#Prompt Me

[hederasgarden]

In honour of your newfound love for Clark Kent, can I please ask you about our man in question and his size kink?

Summary: Clark shows you how much he loves you and your body. Pairing: Clark Kent  x Plus Size!F!Reader  Word Count: 800 Warning: 18+ only, explicit sexual content. Unprotected PIV, size kink, discussions of body insecurity, fluff, and mentions of future pregnancy. A/N: Thank you @ryebecca for holding my hand through this! Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Tonight Clark has you on your hands and knees while his large hands frame your hips. You drop your head and pant as he slowly works himself inside, anticipation curling in your belly. Every time feels like the first, your body fighting to let him in even when you desperately want him. 

"That's it," he praises, kissing your shoulder. "You're doing so good for me, sweet girl."

You groan in response, fingers grasping the bedsheets desperately until finally, his body is flush with yours. It’s almost too much and you shift back seeking relief, but Clark stills your movement. You glance over your shoulder, with a questioning look. 

"I want you to watch yourself," he whispers.

You freeze, a trickle of unease snaking down your spine. Even though he’s never questioned why you keep the lights low, you know Clark understands the reason. You’re uncomfortable seeing yourself like this; it stirs up long-buried insecurities you’ve never voiced for fear he might finally see all the ugly flaws you try to hide.

His name escapes your lips as a strained plea that he’s quick to answer with a tender, reassuring look. You feel an answering tug in your chest, and your resistance melts away. You’d do anything he asked when he looked at you like that – even this. 

A quiet exhale from you is the sign he needs to guide you to meet his gaze through the full-length mirror in the corner. In the soft, muted light of your bedroom, he seems even larger behind you, the outline of his body merging with the shadows. Your eyes linger on the way his fingertips span the length of your jaw as he cradles your face. 

Before Clark, you never felt small. You were always keenly aware of your weight compared to past boyfriends and how different your body looked from the images in magazines. For years, you hid behind flowing dresses and loose clothing, trying to make yourself less and blend into the background. But now, there’s nowhere to hide. You’re exposed and vulnerable, the layers of your self-protection stripped away.

"I want you to see what I see," Clark continues, wrapping a thick arm around your middle to haul you back against him.

The movement pushes him deeper, and your lashes flutter. A coarse, calloused hand glides down the swell of your stomach, dipping to tease your bundle of nerves, while the other cups one of your breasts. He chains kisses along your throat, and your head lolls to the side, watching the mirror through half-lidded eyes.  

“I love every part of you. From these thick thighs,” he murmurs, gently caressing the expanse of skin, “to your beautiful belly that will carry our child one day.”

“Clark…” You shift in his arms, overwhelmed and embarrassed, but he doesn’t let you move.

He tsks, a warm puff of breath teasing the shell of your ear. “I’m not done.” 

He rocks into you with a shallow thrust. There’s hardly anywhere to go but he manages to find the space, stealing your breath. He continues to speak, his gravelly voice washing over you in waves, while his fingers move in slow, teasing circles over your clit. Pleasure builds at the base of your spine, suffusing your body with warmth and want. 

“I think about this all the time,” he groans, grasping your hips and urging you to move. “You’re built to take me,” he praises. “Don’t you see?”

His words draw your focus back to the mirror. Bathed in the soft, flickering candlelight and enveloped in a haze of desire, you find yourself mesmerized by your reflection and the way Clark moves your body with ease. In his arms, you look delicate and vulnerable — fragile. 

His breath falls hotly against your skin when he speaks. "I love all of this, do you know that?" 

A wave of pleasure surges through you, overwhelming your senses. It’s only Clark’s strong hand on your jaw that keeps you from turning away from the scene before you. He comes first, his pale pink lips parting with a shuddery breath as his hips lose their rhythm. The hot, sweet rush of his release filling you up is enough to tip you over the edge.

You lean back into Clark, feeling the gentle tickle of his chest hairs against your skin. He runs a soothing hand up your side as you work to steady your breathing. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, turning to share a deep, tender kiss. 

He grins, cheeks dimpling. “I love you.”

Send me a request

[cyberllfe]

I got 1300 words! (Which you can absolutely shorten if you don’t feel like writing that much, absolutely understand as a writer.) and I would adore a “Shag me” prompt with Connor 🥴 if you feel up for it. My thoughts on this request (and you can adjust and add to because you’re a great story writer and I trust you) would be a female reader who works as a receptionist at the station (human preferably) and has known Connor since he first came to the department. Soon after his deviancy, they navigate a sort of awkward almost-friends-nearly-more type of relationship and stumble unto a slow romance, until Connor discovers the human emotion horny. It would be amazing if it could be at an awkward time too, like while watching a movie together or at work. I’ve been reading your pieces on AO3 and I truly think you are a talented writer, sending you all my love and inspiration💞💞💞💞

thanks for waiting, anon. connor will see you now. (ao3 link) 1300 words, rated E.

want a turn? prompt me.

It’s been raining all day—classic Detroit November—but all anyone can talk about is the guy who died, his escaped android, and the android investigator in the precinct. You’ve caught a glimpse of him more than once since yesterday, and this time is no different: he comes trotting in after Lieutenant Anderson, covered in glistening droplets of rain and speaking very insistently about something you can’t hear.

“That’s him.”

Your eyes would have slid right past him if not for the intensity in his face. He’s single-minded, emphatic... for all the good it does him. Anderson rolls his eyes and pushes Connor out of his path, leaving him standing there, recalculating. Only then do you notice the LED.

It’s barely two seconds before he’s started after Anderson, calling his name.

“Looks good wet, doesn’t he?”

You don’t offer anything but a soft hum. The thought follows you for the rest of the day.

*

Connor precedes Hank into the building today. He surprises you by speaking to you instead of simply scanning in, and you feel… strange. The look in his eye is so human, almost anxious. With an awkward smile, you offer a reassuring platitude. You’re earnest, but the offer seems to confuse Connor. He thanks you anyway and leaves your desk.

Between jobs, you keep an eye on him. He’s so animated. It’s marked, the difference a handful of days makes—he paces back and forth, oscillating where Hank is static, following his trail of thought as if it were physical.

Neither notices you. The rude FBI agent doesn’t notice you either; too intent on getting into the Captain’s office, he chucks his ID at you with a cursory here you go, sweetheart and goes back to his phone.

The ID is fine. You let the jackass through, and hope he gets shouted down by Fowler, who could probably do with a good outlet for his repressed frustration.

You laugh, later, as two uniforms perform a dramatised version of Anderson’s right hook on Perkins, but it’s brittle. Your eyes are on the news, and the demonstration in the street, and the news anchor’s silent mouth framing the words what do they want? without listening to the answer. Connor had raced out of the station earlier, and caught your eye as he went. You hope he's okay, wherever he is.

*

“Excuse me.”

Brown eyes meet yours, familiar intensity tempered with... caution? Nerves? It’s hard to tell them apart on a face that was built to display but not feel.

Connor wears plain clothes with all the ease of a soldier. There’s no tie to straighten, so he clenches and unclenches his hand and lets his eyes wander. They find you smiling, tentative but warm behind your professional attitude.

“How can I help, Connor?”

He’s clearly unused to the question. It’s endearing, really, to watch him like this—the self-possessed turned self conscious, attempting to hide in the shadow projected by his own image, broadcast endlessly on the new cycles at Markus’ left hand.

“Is Lieutenant Anderson here?”

“No. I don’t think he will be, either. He left about an hour ago.”

When Connor sighs, you wonder if he picked that up to blend in with humans or to help him communicate better with them. Both, probably. His fist coils up again, but he gives you a slight smile as he turns to leave.

“Connor.”

He turns, mildly surprised, to face you when you call his name. His smile is late but warm.

With one hand you reach for his, and with the other you slide a business card into his palm. The touch seems to surprise him further, and he stares at your hand even as you withdraw it.

“If you’re looking for Hank, he’s here. Diner out on the edge of town. I thought you’d come by looking for him.”

You’re glad to notice that he doesn’t look as guarded as before. Connor’s not around every day, not anymore, but you see him often enough to watch him relax into himself—to laugh when you make a self-deprecating joke, or hold the door for Officer Miller’s excitable son. Instead, Connor seems thoughtful, like you handed him something heavier than a wedge of paper with a cartoon burger on it.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

To your surprise, he lingers. Spends enough time to ask you about your family, about the plant you keep on your desk, which you should water, by the way. You talk quietly with him about almost-dead houseplants, why you’re not allowed to play Monopoly at home over the holidays, and show him the family dog. All the while he’s leaning against the counter, one arm crooked atop it and grinning… you’re more than distracted. He leaves the foyer, eventually, but not your thoughts.

*

Laughter covers cheesy Christmas music. You’re wearing half your wine glass in the colour of your cheeks, but Connor thinks the flush becomes you.

You notice when he glances at you, and you smile in that shy, self-conscious way. He returns your smile, adjusting his posture to face you, and you turn away, pretending that you barely noticed, and noticeably trying not to check back. He basks in private amusement.

The party draws on a little long—someone pulls out a bottle of something strong and definitely against regulation, and when Connor leans down to ask you if you’d like another drink, you jump.

You’re never in danger of falling, of course. Inhuman arms encircle you and hold you steady against an equally inhuman body—and for the first time, Connor feels a response that correlates with your change in expression. The slow pull that binds you and builds to something far stronger than he’s felt before until letting you go is unthinkable.

He makes a plausible excuse for you to leave. The charge in the air grows to fevered sharpness, a harmonic buzz that doesn’t break until he has one hand in your hair, the other encircling your waist, and that insatiable need to get closer.

Connor doesn’t leave any of you untouched. When his kisses would deny you air, he leaves them in trails down your neck, then undoes a handful of buttons to continue down your chest, hands restless and hungry, so much warmer than you’d ever imagined, so much more demanding.

When he whispers I don’t want to wait, it’s as if he read your mind. A shiver runs through you when he parts your legs and leans his weight into you, pushing inside with a growl that thrills you.

You tense around him. It’s not intentional, but he grabs your chin and holds you still beneath him, feeling the burning heat of your shaky breath past his thumb. He caresses your lower lip, and when you realise you can’t nod, you whisper please, and reach for him with both hands, in case he doesn’t understand how much you want him.

Connor leans back and pulls out almost all the way. You whine loud, desperate and frustrated, until the hand on your face tightens, cutting off your mumbled demand and making way for the moan he fucks out of you.

His fingers claw your jaw and throat and it’s heaven: the sharpness against your skin, the deep pressure inside you, building with every rock of his hips, chased with a mouth that suffocates and teases you until you’re dizzy.

You feel heavy, waves of sensation breaking over your body with increasing frequency and intensity, and no outlet except your nails in Connor’s back, scratching until he presses in deep again. You tense, on purpose, and half-feel, half-hear the stuttering moan, then the frenzied motion of his body as he pushes himself to the brink and drags you with him, tangled and messy, sharing breaths, but sated at last.

[nisbanisba]

Hey does anyone want to give me prompts for Tarlos sickfic or other super fluffy hurt/comfort? I have a lot of spare time rn because I got laid off a few weeks back*, I have a few ideas but nothing that’s really calling to me. I prefer to hurt Carlos (BECAUSE IM LOVE HIM) and have Caretaker TK but I could hurt TK if Carlos also needs a lot of emotional support!! Regardless everyone will get SO MANY hugs and head rubs!! Submit to my asks if you have ideas?? I also love involving other members of the 126 fam!! Open to AUs too.

((Personal note :I’ve always written sick fics in my head, and written a few down when I was much younger, but I was in autistic burnout for years from my former career (left in 2020) and didn’t have enough spoons leftover for writing for fun until this year. And now the government will pay me to write fluffy huggy hurt/comfort fanfiction and I just feel like we all could use it?

*(but don’t feel bad! my unemployment payments are enough to live frugally on for a little bit so right now im only looking hard enough to maintain eligibility)

So far I’ve written:

I can’t tell one from another (did I find you or you find me) Carlos gets a bad case of the flu. TK cuddles him back to health. Nancy & Tommy make a cameo.

Make Us Be Brave

TK thinks Carlos is too sick to be working. Grace thinks so too, but she'll help him solve a murder anyway. Judd is there to keep TK's head from exploding. Charlie and Andrea stop by for hugs. (AU in which the network paid Sierra what she's worth and Grace didn't leave. otherwise canon compliant through 5x04)

Can you please reblog for reach? Tagging a few moots, I hope yall don’t mind, feel free to just ignore or shoot me in the face or whatever

@chicgeekgirl89 @carlos-in-glasses @eclectic-sassycoweyes @henrygrass @freneticfloetry @tevantarlos @literateowl @the-126-family @lemonlyman-dotcom @thisbuildinghasfeelings @emsprovisions @bonheur-cafe @sapphic--kiwi i @pimento-playing-hopscotch thank you so much, let's have some hurt comforty goodness.

[takaraphoenix]

Stiles Summer Stories 2024!

So I have decided to dedicated my @writersmonth to Stiles. But there is so much I want to write about him and the Hale Pack that it's hard to put it in order and decide, so I am open to suggestions!

Pick a prompt duo from the list that's not crossed out yet and make me a Stiles-centric suggestion:

romantically only: Sterek, Steter, or both in a "Stiles has two hands" sense

platonically, especially anything Hale Pack (Derek, Peter, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Cora, Jackson, I'm throwing Lydia and Danny in there too, and depending on canon divergence also Allison and Scott. Also the sheriff), either the whole pack or any individual dynamic

general Stiles concepts like Pack Mom Stiles, human Alpha Stiles, Spark Stiles, post-nogitsune angst, whatever else you can think of

a combination of any of these

destiny | creek; "Camping & Bonding, Part 1", Sterek Hale Pack fluff

running | penthouse; "Small But Good", Steter post s2 finale h/c

laughter | car; "Camping & Bonding, Part 2", Sterek Hale Pack fluff

fairy | stage; "A Midsummer Night's Mischief"; Sterek fluff

choice | movie set; "Movie Madness"; Sterek jealous!Derek

flame | forest; "Camping & Bonding, Part 3", Sterek Hale Pack fluff

passion | tattoo parlor; "London Calling", post-series Sterek

dawn | castle; "Castle of Glass"; Sterek post pool scene

clock | museum; "Tutoring and Teasing"; Steter single-dad Peter + Malia's tutor Stiles

season | school; "Camping & Bonding, Part 4", Sterek Hale Pack fluff

snow | flower shop; "The Tate Sisters", Stetopher with married Petopher meeting Stiles through their daughters

birds | library; "The Birds and the Wolves", Steter

dark | bakery; "What Kept Me Going", post-Nogitsune h/c Stetopher

lonely | college; "Missing Pack", Stiles-Jackson-Danny

glow | lake; "Camping & Bonding, Part 5", Sterek Hale Pack fluff

ache | ship; "What Lydia Wants (She Gets)", Jackstydia on a cruise

red | kitchen; "My Kitchen, My Rules", Sterek human Alpha Stiles

bell | attic; "Warning Bells", Steter BDSM smut

chess | park; "How Chris and Peter Got a Kitten", Stetopher + Stiles cursed into a kitten

stone | train; "What Lydia Wants (Lydia Gets) II", Jackstydia BDSM smut sequel

wish | hospital; "A Brighter Future", Steter hurt/comfort + Sterica bromance

beast | motel; "Away Game", Stackson 'there is only one bed' during an away lacrosse game

lost | basement; "What Happens in the Basement", Sterek kidnapping

petal | theater; "Twelve Truths (and a Lie)", Stetopher + Stiles being forced by the Seelie Queen to bare twelve truths in front of the pack

faith | bar; "A Selfish Gift", Sterek + a salmon ladder

fur | farm; "Home at the Hale Farm", Stetopher post-Nogitsune h/c

lightning | office; "Guns and Gags", Stetopher + gun shop owner Chris/sex shop owner Peter

sketch | plane; "Sugar for the Secretary", Stetopher sugar daddies Petopher post-series

sense | bus; "Colds and Comfort", Stetopher sick!Stiles getting taken care of

mischief | mountain; "Shot Through the Heart", Stetopher + Chris being really into Stiles being a good shot

double | beach; "Murder Triad", Nogitsune/Steter

[ayotofu]

Saw your ask about prompts-something light with the Leverage OT3?

<3

--

The thing is they try to go on regular dates sometimes.

It's just that Parker gets bored easy and also wants to go to Pizza Inn and eat one of the dessert pizzas by herself and Eliot, apparently, will die if he is within twenty feet of a Pizza Inn. Hardison thinks that if they're going to a pizza place it could at least be a good pizza place but then when he looks up the fancier restaurant Eliot suggests they do not have orange soda on their drink menu.

So eating out is off the table, apparently.

Ice skating gets thrown out, too, because Eliot starts talking about using a toe pick to kill a man and Hardison loves that he's being more open, really, he does, but it also leaves him a little nauseous.

Eliot suggests a picnic, then. Parker loves the idea, except she wants to go cliff diving too. Hardison's not opposed to the idea, as long as he isn't expected to jump, but it's not exactly a regular date when cliff diving gets thrown in.

But, he figures, it's as close as they'll get. None of them suggested anything illegal, so he counts it as normal enough. Regular-adjacent.

(Parker throws him into the water. Of course she does.)

"Okay," Parker says when the food is eaten and Hardison is mostly dry, "we did your boring normal date--"

"I thought it would be fun to try!" Hardison says. "And it was fun!"

"--Yeah, sure, but next date is mine and I want to jump out of a helicopter."

"It was fun, wasn't it Eliot?"

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Yes, Hardison, I had so much fun being your personal chef." He says it like he's lying, but they all know better than that. "And I'll have so much fun being your pilot, too."

"What? No, you can't be the pilot, silly. You're jumping!"

Eliot blinks once. Twice. "No. No I am not."

Hardison closes his eyes and lets the argument wash over him, lips curved in a smile. He likes to try normal, once in a while, he thinks--if only to remember why he likes the weird so much.

[popcorn-plots]

Give me ironstrange and/or wongstrange writing prompts, Thanksgiving break just started and I crave short, fluffy stories

[scavengerssuccotash]

Maybe writing a little Christmas themed one-shot will break my writers block, anyone wanna prompt me?

[poetry-protest-pornography]

Okay, I can't focus enough to work on any of the writing I planned on this week, because of, y'know, the existential depression and mild disassociation, but I really want to write and create something (to balance out the aforementioned existential depression and mild disassociation), so if you send me a character/ship and a few words, I'll write you a drabble-ish something.

[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

If anyone needs a pick me up, I'm taking small prompts in my inbox. I'll do Buddie and BuckTommy, but I won't do Tommy-negative anything. I don't have the strength for negativity right now.

[malkaleh]

So I want to write but I don’t know what to write so in an effort to spark things - leave me prompts (can be a specific plot or like a song lyric + fandom/AU type). Rings of Power (Gold Cages Verse) is the main but also OT3 verse.

[highlyillogicalandroid]

I am in a writing slump. Someone hold me accountable. Send me a prompt and I’ll write you a something or other. Star Trek, Good Omens, Sandman, Dead Boy Detectives, whatever.

[hederasgarden]

Ciao bella!! For your requests...

How's about #8 with Bodyguard Walter Marshall? You know I'm a sucker for those curls. 😘😘

I continue to suck at writing 100 word drabbles so here you go. Enjoy!

Pairing: Walter Marshall x F!Reader  Word Count: 841 Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angsty, violence, whump and soft Walter. A/N: This is my first Walter fic and my first time writing for a Henry Cavill character so be kind! Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

The world seems to move in slow motion, every detail sharp and painful. A high-pitched drone rings in your ears while dust chokes your throat, making it difficult to breathe. When you touch your head, your hand comes away bloody and you blink in an attempt to clear your vision. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the wail of sirens. You try to make sense of it all but your mind struggles to hold onto any thought too long. 

Glass crunches under your heels as you take a hesitant step forward. You wobble, pitching toward the ground until a pair of strong arms catch you. You look up and Walter's face comes into focus, his features sharp and concerned despite the surreal blur around you. His lips move under his thick beard, but it sounds like he’s speaking underwater. 

You shake your head and he shifts closer. His warm, calloused hands cup your face and you wince when his thumb presses against the cut on your head. Behind him, you can see what remains of the hallway. There’s a single shoe in the middle of the floor and your stomach lurches, catching sight of a body. 

"Hey. Look at me."

Walter grips your jaw almost painfully and your attention snaps back to him. Suddenly, everything comes rushing back. You were angry, arguing with him and another FBI agent about whether you should testify. They had security concerns but you were determined, it was your only chance to put away your boss —the corrupt DA in the pocket of the mob. That was right before the first bomb exploded. 

"Oh god,” you whisper, horrified.

"It's okay, you're okay," he soothes, his voice calm and steady despite the chaos. "We're going to get out of this, but I need you to listen to me, can you do that?"

"Yes."

"That's good," Walter praises. 

His hands drop to your shoulders and then down your arms, applying careful pressure as he goes. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know he’s checking for injuries but right now all you can focus on is how reassuring his touch feels. If he’s with you, you’re safe. He would never let anything bad happen to you. That thought alone is enough to pull you from the swirling panic that threatens to drown you. 

"We need to check in on the rest of the team," you tell him. Walter's voice is gentle as he says your name, but you shake your head firmly, trying to push past the haze of confusion. ”No, we need to—"

"You're my priority," he interrupts. "I need to get you out. There's no case without you.”

"We can't leave them."

"I'm sorry,” Walter says softly as his thumb brushes away the tears that escape. ”They're gone," 

Your eyes dart behind him and you see the horrific reality you hadn’t fully registered before. Three bodies lay on the floor—your friends and colleagues. The realization feels like a lance through your chest, stealing your breath. You look back at Walter, tears falling silently. 

A distant boom makes both of you flinch. The building shudders violently, sending plaster dust cascading from the ceiling. 

"We need to go."

You nod and Walter wraps an arm around your waist to hold you close as he guides you over the debris. When you try to look back, he places a firm hand on the side of your face, his fingertips brushing against your temple.

"Don't look," he says, urging you to tuck your face into his chest.

Your fingers curl into the soft fabric of his sweater as your body moves on autopilot, guided by him, until you’re finally outside. From there, everything becomes a blur, moments merging into a disjointed sequence—the paramedics stitching you up, the uneasy ride in the back of a strange SUV, and now, this safe house.

You watch Walter pace the living room, his hand resting on his gun as he stops to peer out the curtains. His black curls are still dusted with white plaster.  Every part of you feels grimy and tacky.

"I want to go home," you say, your voice barely more than a whisper, but it catches Walter’s attention. He lets the curtain fall back into place, blocking out the outside world. You wrap your arms around yourself and rock forward.  "Please."

"You know that's not possible.” he reminds you not patiently. “We’re gonna be stuck here for a while."

The floor creaks beneath him as he moves to stand directly in front of you. He touches your shoulder and you look up at him through wet lashes. 

"You should get cleaned up. There's some toiletries and clothes for you in the bathroom." When you don’t move he sighs, touching your chin. “Go on.”

It’s a testament to how exhausted and overwhelmed you are that you follow his gentle command without argument. At the door you pause, looking back at him with a silent question in your eyes. 

“I’ll be here when you get out,” he promises.

Send me a request

[cyberllfe]

you replied so quickly i got excited. 😭 also, i totally understand! please perceive my request only when you are able to! there's a veeery big reread factor in your fics so they will busy me for a while. 😤

with that, erm, i spun the wheel and i kid you not,,, it landed on the 1500. 😭 i am also, admittedly, a nines simp and would love to see him with the "nurse me" prompt as someone studying a health allied program. 😖 again, thank you so much for your writing, i would genuinely love anything you put out. lots of love!

— anon from the italian mob <3

thanks for waiting, anon. make sure you listen to nines and get some rest, hm? (ao3 link)

1500 words, rated G.

want a turn? prompt me.

“I’m fine.”

You’re not. Anyone with eyes could tell you’re not, and Nines sees more than most.

True to form, he wastes no processing power arguing with you, just presses a cold compress to your head and watches with amusement as you make an embarrassing sigh of delight.

When you’re calm and a little warmer in the face, Nines presses a glass of water into your hand with a pointed look that says, very clearly, drink up. You accept the glass, savouring the delicious cool against your skin but fighting the urge to rest it against your face, and peer up at him, impish.

“You’re analysing me, aren’t you?”

Nines’ lip twitches. “Your temperature is 103°F.” He pushes the covers higher over you. “You need rest.”

“I know I’m hot.” You thrust the glass back towards him, mostly empty, and try to ignore how your hand shakes sends the water sloshing. “What’s new?”

Nimble fingers take the glass from your hand and you let your arm fall, since it feels so damn heavy. The covers cradle you so nicely. Your brain sits with that thought, and the cosy softness under your arm, until you feel firm pressure against your chest, pushing you back. It’s stronger than anything you can resist, even under regular circumstances, and leaves you nestled amongst a column of pillows that envelop you just like the covers.

It feels so soothing—sharp change in altitude aside—that you forget to be annoyed that Nines is manhandling you in such a mundane way.

“Hey.” The hand doesn’t move from your chest. “I need to breathe, Nines.”

Leaning in so close that your breath tickles his cheek, Nines’ mouth twitches again.

“I’m not stopping you.”

You’re wandering in a familiar grey, too lost to respond—but of course, that’s the intention.

A part of you that expects him to leave, and it’s why you’re hanging on. When the fight slowly leaks from your body and you deflate gradually, letting the bed take you, Nines tucks the sheet around you closely. You realise that despite your head being on fire, the rest of your body feels pretty cold. It’s nicer with the covers close.

He refreshes the compress on your head, applying gentle pressure. A single bead of water runs from your temple to your jaw; the cold makes you shiver. Nines catches it with a deft swipe of cloth before it can go any further, then sets a fresh glass of water on the table next to the bed.

When he’s done, he slides into bed beside you.

For a considerable time, you drift in and out of consciousness. Not dreaming, not really, but you’re wandering through a fever-warped imaginary world. More than once, you could have sworn you were conscious; your brain fills the space between thoughts with nonsensical sounds and images while your body rages against infection.

Nines is there every time you wake up. He looks down at you when you stir in your plush cocoon, and you’re struck by how casual it is—it’s not the clinical, sharp android eye that watches you, but. something far softer. He brushes away the stray mess of hair obscuring your eyes but they’re already half-closed, and soon after, the abyss takes you again.

*

Hours later—it has to be, it’s dark outside now—he brings you food. You’d wondered where he was, why he’d left you with nothing but a Nines-shaped impression in your mountain of blankets, until you smell something delicious that you can’t place. Somehow despite his many skills—and perfect willingness to show them off—you hadn’t expected that he’d cook for you in the middle of the night.

It’s sweet, and to your half-awake brain, it’s funny. Nines, delicately carrying a bowl of soup, garnished beautifully with a swirl of cream and a light sprinkle of herbs, while dressed in your apron. It’s a good deal too short for him, and it makes you laugh, then cough, then hastily reach for the water he left you.

With a slightly clearer head, you notice a few more things. His arms, bare to the elbows with his shirt rolled back and folded crisply; a little of his hair has fallen out of place, probably from the heat of the stove.

You’re watching him with too much intensity for a little too long. By the time your gaze meets his eyes you find mingled consternation and amusement, but he doesn’t chastise you—especially when you accept the offered spoon without protest.

Your open hands take the soup without argument, too; ravenous hunger has hit you from what seems like nowhere, so you sit up, prop yourself against your pillows, and cradle the bowl as if it’s precious.

It’s perfect, of course. Nines tells you that he’s taken care of some basics around the house—he’s cleaned your kitchen, for example. There’s more soup, for later, after you’ve rested some more, and he’s fixed the malfunctioning dial on your stove. Just because, with that unspoken loftiness—except it’s just because it helps you.

Not really giving him your full attention, you glare at him, a heavily laden spoon already in your mouth, and he laughs. It breaks the tension left in your body. Between the warmth of the food and the company, you feel soothed—aches and all.

While you eat, Nines reads to you. To your surprise he’s expressive—entertaining, even. It’s a calm choice of story, and he pauses when you laugh to watch your face, sometimes so intently that he chases your eyes back to your food.

He’s still reading when you’re done. You don’t want to interrupt him with thanks, and in any case, you don’t really have the words for your appreciation, so you cosy up beside him. When he looks at you his expression changes—softens, as if in acknowledgement, and you get the feeling he notices it in you anyway, the way he notices everything else.

With one wide, smooth motion he grabs your cold compress—refreshed and ready for you—and repositions it against your forehead, before brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. They’re cool but not cold against your skin, and you close your eyes, savouring the small relief, the calm of mutual understanding, before pushing closer to him, into his touch.

“Please keep going,” you mumble, muffled by the covers.

You can’t see, but Nines smiles down at you as he does.

*

You wake in the very small hours of the morning. There are birds merrily chirping in the trees that line the street.

In the stillness you’d assumed you were alone; Nines makes you jump when he shifts to lay parallel beside you.

“Thank you.”

You don’t quite know what else to say. The words aren’t enough, but your mind is still fuzzy and stalling any means of finding better ones.

Nines reaches out to touch your face and gives you one long, serious look, in lieu of accepting your thanks. You see something in him, the way he watches you, appreciation of an obscure kind—he considers your thanks unnecessary, but he can’t seem to say so, nor does he accept them.

“Your fever’s broken.” He touches your chin. “How do you feel?”

“Better.”

The cool morning air feels pleasant against your skin for the first time in days. You don’t shiver, just lay in your spot, savouring the contrast with the toasty bedsheets.

“Good.”

Now your discomfort is receding, you’re sharply aware of how bad you must have looked. You stifle a groan. How untidy it is, to be human.

“I… you’re lucky, you know.” Nines frowns. “Androids don’t have… this.”

“What?”

“All the human stuff. The mess.” You break eye contact for a beat, but look back, determined let appreciation override the gnawing self-consciousness, despite how gross you must have seemed.

“You are a mess,” he laughs when you express immediate indignation, and you realise you fell for his trap—your comical anger, the hand raised to slap at his shoulder, is a wanted response from calculated provocation. Nines is teasing you to draw you out of your own head. He knows you.

A moment of quiet falls on you both, where Nines catches your hand and rests it against the bedsheets, nestled in his.

“Don’t you think that, if I preferred to avoid human problems, I simply... would?

“It might have occurred to me,” you murmur, following the thumb you rub against his soft fingertips where they’re intertwined with yours. “Sometimes it’s just… very obvious that we’re very different.”

“I know,” he says, as if you missed the point. “Difference isn’t a flaw.”

Nines shifts his arm to lay his palm beside yours, skin receding to show smooth white accented in glowing blue. It’s gone seconds later, but you feel his hand against your chest, then your neck.

“I don’t mind the mess.” A dart of pink tongue behind parted lips. “In fact, I think I’ll make it worse.”

[lqtraintracks]

Prompt Me?

I do Get Your Words Out every year and it's come to my attention that if I want to make my 150k goal, I need 9k more words written in December. Now, some of that will be the query letter and synopsis for my novel. But so far this month, I only have Firewhiskey Fic planned for fic writing.

That's where you come in, if you feel like it, that is! I'd love some prompts! I might take one and run with it for 10k or I might take several and do 10 1k fics or somewhere between those two options. I can't guarantee I'll write your pairings or prompts; this is not a gift situation--you'd just be helping me make words. <3

So, that being said, if you'd like to throw me a prompt/prompts for any of the following pairings, I'd really appreciate it!

Harry x Draco Harry x Teddy Harry x Teddy x Draco Ginny x Pansy Charlie x Teddy Draco x Albus Severus Teddy x James James x Al x (Teddy) Sirius x James Sirius x James x Remus Sirius x Harry Sirius x Harry x Remus Hermione x Pansy Hermione x Pansy x Ron You know what I write, and smutty prompts are definitely welcome, but non-smut prompts work too! Or a combo of angst/smut, humor/smut, domestic situations, tropes of all kinds, whatever floats your boat. Send me an Ask! Mix it up! Thanks so much! Happy holidays, y'all! <3

[takaraphoenix]

In regards to the smutty kinky prompt list I reblogged (because I never like putting fandoms/ships onto reblogs like that):

Prompt me! Send me asks with a number and a ship, in case you're unsure about the ship since I've been kinda exploring those lately, here's a list:

Steter

Stetopher

Stargent

Sterek

Stackson

Stydiackson

Stanny

Stalion

Stetalion

[dresupi]

Hey guys!

I'm accepting requests for short autumn-themed prompts!

In case it's been too long and you don't remember the drill:

Open the form (link above)

Leave your tumblr/ao3 name if you want to be tagged in the finished product

Choose a ship from the list, or choose 'write in' and write it in at the bottom (try to stay within my preferred fandoms, listed at the bottom)

Choose 3 prompts, and I'll pick one to write for your fic

Choose which rating you're most comfortable with, even though most of these will likely be 'T' rated

Preferred fandoms:

Darcyland/MCU (including crossovers)

Modern GoT

Stranger Things

Baldur's Gate 3

Have fun! I can't wait to write these!