Tony finds himself volunteering for every PTA event just to spend a little more time with Stephen, completely oblivious to the fact that his growing crush isn't unrequited. Bonus points if America is fast friends with Peter and Harley, and Morgan adores Stephen too. Additional bonus points if Stephen is just as oblivious as Tony- gotta love that pining, lol.

Sorry if that's too much detail for a prompt, I just love your style so much and I think you could really do something like this justice

Can you hear me singing?! I really love this prompt, thank you so much for sending it!!

It’s gonna take me a while unfortunately, as I’m currently working full time and writing some other fics, so I wrote this whole thing for the meantime (I’m thinking the actual fic is going to have to be chaptered to get the full effect, I’m getting a million ideas already for this one).

~

This prompt kind of ties in with this idea I’ve been wanting to write about Stephen actually delivering America, and that’s how they meet and he actually meets and adopts her through the connection there.

The idea has been sitting in my list for a while, because I’ve never had anything to follow up with, but I think it would be cool to add in this fic (because I love Doctor Dad and backstories, I’m sorry).

Maybe America’s Mum’s have an accident on the way to the hospital, and Stephen has to emergency deliver her because he’s the only Doctor available at the time.

Maybe her Mum’s both passed away then, and she’s an orphan baby now

Or maybe they’re all okay, but another accident years down the track claims their lives, and Stephen finds out she’s an orphan

Or he meets her again in the hospital because she goes looking for the doctor who delivered her while she’s staying there recovering herself from the accident. Even better if this is in the same timeline as Stephen’s accident, and they’re both patients and they build a connection during the long hours of having no where else to go.

He wasn’t really looking to be a Dad, but something deep inside of him is really drawing him to her. He can’t stand to let her fade into the unknown, so he puts his hand up for carer, and later he makes the adoption official.

Let’s headcanon she’s really smart, but because of her dislexia, it’s hard for her to put her thoughts on paper. So Stephen tutors her and they have these brainstorming nights where they just talk science all night long, and he realises he likes this, teaching kids, they’re so optimistic and artistic and anything is possible to them.

He lost that optimism spark a long time ago, but she’s reigniting it again.

So he starts looking for teaching jobs, thinks of maybe starting his own after school club or something, when an old college professor of his, who finished out his last working years at a gifted school, retires and actually recommends Stephen. He’s heard about Stephen’s accident and thinks this’ll be good for him.

It has to be a sign, that the job practically found Stephen, and it’s so close to home they could walk, and America gets a free education and all the resources she wants- whatever career she decides to pursue.

So he accepts the job. Has five crisis’, almost a breakdown before he starts, but America drags him in the school gates their first morning. And he’s worried, that he’ll hate these kids, or they’ll hate him, and they’ll be annoying and disinterested, disrespectful, or ask a million questions about his hands.

But they hit him rapid fire with questions from the very first bell, and when they realise Stephen really knows his stuff, they’re actually super excited to be in his class.

This won’t be a year of boring lectures from a textbook, Stephen is interesting, and not afraid of gore or messiness. His classes are interesting and real, and it hits Stephen one day, that these kids are wanting to grow up and be doctors and research scientists because of him.

He may not be the king of an operating theatre anymore, but being the king of a classroom of young minds, where he’s making hundreds of other masters of their craft is… wow, this is so much more important than anything else he’s ever been and he loves it.

Meanwhile, Tony has primary custody of his three kids. He’s stepped back a little from work and the limelight (leaving Pep to be CEO of Stark Industries) and he’s really just enjoying being a Dad. These kids are healing traumas he didn’t even knew he had. He still can’t believe he’s kind of good at it.

Pepper and May are still involved in the kids lives, they’ve all got their routines and their family dynamic works seamlessly. They’re both thriving in their careers, and Tony is equally happy for them.

He isn’t at all prepared for the day he’s phoned to the principals office, and Peter and Harley are both pouting and Harley has an actual black eye, and for a second, Tony questions his humanity, because he’s going to kill whoever did that to Harley.

He fusses over the boys until one of the school officials comes along and invites them into the office. Neither of the kids would tell him anything, they’ve never been so shut down with him before, practically sticking to one another silently and refusing to tell him anything.

It all makes sense when he’s told the boys have been the targets of bullying at the school. It literally shatters his heart, and he doesn’t understand why they never told him, until it’s revealed half of the awful things said to them are mockeries surrounding their relationship with Tony.

“I bet you don’t even know Tony Stark” “He’s just using you for good PR because you’re so pathetic” “He only adopted you to look good” “Tony must be ashamed that you’re his sons” “I hope Tony comes to his senses and drops you back on the doorstep you came from.”

Tony un-enrols them on the spot, shouts some choice words to the heads of the school who have allowed this to go on to the point where it became physical, and takes the boys home and cuddles them for two days straight, heartbreakingly icing Harley’s black eye.

Late at night, Pepper and May have heard all about it, while the boys are sleeping. Tony’s wanting names- the kids names, family names, Tony wants to take down anyone and everyone associated with whoever has been picking on his kids, but the women talk Tony out of becoming a bully himself, pushing him into devoting his energy to the kids and giving them a fresh start.

When Pepper is dropping Morgan back off at the end of the weekend, she and Tony discuss the situation, and Pepper tells him about a school for the extraordinarily gifted, like their three children.

She’s heard good things, and she’ll look into it for him. She’s not really happy with Morgan’s school either, and Tony agrees, and it might be easier if all three kids went to the same school.

A week later, Tony is ushering three nervous faces in the gates, holding all three hands. He’s keeping it together- business cold, hoping if he’s calm, it’ll calm the kids. He spends the day stress pacing and calling the school to check that there hasn’t been any incidents.

His said his goodbyes in the morning to three quiet, anxious children, and is bombarded at the gates that afternoon by three smiling, laughing, shouting kids, all talking over each other to tell him about their day.

Their hair is in shambles, they’re literally buzzing. Meanwhile Tony’s been on the verge of vomiting all day with anxiety.

A couple weeks go by, and the hype stays. Tony feels good about making the decision to enrol them there, so good that he’s happy to pack up their life and move closer to the school. Out of their apartment and into a home. It’s a little further away from Pep and May, but they’re happy with the move, too.

Every afternoon the kids brag for hours about school, and Tony hasn’t missed that Doctor Strange is the favourite teacher by far as the boys are concerned. They love his science lessons, love his teaching, his experiments, his guidance. Also, his homework is actually cool, even Tony can admit that, so he gets bonus points.

A few months go by, and Tony is actually hoping parent teacher meetings come up soon, because he so wants to meet this Doctor Strange, who is good as God to the boys. Tony’s even considered reaching out and making one, under a false pretence that he wants to check the boys are warming well to their new school.

So when the boys come home one day, a couple months later, with a flyer from the one Doctor Strange about the upcoming PTA meeting, Tony see’s it as the perfect opportunity to meet the man. They’re also seeking donations for the autumn carnival, and Tony is sure he can sort something out with Pep, so that he has an excuse to speak to the man one on one.

Peter and Harley are insisting he should go, he’s gonna love Doctor Strange, and honestly, Tony’s kind of got a weird little crush? on the man. Even though they’ve never met, the boys have talked so much about him Tony honestly feels like he knows him.

So, he puts on some nice dress pants and a button up and more casual jacket, and goes to his first ever PTA meeting.

He phones May in the car park, kind of freaking out, and she talks him into taking the last steps into the building.

Tony has loved being a Dad, and he’s done all this school stuff before, but suddenly, he’s really spooked at the idea of attending an actual PTA meeting. Suddenly he’s feeling totally inadequate being there.

He’s glued himself to the drinks table at the entrance, and Tony Stark has never, ever been shy, but he feels like he doesn’t really belong there.

Meanwhile, Doctor Strange has noticed a new face at the meeting, and makes his way over to welcome him. He wasn’t expecting Tony Stark, but he’s glad at least one of his students parents read the flyer and actually turned up.

They talk, and Stephen calms him down while Tony is very steadily growing heart eyes.

Stephen is so authoritative, and well spoken, and intelligent, and actually Peter and Harley don’t brag enough, this man is incredible. He’s so thorough and clear running the meeting, he’s organised and has such great ideas.

Tony’s afraid to stand up out of his seat afterwards, he’s fairly certain he might be more than a little turned on.

So he says his goodbyes and goes home to 1) research more about this Doctor Strange, and 2) find something good to donate/contribute to this carnival so he has an excuse to talk to the man again.

They meet casually here and there, talk politely, and Tony finds any and every excuse for them to bump into each other again as soon as possible. It might as well be Christmas the day Tony finds out Harley’s new best friend America is Stephen’s daughter!!!!

She’s got an infinite invitation to the Stark house, so long as her Dad drops her off and picks her up so Tony can see him.

Tony gets more and more involved in the PTA, just to be close to Stephen, and they get friendlier and friendlier, and Tony’s crush is bigger than Jupiter now, and all the kids are teasing him about it, but who could blame him?

Stephen is perfect, and such a good Dad, and god Tony just wants the man in his house for the rest of their lives.

Maybe they have a lot of almosts.

Getting stuck together at he top of a ferris wheel at the carnival, but they never quite kiss.

They go tea tasting together, and Tony could fucking spit it back in his mug, but he swallows every sample for Stephen.

They decorate the hall for prom, and chaperone and they almost kiss again under the lights like a teenage dream. But they don’t.

Tony’s so fucking desperate he might just steal a kiss.

Maybe on the school camping trip they go on, or at the competition where Harley and America win first prize for their invention. Maybe while they’re cooking for charity work, or when Tony invites Stephen to the tower and lets him poke around at their research.

In the end, it’s simple. It late at night, and goodbyes are too hard when they’re this tired.

Tony kisses Stephen, and later, when his head is clear, he can’t believe that Stephen actually kissed him back. He literally goes to bed smiling that night.

It’s Stephen who suggests their first date, and everything falls into place from there.

Eventually, America and Stephen pack up their apartment and move into the Stark’s house, and they do bonfires, and light marshmallows. Friday nights are for movie marathons, and Saturdays are usually spent brainstorming world changing devices and medicines.

They’re happy, and in love, and a family.

Tony and Stephen both adopt all children, and Stephen gets to know Pepper and May, and they all go together to the kids big functions, and share tissues and embarrass them all every time.

And even well past the older kids graduation, Tony is a familiar face around school.

The husband of everyone’s favourite Doctor Strange, always at his husbands side, practically a trophy-spouse, making sure everything is in order and his husband is happy and successful in his endeavours.

Everyone knows them, everyone loves them. They’re the it couple, even though they’re both in their fifties now.

They visit the kids at college all the time, and vacation most of the rest of their spare time.

They’re happy, and eventually they downsize to a small cottage and live a simple life together in one another’s company, far from everything that was difficult in their earlier lives.

They watch the kids take over Tony’s company and do great things, and they feel so incredibly lucky this is their lives. It’s been perfect.

[hello-im-not-a-possum]

So I saw a post you made a long time ago of hs shennanigans and there was one idea where hs Sammy went on vacation and during the time he wasn't at the studio, it was chaos at the studio as the ink was searching for a new victim to be it's new "lightning rod" I found that so funny XD I ain't sure if you take requests but it'd be hilarious to see some small/short fic out of it!

(I've pretty much never stopped taking requests, it's just that I haven't gotten a lot of them lately.)

It didn't start with a flood, but an obnoxious and persistent dripping. Minor inconveniences; a puddle of ink that made itself known only after the Janitor put his mop and bucket away, a pipe that broke the second the one across from it was fixed by the mechanic, a frame that had to be redrawn by the artist because a certain imp swapped the normal pens with black ink for pens that wrote in pink, sparkly, strawberry-scented ink...

Things that normal people in a normal animation studio would dismiss as a normal day with a bit of bad luck. Things that at first, the normal and abnormal people in the VERY abnormal animation studio dismissed as a normal day with bad luck...

...Until Joey looked at the calendar and paled in horror.

"IT'S JUNE 15TH!" He shouted at the top of his lungs while barging into as many rooms as quickly as he could, attempting to warn as many as possible. "EVERYBODY! IT'S JUNE 15TH! RUN AND HIDE WHILE YOU STILL CAN!"

"Joey, deep breaths..." The animator put his hand on his boss's shoulder in an attempt to steady him. "What's the problem with June 15th? I thought that the Inspectors were coming over on July 15th."

"Henry! The inspectors are nothing compared to this!" Joey exclaimed. "June 15th is the first day Sammy's left for his vacation!"

"Ooookay..?" Henry looked at the worried man, blinking owlishly as he still didn't grasp the severity of this dire situation.

"So? The Banjo man's out for a few days, big whoop." Bendy shrugged nonchalantly with an eye roll as he hopped over Henry's desk. "It's not like we have any tight deadlines on songs or anything, and even if we did, Mr. Fain's not *that* bad of a songwriter in his own right, so what's all the shouting and running around for?"

"It's..." Joey looked around and gestured the two to come close, as Henry and Bendy humored him, he whispered to the both of them. "The I-N-K..."

"Oh ^$@!ing son of a @*$%# we're completely #$@&ed..." Bendy's eyes went as wide as dinner plates before shaking his head and glaring at the loony cultist. "WHY DIDNTCHA SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THIS SOONER?! WE COULD'VE SENT LETTERS WARNING PEOPLE!"

"It completely slipped my mind!"

"Oh geez... well too late now..."

Bendy rubbed his temples in an over-exaggerated fashion while Henry stayed calm on the surface.

"Guys, I think we just need to stay calm and not feed into it. It does like it when people freak out, so if everyone pretends everything is normal, it won't mess with anyone. It works just like the toon logic thing where you only fall when you look down."

"Henry, that's only how it worked before we hired Sammy." Joey started to explain "But when it messed with him, he messed back and it had fun so now it gets bored and 'lonely' when he's gone, and when it gets bored and lonely, it tries to find someone to fill the void Sammy leaves, someone who has the same 'angry-spiteful' reaction to its antics, and to do that it starts causing problems ranging from mildly annoying to-"

SPLOOSH!

"...Destructive..."

"DANG IT! I *JUST* MOPPED DAT FLOOR!"

Wally shouted from right outside Henry's office door, prompting the three of them to peek out and see him confronting Thomas.

"I THOUGHT YA SAID YOU'D FIX DIS DANG THING!" The janitor rapped the broken pipe with the handle of his ink-soaked mop. "WHAT THE HECK IS ALL OF THIS?!"

"I FIXED THAT DAMN PIPE FIVE GODFORSAKEN MINUTES AGO! IF *YOU* WEREN'T KNOCKING THINGS OVER AND HITTING ALL OF THEM WITH MOPS AND BROOMS, *I* WOULDN'T NEED TO SPEND ALL MY TIME RUNNING AROUND FIXING EVERY PIPE YOU MANAGE TO BREAK!"

"WELL MAYBE THEY WOULDN'T BREAK EVERY TEN SECONDS IF YA USED SOMETHING STRONGER THAN TINFOIL! I'VE USED STRAWS STRONGER THAN YER PIPES!"

"OH, SO YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST BLAME *ME* FOR THIS?!"

As the ink started to drip on both Wally and Thomas, Joey, Bendy, and Henry gave each other a concerned look before looking back at them.

"I think it just found *two* replacement Sammies..." Joey murmured as he adjusted his glasses.

"...Should we warn them?" Henry asked the man and the demon.

"Well we could..." Bendy rolls his hand. "...But it's funnier for us and the ink if they find out themselves."

[lemontongues]

mkay here's the short story! i wrote it about 5 years ago and have done a bit of cleaning up on it, but it's still basically the same as the original. it's based on this prompt from r/writingprompts:

"You are a God/Goddess who is dying due to not having any followers. That is until one day you feel a sacrifice made in your honor, when you look down you see a cat with a dead mouse."

word count: 1,644

content warnings: themes and non-violent depictions of animal death. cat lovers in particular may want to tread lightly; please take care of yourself!

enjoy!

*

There’s nothing.

For a long, long time, there’s been nothing. You remember, vaguely, but not much. You remember that the others had spoken of this in only the faintest of whispers, in quiet, shaky words quickly hushed.

You don’t see anymore. You used to. You can recall that there were colors, shapes, motions. There were sounds, too, tastes and smells, although you’re not sure what they were like anymore. You think people used to bring you such things, things with shapes and scents and colors. Bright and lovely, and you know that you were happy. They were displays of affection, devotion, resentment, longing, pretty trinkets and delicious morsels wrapped in the glorious and chaotic tapestry of emotion that humans always wore so well.

But lately everything has seemed so dim.

There’s nothing, except for the deep, dreadful knowing that you are dying the slow and unforgiving death of the forgotten god.

.

There’s air in your lungs.

There’s air in your lungs, and you gasp, choking. It’s harsh and warm and wonderful all at once, your chest too full and too empty, your throat burning as it works desperately. Your eyes fly open, and it’s almost too much to bear. You see again, and you feel, the blue of the sky and the heat of the sun and the metallic taste of your own, golden blood in your mouth as you weep and retch and shudder.

You don’t know how long it takes before the world resolves into something more than dazzling flashes of sensation, something you can parse. There are still tears coursing down your cheeks, leaving warm, itchy tracks along your skin, but no part of you can bear the thought of wiping them away, not when they feel like something.

You think it might be a long time before the heaving of your shoulders eases and the tears dry on your face, and it’s enough of a marvel that you still have a face, a body, an existence, that you almost forget what brought you back in the first place.

There it is. A tiny tug at the back of your mind, the faintest sensation of… annoyance, maybe? Impatience? It’s been so long since you’ve felt anything like it that you’re not sure you still have the words for it. Still, someone is waiting for you, and you push yourself to your feet, reveling in the pressure against your palms and the sharp ache of your knees.

You find yourself in the most sacred chamber of your dwelling, where you had lain yourself down in desperate hope, to be closer to prayers that had long since stopped coming. It almost makes you ill to look at it now, a wave of nausea that still thrills you as you gaze around yourself at the grave of your own choosing.

It doesn’t look so lovely as it once did. Most of the temple doorways have crumbled, collapsed, been dusted with snow or soot or shot through with creeping greenery. None of them are carefully tended to, clean and cheerful the way you remember them, and only a scant few still stand at all.

The tugging at the back of your head turns you slowly, trying to recall how you used to do this, follow that sensation to the source of the prayer. The feeling leads you left, and your eyes scan each ruined altar, but you can’t find—

There.

So small you nearly miss it. A faint, steady swishing like a paintbrush against a canvas, and a tiny splash of red against an altar that’s covered in the dusty brown and jeweled green of forest dirt and moss.

You’re not ready for the emotions that swell in you at the sight. An offering. After so long, so many years waiting, so many ages in the suffocating half-death of an immortal, someone has found you again. Joy and grief overwhelm you as you approach your own altar on your knees, awestruck and elated. Prickling wetness blurs your vision, but you reach out and cup the precious offering in trembling hands.

It’s small and soft and just barely warm, brownish and red and faintly damp. Raising it to your face, you blink away the tears.

It’s a dead mouse.

You don’t drop it. You don’t vomit, although that stubborn wave of nausea rises in your throat again. You cup it to your chest, press your lips carefully against it, just as you did long ago with the most precious of humanity’s hand-crafted offerings, the finest jewelry, the most savory and sumptuous of meals left at your altar. You try not to weep again as you bow solemnly to your lone worshipper. Your voice is a broken whisper, but you mean every word.

“Beloved child, you have done me the greatest of services. You have saved me from a lonely and terrible death, and I will be forever in your debt. Should you ever need my blessing or my guidance, you need only call upon me, for so long as you or your descendants walk this earth.”

The small, brindled cat blinks once, slowly, and stalks off with its tail in the air.

.

There’s an impressive collection of mouse skeletons in your chamber.

Each one is carefully preserved, the tiny bones laid out neatly in chronological order, and you remember each offering fondly. Hers are all in one corner close to your dais, with the smaller but growing collections from each of the kittens grouped below. You know you’ll run out of room eventually and have to start exploring what’s left of the other rooms in your old home to find more space for your treasures, but all this time it’s just felt like too daunting a task.

You wonder, sometimes, if the other gods know what you’re up to, if they think you odd or foolish. They probably felt you wake up, although you haven’t seen hide nor hair of any of them. You haven’t missed them. It’s good enough to be alive, to have one small follower and her broods of offspring to worship you in their strange way.

You can’t remember what you used to be the god of. You think by now, you’re probably a god of cats.

Maybe that’s why you’ve had an uncomfortable feeling prickling in the back of your mind for a long time now. It’s been stewing at the base of your skull, creeping slowly down your spine, a cold, shuddering feeling that’s too close to knowing for your own comfort.

Her fur is duller than it used to be. There’s cloudiness in her eyes, a hesitation in her smooth gait. It’s all too familiar; you ignored it, ignored it, ignored it until it was too late for you, but in her body, it’s impossible not to recognize.

You’ve had many followers in your time. Many who adored you, loved you so passionately they would have poured out their own lifeblood for your satisfaction, had you been such a god. Many who wept to you, begged you, kept their faith in you until their dying breath, and who you tried to do right by. You had loved them all, from the most devout to the most cynical half-believers, even those who had come to revile you when you couldn’t turn their luck.

But none of them have been so precious to you as the cat. You still think of her that way, although there are many cats now. The cat saved you, that first day and every day after, and the cat has been faithful even as she turns her back on you, disdains you, ignores your promises and your blessings. At first, you hadn’t known what to make of her, not after a lifetime of obvious, elaborate displays of human affection. Slowly, you’ve come to realize that she loves you, too, in her own capricious way.

You know what’s coming, in the same way that you knew, in a quiet, awful corner of your mind, what was coming when you laid down that last time.

.

The cat is at your altar again.

No, not quite—the cat is on your altar, and dreadful understanding washes through you as you watch her. She stumbles, her paws not quite holding her, and you want to reach out and catch her, to comfort her in her final moments, but such a crossing is impossible for you. Her children and grandchildren are there, all around the altar as far back as you can see, rows and rows of them sitting eerily silent, solemn and watching.

She stumbles, and your heart wrenches. You weep bitterly, and though you know you must watch these final moments, the greatest offering you’ll ever receive, you can’t seem to wipe the tears away fast enough to clear your vision. With awful finality, she topples, collapsing against the stone she’s spent years sweeping slowly clean with her tail, and you feel her last heartbeat as your own, a thousand times worse than any death you could ever suffer. The permanence of it clutches at you, the helplessness bleeding you dry, and you howl your despair, blind with pain as the grief scrapes you raw.

For a long time, you cover your face with your hands, lost to your own shame and suffering, to the piercing ache of a loneliness that the cat had spent her life rescuing you from, one dead mouse at a time. You cry in a way you never have before, shuddering sobs rolling through you like waves, so huge and fast they nearly choke you.

The loss of her, the terrible knowledge that the little creature who saved you over and over again is gone now, forever beyond your immortal reach, is overwhelming. So overwhelming, so suffocating, that you almost miss the impatient swat of a paw against your knee.