#Always prompty

[imhereformr]

Feel free to add a character (or two?) and suggestions to your prompt request. I may not take them, but I'll consider them 😅

waking up... prompts

in a stranger's apartment

accused of murder in a police department

in someone else's body

to a hand clamped over your mouth

and the clock reads yesterday

in your mother's arms

in a casket

in a hospital

and you're in a new country

and people have mistaken you for someone else

and people have mistaken you for a god

in a fire

feverish, but someone holds a cold towel to your forehead

in a yelling stranger's arms

in the middle of the road, headlights flashing

and you smell poison

in the villain's lair

kicking and screaming to someone with a knife in hand

and you've missed the battle

[deadmeatbeat]

noctis is staring respectfully.... [click for better quality]

Bonus:

[cartoonghosts]

really fun to be fronting while sunny is around like. Hes actively still in summer. Its like he hasnt fully accepted that its not summer anymore, he's still bright and warm and sunshiney. Fuck wait hes just like that post cancelled hell he just does that

[thedarklingdude]

taking medication is so so so exhausting because it’s a constant balancing act of are the side effects worth the effects

and sometimes the answer is no, but then you gotta find a different medication and who knows how long that takes and at some point it just becomes easier to manage symptoms on your own except when it doesn’t work

and other times the answer is no but you don’t really have a choice but to stay on the medication

but when the answer Is yes then you have to remember to take the medication and that Also sucks in a different way

most of the time I end up feeling like I’d rather just go back to dealing with problems even as they’re actively ruining my life because at least those are predictable

[delicrieux]

. . . l'oeuf

˙⋆✮ summary. just another evening at henry's.

pairing. henry winter x f!reader warnings. smoking, swearing, mentioned drug use, bad aspirin use specifically, use of alcohol, +18 (p n v sex, no condom henry DOES NOT care, very minimal dirty talk), pretentiousness, an inkling of classicism, bunny™ wc. 6.9k ✧˖°.

author's note. happy october everyone ! i always wanted to write smth for the loml henry winter but i never had the patience to sit down and do it. well, now i did. this was written with prompt 1. thick, acrid smoke. feel free to rqs more for the prompty thingies! x . . . side note! the fic is named by this song since i listened to it while writing. you can draw a metaphor from it if willing

creds. hd., div.

mlist | buy me coffee ♡ྀ

it was at the start of october on that fateful senior year that you had found yourself in henry winter's illustrious townhouse. from the lacquered brazillian hardwood floorboards to the ivory plasterwork on the ceilings – every corner pertained a certain degree of finery that reflected poorly on the rest of its objects: a well-worn armchair perpetually stuck in henry’s physique and fraying at the edges, the trampled rug that snaked upstairs and held all of your secrets, the coffee table with too many wine stains. in the dim light, the dried rorschach looked like blood.

the present company consisted of six and was slowly dwindling. your dear friend francis, the only boy who had never cared to peek up your skirt in childhood tennis practice, was a moment from collapsing into himself like a weary, old star. holding a champagne coupe from which he exclusively drunk only campari, he had thrown himself over henry’s couch not unlike a discontent lead from a penny dreadful novel. his face kept twisting according to the sounds: bunny’s voice was met with pursed lips and a tightly shut eye (only one, closest to bunny’s person sat by the aforementioned coffee table), charles’ – with a look of defeated boredom, and in the odd bouts of silence and music, bliss.

you offered him a cigarette, and he barely managed to crane his neck to kiss the knuckles of a helping hand before he snatched it away and searched his pockets for a lighter.

sweet camilla sat by the fire, with her knees drawn to her chest. one black stocking was torn on the side, rippling up her calf and sneaking into her inner knee, an action bunny had noted and all had taken particular interest in. there had been a metaphor about literature resembling her glossy stockings – all that language and reference weaved into a fabric that stretched till it could no more, thus marking the end of innovation and intertextuality. a book can only fit so much, and as all of them cared for ancient greek only – a language that no one spoke, and so, could never refine past its perfect state – the topic soon waned in favor of more brandy.

bunny cowed a story about richard papen, the outsider that had joined their coterie, who was not present, as he had not been invited. he was a fine orator, had a specific sense of humor that, while not always understood, could charm an audience when fidgeted with enough. only bunny was too drunk, and his glass of whiskey kept spilling on his trousers till it left an undignified blotch crowned by cigarette ashes, which only painted him a blubbering buffoon. ‘the fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool,’ came to mind as you admired the embers dancing in the halo of his blond hair.

then, there was charles, drunk as always, who had opted to lay by camilla’s feet, the place where bunny’s drunken attempts of metaphor had landed him.

lastly, there was henry, your own personal virgil, who had not wanted you to come, but allowed it still. he looked tired from across the room, an arm thrown over the cushions of the armchair in which he sat. in his left hand he held a book, a cover and a title too out of frame for your eyes to see; amber reflected in his wiry glasses, the color of his brandy bottle (half empty) before the orange glow of the fire burned it copper. a plume of cigarette smoke curled into the ceiling from his two fingers. only he could have full concentration among the chaotic symphony in the living room.

the record spun to silence, and you quickly abated your seat on the windowsill to pad to the cabinet and change the vinyl. the collection of classics had not increased since your last visit, which was roughly a week ago, and it had not changed since henry moved out the dorms during the winter of your junior year. there were chopin’s nocturnes and etudes, beethoven’s piano sonatas, and wagner’s tristan and isolda, just to name a few. something lulling, quiet. you picked debussy and placed the needle. lilting, soft and steady, like you supposed love would feel.

instantly, you were met with bunny’s ire.

“no, no,” a wave and a body too weak to stop you. you ensured he was gifted your most sly smile, “no, woman, put on somethin’, somethin’ grand,” a larger wave, like a poorly coordinated conductor, he smacked his hand too close to francis’ head. a groan from charles, as if he had grown nauseous from watching the motions, “somethin’ for me and charlie here,”

charles tried to turn away in his discontent, yet did not manage. camilla, concerned, laid a hand on his shoulder, “should we go? i think we should head home.”

“see?” bunny’s accusing tone found you once more, “you’re scaring the guests. put on some real music. like the... the...” he trailed off, lighting another cigarette. for good luck, one could imagine, “like goddamn— listen to led zeppelin, man! the rolling stones!”

you glanced to henry and found yourself surprised. a shared look.

“no such things in our humble repertoire,” you stated.

“mile davis, at least?”

“no,”

“i don’t believe you,”

“you’re free to check for yourself.”

amidst this small argument, which was much too common when dealing with bunny, camilla had somehow managed to wrestle charles into standing on his own two feet. unstable, he leaned onto his sister, the added weight making her stagger.

“goodness, take care of charles,” bunny whined, though his complaints never amounted to more than simple sulking. you chose not to pay them much mind.

it was henry that helped, carefully balancing his book on the armrest and coming to take charles from camilla’s embrace.

“should i drive you home?” he asked.

camilla shook her head, en route to retrieve her red scarf and new coat, “no, no, we’ll call a taxi.”

it was always mildly fascinating watching the two interact. camilla, never able to meet his gaze directly and for too long, and henry, who only ever extended wordless aid without prompt or reason to her only. what had she done to earn such favor was beyond you – beyond everyone, perhaps – but you were certain you weren’t the only one that saw this careful act of piety and kindness.

you observed them shuffle out after moments on the telephone, camilla’s hand ghosting henry’s arm, or grazing the bend of his elbow, and only when they disappeared past the large door to wait for the taxi did you look away.

loving henry winter was a sisyphean task, unworthy of the effort which it required. you thought yourself too smart for it, and thus, never cared to entertain the notion, not even when he kissed you.

you caught bunny staring at you: not scrutinizing, not calculating – simply staring. a curious leer that often fell on you after some semblance of mirth had worn down. almost shy, somewhat longing.

“this richard of yours,” you began, helping yourself to henry’s lucky strike. out of all the brands that you had smoked, this was the most bitter and always left a tart taste in the back of your throat. you craved it, “papen, was it?”

“yup,” bunny mumbled into his glass.

“and how is he?” your gaze jumped from him to francis.

“poor,” bunny said.

“californian,��� francis tacked on.

“but he pretends he isn’t,” bunny continued.

“californian?” your brows rose. the smell, the taste – too powerful, almost choking.

“no, no,” bunny shook his head, disoriented for a moment, “rich. pretends to be rich. see, i didn’t tell you this, but,” and he reached for henry’s cigarettes, too, even if his own pack laid abandoned, two-three left untouched. he did this, at times, this odd mimicry: you smoked, he smoked what you did, you drank, he drank what you did, you decided a getaway to italy was your dream destination for a week and later learned he had haggled henry into buying tickets for the two of them, “but i, you know me: never judge a book by its cover, i say. invited him to dinner. the usual place, the one on-”

“god,” francis winced, and if he could move, surely he’d flee, “stop talking.”

“the lady asked, am i to deny her now? i thought he wouldn’t show, but he does, doesn’t he? with a goddamned tweed jacket, like i wouldn’t notice,” he hiccupped mid-explanation, the liquor long congealed into his system, “and, you know, me, i know people. i know people. i see them for what they are, and i knew he was a no good cheat from a mile away, but hey,” a straight spine, a bit proud, “i think to myself, you know what, old man, i’m gonna give this guy a chance. pop’s always-”

“aspirin,” francis interjected, this time directed at you, “bring me some, would you, juliet?”

you snorted, “a moment,”

“thank you, desdemona. you’re a midsummer night’s dream,”

“she’s from othello,”

“my point stands.”

you sauntered off into henry’s kitchen and scoured his cupboards for painkillers. the layout of this place you knew too well – perhaps, even, if you closed your eyes, you could discern each obstacle and map it in front of your eyes with the grace and certainty of a guidebook. you did just that.

behind you, a sudden coldness pierced through the humidity and a door shut harshly. the influx of fresh air was a brief slap to the face.

it’s been silent for a while now.

“what are you doing?” henry’s voice, not close, yet not too far. always observing at a distance, since closeness was never his intention. henry winter. what a fitting name.

“looking for aspirin.”

the tick of an unseen clock.

“top drawer,” there was no urgency; something you didn’t understand was what made him hurry to answer, “i hid them there. bunny keeps stealing my entire cabinet.”

your eyes fluttered open, “my, my. what a snitch,”

“don’t give him the aspirin,”

“it’s for francis,”

“very well.”

an impasse. you closed the cabinet and thought against bringing water with you, knowing it’s unneeded.

“may i?” henry asked, and when you turned to look at him, he was as always – unbreakable, unmovable. expectant, perhaps, his heavy gaze a familiar pressure upon your cheekbones, the curve of your jaw, your swollen mouth (from biting, not being kissed).

“they’re yours,” you said easily, turning the cap and spilling a few into the bed of your palm as he approached, “here.”

to make matters harder, there’s but a foot of space between the two of you. the smallest separation, every part of him and every part of you entangled into one odd constellation. an immensity of motion before him and an immensity of energy after.

“water?”

“whiskey.”

“is it also hidden?”

“no.”

so you retrieved him a glass, and then the bottle, and lastly you poured the amount enough to swallow in one gulp. when he took and drank, and you watched his adam’s apple bob, you wondered, briefly and hazily, was your act in any way similar to camilla’s. a star that constantly drew him into her orbit.

“you didn’t leave,” he uttered quietly, tired eyes flicking to the maw of the kitchen opening. down the foyer, the firelight danced. bunny’s voice rose in a toast, no doubt to shake francis out of his stupor.

“i did,” you said, a slow smile curling, “what you see before you is a specter. the delirious imaginings of an impoverished mind.”

“ridiculous,” the quirk of his eyebrows: mock-offended.

“amusing,” the narrow of your eyes: contagious, “was everything my spirit foretold the same as you saw it unfold?”

weariness. you looked for it and found it easy enough. his fingers flexed, his tongue went behind his teeth. the cogs turned. for all his genius, henry was too susceptible to fable and entirely too superstitious. he could ward himself off it well, yet when his inhibitions were down, there was a hint of something else, a spark of pious faith in the impossible, what not might come next. he kept looking at you for an extended moment, until the corner of his mouth, minutely, drew up into a not-quite-smile.

“hermia!” came francis’ voice from the other room, “i’m dying.”

henry said nothing.

you expected bunny drunkenly swinging an almost empty bottle around to try and cheer up francis (it rarely worked, unless it was wine), and yet, he wasn’t there. the living room felt very big, somehow, devoid of him and the makings of his gullible heart.

“and where is bun?” you questioned, almost scolding.

“bathroom,” francis succeeded sitting up, yet only just.

you heard henry curse under his breath. he disappeared, and soon you heard the continents of a stomach emptying down the hall and henry’s monotone behind a closed door.

“time to end this sabbath, me thinks,” you said. francis took the pills with a fresh glass of campari, nose scrunching from the taste.

“d’you think henry could drive me home?” francis asked.

“do you trust him with your life?”

“do you think he’d let me die?”

“depends,”

“no. i’ll cab it,”

“wise decision.”

henry returned, seemingly exhausted from his small adventure. no one followed after.

“bun?” you asked again, which seemed to displease him. he only shook his head. passed out, then. unfortunate, yet expected. if bunny could somehow gain authority over all of henry’s things – even the minute ones, the ones that don’t matter and exist in the peripherals without henry’s notice – he would. it was the same reason francis once insisted that bunny had been in love with you.

the incident occurred during your first year of college in early november. a rather somber and chilly day with leaves sticking to wet asphalt and stone walls amidst the rainy season. a monday. bunny had broken his ankle and complained terribly about it, and henry, who had become his caretaker, was sick of it and instead abhorred him. by accident and complete mischance, the handling of bunny corcoran had fallen onto your graceful shoulders, and in a single day – full of obsolete complaints and impulsive questions – the theorized affection was born.

if there was a way in which bunny’s countenance had changed in your presence, it was lost on you, for your attention, at the time, was solely pilfered by charles. he was, back then, the most handsome of the greek class, and oddly enough, the only one pleasant, thus you sought his favor. but charles never returned your fondness, no matter how minuscule it could be, and he never gave the impression of fleeting interest. only sometimes, when he thought you would not catch him, he would stare at you for a bit too long. you never got to figure out what he had thought in those moments.

instead, you figured yourself an actor – a pretty one at that – and decided to ignore this indelicate sort of charm and pursue a new mark. there were many, of course, plenty of faces to consider, yet the outcome was always the same. as it were, they were all terribly boring and reminded you greatly of the peers you’ve encountered in private schools, the self-proclaimed intellectuals of the new age that had too much time and too much heartbreak on their hands. good looks aside, not the slightest hint of culture nor comprehension, just money and nothing to show for it.

and then there was henry, of course, so quintessentially different that his existence, still, was hard to define. something outside the realm of you. something above or beyond, or perhaps below – always somewhere you could not reach. there was an irrecoverable arrogance to him and in his aloof demeanor. an inviolable space that never invited others.

yes, there had to be some appeal to the strangeness of him, yet never could you put your finger on what exactly it was. at least, not immediately. at first sight, though, there were more poetic reasons to it – of the tragic and of the divine kind, yet that was no truth but some novel-born whim, a pointless obsession, some meager infatuation. an involuntary fetish. he had not wanted you, which only made it so that you wanted him in turn. it wasn’t an ugly thing – it simply was.

he must’ve known. henry always seemed to possess the knowledge of things you had never dared to question or to think twice of. or, perhaps, maybe not: but, despite your inability to identify the cause of it, there was a certain change to your disposition upon entering his shared room. one, maybe, akin to the sudden fear brought by dark enclosed spaces, though a bit more subtle and complex.

it was, ironically, a winter’s night.

when you phoned the same taxi and requested it’s return, francis spoke in a hazy murmur, sluggishly trying to shrug on the coat you brought him, “god, i really need a cigarette.”

“hm?”

“do you see mine anywhere?”

a rueful search, hands grabbing the scattered glass and hardbound that littered the surface of the coffee table. a valiant attempt to move the couch cushions and dip fingers into the cracks.

“no,”

“well, fuck me,”

henry offered his, but francis refused. the living room lit up in that thick, acrid smoke anyway.

the foyer echoed with your footsteps. outside the townhouse, rain had started again. a few drops at first, tapping the windows, before quickly it grew and gained weight. soon, it was battering against the glass.

with your scarf in your hands you suddenly found yourself unsure what to do with it. the taxi was coming and it was time to go home and plead to a higher power for reprieve from the headache you knew would cripple you in the morning. perhaps, an afternoon tomorrow to mull around, dazed. yet there was no respite in any of that. you realized, then, with this abrupt trepidation, that the cause of your discomfort, or the cause that exacerbated it, was within this confided space. a chasm-deep disquiet, like an open mouth of a ravine, dark and shadowy, or the pull of a tide at sea, which was, as they say, irresistible to even the most levelheaded.

somewhat uneasily, you lingered by the coat hanger, and when francis ambled over, tripping over his own two feet, he downed the rest of his campari and shoved the glass into your useless hands. then, he kissed your cheek, quick and wet, before ripping the door open and shoving it closed behind you, hence halting your escape.

the house was deafened, and your palms itched. the overwhelming urge to twiddle with your scarf became unbearable, or it was because a pair of eyes bore into you from the depths of the room. the closest thing you’ve ever considered to a tangible aura: the smell of ozone and rain water and tobacco.

“don’t suppose he’s waiting in the rain, is he?” you said.

“no, i don’t think he is.”

it didn’t make sense, none of what happened afterward – the decision to face him instead of making off into the chilling night. your arms crossed in a quiet and peculiar motion, clutching the coupe a bit too tight.

“whiskey?” henry offered, and you felt like the silly ingénue in some high-brow noir thriller donning all that cashmere by the door, “or bourbon.”

“fine.”

a crease of his eyebrow – the sole indication of surprise. your jacket found its rightful place on the rack along with that dreaded scarf. hesitance was unfamiliar to you, as you had not known it growing up – neither a sense of propriety nor a loss of footing. the dandy act had been adopted and perfected to such a degree that to relinquish the mask itself was oddly relieving, the discomfort born merely by knowing that francis was aware of your unusual situation and the upcoming events that would take place once the theater was done. there was a brief thought to how henry might’ve perceived you then. perhaps the removal of a layer of pretense might’ve intrigued him, if anything.

you remained at a slight distance and watched him traverse his domain, stepping around the askew items left behind by bunny and a bottle of gin haphazardly upended by charles, warm by the fire. there was an anomalous sort of patience to him. the silence was an abrasion. so often, you found yourself chattering to fill the void, even with other men who took the shape of strangers.

“there’s quite a storm brewing,” you said, only to be met with more silence. when your words simpered, the feeling they left was inexplicably ominous. ‘all that is transitory is but a symbol,’ yet only a bad poet would dare to draw a soliloquy from henry’s figure by the flames.

thus, you sat down on the couch, still warm from francis, and held up the beloved champagne coupe. henry’s hand did not tremble as it poured, but your fingers quivered when his attention fell onto you.

“is it good?”

you never felt the alcohol, only the burning in the back of your throat.

“very,”

he found himself beside you, not too close. the distance was not unlike orpheus’ journey, or so it appeared in the dim firelight – the familiar pangs of the unwilling, the sudden, selfish urge of wanting to see him in his entirety, his visage unhindered

“may i?” you asked, meaning, of course, his cigarette. he acquiesced easily. the only telltale of his everlasting unbothered mien: his focus had, and always seemed to be, too acute. it was enough to unnerve anyone. flattering, perhaps, if only you could tell what he was thinking, but you never could.

in your lap, the half-empty coupe. you left a smudge of your lipstick on the cigarette butt. henry inhaled. it was not unlike a kiss.

“francis mentioned you didn’t want to see me,” you said.

“i didn’t,” he responded.

“a lie, was it then?”

“you assume to know?”

“yes.”

another drag. smoke parted his mouth, slow as molasses and heavy as clouds.

“you’ve changed,” you said.

conversation with henry had always been difficult, before and after your frequent follies in the dark. if you did speak, it was never about one another, or anything that resided past skin and bone, nestled somewhere in the marrow, only felt. in instances where you did find common ground it was only ever art – literature, specifically, and when he was in a good mood, painting. henry only had one fascination and refused to entertain others; here lied his fatal flaw. thus, in a crowd of three and more, you could exchange remarks that would seem and sound important but held no real meaning.

“what sort of change have you noticed?” henry murmured. the lighting cast shadows. his hands twitched.

you were not sure, as you remembered him in much more detail and color. here, ashen-faced and obscured, all you saw was the ghost of his image, as though he had grown morose in a way that a single season could not alter. the greek class had often suffered for the aesthetic – self-imposed punishments of grandeur and excess that to everyone outside their circle seemed quite ridiculous, along with their dark clothes and mysterious miens and enigmatic jokes. some said they were haunted or blessed, but none envied them. alas.

troubled is the closest you could find, though if you were to voice it, he might take you for a child. it was never good to seek out his vulnerability. he would say you could never find it, and, inevitably, it would end up being the truth. henry wasn’t good at love. no one of were.

you shrugged, “you’ve become quiet.”

“am i, now?”

“more so than you’ve been,”

“perhaps you’ve just gotten better at listening,”

“unlikely,”

henry cocked his head. his hand, once again, twitched and there was an urge to reach out and grasp his fingers – some sort of absolution or at least a consolation for something neither one of you might’ve cared to mention. never did the man in front of you appear unsure, yet somehow, despite his best effort to the contrary, you felt a similar trepidation of an undefined thing.

henry was impossible to read. not just a mystery, but undeciphered in ways so beyond the mundane. over the years, you had collected enough clues to form a humble dictionary, yet much of what was missing could only be determined through his own misfortune and complacency – things which would, then, by nature and by fate, stray into your arms.

it did not matter, not entirely, at least. you did not love henry, but you thought that camilla did, and he, in turn, her. once you exhausted your inspection, perhaps you would pass that glossary to her, though you doubted that she would ever find any use for it.

“well,” henry said, “i suppose that’s to be expected. anything else?”

“would you enjoy a dissection?”

henry hummed, perhaps in agreement or curiosity, but it was very possible that he thought you foolish.

“no need,” he said, “yours is transparent.”

“really?” you countered, “they never are. people, i mean.”

“who are you thinking of?”

your mind drifted to bunny, likely curled on the cold tiles of the bathroom. with the first few buttons of his shirt popped and tie loosened, there was the picture of one not withering away but merely on the incline of a steep and lonely hill. all quiet in the dark of a windowless room from which he couldn’t even turn his head and see the stars.

it felt as though he would wake soon and interrupt. his presence always breached spaces he did not occupy, and the anticipation of his arrival always lingered in the air, unspoken but palpable. perhaps bunny would always exist in the shadowy corner-room between you and henry, because, if what francis said was true, henry was the first to know of it and had you, still.

you wondered if he regretted it, if he felt like brutus sticking the first knife into caesar’s rib, closest to the heart. you considered asking: in that moment, the urge felt insurmountable. instead, you said, “a little bit of everyone.”

inclined, you caught his gaze. an abysmal color and a disorienting shade, as deep and gloomy as the woods surrounding mount cataract.

“and me?”

“of course,” you smiled and slid a bit closer, “it’s not like you to ask. have you become sentimental?”

“not exactly,” his eyes moved to his hands. then, the flecks in the fireplace, the piles on the floor, “i’ve been thinking.”

“care to elaborate?”

“no,” he said. you understood his need for privacy, and a small part of you could appreciate his effort, or maybe, rather, that you got something of an answer at all. he did, occasionally, tend to disappear in thought. he remained, despite his reluctance, sitting with you. this, in a way, spoke more to you than the words that could never leave his mouth.

“this weather makes a body wistful,” you told him, “and the greek have always liked their tragedies.”

he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth before lighting another cigarette, “what do you know of greek?”

always the same argument. always the same contradiction. your attraction was tempestuous, and so, it should have surprised you neither the sudden bite or the wicked sense of amusement.

“all that any student would, naturally,”

“so, nothing,”

“i suppose,” you would not admit, for he would win, “henry,”

something in his posture betrayed him, but it was not his eyes, nor his tone, “yes?”

you were close then, much closer than you were moments ago. his lips thinned in a brittle, noncommittal line and his eyes drooped – more of a warning than anything.

“are you going to kiss me?” you asked.

he wanted to, he must’ve, for it had been the only sensible action – you always pressed for what would hurt least. to drown and swallow poison. it was a favorite, and, for some reason, one he allowed, like an agreement reached. to your knowledge, he only ever let himself indulge in you.

henry only leaned in, which was enough for you. his mouth, a second, not any less tantalizing than the first. and you had kissed him with a brazen softness, enough that his hands snaked to grasp the back of your neck. another hit. the smoke and ash settled deep in your lungs. you had pushed it out in a groan when he dropped his hands to your thighs, pressing hard and confident as he had on those nights when you found each other too lonely. the ache he created was wonderful.

you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled it until it untucked. he swallowed and whispered in a language you were familiar with but couldn’t speak, and lifted your skirt.

you kept the cigarette between your teeth as he mouthed down your jaw and neck. his finger traced the skin at the back of your knee and that tickling spot right below your ribs. goosebumps rose and followed his touch. he nipped at the crook of your neck and dragged you onto his lap.

“you are dressed far too heavily, and terribly,” you heard him say, and when his lips found the shell of your ear, you could not stifle the shiver. the whole room felt claustrophobic, hot and steamy, like the aftermath of a scalding bath. your breaths grew labored. you closed your eyes against it and clawed into his arm.

henry said, again, this time more slowly and with a dull emphasis, “terribly.”

“how dare you insult my taste,”

“would you allow for a remediation of my sins?”

“luckily, i’m in an agreeable mood.”

henry’s own sigh was long and somewhat labored, as though a great pressure had been taken off him. and his hands flexed, moving up and down your back. a rare instance, to find him restless. you could admire this in private.

the press of lips to your neck. the collarbone, jutting sharp in the firelight.

there was the urge, sudden and quite novel, to caress his face, cup his cheek, graze the edge of the scar of the eye that’s colder than its twin, that shrouds you in a mist. such an act was outlawed, naturally, thus, the opportunity came and went, carried away on a drafting wind of smoke. an irredeemable misfortune, and you flicked the cigarette into your abandoned coupe.

“are you comfortable?” the gentle cadence of his voice sent a wave through the warmest depths of your abdomen.

“yes.”

henry, having brushed away your stockings, stroked at the insides of your thighs. there was a light feeling in your head, an almost dizzying sway. a subtle rocking, like boats at port, from where the two of you were perched. his digits dug into the firm meat. beneath his hands, a stretch of burning skin and sinew. muscle clenched and quivered, “terribly inconvenient, by the way.”

“how do you mean?”

“all the layers,” he muttered.

“good,”

“never good,”

and then, suddenly: “are you wet?”

“if you touched me properly, you could tell,”

henry ignored your response. his hand climbed upward, and found a place between the gusset and the middle seam, rubbing, testing.

“recently,” you said, “i’ve become fascinated with joseph cornell.”

“you’re stalling,” henry informed you without inflection, slipping a finger through the damp center. a harsh noise of pleasure left you when his tongue slid between your lips. one, then two, circling and sinking with the utmost delicacy.

“why? are you not curious to hear what i think of his boxes?” you managed, halfway.

another stroke. his thumb rubbing, slow and considerate, in the spot that makes your toes curl, tight and demanding. when his eyes opened and found yours, it was almost comical – his fingers in you, mouth and mind on a completely different path, yet the connection was there all the same. even more so, while trying to be detached, fumbling over buttons and laces.

“no,”

“you might learn something,”

he quirked a brow, “you truly wish to waste time talking?”

“aren’t you?”

“i am taking an assessment of your willingness to submit,”

“are you certain it’s not the other way around?”

henry rarely responded with malice; each action was carefully devised and, in conjunction, quite merciless. in this case, he dropped his hand from the vee of your legs and tugged at his shirt collar. the emptiness was startling, as was the feeling of tension that coiled tightly in your gut. then, he grabbed his drink and sipped from the sparkling glass. petty revenge, something he always assured was beneath him.

sensing defeat, you decided to placate him. after a dramatic roll of your eyes, you slipped onto the ground and knelt.

“henry,” you began, and reached for the fly of his pants. the outline of his cock was obvious beneath the smooth fabric, thick and promising, “home ruler,” in one instance of drunken curiosity, the lot of you agonized the meaning of your names, that perhaps they, somehow, unknowingly dictated your fate, “unwilling to shed his crown. is the head not heavy? most kings lost theirs, you know.”

“flattery doesn’t suit you.”

“folly, then,” you replied, dragging the flat of your palm across his groin and taking pleasure in the strained hiss, “are you going to let me do as i please?”

“i think that is,” at the peak of his inhale, you reached into his trousers and curled your fingers around his stiff cock, “quite apparent.”

you grinned, lazy but triumphant, thumbing the blunt ridge. smudging the dribble of white at the leaking head and reveling in his restrained reactions: the minute tremors, the twitch of his jaw, a gasp caught in his throat. you would have kissed him, again. his face might’ve twitched, something uncontrollable that would’ve given away his longing, if only he hadn’t pushed it down.

with a slow pump, your hand traveled. the size was admirable, familiar, nearly to the point of nostalgia. henry had touched more parts of your body than some of the lovers you took as an earnest attempt for passion. you had begged him once, half-gone, half-wild with what you thought was need and impatience, to only fuck you – without his clever mouth and his careful hands, but he hadn’t said yes, no, had only grabbed your jaw and pressed a sucking kiss to the soft and sensitive skin beneath your ear. a promise, almost. and in a way, it had been.

“you remember?”

henry’s voice snapped you to attention, and when you looked up, his expression matched his darkened eyes, intense. something flared hot and needy in you, and with it, the desire to be open and dripping for him. he curled a hand in the small hairs on the back of your neck, stroking the skin there and, even briefly, allowed himself an indulgence in the pleasure he could get from a single touch, and rocked his hips.

“vividly,” you told him.

the flames, behind you, cast him entirely in silhouette, and his shadow projected forward and rose tall, stretched. a ruler, indeed.

his chest moved slow and purposefully, and when he released your hair, the lack of contact felt like a shock to the system. his hand closed around your forearm, “come here.”

the tone, hoarse and hushed and so quietly demanding, startled you, and you stood up so quickly that your head spun. henry placed his hands on your hips, steadying, ushering you back to where you belonged.

“just there.”

legs, parted, framing his waist. fabric, bunched between your thighs. breathing, slowed. a firm, calming weight, pinning you down. the firelight glinted in his eyes.

“henry,” you called. and the only thing to signal his movement was a bob of his adam’s apple. the cufflinks of his sleeves swayed and flickered. he hummed, neither affirmation nor disagreement and entered you with a grunt.

more. skin flushed. eyes crinkled and tightened. more. nails curled and scrabbled for purchase.

there, your name on his lips. it was disorienting – not so much a cry, or a whisper, but something between the two. henry always spoke carefully, as though each word should carry the most weight, so each syllable, in turn, he would construct and cut, meticulous and mathematical. but here, breathless and wanting, they rolled out in a steady litany, never faltering.

all fire and scorching, the pitch of it high and needy. to thrust and bruise, the idea fizzed bright and brilliant at the apex of your spine. with each snap of his hips, a part of him carved a piece of you out, and each ragged noise shook loose a piece of your skin. it would fit him perfectly. then he would slide right into those hollow spaces that swelled and throbbed, expanding beyond tolerance. in moments like these, you loved him – his body, his touch, his face, everything that could not be articulated.

“please,” you begged him, trying to curl around the ache, “i want-”

“i know, i know,” he murmured, with a tilt of his head. his hair, you noticed, had lost its immaculate shape, wild and frazzled by your fingers. your heart swelled and contracted: you wanted to do it again, over and over until his whole countenance resembled nothing more than that of a ravaged man. your power, the only thing you had over him. henry closed his eyes.

“spread your legs a little wider,”

a moan slipped when his tongue flicked and curled against the side of your neck, wet and sloppy. the sweet roll of his hips, his fingers pulling at the buttons of your attire and squeezing the fleshy swell of your buttocks. it was always too much.

you licked your lip, shaking when his teeth gently pinched. and, for a moment, the smell of pine permeated the room. as though it were his own sweat and the heady musk of his natural scent, and not a waning bottle of cologne.

“hold onto me,” henry whispered and allowed for nothing more, driving the movement out of your hands. the tempo spiraled upward. at the center, the tension was building. there was a moment of vertigo.

and it was easy enough, as things had always been between the two of you, to ignore the disjointed voices in the back of your mind. how when you two first kissed, it’d been without grace. how the rain fell, trickled, all around you, drowning the dryness in your throat. how the next day, he asked if you would regret what you’d done. and here, now, a different but striking feeling: the warm haze brought on by alcohol, his palms were hot, slick with sweat, his belt digging into you.

henry grunted and swore to a god neither of you had put much faith in. the flush on his cheeks was impossible not to reach out and touch, his eyebrow scarred with the same sort of smooth texture and fading red, his lashes, long and fine, flickering against the high edge of his cheekbones. i love you, you wanted to tell him, but the high struck you ruthlessly, turning you to liquid.

in the aftermath of this brief paradise, you shared a look.

“i still despise this weather,” you said.

henry’s mouth quirked. and what had been the impulsive dalliances of two desperate people became, once more, two lonely creatures with enough distance between to fill one of henry’s beloved epics. the quiet, in the wake of catharsis, was rather terrifying, and the clatter outside – the rain, the wind, and the cold – almost accusatory. he offered you a cigarette.

you took it without thank you and let him light it.

“should i drive you home?” he offered, voice raspy. his shirt had wrinkles and his collar sat funny. the skin beneath was pink, and there was the barest mark where you had sunk your teeth or dug a nail too hard. you bit the end of the filter, watching the flame waver before rising into ash.

“you’re drunk,” it felt necessary to remind him, though it never stopped him.

“do you want me to drive you home?” he asked again. a long pull and a thin veil of smoke.

“yes,” you said, “i’ll go wake bunny.”

“no,”

“no?”

“stop it.”

“stop what?”

“speaking of him,”

“has he done something?”

silence.

“henry?”

“leave it,” he said, but his tone was tight.

“alright. i’ll get my coat, then,”

“of course,” he murmured, standing slowly. you shouldn’t have seen him put his hand against the wall to steady himself, as though any drunken spell had fled, and with it, his equilibrium. the movement was both conscious and contrived, a fact of necessity, and not like the rest of him, braced by his surroundings and firm in stature. a self-constructed illusion, designed to project a set of attributes meant to create the atmosphere of authority. he embodied it well, but he was still, stripped of the mythos, simply human.

you watched him settle and raise his head with a gentle exhale. a mere lift of his shoulders, and he resembled a man in control, content, satisfied – everything henry was, and yet, within the façade, you could see the truth of his discomfort, recently, and without fault, brought upon by an uttered name.

in the upcoming months, you would understand and wonder if there was something you could have done or said to warn him of a future that was inevitable. no matter how many nights you had spent distressing over this question, the answer would always make itself obvious.

there was nothing you could have ever done.

thank you for reading !

[seiwas]

sellie bee! for your game > touya + flicker?? (if you feel comfortable writing for him again, your touya from the shoto fic was so beloved to me) 💕

amber!! thanks for sending in a lil prompty 🥺 ofc i would write him again!! for you!! anything!!! 🥺 my touya from that fic is also so dear to me 🥺 i'm glad you like that little guy 🥺

help me get back into the writing groove! send me a character + any word and i'll write a short blurb about it!

contains: non-canon au, childhood friends

touya + flicker

there's a light by your bedside, one that flickers when its loose wire finds itself tangled around the leg of your bed frame. it doesn't happen all the time, but it's always bothered touya, ever since you were kids.

"fuyumi says that when lights go on and off like that they can go boom," he mimics an explosion with his hands, not quite knowing the term for it yet at 5.

(when you recall the memory, you realize that he must have meant a spark, not the flickering of lights.)

it bothers him so much that he figures out a way to fix it by age 10. he uses a small claw clip, a translucent gray plastic you've seen on his mother many times before. he clips the wire to your bed frame that way, keeping it in place.

it's a bandaid solution, because time creates cracks on the plastic, the metal spring falling apart despite being fused at the hinges.

(and again, looking back, you should have noticed that time had left its mark on touya the same way.)

the light flickers again.

"you'll have shitty eyes if you don't change it," he moves the wire aside until it stops. at 15, touya's become jaded. what once was a twinkling set of aquamarine is now a dull pair of teal, staring straight at you as he speaks.

you know it has something to do with his family, but you don't ask unless he talks about it.

(in hindsight, maybe you should've. because when touya runs away from home the following year, you only catch glimpses of him in the next ten years.)

he visits you at 17, taller and dressed darker than what you're used to. his hair is dyed a jet black, a few cuts and bruises scattering the expanse of his arms. he sees that your light is still flickering and fixes it like muscle memory, not once acknowledging the fact that it's been two years since he's seen you last.

"you can stay with me," you offer him, desperately.

he gives you a wry smile, "can i?"

and you know it's not really a question. you'll be heading off to college soon; there's no real place where you can keep him.

when you move into your dorm in the first year of uni, you leave your lamp behind but find that the lights in your shared bathroom flicker just as bad. it makes you think of him, in the lonely hours especially.

you're surprised when you bump into him at age 20, near campus, barely recognizing him at all. for a brief moment, you see the same shock mirrored on his face, but it disappears when you blink, and when you say his name, "touya—"

"dabi," he corrects you.

it's at 22, when you move into your own apartment and bring the same light from your childhood bedroom, that you find your thoughts floating back to him once more.

you offered right before graduating, the last time you saw him―told him you'd be moving into a new place and he could stay with you there. no one would know about it, no one would bother him.

but touya is a flight risk, appearing in and out of your life like the flickering of your bedside light. you outstretch your hand and he bats it away instinctively, withdrawing from you until he feels like you won't bring it up again.

you do though, every time. the next year, the year after that, when you're both 25. you look for him more consciously now, finding that he's always somehow nearby―by the potted flowers on your windowsill that remain alive despite week-long work trips; by paid for cups of coffee in cafes, the doors whooshing shut as you look for who it could possibly be from.

you've known touya for almost all of your life, and giving up on him isn't an option at all. your heart can't take it, the same way you can't bring yourself to fix your bedside light, its flickering an odd source of hope that he might one day be so fed up, he'll have to come and fix it himself.

and then he'd have to stay―to keep the flickering at bay. to keep the light working. one day.

[antimonyandthyme]

once a gnawer always a gnawer… i would like to suggest that oscar discovers this because carlos enjoys stealing his hoodies when he is stressed and then prompty gnaws on the neckline (again because he is stressed)

oscar sees carlos gnawing on his sweater and promptly has a heart attack of feelings

[pinguwrites]

Kinktober 2023 | Day Seventeen — Jonathan Breech + recording

Pairing -> jonathan breech x girlfriend!reader

Warnings -> filming a porn video, exhibitionism kinda even though the video is private, cute, mention of pegging, possessiveness, , sex toys,

KINKTOBER 2023 MLIST

Disclaimer: On The Edge characters, plots, quotes, etc. do not belong to me and belong to the rightful owner(s). This is only fanfiction and this is just for fun.

You and Jonathan giggled as you ran down the hallway, hand in hand like a pair of schoolkids up to no good — which, you supposed you were, up to no good, but not at all the type you usually got into. 

It was your idea, actually. You weren’t really into porn, mostly because it wasn’t very enjoyable for you, with most of the content targeted towards men, but after shuffling through your old items, you came across a tape of a man and a woman together, one your friends had given you back in high school. 

You played it, all hot and bothered, and, with you and Jonathan’s relationship being very open, told him all about it. He thought it was hot, too, and suggested you watch it together, which promptly ended when he got all handsy and you all horny. 

It was then when you whispered in his ear, “Let’s make a video together.”

Jonathan’s blue eyes lit up and a smile spread across his face.

The very next day you bought some supplies. You both received some weird looks from the guy at the counter of the sex shop, but you ignored them, and prompty bought a couple of things you bought thought would be enjoyable.

One, a dildo and harness. It took a bit of coaxing, but you once eased Jonathan into the idea of pegging, he agreed (he was definitely more excited about it than you were, even though he didn’t say so). You also got some vibrators, a couple pecies of lingerie, and, of course, a recorder. Without it, everything was pointless.

“Slow down!” a nearby professor yelled, but you and Jonathan paid him no mind and simply ran past him. You both made it into Jonathan’s dorm room, where he said his roommate was visiting his family for the break. 

“Excited?” he asked, as he set up the recorder by his bed. “You know, I won’t hold it against ya if you back out.”

You snorted. “As if. But the same goes for you, too. Anytime you want to stop, we stop, okay?”

He hummed a ‘yes’.

You had already gone over a couple of ground rules before this, including wanting to stop, but it did no harm to mention it again. Amongst the safewords and no go’s (meaning the things you absolutely didn't want to try), you also talked about exactly what you would do with the video once you were finished.

You weren’t too opposed to publishing it on the internet. You heard recently that the market for this stuff was going up and it was much easier to start creating content now that everything was online, but the idea that someone you knew could stumble upon it was terrifying, especially now that you were still in college. You would rather wait until graduation before doing something so risky. 

Jonathan agreed, but you were almost certain it was for different reasons. He had always been a little possessive over you. If he wanted other people to see you two having sex, it was out of the reasoning that he wanted to show you off, show others what he had and they couldn’t. 

Jonathan hesitated before pressing the start button. “Ready?”

You nodded your head, a grin on your face. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

Taglist:

@rainyforest777

@thatwitchybitch420

@madeinuk

@gentyleman

@henrywintersdearestgirl

@shroombloom-rry

@meetmeatyourworst

[dullgecko]

i think fig is the absolute last person to realize theyre not a girl. its not that the closet is glass its that they think they are frolicking in a field, closet? yeah im gay what about it? everyone knows?, everyone sees that they are trans in some way and just. assumes they know. and will talk about it when they want to. or that they know but are just keeping it to themselves yk. that they dont really mind the she/her pronouns enough to come out.

i think gilear is the first to notice, not in a ‘i think my child is trans way’ he just slowly (accidentally) starts calling them child instead of daughter and stops using figueroth and instead uses just fig. fig themself doesnt notice one bit and neither does gilear tbh, but at some point he is exclusively using gender nuetral terms for them and it feels a lot more normal than using feminine terms so he sticks with that

the bad kids all notice. gorgug considers reaching out when he first starts thinking about gender stuff, to ask for advice about how theyre so unbothered by it, but maybe hes misreading them and its not being unbothered but actually just not being ready to talk about it so he goes to kristen instead

sometimes kristen and gorgug will both talk to jawbone about gender things, and he doesnt really have personal experience but he has enough second-hand experience to help, at one point he asks them why fig doesnt talk to him about it — “does fig talk to you guys?” “no? i think they talk to gilear about gender stuff, he always seems up to date on it. they havent come out ?? so weve just been quiet about it” jawbone tries to drop hints and fig is completely oblivious (“so, fig, i heard theres this educational event for parents of gender-questioning and trans kids. im planning on going. do you think i should invite gilear?” “oh yeah that would probably be great for working with kids! for his job! as the assistant principal! oh or do you mean for fabian? theres definitely something goin on with fabian. i dont think fabian knows he has gender baggage yet?” she has NO idea save her)

adaine, riz and fabian have no clue what to do so they just dont really mention it. adaine has seen a prophetic vision that just happened to have fig with an ‘all pronouns’ pin, but like, you dont just mention that to someone ?? fabian fully doesnt say anything about it, riz forced himself to not investigate anything because its none of his business but ooooo he wanted to. he really wanted to. then again he would fail miserably at clocking non-goblinoids on trans stuff anyways because there is simply no way that goblins have anywhere close to similar gender structures to humanoid races

ayda is chilling with it, she may be a lesbian but she really couldnt care less what gender fig turned out as. i think eventually adaine confides with ayda about her vision and ayda just asks fig what pronouns theyd like to go by, fig is absolutely flabbergasted when they realize they have to think about it for multiple seconds before realizing that they really dont mind any of them. they decide this is most definitely not a trans thing, just a ‘i dont really mind 🤷 ill just use she/her since its what everyone sees me as anyways! surely everyone feels this same way!’

ayda prompty forces her to talk to kristen and gorgug about it and after doing so lots and lots they realize, finally, that theyre genderfluid. this takes time to sink in tbh, i dont think fig would just be okay im trans time to move on, and i think they would take every step in their transition really slowly actually. they find it lots of fun though!

everyone is pretty surprised to know fig didnt know they were trans, but coming out is so easy when 1 your friends are awesome and 2 you say “im genderfluid” and everyone says “oh you finally figured it out!” so everything falls in place very seamlessly

Gotta love a good trans bad kid headcannon. A+

[strayheartless]

In honour of Prompto Argetum’s birthday have a few fun head canons of the boy (promptis. Don’t like don’t read. You know the drill.):

He’s VERY fond of strawberry Mochi

When Noctis takes the vegetables out of his food, Prompto will start moving them onto his own plate. Food is good and Prompto will eat whatever’s going.

He’s naturally cuddly, and gravitates towards heat sources in his sleep. Noctis would not mind this if it were not for the fact that Prompto has the core temperature of a polar ice cap.

Prompto’s entire speech pattern is comprised of movie quotes and song lyrics (I feel like that one’s just cannon at this point.)

He gets really sweet when he’s sleepy. Rubs his eyes, puts his head on peoples shoulders. There’s always a point at which someone will teasingly say “are you tired Prompto?” And all they will get is a sleepy nod before Prompto curls into whoever’s shoulder he’s decided to commandeer as a pillow.

The hair style was an accidental choice. He did it for a party; Noctis said he liked it; now it stays.

He’s a big fan of hair playing and scalp scritches. 10/10 will do tricks for scritches.

He’s got a favourite camp chair. He’s convinced it’s magical, because apparently whenever he sits in it campfire smoke never follows him. It’s not Gladio just can’t be arsed hearing him whine all night about the smoke so he places Prompto’s chair against the wind.

Prompto kissed Noct first. It was spur of the moment and he’s pretty sure he blacked out from panic during it but Noctis just looked so pretty, and UGHHHH.

Their first date was low key a disaster, because Prompto tried to be smooth and ended up just being clumsily tripping head first in the castle fountain. BUT, Noctis laughed and kissed him again so he will sheepishly classify it as a win!

“Ever at your side” is Prompto’s “as you wish” it’s his I love you when I love you doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

There are too many pictures of Noct of Proms camera honestly. Noctis looks cute while he’s sleeping? *click* Noctis laughs at Iggys horrible dad jokes? *click* candid moments watching the sun set? *click* gross double chin close ups? *click* intimate moments with permission to take a photo? *click* Noctis stupidly assumes the camera battery is dead and lets his guard down? *click* Noctis is failing to use chop sticks while eating instant Raman in the snow? *click* honestly he has a problem.

If you have some of your own feel free to drop them in the comments!

[corviiids]

i’m here to play legos, 4, 5 and 30 for the fic writer asks!!

hi!!! tips my legos all over the floor

4. a story idea you haven’t written yet

i think my favourite right now is lawlight au of that specific australian mermaid show h2o. light uses his merman powers to drown criminals on the gold coast but he's not called kira because it's australia and he was first identified on nobby beach queensland so everyone calls him THE GHOST OF NOBBY, or NOBBO, for short, which is a stupid name that he hates so much.

5. first sentence of the fifth paragraph of an unpublished WIP

i have two almost-completed wips i just never get around to posting so here's both

ffxv - promptis 'crazy rich asians' au where prompto and noctis are in a long-term relationship but noct's never mentioned he's the heir to the lucian throne or that he's betrothed to lunafreya until he decides to invite prompto to his own wedding:

"You have a family?" Prompto asks, after he's done sheepishly mopping cheese off the table.

bg3 - wyllstarion divorce fic where they get divorced

"What brought the two of you to your end?" asks Lae'zel. "Wyll was smitten with you. It surprised me, but I thought you were as disgustingly devoted to him."

30. share a fic you’re especially proud of

it will ALWAYS be p5 akechi palace fic "as you like it" which i have been pouring my heart and soul into for years <3 the planning doc for this fic is so god damn long and so much of it is just me planning out what this palace would look and play like if it were a playable palace in the game. i even went so far as to start writing a palace theme for it based on akechi's leitmotif in the anime, like... just for funsies (sorry it's an incomplete phone recording). anyway heres some of it

“So does this mean he’s alive?” Don’t know. Couldn’t tell you. The answer, Morgana says, is yes—he thinks. “You think?!” Well, no one who’s dead has had a Palace before. And Shido’s Palace collapsed when he’d done that dead-not-dead thing (join the club, Ren thinks, not that he’d like to have anything in common with Masayoshi Shido nor let Akechi share in the same), and he’d clearly done so with intent, so the answer appeared to be—well, they’d find out. But the outlook was good. “Good,” Haru murmurs. “Depending where you stand.” Nobody answers this. Nobody feels they have the right to. Ren gets the feeling even Haru doesn’t know where she stands, and he doesn’t blame her. Honestly, he doesn’t feel like he’s standing at all. “So?” asks Ryuji to Ren, trying to exude bravado but looking about as tired as the rest of them. “What’re his keywords?” You could start with his name. “I don’t know,” says Ren.

[moodymelanist]

Prompty-prompt! Nesta as the badass mafia queen and Cassian as the unknowing regular-joe husband! Bonus points if it's him that gets kidnapped. And extra bonus points if the kidnappers assume he must be in on his wife's work since he's all muscle and tattoos 😇

thank you so much for sending me this *cracks knuckles* we’re about to have a field day

Cassian’s day had been going perfectly fine. He’d gotten to actually spend time with his wife before she left for her fancy yet mysterious job in the city, his middle schoolers were actually willing to learn instead of making fun of him today, and he hadn’t spilled anything on his white shirt for once.

Well. Until he got kidnapped while walking back to his car in broad fucking daylight.

“This is a mistake,” Cassian said for what felt like the millionth time. After he’d gotten shoved into a van and gotten stabbed in the neck with a syringe, he’d come to a few minutes ago in what looked like a decrepit warehouse. Some guys were tying him to a chair while another one leaned against the wall to watch, and once they were done, the guy motioned for them to leave him and Cassian alone.

Cassian figured this guy had to be the one calling the shots, at least for right now. He was tall, with golden brown skin and thick, dark curls pushed back and away from his face. He was dressed in an immaculately tailored suit that made Cassian feel even grosser from how badly he’d been roughed up so far.

So much for keeping his white shirt clean.

“We don’t make mistakes,” came the cool, measured reply. Cassian was surprised to see someone so young caught up in something like this; the guy looked closer to his age than he’d expected. “Are you not Cassian Archeron?”

“…Maybe,” Cassian replied warily. He’d seen one too many cop shows and it was all blurring together whether he should try to cooperate or be as difficult as possible. “Why does that matter? Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“Your wife’s up to some crazy shit, Cassian,” the guy told him. “Can I call you Cassian?”

“Do I have a choice?” Cassian said sarcastically. Probably not the wisest thing to piss off his captor, but his mouth always did move faster than his brain.

“Guess not,” the guy answered. “I’m Kallon, if it makes you feel any better.”

“It doesn’t,” Cassian replied. The bad guys only let you see their faces and know their names when you were expendable, and Cassian wasn’t getting a great feeling about how freely Kallon seemed to be volunteering information.

Kallon just laughed. “You got any idea what your wife’s been up to, Cassian? Money laundering, assault, conspiracy, murder…”

“My wife?” Cassian exclaimed, shocked. This had to be some kind of sick joke — Nesta wasn’t capable of any of that. She wouldn’t even let him kill bugs in the house, let alone be able to kill someone in cold blood. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“What, she didn’t fill you in?” Kallon asked. “Big guy like you? Doesn’t she bring you to all her meetings?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Cassian told him. “I have my own job.”

“I don’t want to get my suit dirty, Cassian,” Kallon said with a heavy sigh. “I just need you to cooperate and we can all go home. Got it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” Cassian repeated. His stomach sank as he realized this was probably some really serious shit, and he didn’t have the faintest idea what was going on.

“You don’t know anything about the activities of the Russian mafia in this city,” Kallon responded, his voice making it clear he didn’t believe a word out of Cassian’s mouth. “Really? You’re married to the woman in charge and you expect me to believe you don’t know shit?”

The Russian mafia? What the fuck was this guy on? “I don’t know anything, I promise, okay? Just let me go and I won’t even tell anyone you took me.”

“You really expect me to believe you’re married to Nesta Archerova and you don’t know anything—” Kallon began, stalking toward Cassian with intention before the door slammed open.

Cassian turned toward the noise and his jaw dropped open as he saw Nesta standing in the doorway, flanked by some of the largest men he’d ever seen. Her perfectly manicured fingers were wrapped around a Glock, and the look on her face was so cold he hardly recognized her.

“I’m sorry,” Nesta said, cocking her head. “Am I interrupting you, Kallon?”

Kallon’s face had gone almost comically horrified. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“You fucking bastard,” Nesta seethed, dropping the facade entirely before pointing her gun directly at Kallon. Cassian jerked in shock as she shot Kallon in the kneecaps without a single hesitation, looking even more pissed than when he’d eaten the last slice of her chocolate cake by accident. “You think you can go after my husband and I won’t fucking hear about it? You think you can go after what’s mine without consequences? By the time I’m done with you there won’t even be enough pieces left for your mother to bury.”

She then launched into a tirade of Russian so fast that Cassian couldn’t even pretend to know where one word ended and the other began. Judging by the look on Kallon’s face and the volume of his wife’s tirade, Cassian was starting to think maybe Kallon hadn’t been wrong about her after all.

He’d known she had a temper, but he’d just chalked it up to her being Russian. He hadn’t quite expected something like this.

“Get him out of my sight,” Nesta demanded after a few moments, switching back to English without issue. Two of the men entered the room and started handling cleanup, ignoring Kallon’s screams of pain as they dragged him away. Another one came forward with a knife, and Cassian held back an undignified scream before he realized he was there to cut Cassian loose.

“Nesta,” Cassian said once he was freed, completely flabbergasted at the scene before him. “What the fuck?”

Nesta sighed heavily, holstering her gun before reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry, Cassian. I never wanted you to find out like this.”

“Find out what?” he replied loudly. He knew he was starting to sound a little hysterical, but he didn’t care. “Cause it sounds like you’re some kind of mafia boss or something, but that’s fucking insane—”

“It’s not insane,” she cut him off gently, reaching up to cup his face. “I was born into this, and it’s not like I can just… quit.”

“Is everything a lie, then?” he asked, not sure what to believe at this point. His wife was high up in the Russian mafia and he didn’t know which way was up. “Do I even know you?”

“Of course you do,” she reassured him. “I love you, and maybe you didn’t know the full truth, but that doesn’t change how I feel about you. I like that you’re a normal guy, okay? I never wanted to drag you into this. I only ever wanted to keep you safe.”

“We’re talking about this at home,” he said decisively. He didn’t know whether he should be furious about how much she’d hidden from him or oddly touched that she’d wanted to keep him out of it, but he either way, they needed to talk about it. “Not gonna lie, though. The gun thing is kinda doing it for me.”

Nesta laughed before pulling her hand away and sliding it around Cassian’s waist instead. “Noted.”

tag list: @perseusannabeth | @bookstantrash | @charming-butt-insane | @oversizedbats | @melphss | @sv0430 | @podemechamardek | @autumnbabylon | @live-the-fangirl-life | @julemmaes | @that-little-red-head | @jmoonjones | @sayosdreams | @thewayshedreamed | @hiimheresworld | @brieq | @pearloftheorients | @swankii-art-teacher | @nerdperson524 | @snickerdoodlechittybangbang | @imsointobooks | @nesquik-arccheron | @sweet-pea1 | @champanheandluxxury | @dustjacketmusings | @mrs-shadowsinger04 | @unlikelypersonalknight1 | @goddess-aelin | @arinbelle | @talkfantasytome | @simpingfornestaarcheron | @duskandstarlight | @letstakethedawn | @vidalinav | @c-e-d-dreamer | @dealfea | @katekatpattywack | @burningsnowleopard

[prpfz]

🖤 25+, they/she, and i've been out of RPing for a few months and wanna start up some new threads! so i'm just gonna yell a bunch of ships and fandoms into the void and see if anyone (21+ partners only, please) yells back~! my preferred muse is in bold:

final fantasy: cloud/sephiroth, cloud/zack, cloud/squall, cid/vincent, tifa/aerith, rufus/kadaj, cloud/kadaj, noctis/promptis, noctis/ignis kingdom hearts: axel/saix homestuck: dave/karkat, john/karkat, sollux/karkat, gamzee/karkat my hero academia: dabi/hawks bleach: ichigo/grimmjow free! iwatobi swim club: rin/haru yugioh: kaiba/yugi, kaiba/atem stranger things: eddie/steve, steve/billy x-men films: charles/erik, logan/scott, logan/wade bungou stray dogs: chuuya/dazai

down to do multiple threads if more than one catches your interest! i'm still working on getting my muse back, so i can't guarantee my replies will be super frequent or super long. at the bare minimum, i always write 2-3 paragraphs, and i'll always give you something to work with open to nsfw, but it's not a requirement. regardless, dni if you solely write your characters as a bottom. like/interact if you're interested, and i'll reach out. thanks!!!

give a like and anon will get back to you

[promptisgiftexchange]

We have reached the conclusion of the 2024 Promptis Gift Exchange and I want to thank each and every one of you. Whether you were a participant, or simply along for the ride to read the wonderful stories and view the exceptional artwork, thank you for helping to make this gift exchange the joyful event that it was. 

To all of our talented participants, you have gone above and beyond and have contributed so much incredible Promptis content for your gift recipients, and for this exchange. Thank you for all of your hard work and for being a part of this event. You are what made it so special and I’m so happy for you to finally be able to share your work with the community as yourselves.

At this time, all of our wonderful creators are now free to post your stories/artwork under your own name anywhere else that you desire. You may also choose to update the posting date of your Ao3 post at this point so that your contribution appears as a new work under your own name.

If anyone is aware of any stories that were written in response to art from our exchange or more artwork that was created in response to any other stories in the exchange, please let me know by sending me a link or by pinging me at @promptis-gift.bsky.social on Bluesky, @promptis_gift on Twitter, or @promptisgiftexchange on Tumblr so I can give it a boost. Likewise, if any of you have plans to write or draw anything as a response to the gift you received, I would love to be made aware of them once they are completed so I can promote it as well.

I would also like to give a special shout out and thank you to @ffxv_zine_news on Twitter. Your retweeting and support of the Promptis Gift Exchange (especially considering the fact that I wasn’t tagging your account while I was promoting individual works over the course of the last two months) did not go unnoticed. Thank you for your support and promotion of the individual stories and pieces of artwork that our participants worked so hard on, and for all of the wonderful things that you do everyday for our FFXV community as a whole.

Another huge and heartfelt thank you goes out to our wonderful Pinch-hitters: Firechocobro, InNovaFertAnimus, and QueenHomeSlice, as well as yet another enormous thanks to Charmms and SalamanderSocks for their willingness and ability to switch posting dates with participants who ran into unexpected problems. You guys are the best and I appreciate everything you’ve done! 

Once again, thank you to everyone who has been a part of the 2024 Promptis Gift Exchange. This year has been our largest exchange to date and I can't tell you how thrilled I am to have had such an amazingly successful fourth round. It has been a fantastic two months, filled with tons of excitement, and amazing Promptis fanworks! All of that is thanks to all of you! 

I hope to see you all again next year for our fifth round. Please continue to follow us for more information that will come out later this year on the 2025 Promptis Gift Exchange. In the meantime, if you are not already a member of the Promptis Discord Server I would like to take this opportunity to invite you to join us for year round Promptis fun. Anyone who loves Promptis is welcome to join us. It's a great place to chat with nice people about Promptis, share fanworks that you love, and we also have fun in-server events like a Monthly Challenge. I have included the invitation link to the server below.

Promptis Server- https://discord.gg/Xfw4jQWQ28

Masterlist and Creator Reveals

Without further ado, here are the reveals for the Promptis Gift Exchange 2024. You can find the reveals detailed in the following places: 

Google Docs- (organized by the type of fanwork) https://docs.google.com/document/d/1fb2FN4HVNODkTkybFpyV1fwXQ6GpYsCvf_EcfFgJEig/edit?usp=sharing

You can also, as always, locate the entire collection on Ao3- https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Promptis_Gift_Exchange_2024/profile

[themythicsages]

Greetings from a very sleepy and bored roleplayer.

Hello Tumblr! I hope the night, or day depending on your timezone, has been treating you well. I come to you today looking for new, long-term roleplay partners for a very small percent of the fandoms that I am currently in and fixating over. I am 21+ and I work most afternoons, so more likely than not my responses will come out later in the night. My timezone is est for reference. Given the few fandoms I'm pulling from for this request, I will unfortunately not want to use ocs since I don't have any real OCS for any of these who aren't just ship children and I personally don't like doing oc x canon, save for specific instances like with BG3 and any other instances with canonized self inserts. While my average reply always falls somewhere between literate and advanced literate, with me averaging between 1 - 3 paragraphs per, I have been known to dip into novella when I get insanely motivated. I only roleplay on discord, and while tupperbox is preferred for this it is not required. Also, being queer myself I have always been more drawn to queer ships since they feel more right to me. And just a given but please don't be afraid to geek out with me in ooc. The whole reason I'm searching for a real person and not just going to ch.ai is because I like being able to shoot ideas off of my partners and just be silly in the background. Also don't just assume that yes romance means yes smut. I don't do that as much anymore.

Now that that essay is out of the way, onto the pairs why don't we?

Jujutsu Kaisen

I am unfortunately anime only, but I do know much of what is to come after Shibuya thanks to how heavily spoiled I was on this series even before I knew I wanted to enjoy it. Feel free to correct me if I get something wrong.

Satoru Gojo

SatoSugu (Romantic. The hyperfix is very real with them.)

Nanago (Romantic)

Gojo + Megumi (Strictly platonic, leaning more familial.)

Yuji Itadori

ItaFushi (Romantic)

ItaJun (Romantic)

Yuji + Nanami (Strictly Platonic, leaning more familial.)

Yuji + Choso (Strictly Platonic. Just brothers being brothers.)

Yuji + Todo (Strictly Platonic. Also brothers being brothers, but different.)

Final Fantasy XV

Prompto Argentum

Promptis (Romantic)

Honestly any ship with him works fine I'm just biased LMAO

Ardyn

Versdyn (Romantic)

Aerdyn (Romantic)

Ardyn + Somnus (STRICTLY PLATONIC. Flashback to when they were young and actually cared about each other.)

Final Fantasy VII

Cloud Strife

Zakkura (Romantic or Platonic. Could go either way.)

Clerith (Romantic)

Strifentine (Romantic)

Sefikura (Romantic. Yes I know they're toxic, tell square to stop making them act like a divorced couple and then we'll talk)

Cloud + Yuffie (STRICTLY PLATONIC. The siblings ever.)

Genesis Rhapsodos

GenGeal (Romantic)

SephGen (Romantic)

SephGenGeal (or whatever their poly is lmao) (could be romantic or platonic)

Vincent Valentine

Vincrecia (Romantic)

Valenwind (Romantic)

Strifentine (Romantic)

Vincent + Yuffie (STRICTLY PLATONIC. They give team father/daughter vibes)

Vincent + Young Sephiroth (STRICTLY PLATONIC. He's his father now. Tie them to a Vincrecia family au and my life is literally yours.)

Rufus Shinra

Rutseng/Tsengru (Romantic)

Yuri!!! On Ice

Victor Nikiforov

Victuuri (Romantic. The husbands ever.)

Victor + Yurio (STRICTLY PLATONIC. Could be tied to a family au, perchance, or as an addition to a romantic Victuuri plot to turn it into a full family au.)

Okay so if any of those sound good to you then feel free to like or reply to this post! I look forward to hearing from you guys!

This is Sage, signing out ✌️.

edits: Added Tsengru/Rutseng, Victuuri, and Plat Victor + Yurio. Also fixed some typos.

[hirokiyuu]

oh i forgot to post abt it but i recently finished ffxv + dlc with gf, thoughts and impressions under the cut (CONTAINS ALL SPOILERS)

NOCTISSSSSSSSSSSSS NOCTISSSSSSSSSSSSS MY LITTLE SACRIFICIAL LAMB OUGHHHHHHHHHHHH NOCTISSSSSSSSSH E LOVES HIS GUYS NOCTIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! NOCTIS....................

overall i enjoyed it. some part of it were so terrible but i enjoyed it. why did they kill luna abt five minutes after she finally became interesting and hten try to retroactively make her interesting but in Bad Ways

She Likes Pretty Flowers But Also Cool Stickers............... Wow........... She's A Person With Depth...........

ukn o how to make that actually a compelling fact AND make me believe noct+luna actually care abt each other? u have noct have a sticker collection he keeps and then he puts a sticker in each letter they write each other and hes careful to always do it. then id be compelled. instead shes most interesting healing ardyn (LMAO GOD I AM ROTATING THAT MOMENT ETERNALLY IN MY MIND) and fighting leviathan adn fighting for her life and i dont care abt her and noct except as Comrades Who Trust Each Other With Their Lives you did not sell me on this romance at all

promptis good. promnis endgame but wow imagine being prompto in lvoe w/the crown prince and hes your star and guiding light nad then he dies. lmao. god

NOCTISSSSSSSSSSSSS AUGHHHHHHHHHHH RAISED WITH LOVE AND CARE AND SPOILED AND INDULGED BC HE WAS ALWAYS GOING TO DIE SO YOUNG, HE WAS ALWAYS GOING TO CLIMB UP ON THE ALTAR AND LET THE KNIFE GO IN HIS THROAT, AUGHHHHHHHHH

fsr the original bulletpoint got deleted so im rewriting. naywaysy fave ship dynamic among boys is ignis being in Love with noctis forever by default and prom thinking ig is kind of hot that over time shifts to prom being madly in love w/his bestie and ignis finally wanting something Outside of noctis except prompto is noctis' so it doesnt matter. noctis/prom eventually that probably shifts promnis endgame. also gladio is there off to the side watching all this like Wow, Damn, I Am Not Touching Any Of this With A Ten Foot Pole,

i cant believe the dlc wasnt included in the base game. ignis goes blind and you have no context. insane to me. gf played the dlc in the order as they happened in the story thank god but oh my god if she hadnt. i wouldve been like ????????????

knowing noct was going to die since altissia and he didnt kno made my heart hurt so bad. AUGHGHGHGHGH MY LITTLE LAMBBBBBBB MY BELOVED SACRIFICE HE WENT WITH A SMILE AND A PHOTO OF HIS FRIENDS WHO HE LOVES AUGHHHHHHHHH AUGHHHHHHHHHHH NOCTISSSSSSSSSS

i like that ep ig had an alternate ending where he lives and i like that it wasnt the canon one. i wouldnt care abt noct as much if his death wasnt canon but i do like that ignis loves him So Much it changes the narrative. what if some guy in glasses was enough to un-doom you

we played w/jp voices on adn wow like..................... there were. Many Changes. man. its funny bc i tend to prefer en goro to jp goro but i definitely prefer jp prom to en. robbie daymond you keep changing these guys around

ardyn did nothing wrong. when he killed all those people in his prologue episode that was fine and valid. he wore funny hats about it even it was ok

side note how were he and aera moer compelling as a ship when they were on screen together for five minutes when lunoct could not sell me at All. i do kno why tho its bc they do a bit together and they clearly like each other and are comfy. They're Friends. meanwhile lunoct.................... man........................ sorry for being a hater but i cant see the romance of it at all

i do think a lunoct i could be sold on is them reuniting and married and very very ery slowly falling in love but thats not what we got. canon lunoct is nothingburger to me. sorry. he should kiss prompto on the lips

trying to think if i had any other major thoughts. the ending part was so horrifyingly rushed and bad but everyone's talked abt that already and the final few scenes from going to the throne room were good and that's what matters (NOCTISSSSSSSSSS NOCTISSSSSSSSSSSSSS NOCCCCCCCCCTTTTTTTTTT)

i cannot think abt the v final shot of him + luna w/o thinking abt the one final asw (the sun is shining / and hte birds are singing / and because today is the very last day / they will sing forever) and then i start weeping NOCTISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUU

truly i think noct is my fave character of this game. my selfish spoiled sacrificial lamb. being told that regis did know abt it made me ill. binding of isaac except god does not stop. tie your son to the altar and bring the knife down, and do what must be done. augh augh augh augh NOCTTTTTTT