#lin.prompts

[threadbearsweater]

lin dearest beloved... if you're still taking prompts!! could we see oliver with a black out or a messy makeup vanity?? and perhaps 🫣 nsfw if it fits!!! 🩷

cw: public fuckery, actor au. absolutely not proofread.

"Fifteen minutes to curtain!"

"Thank you fifteen!" a scattered chorus of voices calls back in answer. Twenty or so of your fellow actors rush to put together the last of their opening number outfits. The small, humid space does little to relax any of you. If anything, you're more on edge now that you're painfully aware of how little time you have left to get ready. It's suddenly louder and more intense as the tension builds. You can hear the crowd upstairs gathering in their seats through the monitors and your hand trembles so much that you have to steady it with your other one so you don't fuck up your eyeliner.

"Should have had that done an hour ago."

Your helpful co-star pulls up a chair beside you and straddles it backwards, smirking at you in such a way that his dimples make you dizzy. He surveys the state of your vanity with a click of his tongue and a disapproving shake of his stupid head.

"What do you want, Oliver?"

"That's a good question," he says, finding your eyes in the mirror and raising one brow just enough that you immediately know what he's going to propose. You pause and give him a petulant puff of air through your nose.

"In your dreams. We're on in ten minutes."

"Fourteen, actually. And I only need five."

Someone nearby gets a little trigger happy with a can of hairspray when you lay your brow pencil down and open your mouth to shoo Oliver away. You inhale and taste the aerosol on the back of your tongue when he leans over to kiss you. It's reckless and borderline pornographic, but you're so pliable and willing when he fits his hand under your jaw and tilts you up for a better angle.

Inches away, there's a collective groan of the remaining cast unfortunate enough to be in the room when Oliver lifts you to sit on the vanity table with your back to the mirror.

"Oliver–"

"I'll be quick–"

"We can't–" He's already got his hand worked under your tights. An open eyeshadow pallete digs into your ass cheek when pushes you back further against the mirror. Two tubes of lipstick roll to the floor with a clatter.

The stage manager calls again. "Ten minutes to curtain!"

"Thank you ten!" You choke on the words when Oliver shoves his tongue down your throat.

The orchestra begins to play the overture. You grind against Oliver's hand and squeeze your eyes shut so you aren't aware of anyone stupid enough to linger for a pre-show. Part of the thrill for you is being watched, and he knows this. He takes full advantage of your not-so-little secret and laughs against your cheek when he feels your pulse quicken under his fingertips.

"Hurry up," you whisper, opening your eyes just a sliver. A handful of your cast mates remain, but all of them are preoccupied. Or at least, they're pretending to be.

"You're in control, babe. I'm just your navigator."

You can't cum. Not here, not like this. You wish you were as uninhibited as the character you play on stage; sadly, you have a bit more self preservation. Not much, though.

Oliver persists, but you grab his wrist and shift yourself away, smearing your lipstick across his cheek. "Can't do it. Not here."

"Five minutes!"

"Thank you five!"

You're scrambling on the floor under your vanity for a rogue tube of lipstick. Oliver pinches your ass and scoots off. "Hurry up," he parrots. You flip him the bird without bothering to turn around.

He watches you like a lion watches his prey while you fix your lipstick and tuck your wig cap under a little more securely. And when you're ready, you race up the backstage stairs together; your legs tremble, your breath unsteady. Nerves. Arousal. Tension. You can hear the blood rushing through your veins as you and Oliver take your places in the backlit darkness. The music of the orchestra thrums beneath your feet, the cotton candy sweetness of the fog machine fills you with a nostalgic kind of anticipation.

Oliver makes a V with his fingers and wiggles his tongue between them.

"Intermission," you mouth. He smiles- it shines like forbidden treasure.

[threadbearsweater]

These are vague enough to give me some creative freedom, and I'm dying to break out of my writer's block. I'll write for RDR2, Windbreaker, JJK, and maybe a little bit of Bllk if you're feeling adventurous. Please pick a prompt and a character and help me get this engine started again! These will all be written sfw unless you specifically tell me you'd like it to be spicy.

‧₊˚ 🏠 ✩ domestic prompts

¹⁾ a basket of laundry left in a doorway

²⁾ a sticky note on a pillow

³⁾ colourful fridge magnets

⁴⁾ a laden clothesline

⁵⁾ plates of fresh-cut fruit

⁶⁾ towels warm from the dryer

⁷⁾ the whistle of a kettle

⁸⁾ messy bedsheets

⁹⁾ books stacked on a nightstand

¹⁰⁾ a cupboard of mismatched mugs

¹¹⁾ fresh-brewed tea

¹²⁾ a sink full of dishes

¹³⁾ pictures lined up on a mantlepiece

¹⁴⁾ sun-warmed floorboards

¹⁵⁾ odd socks

¹⁶⁾ overflowing paper grocery bags

¹⁷⁾ a steamed-up bathroom mirror

¹⁸⁾ dinner left in the oven to keep warm

¹⁹⁾ a porcelain teapot

²⁰⁾ mismatched cutlery

²¹⁾ potted herb plants lined up on a windowsill

²²⁾ a stocked bar cart

²³⁾ a teeming closet

²⁴⁾ cold tiles

²⁵⁾ a shared bath

²⁶⁾ rooms decorated with trinkets

²⁷⁾ a jewellery dish

²⁸⁾ shoes left by a doorway

²⁹⁾ a faded portrait in an old frame

³⁰⁾ soft lamplight

³¹⁾ the drone of a ceiling fan

³²⁾ homemade lemonade

³³⁾ a messy makeup vanity

³⁴⁾ faded coasters

³⁶⁾ lit candles

³⁷⁾ frayed couch cushions

³⁸⁾ a blanket draped over a sleeping form

³⁹⁾ creaky stairs

⁴⁰⁾ fresh-cut timber

⁴¹⁾ an overgrown garden

⁴²⁾ a spare room

⁴³⁾ a medicine cabinet

⁴⁴⁾ jasmine bath salts

⁴⁵⁾ soft pyjamas

⁴⁶⁾ bare feet on cold floorboards

⁴⁷⁾ sunday dinners

⁴⁸⁾ post scattered under the letterbox

⁴⁹⁾ family photos

⁵⁰⁾ an old armchair

⁵¹⁾ scrawled-on calendars

⁵²⁾ a roaring fireplace

⁵³⁾ reminders stuck to the fridge

⁵⁴⁾ boardgames

⁵⁵⁾ a dusty attic

⁵⁶⁾ smoke curling out of a chimney

⁵⁷⁾ evenings on the porch

⁵⁸⁾ a record player

⁵⁹⁾ tangled chargers

⁶⁰⁾ a chipped bathtub

⁶¹⁾ a silver serving tray

⁶²⁾ souvenir shot glasses

⁶³⁾ a blackout

⁶⁴⁾ movie nights

⁶⁵⁾ a late dinner party

⁶⁶⁾ half-finished crochet projects

⁶⁷⁾ a loose thread on a sweater

⁶⁸⁾ dog leads hung by the door

⁶⁹⁾ a leaning coatrack

⁷⁰⁾ a grocery list

⁷¹⁾ patterned dishes

⁷²⁾ bright teatowels

⁷³⁾ an empty drawer

⁷⁴⁾ vhs tapes

⁷⁵⁾ documentary reruns

[threadbearsweater]

hi lin, id love to see a grocery list + nanami if you’re feeling up for it 💖 i adore the way you write him!

"I think you forgot something."

You lean your hip against the kitchen counter, face turned away from Kento to conceal your grin. He's on the other side of the island where the refrigerator stands open; his quick, efficient restock slows considerably as he studies your back.

"No, I didn't." He isn't rude about it. He knows for a fact that every item on your list has been hand-picked with meticulous care because he did it himself.

You hold the little creased note up to the light and make a show of squinting at it, even reaching for your reading glasses to perch them on the end of your nose like some judicious librarian. "Mmmm, I beg to differ." You read each item aloud slowly, following the words with your index finger as Kento cuts around the corner to get a good look at the list for himself.

You start reading faster as he approaches, taking quick little steps away from him while you giggle. "No, no! Look here! See?" You point, but hold the note at arm's length. "Right between 'paper towels' and 'tomato paste'."

He's visibly skeptical and maybe a little bit amused with how cute you're being right now. He makes a swipe for the list and you yelp, jumping to sit on the counter with your arm held high out of his reach. A vague realization crosses his face for a small pocket of time, and he narrows his eyes, though his lips curl into a little smirk of his own.

"Whatever you needed isn't on that list." He moves to stand between your knees and reaches up to pluck the list from your fingers.

You howl in defeat and snatch it right back, leaning in to show him. "No! See? Right here. 'One million dollars.' Let me guess," you feign a pout, draping your arms around his shoulders. "Fresh out today."

He kisses you quick, running his hands up the length of your arms until he uncurls your fingers from around the now crumpled and torn piece of paper. Your groceries lie scattered on the counter, the fridge door stands open, and he kisses you again- a little slower this time, more deliberate. You and Kento aren't millionaires today, unfortunately. But you're rich in so many other ways.

There's always next time.

[threadbearsweater]

an empty drawer + Arthur, please! If you feel up to it 💖

It's been a month, and you still can't part with his things.

You almost feel him standing beside you when you pass by the dresser in your bedroom. Top right; you have to wiggle it a little to pull it out completely and wiggle it more to push it back in. The wood is old– ancient, even. The dresser belonged to his mother, whose own mother gave it to her as a wedding gift. Word is, it's been passed down from generation to generation. Arthur used to say it came over on the Mayflower when he'd had one too many nips of whiskey on a sultry summer Friday evening.

He's been gone for a month, and you haven't opened the drawer since. You've thought about it in moments when the grief was too hard to bear, moments when you craved his embrace, the tender look in his eye right before he would kiss you, the way your hands slipped together as if you were meant to be entwined in some existential way. But it felt like a cruel tease to merely look upon what he left behind. A small, inconsequential part of him that could never compare to his physical presence. His smile, his smell, the taste of tobacco on his tongue, the warm rumble of his voice on your neck when he would confess his love in the quiet darkness of night.

You still can't open it. You stand in front of it now with your hand on the knob. You have the contents of it memorized, front and back, upside down, blindfolded. Every word on every page in Arthur's heartfelt script, words he wrote to you from the road, from botched jobs and near-death run-ins with the Pinkertons. A note from a county jailhouse in Lemoyne scrawled on the back of a cigarette card. Torn pages from his journal or the back of a Wheeler, Rawson and Company catalog.

"Saw a bird today that reminded me of those fancy hats the town ladies wear. Think maybe we'll have one made for you."

"Come to Saint Denis with me. There's a trumpet player on the square and some real good seafood at the hotel restaurant. Don't tell Dutch. Love, A."

There are little notes and long, rambling stories, descriptions of countryside and mining towns, confessions of his questioning loyalty to Dutch and the gang, earnest confessions of his love for you and his wishes to start a life with you in a new territory. Arthur wrote everything down. Every thought. Every feeling. Every event he felt was significant or meaningful in some way. And it's all packed away in your dresser drawer.

It takes you months to open it. Even longer to empty it. But you do. You tuck the letters away in a small cedar chest, and when your oldest daughter marries, the dresser is moved to her new home in her new bedroom.

You leave one letter. Unopened, your daughter's name written in a flourish on the front in Arthur's firm, sure hand.

[threadbearsweater]

Hi, friends!

Thanks to those of you who sent in prompt requests. I wrote one, went to a 3 hour rehearsal, and now I'm home and sucked into watching Lost (and nodding off in my trusty old recliner). I'll write the rest of them over the next few days when I have a quiet moment. I really appreciate you giving me some brain juice and letting me run with these ideas!

If you missed the post and would like to send me a prompt, you can choose from this list. Be sure to include a character; all requests will be written sfw unless you specifically request something spicy.

You're the best!