#prompt fill

[sweaterkittensahoy]

Here’s a pairing challenge: Brady/Crosby

"I need your advice," Brady says to Buck.

"You usually go to Bucky for advice. Why me, this time?"

"How do you tell an oblivious pretty boy you want to date him?"

Buck sighs. "Okay, first of all, which one?"

"Crosby."

Buck sucks air through his teeth. "Um. Yeah. That's. That's a tall order. You try just telling him?"

"Yup. He laughed, told me that was a good joke, then repeated it to Bubbles when he walked over."

"What'd Bubbles do?"

"He told me later that Croz doesn't ever believe anyone's into him."

"Seems accurate." Buck bites his bottom lip. "I don't usually suggest doing anything wild, but I can say there's one thing that worked for me with Bucky."

"You mean when you stuck your tongue down his throat one night to stop him from singing?"

"That'd be it."

"Even though he got away from you and managed to sing anyway?"

"It wasn't just about getting him not to sing," Buck says, poking at Brady's shoulder. "It was about getting him to realize I'd been trying to kiss him for...a while."

"Honestly, how many seconds after meeting him did you fall for him?"

"Brady, your crush nearly got you shot down over France. Cram it."

"Cramming it."

[sparrow-orion-writes]

Then, 2. can we get some "i can't imagine who i'd be without you in my life"? :0

I just can't decide if it'd fit AriTune or AprilEmber better,,, :0

~ M <3

In the spirit of this being a prompt so. I can do whatever I like, have a poem.

Someone well-rounded, maybe less guilt, held in like a dam waiting to break water reaching, pushing, determining a path - to you? to us? to something we can never be; but reaching, still weak against brick weak against you trying to reverse through time and choices back to you.

[augment-techs]

send me a made-up fic title and i'll tell you what i would write to go with it: three centimetres of space + operation overdrive~

Title: three centimeters of space Rating: T Relationships: Spencer & Mack Hartford; Spencer & Andrew Hartford; Spencer & Operation Overdrive Rangers; Spencer & Brown Beard. Characters: Spencer; Mack Hartford; Andrew Hartford; Adam Park; Ms. Appleby. Additional Tags: These are ALL Spencer's kids, Andrew, Go Fuck Yourself; Stress Cooking; Spencer Gets a Hug; Emotional Hurt/Comfort. Summary:

Their situation was actually very much like a VERY old fashioned marriage. Spencer kept house, raised Andrew's son, committed himself to making sure the Rangers (basically more children for him to raise) were happy and safe and well fed, and provided emotional support that nobody else could.

But good lord, Andrew did not know when to let up and give Spencer a little space to decompress and examine his own feelings about what was going on and where things were going.

So is it any wonder that the butler inevitably snapped like an enraged bear at his employer?

[silmkinkmeme]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Fingon/Maglor (Tolkien), Fingon/Maedhros (Tolkien), Maedhros & Maglor (Tolkien) Characters: Maglor (Tolkien), Fingon (Tolkien), Maedhros (Tolkien) Additional Tags: Angst, Pining, Complicated Relationships, De-anon me please Summary:

I loved him first, Maglor liked to tell himself.

Fingon and Maglor and Maedhros, loving.

[unicyclehippo]

bg3 prompt: foreshadow

'You never liked my Lady Sh- my goddess,' she said that night, huddled close to the fire, hands almost pressing into the flame. There was a tremor to her fingers, a frightful hunch to her shoulders. Darkness swallowed up everything beyond the boundaries of their camp and Shadowheart alternated between staring out into it and deep into the heart of the fire.

Dante propped themself up on their bedroll, laid out near but not close to hers. Though it hadn't been a question, exactly, Dante knew that it was. Shadowheart did not ask for anything and it was not the prideful thing she made it seem; at a certain point, a child learned not to ask when the answer was a painful constant. Dante toyed idly with the knowledge that they would rip their beating heart from their own chest, if she were to ask for it. It painted a pretty red picture in their mind--hands blood-soaked, on their knees for her. They shook their head, banishing the thought and answering the question she didn't ask.

'I did not.' Dante kept their voice light. They wondered what a goddess's blood looked like, tasted like. If they were to present Shadowheart with the dark lady's heart, would that let her rest?

'From the beginning, you hated her. Don't try to lie to me - I know the truth,' she spat. Her anger wasn't for them, Dante didn't think, but maybe it was. 'Tell me why.'

Prying my secrets from me now? Dante wanted to tease. But it was a question, a request. In the cloak of a demand, certainly, but that was more than enough.

'She was cruel to you.'

'That's all?' Shadowheart laughed. Scratched at the back of her scarred hand.

Dante took it, covering the mark with their own hand to stop her fevered work. They moved closer, sitting up with a wriggle. It wasn't necessary--if they wished, their every motion could be graceful and powerful and direct...but they liked the way she looked at them when they were odd, awkward. To be a strange creature in her eyes was vastly preferable to monster.

'It isn't all. It's what I...disliked the most.'

'Because you care for me.'

'Immensely. Beyond darkness.'

'There is nothing beyond the darkness.'

Dante hummed. Bent over her hand and lifted it to their lips, pressing a warm kiss to the scar. 'Then I shall make something. A light, a refuge. A world,' Dante insisted, as her despair began to lift, a flustered sort of fondness taking its place. 'I'll sing a whole world into existence. It will be the most beautiful place in all the realms and the when the sun sets, there is no darkness because the moon fills the whole sky, and every flower knows a different joke--'

'Absolutely not. The flowers don't talk.'

Dante sighed, long-suffering. 'Very well. What do they do?'

'Nothing! Why must a flower do anything? Can it not simply be beautiful?' Shadowheart scolded through a smile.

'They are beautiful, then,' Dante agreed. 'Each one trying their best to match your beauty and falling short. Even so, we shall be surrounded by incandescent beauty.'

'Oh you are a charmer.'

Dante kissed her hand again, brushing their lips across her knuckles before they lowered her hand, though they did not let her go. Their thumb took up that gentle touch instead, stroking along the same path.

'I have no love for any god,' they told her quietly, and mourned the ease of her smile as it faded. 'But the more you told me of that dark lady, and the more I saw you do with and without her favour, and when she punished you,' Dante snarled before stilling, closing their eyes and hands. Would the goddess bleed midnight black? That most royal colour tinged with the purple of her servants vestments? Did they drape themselves in her blood as Dante now dearly wanted to?

A hand, against their heart. A warmth like a flower unfurling. Dante held Shadowheart's hand in place.

'Forgive me--'

'Yes,' she said, without hesitation.

Dante opened one eye a crack and, seeing neither hatred nor fear, opened the other. 'There were aspects of the dark lady I admired. To walk unafraid under the cloak of night. To have secrets and fears and sorrows and entrust them to her. But I watched as you trusted her, and gave everything to her...and I watched her take more and give nothing back.'

There was an adamantine glint in her eyes, stubborn and strong. 'She gave me great power.'

'You earned that. You earned more than what she gave you. I've never seen devotion like yours--deep and earnest, unwavering--'

'I wavered,' Shadowheart said. Her fingers curled into a fist, still resting against their chest. The fabric of their nightshirt in her hand. They would give it to her. They would give her the shirt off their back, the skin off their back. 'You may not have seen it but she did. Every - every kind deed you did, every nonsense you dragged us into without demanding payment or power or even for the weak to grovel at your feet when you spared them, helped them... I admired you for it, adored you. And she saw it. I would like to say it took time but in truth, my thoughts have been split from the moment I laid eyes on you in that damned pod.'

Dante forgot. She had asked for their help, once. Had it been the first time her prayers had not gone unnoticed?

'You know, I considered once, asking you to join me in my faith.' A deep sorrow crossed her face when her words made Dante flinch. 'An idle thought, long ago.'

'It's alright.'

Shadowheart paused. Then, carefully, she said, 'I thought you only hated her but. You fear her too.'

'Of course,' they agreed, with an almost lazy shrug. 'I would be a fool not to.' She did not buy their ease. Dante did not flinch easily. Guilt churned in their stomach. She deserved a true answer, not bravado. 'It would be...the end of me. If I served her. I don't know what happened to me before the ship and the tadpole but...there is nothing inside of my head but darkness. The only time I feel I am a person is when I sink a blade into someone,' they confessed. If the dark lady were Shadowheart, perhaps Dante could be persuaded to faith. How terrifying it was, though, to put faith in another being. It felt like they were tearing themselves open for her appraisal and Dante was certain that now she would see the rotten heart of them. 'When I fight and kill, my mind is awash in red and after endless black, it is everything. If I served the dark lady, she would take it from me. She would take everything, drain my skull even of the dregs it has now. I would be nothing.'

Shadowheart was pale but not with disgust. Empathy, writ clear in her eyes.

Dante summoned a smile. It was an act, but what wasn't? They were the architect of their own life--joy, pain, faith, love--and tonight they chose to smile.

'That's not to say that you're wrong. I am faithful. I have faith. Just,' they shrugged, 'not in the gods.'

'Oh? Very well, I'll bite. What is it you believe in?'

With a flicker of a thought, Dante pulled their lute from where it lay by their pack--too far to move, they never wanted to move from Shadowheart's side, never--and plucked it from the air with reverent hands. Shadowheart pulled her own away so that Dante could settle the instrument in their lap and her eyes focused, keenly, on graceful hands that roamed its belly and neck and trembling strings.

'Stories.'

'Stories?'

Dante nodded. Half closed their eyes, head cocked, and listened to the music as they began to play. A mournful, solitary tune that Dante heard in their mind whenever they recounted the ship. The emptiness of being--of being alone, of being awake when life had been a thoughtless march, of being--interrupted, interwoven, with two sharper tunes, a march sharp-silver and a lament so similar to that early dirge that it met and matched it before it slipped away once more. Dante played on.

'I woke up and there was a worm in my head, thoughts in my head that weren't mine. I didn't know myself except that I was not that.' Anger snapped against the strings, red. 'And when I tried to recall who I was, I could only think of more people I wasn't. Ithramier who wove a cloak of pure flames. Pharon who called on the blessing of their angelic king to fight the undead hordes for three days unceasing, who held the Chasm of the Kings against evil, and as they slew the last foe drew their own final breath. Lor, witch of the seven barrowhills, who struck down Lashlord Emgaraoch and sent it back to its hellish plane.' With each brief tale, Dante introduced them to the song as well. They had only days of practise, as far as they knew, but whomever owned these hands before them had known their way around a lute and there was such an overwhelming need for Shadowheart--and all their companions--to understand that Dante played as they never had before. Not to distract or charm or frighten. Merely to pluck truth from their soul, what meagre scraps remained of it, and play it into life. 'Whatever stripped me of my memories did not take it all, and I knew what people were, and,'

Dante dared to look up then. Their companions had left their tents, each and every one of them; even Withers lingered just beyond the bright firelight. Wyll sat close, shaking his head at the troubled noble dance they chose for him, foot tapping to it. Karlach sat beside him--perhaps because she could lean against him, or any of them, and not fear to burn them. Dante could not tell if it was a compliment when the fire in her chest roared to life as they strung her lines into play, a blazing rousing tune that could not shake off an iron weight. Astarion lounged with a profound disinterest betrayed by the longing in his eyes. Dante's fingers tripped across his strain again, a song that struggled and pushed and yearned to soar. Astarion stared at them, a loathed vulnerability writ clear across his face, and looked away. Lae'zel knelt across the way with a look of concentration; her march plucked through the night as Dante wondered if she expected to be tested on it in the morrow. Gale closed his eyes as his prideful tune fell, and smiled when Dante called it up again.

'I knew what people could be.'

'But the stories aren't real,' Astarion bit out with a sneer.

The song began to unwind, thread by thread. Each had a moment to shine and be heard on its own.

Dante spoke. 'Maybe not. But aren't they true enough?' they asked, wistful. 'Don't they sing to you? Don't they show you what could be real? Don't they make you dream of the world where someone is as noble as the great heroes, as brave, as kind?' Astarion said nothing to that. Dante played his tune again and, this time, let it soar. Free and golden as the sun. In answer came Dante's mournful, empty dirge plucked through with rage. They closed their eyes and dredged their heart again--what they would not give to a goddess, they would offer freely to their friends. Blood and pain and a hollow aching that nestled in their chest and Dante began to fill it--music became thought and magic, became the grit of dirt beneath their nails and the glint of gold in their palm, became leaves trembling on branches and bitter between their teeth, became wonderment, became bubbling mixtures and the chop of knives not for dismembering but for cooking and campfires and alchemy, became laughter, became meals, became the simple joy of plodding a forest path, became the fierce pain of being embraced, welcomed, the dusty press of moss and mushroom, became every small and wondrous thing Dante had known in a week of life. And the hollow in their chest was not so big. Did not have so many teeth.

The music stopped. Dante did not know how to end it yet, so they simply let their hands fall away from the strings. Their hands and fingers ached with the effort and they stretched them open wide, pressing back against the hurt like a bruise.

Wyll let out his held breath, his tone admiring as he spoke.

'I have caroused and wept in my fathers hall to many talented bards, my friend. You have put them all to shame. I don't know whether to be pleased or not, to know all future musicians shall not live up to this standard.'

Dante grinned. 'You're just happy because it was about you. Somewhat.'

Wyll laughed. He didn't correct them, but Dante could see he fought the urge. They expected he would mention it again, before long.

'I'll give you this,' Astarion said, in that arch way of his, 'you can certainly spin a good tale.' He paused, then flicked a gold Dante's way.

Lae'zel growled at him. 'A single gold is not payment enough.'

'Darling, you aren't exactly the expert on bartering here. Do you even know the worth of a gold piece?'

'The song is priceless,' she told him, voice firm. 'And the wisdom... It is something to consider.'

'High praise, Lae'zel. Thank you.'

'It is not as straightforward as the ten thousand decrees.' She sounded frustrated and, pushing to her feet, she turned back to her own tent with a brusque, 'I will think on this.'

One by one, Dante's companions scattered until it was as it had been, only Shadowheart at their side and the fire. Dante set the lute down carefully.

'Would you believe me if I said I hadn't meant for that to be such a big deal?'

She laughed quietly. She wasn't ready to hear it yet, but she had a laugh like the sweetest moonbells.

'I would, actually.' Shadowheart shook her head in wonder. 'You inspire all of us, and yet you seem not to understand it.' She paused, then added, 'I wondered, for a time, if you truly cared for me. You spoke so highly of everyone, and took time I did not think we could spare to help them, and it made me think...I wasn't special. I wasn't the only one you cared for.'

'Shadowheart...'

'It was a selfish thought, a long time ago.' Another laugh. 'Not so long, I suppose, but it feels a lifetime past. It doesn't upset me now. What we have is even more than that, isn't it?'

Dante nodded. They almost felt like that was the more selfish thought, when it came from them. That they would fight and kill for the others but they would die for her. They said as much and Shadowheart sucked in a breath, expression mercurial, unsettled between a powerful pleasure and a look they could not pinpoint. It was not concern, exactly. Conviction?

'I will never ask that of you,' she said. 'Do you know that? You have promised me yourself forever at my side. I intend to lay claim to it.'

Dante closed their eyes. A strange urge filled their mind--its red was not of that blood-soaked kind, but fire-bright. They reached for their lute again, but Shadowheart took their hand in hers before they could.

'You could speak it, you know. How you feel. Instead of playing it for all to hear. I may not be her servant anymore but there are some things that perhaps require...privacy, if not secrecy,' she teased. 'You always let me lead the way. Why is that?'

Dante's eyes flickered to the night, the dark beyond. 'Because she did not let you choose. Because the rest of your life was orders and punishment. Because everything has been taken from you and I will not take anything more.'

'And what of what was taken from you?'

It scratched something deep inside, that question. Clawed open something that had begun to heal, or at least to close over without Dante poking and prodding at it, well-ignored.

'I think...' (A vast, blank canvas was their mind. Soaked in red paint. No thoughts had ever marred its surface. Not chisels or brushes as their tool but knives and wicked tearing things.) 'I - ' (Fields of rolling hills, the sweet-sick stench of iron. The hills are soft underfoot. They are bodies piled high and your body aches in satisfaction, a job well done.) 'I don't think it is the same. As wicked a thing as it is, I cannot help but think it may have been deserved. That I am more wicked still.'

It was a thought for the night, and one they could not yet answer. Shadowheart lifted their hand and kissed it, their veins burning red as she did. Dante moved their bedroll a fraction closer and tangled their fingers with her as the firelight dimmed and the night drew in closer.

Perhaps that's why I could never be a cleric,' they mused. 'If your dark lady couldn't love you, there is no god who could love me.'

[sluttygallavich]

Ian spits on mickeys hole and they both enjoy it 🤝

The first time it happens, it’s out of pure necessity.

They’ve just chased each other across half of South Side and up six flights of crumbling stairs, blood pumping and hearts racing. By the time they get to the mattress they have set up behind a half-collapsed wall near Ian’s makeshift training course they’re both practically out of their minds and completely desperate for it.

“Get the shit, Gallagher.”

Mickey already has his jeans pulled down to his knees and is looking back over his shoulder at him expectantly when the crushing realization hits.

Shit.

Mickey’s eyebrows furrow at Ian’s stricken expression. “The fuck, Gallagher. You didn’t come prepared?”

And no, actually, he hadn’t come prepared for Mickey to materialize in the middle of a busy street and crash his…whatever with Ned, and he sure as fuck hadn’t been planning on letting things with Ned go any further than a couple of drinks and maybe a hurried hand job if the old guy was really insistent. So no, he is in no way prepared for the situation he finds himself in now—ass naked but for his socks and rock hard, with his sorta boyfr– with Mickey’s perfect pale cheeks just begging to be spread.

He huffs, cheeks pinkening under Mickey’s accusatory stare.

“Get on your back, I’ll blow you instead.” Ian tries not to let on how disappointed he is, even as he suggests it, but it doesn’t seem to matter because Mickey makes no move to roll over. Instead, he bites at his bottom lip, considering.

“You gonna keep sticking it in that geriatric pedo?” he asks finally, voice gruff but eyes darting around, betraying his nerves.

And Ian’s first instinct is to roll his eyes and protest at that, but, well… yeah, okay.

His second instinct is to turn the question around and ask if Mickey’s going to keep sticking it in Angie Zago or whatever other neighbourhood slut is willing, but, well…

This is Mickey sort of trying, isn’t it? This is missed ya under the bleachers, and this is helping Ian train for West Point nearly every day since he’s been back, and this the mattress that “fell off the back of a truck” after Ian complained about the concrete floor fucking up his knees. This is following him today and beating the shit out of that geriatric pedo in the middle of the street because he was jealous but couldn’t just say it.

This is Mickey staking a claim, maybe.

“No,” Ian answers, heart racing at what he thinks might be happening—what he thinks Mickey might be proposing. And he wasn’t going to ask, but as he shuffles closer on the mattress, he finds that he just needs to know. He needs to hear it too. “Are you?”

Mickey snorts, turning his head back around so Ian can no longer see his face.

“Am I gonna stick my dick in that grandpa’s wrinkly old ass? Nah man, you don’t gotta worry about that.”

Ian reaches out then, just a single hand brushing lightly at Mickey’s hip, and he realizes it’s the first time they’ve touched since rushing up here, too frantic earlier to do anything but tear at their own clothes.

“Mick…”

And he must hear something in Ian’s voice then, because when Mickey speaks again the derisiveness of a moment before is gone. He just sounds desperate again. Pleading, even.

“C’mon, Ian, just get in me.”

And it’s not exactly an answer, is it? But it’s Ian instead of Gallagher, and it’s the vulnerability he can feel rolling off Mickey in this moment, and it’s trust, really. And Ian finds that’s good enough for now.

He grips Mickey’s ass with both hands and relishes in the heavy exhale it pulls from him, almost like Mickey had been holding his breath. Like relief. And Ian feels it too. So strongly he’s almost faint with it. He spreads Mickey wide and pets at his hole with his thumb, mouth falling open as he watches it flutter and try to pull him in.

“Fuck, Mick,” he groans. He feels even more wild than he did a few minutes ago. “Still don’t have any lube though.”

Mickey’s head drops down between his shoulders as Ian presses just the tip of his thumb inside him, dry.

“Just spit on it, Gallagher, Jesus.”

And Ian feels like he’s been kicked in the back, all the air rushing out of his lungs at once.

“Are– are you sure?”

“Holy fuck, yes, yes, I’m sure,” Mickey huffs. “You need to see it in fuckin’ writing or what?”

Ian doesn’t react to that, too used to Mickey’s impatience and bluster for it to faze him anymore and still far too preoccupied with Mickey’s clenching hole and the prospect of covering it in his spit, which suddenly seems like the hottest thing he’s ever considered.

Mickey’s spit-slicked hole and Ian’s bare cock sinking into it. Fuck. He prays he lasts longer than two sad pumps.

He knees at Mickey’s legs and gets him to spread them wider, running his nails up Mickey’s back before forcing his upper body down to the mattress, leaving just Mickey’s ass sticking up in the air for Ian to do with as he pleases. He gathers as much saliva in his mouth as he can and leans closer, spreading Mickey’s cheeks again and spitting directly on his puckered rim, the sound loud and obscene in the quiet of the abandoned rubble.

“Oh fuck…” Ian whispers, immediately dragging his thumb through the warm spit and pushing into Mickey’s hole. “Oh fuck, Mick.”

Mickey just groans, pushing back against Ian’s hands, encouraging more.

Ian spits again, this time slowly pushing two fingers into Mickey’s heat, just to the first knuckles, just to see, but Mickey’s demand for more has him quickly pushing in the rest of the way, stretching and fucking him open until his hole is gaping, just a little, and fuck, what if he spit right inside of him?

He chokes off a moan at the thought and continues getting Mickey prepped, but once the idea has been raised in his mind it latches on and he can’t let it go.

Mickey’s pushing back against his fingers, three buried instead him now. “C’mon, Gallagher, while we’re still young,” he grouses, though the effect is somewhat lessened by how fucked out he sounds.

Ian reaches a hand around Mickey’s compact body and presents it palm up and slightly cupped in front of Mickey’s face.

“You too,” Ian manages to get out. “Spit.”

Mickey attempts a laugh, but now that Ian’s nailing his prostate with every other thrust of his fingers it sounds more like it’s been punched out him.

“You’re a freak, Gallagher.” But he doesn’t hesitate to do as he’s told, and now Ian’s using Mickey’s spit to slick up his own cock and shit, maybe he won’t even make it to two sad pumps.

He squeezes at the head of his cock, clear beads gathering at the tip, and Ian’s usually pretty impressive self-control immediately snaps. He pulls his fingers out of Mickey’s ass and spits directly into his empty hole. Mickey lets out a breathy “Fuck,”and it’s all somehow even hotter than Ian was just imagining.

“Ready?” he can’t help but ask, dragging his throbbing cock through the mess he’s made, his own precum only adding to the wet slick. He half expects another snarky response, and when he doesn’t get one, he knows Mickey is just as a far gone as he is.

“Yeah, ready, yes,” Mickey babbles. “Fuck yes…”

Ian keeps a steady grip on Mickey’s hip, his other hand slowly guiding himself inside, and shit it’s tight. And hot. It’s hot and tight and so, so much that Ian swears his vision darkens at the edges a little bit. He remembers then to breathe at the same time that Mickey moans—moans! Mickey never moans!—and tries to press back against him. There’s more resistance than Ian’s used to, but the feeling of being inside Mickey with nothing between them more than makes up for the lack of lube.

Ian can’t look away from where they’re connected, skin to skin. He’s practically panting like a dog, his tongue feeling parched and dry, but he gathers as much saliva as he can and spits one last time, watching it pool around where his shaft disappears into the tight ring of Mickey’s hole before pressing the rest of the way in.

“Shit, Gallagher, need you to move.”

Ian’s let himself slump forward across Mickey’s back, his forehead pressing between his shoulder blades.

“Need…a minute,” he breathes into Mickey’s skin, eyes squeezed shut. “Jesus Mick, you feel so fucking tight. Not gonna last.”

Never one to be kept waiting, Mickey starts up a slow roll of his hips. “Don’t worry, Firecrotch,” he says, rocking back and forth on Ian’s cock. “Ain’t gonna last either. Better make the next thirty seconds count.”

Ian huffs out a laugh and pushes himself up off Mickey’s back so he can piston into the older boy the way he knows he likes. His belly swoops at the way his bare cock looks drilling into Mickey, and truthfully, it’s not much more than a minute or two later when he feels that familiar tingling in his balls that lets him know he’s about to bust. And shit, he hasn’t really thought this far ahead. Should he pull out? Is Mickey going to let him—

“Oh fuck. Mick, I’m gonna– Shit, I’m–“ He’s the one babbling now. He feels panicked, knowing the clock is quickly running down. Finally, he manages a complete thought. “Mickey, where should I come?”

Mickey is working his own cock furiously in his fist, his breathing labored around his moans. Ian’s never heard him be this vocal. His balls are drawing up at the sound of Mickey’s pleasure, but still Mickey hasn’t given him an answer.

“Mick, please…oh god, oh fuck…where should I–“

“Come inside me.”

“Oh god…”

Ian only hears a ringing in his ears after that. Without thinking he wraps his arms around Mickey’s torso and hauls him up so that his back is pressed firm against Ian’s chest. He holds him tight and buries his face in Mickey’s neck as his release crashes through him, lighting up every inch of his skin that’s connected to Mickey’s, that’s in Mickey.

Dimly he’s aware of Mickey crying out and shuddering around him, his head tipping back to rest against Ian’s, and he’s struck, suddenly, by the intimacy of it all—they’ve never been closer, he thinks—before they’re both pitching forward and collapsing together, Ian slipping from Mickey’s body as they come to settle next to each other on their sides.

They’re both quiet, save for their ragged breathing, as they slowly come down from their highs. Mickey’s shirt is still on, but Ian watches his back rise and fall, admires the faint freckles on his exposed shoulder, follows a bead of sweat meandering down Mickey’s neck from his hairline and has to restrain himself from licking the rivulet it leaves in its wake.

Eventually his gaze drifts lower, and despite coming harder than he ever has in his life less than two minutes ago, he’s hit with an intense wave of emotion—arousal, definitely, but something else too—that has his dick twitching and his pulse kicking right back up. It’s a mess of cum and sweat and spit, and it should be gross, maybe, but all Ian can think is that it’s them. He closes his eyes and smiles.

The first time it happens, it’s the start of something new.

[youcouldmakealife]

KS Fill: Matt/Aaron; good first impression

For the prompt: Aaron and his mom come to see Matt play on the West Coast.

This was a fill for a Kickstarter supporter; they've generously allowed me to share this so everyone can enjoy.

It isn’t easy, getting his mother to go to a hockey game without telling her that the reason he wants her to go with him is because he’s dating one of the players. That things are serious. Serious enough that he’s trying to get a woman who gets cold in the shade on a summer day into an arena. A woman who changes the channel if any sport is on TV — except baseball, but he’s been assured that’s an exception she only makes when he’s around or if the game is one he’s playing in. A woman who makes sure to watch all the athlete profiles during the Olympics but never watches their actual events.

“I became a bit of a fan,” Aaron says, the first time she throws up her hands and asks him why he’s so intent on driving all the way to LA to see the Leafs play.

“You don’t have to drive hours and freeze your poor mother to death to watch them,” she says. “You can see them any time in Toronto, can’t you?”

Aaron would call her dramatic, but again: shade on a summer day.

“I’ve made a few friends on the team,” Aaron says, during his second attempt. “Thought I might catch up with them at the game.”

“That’s nice,” she says. “Maybe bring one of your cousins instead, go out after the game? I would just slow you down.”

The thing is, Aaron knows that if he told her that he was seeing Matt, that maybe seeing was an understatement, but he hadn’t actually seen him since the Jays season ended, and timezones and the unpredictability of Matt’s schedule means he’s barely even seen him on a screen since then, he knows that she’d be bundling up in her warmest coat and making Aaron tell her everything on the drive, listening avidly when she wasn’t scolding him for not telling her about Matt sooner or demanding that she meet Matt after the game.

But for some reason, Aaron can’t do it. It isn’t that he thinks Matt wouldn’t be okay with it, because he’s more chill about all this than Aaron is, and his family all knows about Aaron, even if they haven’t met him yet. It’s — he doesn’t know. He wants her to see Matt first, maybe. See him without knowing that he means something to Aaron, see him without any expectations, biases, even positive ones.

He wants her to take one look at him and go ‘that one seems nice’, even though he knows that wouldn’t happen, that they’ll be a hundred feet away, Matt just a number, a name too small to read without squinting. He wants her to like him.

It takes a bit of pleading and a night at a nice hotel, a reservation at a place he had to get a friend on the Angels to name drop for him, and offering to go shopping on Sunday, let her pick some things out for him, but when he drives up to LA Saturday afternoon, she’s in the passenger seat.

There’s a dramatic shiver when they do get down to ice level, but they just split a very nice bottle of wine and a good meal at an award-winning restaurant, so there’s some goodwill going on, and she keeps her phone in her purse, which is more than Aaron can say for a lot of the people around them.

Aaron’s still picking things up, but he knows enough by now to see the Leafs look a little slow, getting caught out easily, which probably isn’t a good sign. The Kings haven't manage to take advantage of it yet at least, though they’re pushing, and every whistle seems to happen in front of the Leafs’ net, the shoving matches getting a little more intense each time.

Aaron flinches as Matt starts to get into it with a guy who has some pounds on him, relieved when one of the linesmen intervenes before the gloves come off.

“Is one of your friends out there?” his mother asks. Maybe she saw the flinch. Maybe he’s got some other tell, one he doesn’t even know he’s showing. She’d probably just say it’s motherly intuition.

“You see the guy in the corner?” Aaron says. “The one with 22 on his back.”

“The one who just punched someone?” she says with a disapproving sniff.

“Uh,” Aaron says. “It was more of a roughing—“

“The one who just punched someone,” she repeats.

Matt and the King are both still wearing their gloves, so Matt would get a roughing call at most, but there may have been a punch thrown, gloved or not.

“That’s your friend?” she asks, after a moment.

Matt’s arguing as he gets escorted to the box. Aaron doesn’t know why. He really did punch someone. It may not be fighting, but it is a roughing call. But then he sees that only one penalty box door is open, and he understands entirely, indignant on his behalf. The King was just as involved as Matt was, and there were guys on the ice who dropped their gloves, should be in the box instead, or at least keeping him company in there.

“I—“ Aaron says. “Something like that.”

They’re both quiet. In the box, Matt’s fuming, and it’s hard not to fume himself, especially after the Kings finally break the stalemate with a power play goal. Aaron hopes they turn it around, and not just because if they don’t, Matt’s going to be annoyed all night. Apparently he's a fan.

“He seems nice,” his mother says. “Your friend.”

“Really?” Aaron says. “You seemed stuck on the punching, there."

“Well, they do that, don’t they,” she says. “In hockey.”

“Yeah,” Aaron says. “They do that.”

Not like he’s never been involved in a brawl himself, but in baseball they’re events. Hockey? Matt’s not even considered a fighter and Aaron’s handed over a few ice packs already.

“I’m sure the other guy deserved it,” his mother says, then, “What was that for?” when Aaron ducks down to kiss the top of her head.

“Nothing,” he says. “We’ll make a hockey fan out of you yet, mami.”

“God forbid,” she says, with a shudder that may be for effect, or just from the cold, and leans into him when he wraps an arm around her shoulders.

[merlinmicrofic]

The tower of Betrayal | S5 canon div | Mordred x Morgana | Arthur & Morgana | evil!Mordred

In the dungeon of a dark, desolated tower, the King sat in a cell. The metal door creaked open. He flinched and raised his head. But it was not his faithful knights coming to his aid, not his dear Merlin. It was her, his sister, the Lady Morgana. She has come to torment and eat at his nerves again.

"Why don't you just kill me?" asked Arthur, calm and weary. Deep in his heart he hoped she doesn't because she still loves him a little.

Morgana smirked and winked at him wickedly. "I am a seer, dear brother, remember? I have seen that you weren't destined to fall by my hand." She turned to a young man who entered behind her, put her arm around his neck, and eased her forehead against his. "Mordred, on the other hand..."

The traitor knight smiled defiantly at Arthur.

[sortofanobsession]

Tommy/Buck with guilty Eddie prompt: Eddie gets a takes of his own medicine when Buck spends all of his time with Tommy and barely has even a second for him. Eddie's all for sulking until Hen or Chimney clues him in on how he treated Buck while he went gallivanting with Tommy. Now Buck had become Tommy's priority and Eddie is left missing Buck like crazy. How will he get his buddie back?

Author's Note: I do have more to this story IF you want a Buddie Ending. But I wanted to get this out before the show tonight. So there might be a part 2 in the works. Unbeta'd and like zero proofing because I'm making this happen between 2 jobs. But I love you guys, so I needed to get this posted.

Content warning: Petty Eddie is his own warning. Anxiety, doubt, fear, all those emotions. Cliffhanger...

The Timing is Always Wrong

Eddie had initially thought it was amusing that Tommy had been on a date with Buck. Eddie's best friend. Sure, Buck hadn't told him that was happening, or that he had realized he wasn't as straight as everyone thought he was. And that had concerned Eddie for a bit. He and Buck usually talked about stuff. But Eddie had figured it was probably more to do with the fact that Eddie and Tommy were friends. New friends even. Buck probably didn't want to complicate that. That seemed very much like a Buck thing he would do. If the date hadn't gone well, because let's face it Buck did not have the best first date track record. Although, Tommy would have been well adept at dealing with another dinner roll induced 911. Tommy was just as trained as they were. It would be fine. Wouldn't it?

Maybe not.

Eddie was really starting to get annoyed. Buck had blown him off twice over the past few days. He had barely had time for Christopher outside a few calls and picking him up from school when Eddie had an appointment. And now Buck seemed to be glued to his phone. Even on shift. It was like Eddie wasn't there unless they had a call they needed to work directly together on. Even then he was bearing all about Tommy. And it was getting on Eddie's nerves. Eddie couldn't help but glare at his best friend as he walked away grinning with his phone to his ear.

He didn't miss the slight laugh behind him.

Chimney doesn't even seem annoyed when Eddie glares at him.

“What?” Eddie sort of snaps at him.

“Oh nothing, just wondering how it feels on the other side of that turning table,” Chim says.

“What does that even-” Eddie says as he continues to glare. “If you have something to say, Chim, spit it out. I'm not in the mood.”

“Oh that much is obvious,” Chim says, and Eddie might actually punch his best friend’s brother in law. Wow, Frank would not approve of that. Bobby either. Buck too. Okay, maybe he needed to get a handle on this.

“Chim…” Eddie starts.

“You really don't see it, do you?” Chim asks, amusement clear in his tone. “Wow, you two are just…okay, you're annoyed that Buck's blowing you off for his new guy, who happens to be Tommy. And you don't see the irony In that?”

“Marisol and-”

“I'm not talking about your girlfriend,” Eddie says. “I'm talking about Tommy Kinard. Buck looked like a kicked puppy every time you had plans with Tommy or were too busy to spot him or shoot hoops. Thought the military was supposed to make you guys more observant, not whatever that all is. Now not only does Buck have Tommy's attention, but Tommy has Buck's and you hate it. But then again you've always hated Buck's partners. For the record, the rest of us just hope you two get back on the same page, don't want to risk another grocery store-”

“That was different and you know it,” Eddie states.

“Same ‘Mom and dad fighting’ energy that makes these shifts weird. So just tell your best friend you miss him and quit glaring at everyone.” Chimney doesn't stay for a reaction. He had probably crossed a line already. Honestly, Maddie had told him that Eddie and Buck needed to sit down and talk like adults, but Chim had pointed out neither of them were good at that. They had both agreed on that point.

Had Eddie really hared everyone Buck was with. Sure, he hated Taylor, but that's because it was Taylor Kelly. He had valid reasons for that. And okay, he was NOT Abby’s biggest fan when she had just showed back up. Alright, and Allie, well, Allie had been not terrible. Eddie, Carla, and Allie had their work cut out for them getting Buck back on his feet. Allie just couldn't keep up. And we'll, Eddie was pretty sure Natalia was just a misguided trauma reaction. Eddie didn't hate them all, per se, more he didn't always like who Buck was when he was with them. And maybe that wasn't fair. Eddie had his share of bad relationships. His relationship with Shannon was a mess that never got closure. That had led him down a bad path. Ana has been good for Christopher, and him, but it wasn't…it just wasn't anymore. He had felt like he was trying to fool himself back then. And Marisol…With Buck busy with Tommy he would have more time for Marisol and Christopher to get to know each other. Did he really want that? Did he see a future with Marisol? Did Christopher? Christopher would probably be happy Buck and Tommy were together. They were like his two favorite people recently and that mostly didn't bother him, right. Eddie could see that Tommy and Buck could be good for each other. But like, could he see all five of them being a- what would that even be? Would Buck pick a life with Tommy over one with him and Christopher? Did- Nah, this was Buck. Eddie, Buck and Christopher have been through so much together. Christopher would be non negotiable, even Taylor Kelly had known that. But…in the future, who would know.

Huh.

Every time Eddie looked into his future Buck was always there. His best friend. The women in their lives came and went but not Buck. Buck was there through Shannon. He was there before and after Ana. Buck was there at not only Eddie's worst moments, but vice versa.

Eddie thinks about the bombing. The tsunami. The well. The shooting. And that stupid storm. Three minutes and seventeen seconds that were probably the most terrifying three minutes and seventeen seconds of his life. And that's something he still tries not to think about because Eddie wasn't afraid of his own death. He'd survived being shot twice now and buried his wife. But losing Buck was scarier. Losing Shannon had been difficult, but losing Buck would be unbearable. Was he losing Buck? Is that why he hated Taylor and Natalia so much?

Nothing changes other than Eddie's attitude over the next few days. Their next shift gets off to an unusual start.

Buck does a double take as he looks up from texting Tommy. Eddie looked…odd. He was frowning and just staring off. But before he could say anything Eddie seemed to shake off whatever was on his mind and headed towards the loft. He didn't look particularly happy. Maybe he had gotten a call. Maybe something happened with Christopher. That had Buck putting his phone in his pocket and hurrying after his best friend. He caught up to him on the stairs.

“Eddie, hey,” Buck starts, which of course has Eddie stopping halfway up the stairs to look at him.

“Yeah, Buck, what you need?”

That was an odd way to reply. Well not really, but for Eddie it was. “Need? I don't-” Buck shakes his head. “Are you okay man? Is Christopher okay? Did Carla call or -”

“He was fine when I left…wait did Carla call you?” Eddie asks, now even more on edge. The father pulls out his phone. He didn't have any missed calls. He had a text from Marisol he hasn't replied to, but nothing important. He looks back at Buck.

“Me?” Buck shakes his head. Okay that might not have been the best thing to start with. “No, I…you look like you just got bad news or something. I was worried something happened to Chris or maybe your abuela.”

Eddie can't help but soften a bit at that. How could Eddie ever doubt how much his son meant to his best friend. Buck loves Christopher as much as Eddie did. Eddie felt bad for even considering it.

“Christopher is fine as far as I know,” Eddie tries to reassure him. “Abuela too.”

“Then what's wrong?” Buck genuinely asks.

Eddie hesitates. Buck must notice because he's now dragging Eddie along to a less busy are of the loft.

“I know things have been…off, since…you know,” Buck isn't sure he is making any sense. “You can still talk to me, you know that right? Like it won't leave this.” And the way Buck gestures between the two of them, paired with the fact Buck still had a hold of his wrist didn't help Eddie feel any better about anything. But he didn't hate it. Well, Eddie was having a day of revelations he hadn't expected to have. And it was draining.

He must stay silent too long because Buck adds, “I won't tell Tommy, not if you don't want me to. I mean-”

Eddie bites back a sigh. Why is all this happening now? He really needed to set up an appointment with Frank.

“I know, Buck.” Eddie says honestly.

“Okay, so…what's going on?” Buck asks. And the look of genuine concern on Buck's face tugs at something in Eddie's chest.

“I'm okay, Buck,” Eddie says, and he can tell Buck isn't buying it. So he cuts off whatever argument Buck might have. “I mean it. It's not an ‘I’m fine’ like before when I thought I needed to be. This isn't that. I just…”

“That's good but now you're freaking me out a bit,” Buck says. “Just what?”

“Honestly, I'm not sure,” Eddie says with all sincerity. The former medic isn't sure what he is right now. He knows he is having way more feelings than he should and he knows he sure as hell can't tell Buck that because Buck just started a new relationship. It would be selfish for Eddie to say anything now. Not when Eddie isn't even sure what he is feeling.

“Eddie,” Buck starts, moving to grip his friend's shoulders. He wanted to make sure he had Eddie's full attention. Buck even ignores the way his phone goes off in his pocket. “Did you have a fight with Marisol or something? I don't think I've seen you like this since…”

“Not exactly,” Eddie needs to stop this conversation before he says or does something stupid. “like I said, I don't know. Probably something I should talk to Frank about.”

“Probably a good idea,” Buck nods, pulling away as he does. “But you know-”

“I know I can call you if I need to, Buck. I would just hate to-” Eddie is cut off by Buck’s phone going off again. “You need to get that?”

Buck gets the phone out of his pocket and isn't sure what he should do.

And Eddie can tell Buck is torn as he looks at his phone. Eddie sees Tommy's name and photo on the screen. “You should get that.” To make the choice easier on his friend, Eddie heads to the kitchen. Mentally kicking himself. Maybe Chimney was right and he should just tell Buck he misses him. It's not a lie and it's not like that would be out of the norm. He was his best friend.

Buck answers the phone right before it goes to voicemail.

“Everything alright?” Tommy asks.

“Yeah, well, maybe, I don't know,” Buck says.

“A lot of conflicting answers there, Evan.”

“Sorry,” Buck frowns.

“No need to be, but are you okay?”

“I'm fine, but somethings off with Eddie and it's weird, last time he was like this was when he was after he got shot, was having panic attacks and broke up with Ana.”

“Not having panic attacks now is he? Seemed fine last week. And he and Marisol seemed alright the other night.”

“I thought so too. I don't think he's had a panic attack in awhile. He or Chris would have told me.

“But you think he might be heading that way? Or that's he's better at hiding it.”

“I don't know,” Buck admits. He hates not knowing. “He said he should talk to Frank, his-”

“Therapist, right? That's a good thing, isn't it? He knows he needs help and sounds like he's getting it.”

“I mean yeah, but…” Buck has seen Eddie at his worst. But it felt like Eddie was pushing him out.

Even on the phone Tommy can tell the situation is tearing his partner up. “But he's your best friend and you're worried.”

“Yeah…” Buck nods despite Tommy not being able to see it.

“That's a good thing, Evan,” Tommy tries to assure him. “You guys have been through a lot, been friends for a long time. Would be weird if you didn't worry.”

“I guess so.”

“I know so, you're a sweet guy, Evan, why do you think I like you so much?”

It doesn't get better over the next few days. The opposite happens. Buck could not shake the feeling Eddie was keeping something from him. That he was losing his best friend, again.

“Are we okay?” Buck asks. “Because I don't feel like we are okay.”

“I broke it off with Marisol,” Eddie states.

“What? Why? I thought you guys were getting serious? What happened?” Buck asks, not even noticing that Eddie had managed to avoid his question.

“It just didn't work,” Eddie says with a shrug.

“Didn't you say that about Ana too?”

“Because it's true,” Eddie states. “And yes, I'm aware the common factor on that is me. Tía Pepa made that very clear.”

“What else did Tía Pepa say?” Buck asks. He knew the women in the Diaz family were a force to reckon with.

“A lot, as usual,” Eddie sighs. “But she's not wrong.”

“Okay…” Buck was wondering where this might go.

“She told me to figure out what I wanted because clearly what has been happening isn't working and she's running out of friends with daughters.”

Buck chuckles, “that sounds like her.”

“And Frank agreed. I had to figure it out.”

“Did you?”

“I think so,” Eddie nervously notes.

That makes Buck perk up. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “But the timing…”

“Who is it?” Buck asks. The younger firefighter seemed eager to know but internally he was torn. If Eddie had figured it out and found a person to share the rest of his life with, that could mean a lot of changes. Buck might get pushed aside. And that would ruin Buck.

[sparrow-orion-writes]

3.2 "A fight, huh? How about I give you a war, baby?"

~ M <3

There was a flicker of admiration in his eyes as he watched her, his heart in his throat, his body hot with fear. "I'll take whatever you give me," he whispered into the night. She smiled with a hunger. He knew this was less of a war and more of a hunt - and he was, as always, her prey.

[augment-techs]

Title: Across the Horizons

Title: Across the Horizons, Across the Valleys and the Moors, Across the Highest of Heights Rating: M Fandoms: Power Rangers; Power Rangers Mystic Force; Boom! Comics Power Rangers; Power Rangers Dino Thunder. Relationships: Leelee Pimvare/Clare Langtree; Conner McKnight/Kira Ford/Ethan James; Daggeron/Leanbow; Tori Hanson/Kapri; Necrolai/Itassis; Nick Russell/Xander; Chip Thorn/Vida Rocca; Marah & Cameron Watanabe. Characters: World of the Coinless Leelee Pimvare; World of the Coinless Leanbow; World of the Coinless Clare Langtree; World of the Coinless Kapri & Marah; Ranger Slayer Kimberly Hart; Remi; Karone; Grace Sterling; Terona Washington; Cameron Watanabe; etc. Additional Tags: World of the Coinless - Alternate Universe; Major Character Deaths; Beyond the Grid Arc - Alternate Universe; Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault; Emotional Damage; Hurt/Comfort; Anxiety; A Version of Leelee who is a MASSIVE Thirst Trap but goes Limp when Clare so much as Looks at Her; Sleeping Around; Me Just Sitting Here Sniping Beloved Characters from the Roof; Followed by Setting Them Up with Lovers from the Sidelines; Tori Actually Has ZERO GAME; But Sentry Kapri is Used to being Surrounded by Cringe Fail Losers so it's Fine; Cam is SO Stressed it is Unreal. Summary:

Realistically, there's no way that all of the Sentries working under Drakkon were awful and bad or even assholes. Some of them had to be there for protection, if not for themselves, then for their loved ones. From a narrative standpoint, it's kind of stupid that there were only Trini, Zack, Bulk, and a few other would-have-been Rangers left alive after Tommy and Billy popped in and Drakkon popped out of their dimensions. There had to be MORE, and they HAD to be on Promethea helping out the other non-Rangers as best they could during the rescue mission.

And Beyond the Grid would have been so much better if we got to look at the background characters much more than just the makeshift team.

Bonus ideas for scenes that popped into my head for this:

Cameron getting to know a different version of his cousins that are actually completely kickass while simultaneously being emotionally shut down and so damaged he wants to hunt down the Lothor of their universe and do unimaginably horrible things to him.

Kapri has tattoos. That include sleeves along both arms. That Tori can't stop looking at when Kapri is on the training flood while toweling herself off from lifting weights--and almost dropping them on Kira's foot from the distraction.

Grace tossing Conner to Terona when she realizes how much of a mess the Dino Thunder Red is around literally anyone with more muscles than him. Terona knows the young man can respect boundaries, and agrees to keeping him occupied with stuff to do (in spite of also knowing Grace was basically throwing him under a bus; but he has a 'look, don't touch' policy, in spite of Conner checking out his ass so much). If Ethan wanders in to help them out and feed them, there's no complaining.

Clare scurrying around out of sight of the Rangers that still have their powers in an effort to get a better read on the Ranger Slayer. Because while everyone says that she was under mind control, she was bound to Drakkon with obedience through magic, Clare is still suspicious. She doesn't deny that the woman looks weary and sad and was making an effort to get them all home and out of danger, but...if there was even a chance she was still a danger to the Coinless, Clare has to be sure.

Leelee missing Camille and Jarrod, Ryan, Toxica and Jindrax, Dayu, and even some of the total losers in her division. Like a missing arm or leg; a completely unexpected thing since Drakkon won her in a game, removed her from the Mystic Realm as well as removing her vampire nature, and passed her off to the least respected Captain in all of his legions to train. (Who treated her better than anyone in all the world and actually helped strengthen her relationship with Necrolai).

Chip and Xander being bros and getting to know everyone, because it's not like they'll ever get another chance like this in their lifetime.

[theangrykimchi]

46 for the Thorki kisses 💕💕💕 please, please, please!

Thor steamed into his cup as Loki's laughter reached his ears from the other side of the long mahogany table. His eyes were sparkling with mirth and even though he held a hand before his mouth to stifle the sound, his joy managed to travel across the open space of the royal gardens. Beside him, an elf was looking at him with open adoration, broad smile splitting his face into two at managing to make the otherwise aloof second Prince of Asgard react so openly to whatever it was that he said to him.

Emptying his cup of strong flower wine, Thor broke the vessel against the dusty ground, demanding another to be brought to him immediately.

The Alfish elf had been glued to Loki's side since the moment the Bifrost landed them on Alf a week ago. Never leaving the brothers alone except for them to retire for the night but then, as soon as they woke up, there he was, at the breakfast table, up high on the spacious balcony constructed into the massive Plane Tree Palace, monopolizing Loki with whatever it was that his brother found oh-so-interesting about him. Thor had considered grabbing the elf from his wiry arm and throwing him off the side of the protective wooden rails one too many times.

Keep reading on AO3

[frikatilhi]

Hi, I'm just a shy anon, but I love your fics 🤗 Imagine This: an AU in which Jere is still our superstar, but Bojan is just a (psycho)fan in the audience and J kisses him instead of Jukka during HHH👀

Hi anon from DECEMBER, I have something for you! (not exactly what the prompt says but something like it!)

Happy Bojere Week Day 4: AU FREE SPACE

I have to say, I'm loving this week because it has enabled me to let go of trying to write too complicated and detailed things and just write the good bits and post away! Scene giving you trouble? Cut to the next one! Smut not smutting? Pan the camera to the flowing curtains and be done with it. Whee Smeagol is freeeeeeeeeeeeeee

[lordkingsmith]

made up fanfic title prompt: "a 2AM seduction" + Hazbin Hotel (maybe with Vox?)

Fun fact: I don’t ship Vox with anyone. So I stuck names into a generator and the most consistent name is who he’s getting shipped with for your prompt, enjoy lol

(Adam happened 10 times, Lucifer and Charlie tied at 8, I decided Adam was the funniest option instead of attempting a tie breaker for Charlie and Lucifer-Adam was BECAUSE I was trying to break the tie somehow, so it’s funny and it feels like it was supposed to happen lol)

Pairing: Vox/Adam

Rating: Explicit

Title: A 2 AM Seduction

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Summary:

Vox broadcasts Adam’s death at the hands of Niffty, and continues on with his life. He’s got plans, big plans, and he and the Vee’s are going to rule hell. A year later, a fallen angel attempts to kill him. A fallen angel claiming they’re Adam and they’re going to kill everyone in hell, starting with the overlords.

While it’s easy to fight “Adam” off, Vox is intrigued and offers a deal with him. If this fallen angel really is Adam, he could be useful. Surprisingly, Adam accepts. Vox keeps him close as his personal assistant, to the amusement of the other two Vee’s and Adam’s frustration.

Adam might be a self centered dick, but he’s smart, and he’s talented, and he’s beautiful. And Vox gets curious if he can, actually, make this high and mighty jackass fall in more ways than one. Maybe what Adam needs to loosen up is a little bit of a technology addiction, courtesy of a seduction and a moment of impulse and need at 2 AM. Maybe that’s what Vox needs, too.

[cosmic-hoboandthehighlander]

Prompt Game: 3rd Doctor - news

How kind of you to suggest my Classic Doctor! 💕 I’m very pleased to have gotten to try my hand at writing Three. I only hope it did this justice, as I only began watching Classic Who earlier this year and despite how it has quite obviously taken over my life in such a short time, I still have a lot to learn about the earlier regenerations of the Doctor.

I reckon this is around the time the Doctor finally gets free from exile and is allowed the use of his Tardis again, but I’ve really no idea where this would take place in the timeline. Anyway, I just wanted the excuse to write the Brigadier!

News

“Now, Doctor, what do you think you’re doing? We’ve got—“

The Doctor held up his hand, still fiddling with whatever contraption it was he was holding, wandering about the office, gathering objects left and right. The Brigadier never quite understood the capabilities of the Doctor’s brilliant mind, but he respected him all the same. He waited.

“Brigadier, I’ve got news for you,” The Doctor said shortly, sternly. His cape swirled perfectly around him as he spun to face Lethbridge-Stewart and the Brigadier watched it settle around the Doctor’s thighs.

“What? What’s that you couldn’t possibly wait to tell me later? We’ve got the meeting and-and…” he stopped, noticing that the Doctor had seemingly quit listening, going back to tinkering with the object in his hand.

“I’ve things to do, you see, and I rather do them alone,” the Doctor said distractedly, turning toward his Tardis and pausing in the doorway. He turned back, flashing Lethbridge-Stewart a grin. The door opened and Miss Grant slipped inside the room. “With Jo, of course. You understand, don’t you?”

The Brigadier understood; the Doctor would come back. He always did.

[leiawritesstories]

building and building and building

@throneofglassmicrofics April prompts: "Crescendo"

word count: 821

warnings: i'm sorry in advance 🫡

enjoy.....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At the far end of the long, darkened hallway, a slightly-cracked door released a narrow spill of pale light across the floor. This late at night, all the overhead lights were off, the faintly musty-smelling hallway of the lower level of the music building lit only by a few dimmed panels so that anyone passing through didn't get lost in the dark. Through that cracked door, if one listened closely enough, there came the gentle sounds of a piano, bars of music escaping the room's soundproofing through the slight tilt of the door.

Aelin always came to the piano when she'd had a particularly rough day.

That night was no exception.

An endlessly long day of classes, two meetings that she was late to, critical comments on her latest research paper, spilling her coffee all over the sidewalk because some egotistical freshman hadn't been watching where he and his broccoli hair were going, and as the sour cherry atop her shit milkshake, she'd caught her boyfriend of eight months with his tongue down some other blonde chick's throat.

He hadn't even looked guilty when she caught him. Then again, she hadn't stopped to look, just slapped the shit out of him and left.

It was nearly midnight before she closed her laptop, left the library, and dragged herself over to the music building, descending the stairs and heading to her favorite practice room on muscle memory. Backpack abandoned on the floor, she switched her phone off and tipped her head forwards and rested her hands above the familiar worn ivory and ebony keys, letting the soft rush of the room's fan system push all of her cacophonous thoughts out of her head.

The concerto came easily to her fingertips, its opening chords slow, majestic, dipping from deep and solemn to higher, lighter. Like her mind--except it was still stuck in the low tones. Stuck in the deep, discordant ruts of exhaustion, doubt, and fear.

Her thoughts struck an endless incomplete minor chord, hollow and strained, missing a crucial piece.

At the far end of the hallway, a male figure paused, captivated by the gentle faraway spill of light and sound. Hesitantly, he placed one foot in front of the other, one cautious step at a time until he was nearly at the door, nearly in the light. The piano seemed to mimic his movements, the notes of the concerto building and building and building as he approached--breaking into a crescendo as he stopped, one hand almost at the door, some unseen force stopping him.

A brief beat of silence, and then the beginnings of a gentler melody, a second movement, a mournful, hauntingly beautiful, achingly soft music that ascended slowly, a lover shyly approaching the beloved. The man in the hallway felt tears prickle at his eyes, a rise of emotion drawn both from the heart-tugging tenderness of the piano and from the thick oily weight upon his heart.

The gentle melody intensified, weaving the melodic line into a cascade of rising arpeggios, a wave that built and built and built until it released in a drawn-out trill that trickled into silence before it returned to the initial theme--lingering, longing, a gasping reach across time and space. Another brief silence, and then the explosion of a final movement, sharp and light and dancing, as if the lover from before had turned headlong into another pursuit in attempt to distract from the heartbreak of the earlier movement.

He pushed open the door, let the soft light and grand music spill over him, but found himself rooted in place just inside the doorway as the woman at the piano, her eyes closed and her head tipped back and salt tears tracked down her cheeks, poured the ruins of her soul into the concerto. Her fingers flew over the keys with the lithe grace of a bird in flight, a glorious tidal wave of a crescendo building and building and building and cascading into a bursting crest, one last majestic return to the theme that ended in a single chord, struck five times in close succession, its finality echoing through the space.

Aelin's hands fell limp to the bench, fingers curling around the worn, threadbare cushion and weathered wood as her head tipped back, such unspeakable pain writ large across her features.

Rowan's heart cracked in the key of C minor, a darkly ironic echo of the final notes of the concerto his love had poured out. A plea, a cry, a voice from across an infinite rift, her music flooded his soul with an incommunicable sense of loss.

Knowing that the concerto was a farewell--the barely-open door was a sure sign she wanted him to hear it--he slowly crept backwards, his sneakers silent on the carpet, until he was no more than another blur in the shadowed darkness of the empty hallway.

Until he was completely beyond the reach of his Fireheart's love.

~~~

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