#i'm writing this instead of writing fics i'm sorry

[hannieehaee]

Idk if you're taking requests but I would give it a short and it would mean so much if you actually wrote smthg bout it.

An angsty fic/drabble where woozi and reader are in a long term established relationship and the reader gets their absolute dream job opportunity but it's far from Korea and she tells it to woozi but they get conflicted since woozi cannot transfer between his work and seventeen and reader does not want to give up this once in a life time opportunity. At the same time they are sceptical about a long distance relationship since reader had already been fed up of how less they get to see and stay with woozi with him travelling and working constantly.

You don't have to write it if it's too complex but I'd love to see cuz I really like the way you write!

content: idol!woozi x nonidol!reader, established relationship, light angst, fluff, long distance relationship, etc.

wc: 716

a/n: thank u so much!! im so sorry for how long i took to get this out!!

masterlist

it'd been a week since you told jihoon about your new work opportunity. a week since the air in your apartment became just a little bit colder and the future slightly more grim.

jihoon had been supportive immediately, congratulating you and insisting on you accepting the position. he'd been as supportive a boyfriend as he'd been in the past two years of your relationship. it filled you with warmth and hope for the future of your relationship.

it wasn't until you'd let him know of the location of said job that things became more sad than hopeful.

although he still maintained his supportiveness, there was now a clear air of worry in his voice any time it'd get brought up.

you'd tried to ignore it, pushing it aside until you found the courage in you to actually accept the position. it was your dream job. a once in a lifetime opportunity. except it was an entire country away from the love of your life. and you only had three more days to accept the offer letter they'd sent to you.

the thought of doing long distance would have been fine had you been anyone else. but you barely got to see your boyfriend as it was. living with him was really the only way for you to spend time together. his busy idol schedule had him going all over the world, and when he was at home he was usually ever at the company or in your shared apartment.

if you left, you'd give up on ever getting to see him.

"babe."

the voice took you away from your train of thought. the same train of thought distracting you for the past week.

you looked away from the tv that had been playing in front of you. you hadn't even been watching it, but the background noise helped.

jihoon was at the entrance of the living room, two mugs in hand as he walked over to you and took his usual seat, silently handing you your mug with a tight smile.

not even a single sip from your drink was taken before the subject filled the room once more.

"you need to take this job."

"jihoon ..."

"no, listen," he turned his body to face you, "you and i, we're a forever thing, okay? i don't care if we have to be away for a while. i'm already living my dream, it's unfair that you don't get to do the same," he argued with conviction in his eyes.

"but, jihoon ... it won't be like when you're touring. we'll never be in the same country at the same time, i-"

his hands went to take your mug, placing it on the coffee table before taking your hands into his own.

"i don't care!", his voice raised without meaning to, "so we'll have a year or two in which we can't be as close as we've always been, so what? it won't matter in the grand scheme of things. we'll be together for forty- no fifty years. a few years of uncertainty won't matter a few years from now. babe, please."

his voice pleaded at you.

he was afraid you'd end it all instead of at least trying.

what made it worse that he refused to consider a possibility in which you didn't go and follow your dream. it was a done deal to him. he loved you that much.

that was all you needed to make a decision.

"i'll take the job," you said decisively.

jihoon released a sigh of relief right away, hand squeezing your own in encouragement.

"i-i'll rent a place big enough for the two of us over there. i'll ask for a week off every six months. i'll have it written into my contract so i can go visit you. and- and we'll keep this place here for any time you have time off. we'll call every night, no matter what. even if it's just for two minutes, we'll- we'll make it work."

all you could do was smile at him.

how could you ever worry about change when he was willing to work so hard to move along with it all?

you kissed him then, shutting him up with no words.

and he understood, kissing you back with just as much unspoken love.

[nothots-headempty]

Sunrise and Hangovers

Charles Xavier × reader

Summary: you're tipsy and in love. Charles is just... conflicted. Can you ever get in sync with the young professor that you can't get off your mind?

Word count: 3k+

Warnings: so much angst, fluffy, alcohol mentions, some kiss-kiss

Author's note: I love this man so much. Also tell me what you guys thing. I'm back to writing after so long, the self doubt is going crazy crazy <3 posted this after 3 days of over thinking it wow

Also this fic is First Class era based but but I just loved this gif so much I had to indulge myself T_T

When the dark door to his study lands smack against your face, you finally open your eyes clearly and take in where you're stood. Your tequilla-addled brain loved working over time, guiding your feet with absolutely no abandon to the front of Charles's sanctum.

There's a glass still in your hand and your eyes seem to attract it over to you, tongue taking a couple of tries before the straw is in your mouth and the pungent fluid flows down your throat. Liquid courage or not, you were about to knock.

Your fingers stretch out to the wood before you, the crease in your brow deepening when the door swings open without any action from your person. You're still looking at your fist, confused, suspicious of finding a new mutant ability to unlock doors without touching them. And then there's him, arms crossed across his chest, his gaze following you, evidently amused.

"Did I just do that?", you mumble, your confusion dissolving into absolute chaos when you see him properly. His hair is slightly tousled like he had just got out of bed, his sweater vest turned a little sideways, a little out of sorts. His face still wears that same grin, the same sparkle of his eyes. The same Charles you had come to love with every passing day.

"Create enough sub-concious noise to wake me up, you mean? Yes, that was definitely you." He pouts, playful and you can't help but take a step toward him. "Are you always calling my name when you're drunk or is this revenge for all the hours of training?" His hands slide into his pockets, a lazy yawn on his lips as he leans against the doorframe. You know his eyes haven't left you since he walked out, and instead of the usual shyness, right now you feel something warm and fuzzy inside you.

Maybe it's the haze everywhere around you, a muddle to your step, the coursing adrenaline through your veins and yet in the midst of it all, your affection for him constricts in your chest, tighter than ever.

His eyebrow raises, almost comically at your silence, the seriousness in his gaze juxtaposed to the ease of his posture.

"Sorry for waking you." You're not sorry. Not even a little. Not when this is the first time you've seen him like this. His guard down. His voice a low murmur, doused in sleep. You take another step towards him but this time he takes a step back. The door opens wider and you realise he's inviting you in.

To his study.

Your eyes snap back to his. It's one of those moments where you know even pinching yourself won't make you believe it's real. The shock shows on your face, you're aware and he tilts his head in response, a challenge to pose the question fighting it's way to your tongue. You don't. Instead, you step closer still.

His study feels like a distant reality anyway, forgotten, ignored, your body swaying towards the warmth emanating from him. It threatens to shatter you, that feeling of being so close. Of wanting to touch him. The material of his vest against your fingers, the collar of his shirt against your neck, his cheek against your cheek. His tongue in your mouth.

You know you shouldn't, you know it's stupid. You know he's your professor and he'll never feel the way you do. And he'd never look you in the eye again. And you'd never get to be on his arm at a party. Or by his side during one of his lectures.

But right now. In the low burn of his table lamp, your fingers can't help but reach forward, brush lightly against his jaw. His eyes follow everything, from the minute you move, right to the moment of electric contact, skin to skin. You feel him tense up. His gaze solidifies, sets on you.

You go on still, running a finger along his temple, caress his cheek and then, his eyes fall shut. A soft sigh gets caught somewhere in his throat but he shows no effort to make anything of it. His face leans into your hand, brushing back against your thumb as you glide it along the apple of his cheek.

He whispers your name, the syllables warped by the interruption of your fingers on his lips, tracing their outline, memorizing it. You might forget the night, the way you landed up here, everything you said. But the feel of his lips, his nose, his jaw, all of him. It was etched too deep to be lost in your memories.

"Charles.", you mumble. You don't know why you say it. His name feels like a poem on your tongue, the words you intend to say all swallowed up in that single utterance. Your slow approach now finds you inches from his face, your chests nearly touching, your breaths ragged, loud.

Up close, you can see his pupils are dilated, blown wide, his mouth hanging open halfway since your thumb ran along its edge. There's a hesitation in his gaze, though, and before it can translate to speech, you push yourself up on your toes, lips meeting his with a soft moan you can't hold back.

His response is almost immediate, his arms wrapping around your waist, head leaning in farther so he can give you what you want. You gasp into his mouth, his tongue swiping at yours, your fingers instinctively finding home in the soft, lush locks of hair at his neck.

He's the first to pull away, a little too soon for your liking, disengaging your mouths so he can rest his forehead against yours. The smile on his lips pushes against your cheek and you can't help but smile back.

The alcohol did well at holding back the usual questions. The "what now?", the "does he really like me?" All the bullshit that you'd let yourself think about tomorrow morning.

For now you can feel his fingers pressed into your back, the warmth of his breath brushing your skin, the gentle caress of his nose against yours as he moves back to look at you. Right now, this is all you needed.

"What was that for?" He sounds stern. Much like the professor you were used to being around. But his hands are still clasped behind you and his smile is radiant.

"That was for all the weeks I've thought about doing this before. And then not done it anyway.", you smile. "And this is because I want to do it again." You lean back in to quench the need to have his lips on yours again. But this time he leans away. The disappointment, the dread are instant, spurting up in the back of your mind.

But his fingers reach up to brush your frown from your face. He takes a step away, a hand offered to you which you confusedly take in yours.

"You just sound like you're really, really drunk, love." He shakes his head, laughing to himself as he leads you out of the study to the room next door. The chill in the air is grounding, and you wonder if it's just his warmth you already miss.

"And drunk is not the best mood to be doing any of this in.", he continues, gesturing vaguely to the air between you and him. Your heart is sinking still, inspite of his words and so you wordlessly follow him to the bed before you, seating yourself on the edge.

He kneels between your legs, easing your heels slowly off your feet. You feel the gentle brush of his palm as he runs his hand along your calf, a rush of goosebumps blooming on your skin. He's still only millimeters away from you, close enough to touch lips and yet so much more distant than he was just minutes ago.

"Don't want you feeling stupid after sunrise.", he smirks. His eyes find yours again, and there's a little underlying drift of restraint, of light pessimism that you catch for the first time.

"I'm not sure the sunrise would change anything." Your whisper is almost too low to be audible. And yet you know he's heard it. He sighs heavily, sitting back on his heels.

"I'm sure the hangover would."

His hand finds a stray lock of hair on your face, pushing it behind your ear and then staying right there with it. His forehead leans against yours again, his brows scrunched together like he's fighting something inside himself.

He pushes infinitesimally closer, his nose brushes your cheek and your breath hitches. Your fingers dig into the mattress, your nerves all charged up as you remind yourself this might just be a dream. Might be one of those wisps of the night where he's yours and you're his and there's not an inch of space between you two.

His fingers slide over the back of your neck, tugging at the hair a little, making you moan softly in the back of your throat. "Okay, just this once.", he mumbles, and before his words can click, his lips are on yours. Warm, insistent, almost desperate, his mouth moves languidly against yours in a way that has you melting in his arms. He runs his tongue along your lip, raising himself off his heels so he can press your torsos together, your chests rising and falling in sync.

The heat of his body, the smell of soap and salt on his skin, the light taste of tea on his tongue, everything about him swallows you whole and soon you're drowning, drowning into the vortex that is this man.

Your hands snap into action moments later, pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt, your mouth opening under his to let his tongue in. He moans when you pull the hair at his neck, a little harder than you intended, and then he's shifting away again, like he's shot back to reality.

He blinks and then locks his gaze to yours, watching. You stay right there for a long, unending moment, your lip caught in your teeth, his eyes flitting across your face as he catches his breath. And the moment is shattered, fallen in pieces around you.

He leans back on his feet, gently pulling his hands out of yours, the whiplash of this sudden change leaving you stranded. Lost.

His brow creases again, only to splay out into a simple smile in seconds but it doesn't reach his eyes this time. He's reserved now. On guard.

With a short clearing of his throat, he picks your heels off the floor next to him, transferring them to the foot of the bed. "Get some sleep, love.", he says, his words more advisory than affectionate.

You look at the bed, it's empty face staring back at you as cold as the chill settling within your chest. "There's place for two here.", you offer lamely.

But he's already at the door, one hand on the knob. He turns back one last time, something pained in his eyes. "No, I'll have to get back to that thesis.", he smiles. "But you get some rest and we'll talk tomorrow."

He closes his eyes, exhaling forcefully before excusing himself and with a click the door shuts, leaving you alone.

And your heart sinks again.

________

The morning light casts shadows on the walls, the dance of leaves and curtain fabric mesmerizing against the cream of the wallpaper. The first thing you notice when you open your eyes though, is the pressing ache in your temple.

You squeeze your eyes shut and the drinking, the victory party, Raven pouring shots down your throat - it all comes back like a zap.

You groan, trying very, very slowly to shift upright in bed but that course of movement is impeded by an iron clasp around your waist.

Your attention falls to the man asleep next to you, his expression serene as soft breaths whistle out of his lips.

And then you freeze. The rest of the night comes crashing back, the reality of it all settling in like an uncomfortable feeling in your gut. You turn back to look at him, the morning sunshine lighting his face up, ethereal. Your chest hurts a little more, already.

You hold his hand in yours, trying your best to move it off from your waist but his grasp only becomes tighter. He stirs against you, pulling you closer, a soft "hmm" hummed in disapproval. You groan in frustration, the feeling of him too welcoming but the coldness of last night left like a bad taste in your mouth. You press your fingers into your eyes but it does nothing to the growing throb in your forehead.

"Headache?", he mumbles groggily, shooting up onto his elbow to fumble around in his bedside drawer. Before you can even form the words, the pills are out in his hand, a bottle of water in the other.

You take them quietly, downing the meds with silent relief while he leans back into bed. You lie down again not sure what to do with the unresolved moments you've shared a few hours ago. But you decide to let him take the lead. You suppress the headache. And wait.

"Before you ask, I only came here to take a nap.", his hands shoot up in defense as if the sheer idea of waking up next to him must sound like a night mare. You huff, waiting for him to address the obvious.

"We did kiss.", he mumbles. You turn on your side, wanting to take in the slight blush on his cheeks, the stutter in his words as if even thinking about it took him back to your lips on his. "And I'm sorry I didn't stop it. I know you were drunk out of your mind and I should have been the one t-"

"Charles.", you interrupt, your brow furrowed in confusion. But he goes on anyway, the words tumbling out of his mouth like he can't stop them now

"No, because I'm your professor and I shouldn't ever take advantage of you like that-"

"Charles-"

"I hope you can forgive me. It was stupid, stupid, really stupid on my part but maybe I just thought I could kiss you for just one second and I-"

"Charles!", you finally get his attention, his eyes wide, his mouth still parted as if the syllables had evaporated on his tongue the moment he heard your tone.

"Breathe." You're unable to keep the smile from your lips, your fingers threading through the small locks hanging on his neck as he turns to face you as well.

"Yes. Uh, yes. I'm breathing.", he exhales, something resembling a laugh. "But I do mean it. I'm sorry."

"I'm not.", you murmur, your cheeks painted with a crimson similar to his. You wheedle yourself a little closer, breathing the same air in the ever closing gap between your bodies. The doubt, the apprehension is all evident in the look he gives you, eyes searching for the humor in your words. Searching for that sliver of honesty he hoped to find.

"You're... You're not?" His fingers brush the inside of your wrist, holding your hand to his face.

"I like you, Charles. And not in a high-school-crush-on-the-hot-professor way." Your eyes find his again and you realise he's leaning towards you as well. His eyes are on your lips, your heart thudding as his tongue darts out to swipe against his lower lip.

He drags his gaze slowly back to yours and you see that darkness in his eyes, the focus, the raw intensity. Your breath hitches but you force yourself to go on.

"I like you because you're smart. And you're kind. You're selfless. And you make us all feel special without even trying. You made me want to be a part of this cruel, idiotic world, Charles."

You bite your lip in the silence that follows, the urgency of the confession dissipating, not sure how to stop the dying embarrassment about to take your over.

He let's his thumb brush over your chin then, pulling you closer. There's that grin of his again, the cheeky school boy grin that makes you want to kiss his mouth. "So I am the hot professor, huh?", he smirks half way through his words, his breath hot against your lips.

You roll your eyes, hands curling into his shirt collar to pull him flush against you. "Kiss me and we'll find out if that's true."

His lips are on yours before you can finish your line, his smile wide against your own. He's confident now, probing, his tongue sliding against yours like he's known the way these moments would play out, known the way he wanted to make you feel. Known what he wanted if you ever let him in.

His hands slide down your body, pressing you closer with the small of your back, the laughs and grins melting down into soft moans. You run a hand through his hair, the other twisting itself tighter into his vest.

He's breathless when he pulls away, his chest heaving against your own, the sunlight bathing him, making him look annoyingly prettier than always. He runs a finger down your forehead, tapping your nose lightly as he leans in for another peck.

"That hot enough for you, my love?", he murmurs against your lips, your heart still thudding at the endearment, his tongue darting out to run against your mouth.

"No, I think I'm gonna need another try. Just to make sure, you know." You brush your nose against his. He smiles again and it warms your heart to know you were even slightly the cause of his happiness.

"I did always appreciate you attention to detail, love."

[prince-liest]

hi princely! i was rereading through your 666 series and i wanted to ask if you have any tips for writing dialogue? its the one part of fiction ive always struggled with, i.e. making conversations flow naturally instead of sounding robotic. imo one of the most memorable aspects of your work is how real your dialogue feels

(also i was skimming your tumblr while writing this, im so sorry about your car that's genuinely insane??? and sorry if this is terrible timing aaa)

Hello! Thank you, but no worries, not terrible timing - I could use a distraction, haha.

When I started writing fanfiction, I actually really struggled with writing dialogue for a really specific reason, which was that I was really used to RP and felt like getting into the head and talking style of more than one character at a time felt like a lot of effort and something that I had to actively swap back and forth between. This is something that got much, much easier over time, and unfortunately the #1 tip I always have is that practice not only makes the quality of your writing better, but it also makes the process of writing much easier as you get used to things.

That said, specifically for natural-sounding dialogue, I tend to pay a lot of attention to how specific characters talk and try to mimic it. This came particularly naturally for me with Hazbin Hotel because the show is full of bombastic characters with really amazing voice actors and very specific styles of talking. When I write a particular character for the first time, I go back and watch various scenes that feature them, both generally and in different emotional states.

With a form of media like Hazbin, where I actually get to hear the characters speak, it honestly helps to just imagine them doing so in my head when I'm writing with whatever accent they have going on, too. Sound it out in your head: does it sound like something someone might naturally say? Why or why not? Adjust accordingly.

So, that's where I start! I diverge from there over time as my own interpretation of a character grows and changes, or I put them in different circumstances for different stories, so on and so forth. But For pretty much every fandom, it's always been very helpful for me to go back to the source material with the explicit goal of paying attention to characters' styles of speech, turns of phrase, and reactions. This is good not just for dialogue, but for characterization, especially for characters that tend to get pigeonholed into a particular archetype (for example, I frequently have to tone down how prim or "old-timey" Alastor sounds in my dialogue because he doesn't actually talk like that in canon despite the vibe of his reputation (and sometimes I don't bother, LOL)).

Last but not least, thank you very much! I'm really happy that you enjoy my dialogue. It's definitely one of my favorite things to write (if you couldn't tell by how many fics I've written that are basically two characters talking for extended periods of time), so it brings me joy to know that I succeed in making it enjoyable for others as well.

[rist-ix]

This might be weird but bare with me: i saw some fanart of valtor and his mamma bears (I'm sorry), he was freshly made and a child still for some reason (idk if it's canon at this point that he was made in adult form or not buuuut) and so it's shown how they don't like him but at the next panel he wants their makeup so tharma and lysliss give him a makeover and at the end belladonna says i think we'll find a use for that pretty face. What i started thinking was if it's possible they used him as a pr0stitute at some point besides all the torture they put him through. My brain today is fixated on how much trauma or ptsd he could possibly have. Now that i write it i sense how weird this is but what do you think?

My friend my dude my brother in fandom, I am but a humble bacteria and u have given me the juiciest slimiest tastiest agar plate imaginable. Let’s get INTO THIS!

(For the record, this is purely fanon. I think I’ve alluded to this headcanon of mine in fics but I am well aware that I have little to no evidence from canon for these assumptions.)

ABSOLUTELY I think that Valtor was used for getting into royal's beds. Though I do think it would have been more complicated than simply “his moms are whoring him out cause they hate him and they want stuff from people” — and I think there are some FASCINATING implications that has for both Valtor's personality as a whole, and his relationship to sexuality and his own body.

First of all, the reason why I think you are correct is simple: he seems to be universally regarded as attractive in-universe, to the point of having even the Trix fawning over him, and he is consistently seen using charm and flattery to get others to do what he wants. If you wanted to expand on this in a darker and more mature setting, the logical conclusion would be that he'd use his body the same way. And I do think he would do that entirely of his own will by the way, no coercion necessary! Though there most certainly was coercion.

That ties a little bit into my view on the Ancient Coven's relationship to each other in general. While we do see Valtor and the Ancestresses at odds with each other in the finale (culminating in the Witches ‘disinheriting’ him and reverting him to his monster form), the fact that they seem to have worked successfully together for AT LEAST a good few decades implies they could be cordial when necessary. Plus, Valtor somewhat wistfully recalls working under them with Griffin, smirking and content in the flashback, makes me personally believe they were genuinely GOOD at cooperating too, instead of the Witches relying solely on tyranny. Don’t get me wrong: there is no way they were a happy family. I'm thinking more along the lines of them playacting as a very harmonious coven, doting creators and loyal creation, like a game that every one of them is in on — a performance, just for funsies, and because none of them want the outside world to see them as anything but perfectly aligned and ruthlessly efficient. All that while also having a sort of spiteful, vengeful arms race going on internally, with Valtor not-so-secretly trying to find ways to overthrow them, and them waiting for him to lean out of cover too far so they can gleefully, brutally remind him who's in charge.

There's a deep, deep, deeply rooted resentment Valtor seems to have for them, but they are also objectively the same: They both want power, they both want to control the Dimension, they both would do anything to accomplish that goal. So if there was a situation in which having someone charming on the inside would help them, I think both Valtor and the Witches would come to the conclusion that Valtor could do whatever necessary to accomplish that. Be it charm someone, poison someone, or sleep with someone in the hopes they might spill some secrets. I consider all four of them to be pretty pragmatic, I don’t think there would be any conflict or hesitation here — not at first.

Because while Valtor would certainly agree that that’s the best approach, and probably be more than willing to get out of their sight for a while and live it up in some palace or another, I do think it would chafe at him eventually. Whether he's using his body to fight people or seduce them is not all that different, both happens at their behest. He's always painfully aware that he is their tool — but I imagine it does get more pronounced with the latter. Especially over time. Your taste in people or attraction does not matter in combat, but certainly plays a role in sex. While Valtor certainly seems to enjoy putting on a show in combat, that is a power play, whereas having to play a long con, with himself so heavily involved no less, can start to feel humiliating, tiring, more like a loss of agency than a game of wits. I don’t think it’s the seduction itself that would bother him, but the clear knowledge that he's just following his creator's plans here, puppeteered even in this aspect of his life.

The result of that in the present day of the s3 era wouldn’t be sexual trauma per se, I would headcanon. Not in the ptsd sense at least. (Though I bet a good fic could convince me otherwise :D) I remain a firm believer that his trauma is purely about his lack of control over his physical form, and a revulsion towards his original body that borders on dysphoria. The sexual aspect of his utility to them would ADD to that, don’t get me wrong, but it wouldn’t be the main source.

It DOES influence him though.

I'm thinking mainly about Valtor's interactions with the Trix here. On multiple occasions he secretly witnesses how they argue or straight up brawl over who gets to have him. None of them even thinks about who he might have shown the most interest in, they treat this solely as a contest of strength, winner takes all. (I don’t think that’s them being rapey btw just to be clear. I see it speaks more to them being juvenile and deeply unserious about romantic relationships, like dogs chasing cars. They don’t care enough about people beyond the three of them to have any actual experience with romance: Darcy's fling with Riven was discarded INSTANTLY once the three had something better to entertain them — like world domination. If one of them had “won” only to get ignored or rejected, the other two would have laughed her out of the room and then they would have done it all over again the next day.) im getting distracted. What I meant to get to is that Valtor sees them acting like he's a prize to be won… and he does not react at all. The first time he finds it mildly entertaining, the next few times the bit seems to get old for him already. That’s it. He encourages their possessiveness of course! He clearly enjoys being feared, admired, or simply the center of attention, but being treated without regard for his own desires doesn’t really register as an insult to him. AND he's shown to be pretty unperturbed with Darcy getting into his space, and flirting rather aggressively with him.

And while that may seem anticlimactic after all that, I find that FASCINATING. (Not just because Winx Club consistently writes men — powerful men! — the way female characters would be treated in another show. An essay of its own!) A non-reaction is still a reaction, and Valtor's lack of irritation says a lot in my opinion. I think he has little to no real boundaries, at least outside of combat or with people that are allies/useful to him. By that I don’t mean he would reject someone's advances if he didn’t welcome them, but that he wouldn’t really remember that this is a point where people usually DECIDE whether they welcome the advances or not, u know what I mean? I think his entire sense of self is pretty nebulous to himself, and that his own body seems to him more like a commodity than, well, him. Which makes sense, doesn’t it? He is created as one thing, for one purpose, and then given another body, for another purpose. He prefers to be human, reviles the monstrous form, but has no control over which one he is at any given moment — the people who do could change their minds on a whim. It would make sense for him to feel somewhat alienated from his physical form, and therefore have little care for what happens to it. It would take him far longer to know his own reactions, and to realize whether he enjoys something or not.

I feel like I’ve only managed to put like, half of what's in my head into words here. The dysphoria thing alone feels like something that should be dissected on its own, but I’m dead tired and this post is already pretty long. I will say that I’m not 100% consistent in this headcanon, and depending on the fic I use some of this and some of that, but I do think it’s one of my most favorite reads on Valtor as a character. Thank you so much for this ask!!! I hope the answer is close to what you hoped for lol

[galadhir]

i think that there was a fanwriter named Nemis that wrote a lot of fics about E/C? i liked those fics!

My memory has never been good and after 20 years away it's completely unreliable, but still, that name rings a bell. I vaguely remember her being a nice person that I was aware of but never really interacted with because our areas of interest didn't quite intersect.

i hoped the show would give some spot to Celebrian … and instead. lol.

Indeed! I can just picture the show writers turning their noses up at the thought of writing Galadriel as a mother. She can't be a mother! Whoever heard of a mother being interesting? No one would think it was cool for Galadriel to be an actual queen and seasoned diplomat and seer, with a husband and a child.

Not to mention that Celebrian can't be interesting at all because she dies as a damsel in distress, so she must be a wimp all her life (ignoring the fact that everybody dies in distress.) People can't imagine that her life could have been interesting before that :( Sexism and failure of imagination again.

it would be interesting to see if anyone else had my idea … of course i have not read all the Galadriel/Celeborn fics out there so if someone has those, feel free to drop!

LOL! I'm sorry to end up dropping my own fics on you, but it sounds like you might enjoy my Oak and Willow

(Ignore all the tags, they were auto-imported from Henneth Annun when that archive backed up all its stories on Ao3 and then shut down.) And you can probably ignore chapters 1-4 if you're just in it for the C/G romance. They are world building for Doriath and setting up Celeborn's position in his home, with Thingol, Melian, Luthien and Daeron.

I originally started out intending this one to be a Sindarin history of the world, from the rising of the sun and the moon. But it rapidly became the story of C&G in the First Age. If I had known it was just going to be their love story against a backdrop of the events of the First Age, I might have left off chapter 1 at least, as that was setting up something I didn't actually write in the end.

But it is more or less what you're talking about. So if you're interested, you might like it :)

oh that's interesting, may i ask if it's still online? my beef with peter jackson started muuuuch later with the hobbit movies, but i like to see how other people reacted to the LOTR trilogy when it comes out

Yes, Battle of the Golden Wood is on Ao3 too - also imported from HASA (Henneth Annun Story Archive, which was the place to post elf fanfic back in the day.)

I agree with you about the Hobbit movies! Way too much bloat. There was the occasional nice thing in them - I enjoyed seeing Beorn's house and his bees, for example - but almost everything that PJ put in was grotesque and unfunny and unnecessary. The Hobbit would have made one great film, but there just isn't enough story in it to stretch to three.

as for what you say … i think that that's the current approach of Warner Bros, with its War of the Rohirrim stuff or whatever. i'm not enthusiast about it at all and i would probably complain about it too,

I know what you mean. I'm not enthusiastic either about a Rohirrim spin-off because it seems like they've picked the most low-effort story imaginable. Yes, you can use props from The Vikings and Game of Thrones. You can probably crib story lines from Bernard Cornwell's Anglo-Saxon stories. Have we not seen enough pseudo-early-medieval stories already?

I would have liked to see something we haven't seen before! (Which doesn't mean I won't at least check out the first season. But my hopes are not high.)

i do not want to be mean but btw i do have the feeling that a lot of rop fans are mostly migratory dark romance fans

Oh, the Reylo folks from Star Wars? That would actually make an awful lot of sense. They certainly behave like them. I managed to avoid them by being in the Kylux fandom at the time, and the Kylux fandom was numerous enough to just block them all and carry on doing our own thing regardless. Also a good time :)

it's lowkey … limitating? flattening? because neither galadriel nor sauron fit into this archetype and i do think that forcing them in this dynamic … just doesn't make them sauron and galadriel anymore? but i digress

I know exactly what you mean. I've mostly spent my fandom life in slash (m/m) fandom and there is a migratory slash fandom which is the same. If a pairing gets big enough then the msf will arrive and reduce it to a set of tropes and stereotypes, and then move on to the next big thing as soon as it arrives. In that case, you just have to wait for the next big thing and hope there is someone left still writing to pick up the fandom once they've gone.

Yeah at this point i do honestly wish that everyone can write its own retelling of lotr and publish it.

At least there is the opportunity for us to do it in Ao3, even if we're not allowed to make money on it. We can do it for love :)

Hoo, boy. I am definitely going to unfollow the Celeborn tag again, since it's full of Haladriel shippers arguing that Celeborn stans are harassing them.

I'm not getting into whether that's true. I have no interest in Rings of Power, and as far as I am concerned, Halbrand does not exist in Tolkien's world. I can't be somewhere where people mix Amazon's fanfiction with actual lore.

Also ship wars are not for me. I was a massive Celeborn defender during the release of the movies, and I wrote several novels worth of fanfic then. I think I'm spent.

Still, as a Celeborn fan I thought the Celeborn tag would be a great place to go to find stuff about Celeborn. How could I have been so foolish!

My poor lad! Not even his own tag is about him. Which is exactly what I should have expected, now I come to think about it.

[valiantroeagleangel]

Random Noah thought

NSFW

Noah's the type of guy who gives you oral with his grillz on as he places a hand on your sternum to keep you still on the bed.

"Shhh. It's okay, pretty girl."

But when you can't handle it anymore because the pleasure gets too much intense, when you arch your back again, he just grabs you by the hips, pushing your cunt to his face so he can eat you harder. His fingers imprint your skin while he's massaging your thighs, until you finally come undone on his face.

Before you collapse on the bed, he lets you rut one last time against the cold metal in his mouth, allowing you to ride your orgasm while it lasts.

"That's it, such a good girl for me." He whispers against your skin, trailing kisses from your pelvis to your lips.

Mama’s tag list: @circle-with-me @somewhere-diamond @malice-ov-mercy @smokeynaomi @darkhallcorner @loeytuan98 @sthnog @cookiesupplier @cncohshit @lma1986 @skulliecadaver-blog @talialovesmiw @to-be-written @4rtificialfolio

[secretagentspydetectiveninja]

posting this with absolutely no context

[shadesoflsk]

older leon x gn reader. suggestive towards the end.

Older Leon who loves when you guys do night routines together. He isn’t insecure about his age but he's painfully aware of the wrinkles forming on his forehead.

You love them, though. Delicate fingertips tracing the lines that are proof of his age and hard work. You couldn’t help but leave out soft praises at him whenever you're doing this daily activity of yours. A reminder of his worth.

Little things that show this beautiful process of aging is what gets you going on the day. On lazy Sundays when the sun hasn't even risen yet Leon would be awake. Newspaper in hand and glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. His eyes squinting to read the small words on the paper. You would gently laugh when you watch him disregarding the front page to play the usual sudoku that the newspaper brought.

Leon would let you brush his hair, finding the softness of your hands comforting in the middle of the afternoon. However, teasing words would break the peaceful atmosphere that had set in: "You have another gray hair," you would say, letting him know the fact that his blonde hair is slowly turning white.

"Yours will do the same, you know?" A cheeky grin as always.

Your favorite place used to be his chest, still is. Nonetheless, as the years went by, you started loving other parts of his. From sleeping soundly on his chest, you would smoothly go down until your face was pressed against his abdomen that once was toned. Nowadays, it was as soft as a pillow, slightly rounded since working out isn't his priority anymore.

And for him, it was the perfect sight ever. Every time he looked down, his thumb would brush over your cheek to your lips.

And being discreet wasn't on his top list. Especially with the way he so easily pushed his thumb past your lips.

Old habits are never lost.

[soapsbaby]

First kiss

How your first kiss with your favorite CoD character would go.

Characters: Ghost, Soap, Price, Gaz, König all x reader Rating: sfw Word count: 650ish

Ghost

He was terrified that he was misinterpreting things and that if he’d ever make a move on you that you’d ridicule him for it, that he’d ruin your entire relationship with his emotions towards you.

You, on the other hand, were too afraid since he was so cold and emotionally unavailable, so it took both of you way too long to actually admit that you wanted more from each other than friendship.

You two got into a fight because you got upset that he almost got hurt on a mission. You get so frustrated because he just doesn’t get why you are so riled up. At some point you just can’t take it anymore. The words to explain yourself just don't come to you, so you just grab him and kiss him. 

He pulls back for a second but the moment his mind catches up with you he pulls you back in and doesn’t let you go for a long, long time. 

He’s been waiting for this for forever and now that he finally has the go ahead, he can’t let go of you, grasping you like his life depends on it.

Soap

He’s actually been pretty upfront about how he feels about you from the very moment you started getting closer, however he has not yet felt brave enough to actually get physically super close to you. He’s been gone on missions a lot, he is afraid that it might be too much for you to handle and he wants to take things as slow as he possibly can. 

It's late at night, you are on your way home from a restaurant and you are in his jacket and you just look so beautiful, he can not help himself.

He asks before he kisses you, but he simply can not help himself, his arm around your waist.

"Can I kiss you? Please?"

He does once, then a few more times on the way back home and about a hundred more times throughout the night, just for good measure.

Price

He loves treating you to gifts and dates. The day of your first kiss he had taken you to a concert of one of your favorite bands. He had his arms wrapped around you from behind, listening to your favorite song with you. 

He leans down to put a kiss on top of your head and you just have to let him know how you feel about him, how important he is to you, so you turn around and kiss him back. He takes the hint immediately, just holding you close to him and kissing you over and over again. It feels like no one else is even there, just you and him. 

Gaz

You and him were at his place, just watching a movie together. Without either of you actually intending it you had slid closer to him, your legs touching.

Even though he was scared, he laid his arm around your shoulders. You are best friends, he doesn't want to overstep and he doesn't want to get his heart broken.

You just looked at him and in that moment you both knew that you wanted it and just leaned in at the same time.

Neither of you paid any attention to the movie afterwards.

König

You two had been close but never really put a definition on your relationship. Your first kiss happened when he finally felt comfortable enough to take off his mask around you. You just couldn’t help yourself as you finally saw his face, sad puppy eyes looking at you to react to what he looked like, almost as if he expected rejection.

He is so surprised when you just lean in to give him a kiss, not being able to express your emotions in any better way than to just show him directly.

You don't know at the time but it's his first "real kiss" and he wouldn't have wanted it to have any other way.

[cuubism]

literally just smut, dreamling, prince/knight dynamic, uh. lowkey virginity kink. lowkey degradation kink. yeah.

--

The war camp is dark, the tent only barely lit by a few scant candles, but Hob is wide awake.

It had been a fantastically successful battle, that day. Much needed after a string of losses. They’d absolutely destroyed the enemy, Hob’s only just managed to clean most of the blood off himself—and he’s still riding that high hours later, blood pumping, restless energy racing as he occupies himself cleaning his armor and his sword.

Technically, he could get someone else to do these menial tasks. He’s a knight, he’s of high enough rank to request it. But Hob’s always believed a man should tend to his own weapons, should know every piece of them. It’s the same reason he takes care of his own horse, and his own tack.

Besides, the repetitive motion of the cleaning is taking the edge off.

There’s another thing that can cut the edge of the battle high.

Sex.

How fortunate, then, that Hob is on good terms with so many of the working ladies of the camp.

Not that it’s really so hard to be on good terms. The bar is so low that simply not behaving like a total dick seems to do the trick—but the fact remains that when Hob calls for one of the messenger boys who hang around outside to send for whoever’s working that night, he knows someone will come by. He pays them well, he gets along with most everyone, and it’s really not that hard to get one’s prick wet under those circumstances.

He’s just finished oiling the final leather straps on his armor, is hanging it up to await the next fight, when he hears the entrance flap of the tent, to his back, swish open and shut again. The rush of cool night air into the warm, close space.

“Be right with you, luv,” he calls, tying off the last strap, and a deep, sonorous voice responds—

“Please, take your time, Ser Gadling.”

Hob whirls around, nearly falls over like a buffoon he goes so fast. Standing there is not one of the working girls he’s come to know. It is, in fact, Prince fucking Morpheus, dark hair tousled by the wind, wrapped in a long velvet cloak that sparkles like stardust where the light catches it.

“My prince,” Hob stammers, trying to decide whether he’s meant to bow and managing only a dip of the head. It’s Prince Morpheus’s fault, this awkwardness, Hob would have managed with perfect politeness the sudden arrival of one of his siblings, or even the King himself. It’s only Morpheus that fells him so. “I—”

“—called for a whore?” Morpheus finishes, quirking a brow. Hob can only describe the look in his eyes as mischievous.

Anything Hob might have possibly managed to say is derailed by the rush of interest to his dick. That look, that phrase in Morpheus’s pretty, proper mouth— and what is he implying—?

“That’s… not the word I’d use,” Hob finally manages, throat tight. “Did. Did you need something, my prince?”

“As I’ve said,” repeats Morpheus, taking a fluid step closer to him. And he’s— he’s fucking barefoot in the grass. Lord have mercy. “You called for a whore.”

Hob should step back. Instead he’s rooted to the spot. Paralyzed by a swirling mix of fear and arousal. “That’s not— you’re not—”

Morpheus keeps advancing on him, liquid and predatory. The deep vee of his robe suggests he’s wearing nothing underneath. He’s got some kind of glitter under his eyes. And he’s— he’s so beautiful. Hob has always thought so, especially on that one blessed night when—

“Do you think me not a whore?” says Morpheus. He says it with allure, almost pride, not shame. “Do you think, my knight, that I have never slunk into some lord’s bed to steal secrets? That I have never used my body to seal an alliance, when my words were not sufficient?”

Hob should be horrified at the thought of his prince debased so. Instead, the image of Morpheus on his knees flashes through his mind, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from whining. “That’s not— the same,” he manages.

“Is it not?” Hob’s ankles hit his bedroll and he trips back, falling on his ass and bracing himself on his elbows, and Morpheus follows him, crawling up Hob’s body in a long, sinuous movement, the velvet of his robe soft wherever it touches his skin. “People can make sex their trade for coin, but it is different when I offer myself up in exchange for goods or laws or partnerships?”

If that’s all the case, Hob should find out what Morpheus wants with him now. Instead he asks, breathless, taken in by Morpheus’s eyes, “What did you trade for, then, my prince?” Maybe Hob doesn’t care what Morpheus wants with him. Maybe he only cares that Morpheus wants him. “When you let a foreign king bed you, did you use your mouth?” He touches Morpheus’s lips with his fingertips, and Morpheus smiles, sharp and pleased. “Or did you let him fuck you?”

The thought is as jealousy-inducing as it is arousing. Hob has no right to be jealous about his prince. But.

“What I needed to,” says Morpheus. “I have learned how to bait my lures. Many kings, I have learned, like to ruin pretty young men. Do you know—” he taps a fingertip along Hob’s lips “—how many times I have ‘sold’ my virginity? Played the hapless youth desperate for an older man to teach him, to use him?”

Fuck. Fucking hell.

“And did you learn?” Hob asks, hyperfocused on every point where their bodies are touching.

Morpheus tilts his head at him, suddenly all innocence. “Learn what?”

And, well. He does know how to bait his lures, it turns out. Even knowing he’s sinking his mouth onto a hook, Hob growls and flips them, pushing Morpheus down into the sheets. Morpheus lets out a startled breath that Hob’s pretty sure is affected but still succeeds in sending a thrill through him, and a powerful sense—careful, delicate, don’t hurt him. Even though the small part of Hob’s brain that’s still checked in to reason knows well that Morpheus is the one truly in control of whatever’s going on here.

“Should I teach you, then?” he asks, dragging a hand through Morpheus’s hair— so soft. “Show you how good I can make you feel?”

“Please,” Morpheus breathes, wrapping a delicate hand around the back of his neck. Hob really hopes he isn’t going to get drawn and quartered for this. Might be worth it, though. He doesn’t want to die, but if there were a way to go… “Hob, please.”

Fuck, his name in that wanting mouth.

“Got my mouth on you last time,” he muses, the sense memory of Morpheus’s prick on his tongue rushing through him, the hard press of the palace flagstones on his knees, “think I can show you something new, now.”

“I defer to your experience,” Morpheus breathes, as Hob pulls open his heavy velvet robe. As he’d thought, Morpheus isn’t wearing anything under it, and the thought of him walking through the camp like that to get here makes Hob want to bite something. Morpheus makes him so base and irrational.

Hob hadn’t gotten nearly this far last time. Had simply pulled open the ties on Morpheus’s breeches, let his prince tug on his hair as Hob took him in his mouth. Now, he has Morpheus fully unveiled to him, like a gift, like an offering, and, just like an offering, Morpheus stretches, arches his back, long limbs in relief and his cock laying hard against the crease of his thigh. He’s so pristine, always tucked away in his palace, where Hob has been out in the trenches—literally—getting sun-tanned and rough and dirty.

Although. Not so pristine as Hob might have thought. Apparently.

“You’re beautiful,” Hob tells him. “Your body is beautiful. I can’t wait to show you what I can do with it.”

Morpheus shudders, keeps playing along with their little facade of inexperience. “Will you ruin me for other men, Robert Gadling? Defile me, destroy my reputation so no respectable lord or lady will ever dare take me as their spouse?”

“You came crawling to my bed, pretty thing,” Hob says. Nips at Morpheus’s belly, which makes him cry out, such a pretty, keening sound, and then soothes where he’d bitten with lips and tongue. “You’ve been wanting it, I think. Someone to take you down, someone to fuck you.”

“Perhaps I simply wanted to reward my favorite knight,” Morpheus says, trailing off into a groan as Hob leaves another mark low on his pelvis.

“Should have told me you were the prize for valor,” Hob says. “I’d have killed twice as many men. Come to your bedroom still covered in the blood I spilled in your name.”

Morpheus actually moans at the image. “I’d have had you that way. My knight.”

“You can have me now.” It’s tempting, to do as he did last time, and take Morpheus into his mouth. But Hob wants to do something different to him. And he has the sense that Morpheus wants something different done. “Go on. On your belly.”

Morpheus’s breath leaves him in a shuddering rush, but he does as Hob says. Hob runs his hands down over his smooth back, his ass, his wiry thighs, kneeling between them and pushing them further apart. Morpheus whines, moving his hips in little circles to get the barest amount of friction on the sheets.

“You need it so badly.” Hob parts Morpheus’s cheeks with his thumbs, rubs over his hole, and Morpheus keens. “Don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, Hob, show me—”

Hob swipes the oil from the bag beside the bed—because yes, he is prepared for these sorts of things, if not specifically for his prince showing up—and dips his fingers in. Rubs them together to warm it, then slides one finger into Morpheus, without pause, straight to the first knuckle.

Morpheus lets out a choked gasp, fingers clenching in the sheets. The sound makes Hob’s cock twitch where it’s already straining in his breeches. “Hob—” he moans, strangled, “Hob, I—”

He starts to lift himself up, and Hob pushes him down with a hand on the back of his neck. Morpheus struggles for a moment and then goes boneless under him. Hob releases him and strokes his hair. “Good boy. You want it, don’t you?”

“Y-yes,” Morpheus says shakily, pushing back on Hob’s hand when he starts working that finger inside him. “Please. Please.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Hob promises. Having Morpheus, his prince, his beautiful prince, splayed out under him like this is heady. If he weren’t so focused on Morpheus’s reactions, he might have lost his grip on his own arousal already. “But you’re mine.”

He slides another finger in, and Morpheus moans raggedly. Hob doesn’t know if he’s truly getting overwhelmed or if he’s still trying to play the clueless virgin, but either way it’s burning through Hob’s veins. He gets Morpheus writhing on his fingers, achingly hard in his own pants, taking each of Morpheus’s pleasured, crying moans as its own prize.

Morpheus is shaking, panting, as Hob pulls his hips up, undoes the laces on his own breeches to pull out his cock, lines himself up. Morpheus presses his face into the bed, fingers tight in the sheets. Hob touches his lips to the base of his spine, tastes the sweat there. “My prince?”

Morpheus swallows hard and it still doesn’t seem to clear his throat. “I am ready.”

So Hob braces his hips and pushes in, one long slow slide. He groans at the same time as Morpheus moans, so ragged it’s almost pained. “Fuck you’re tight.”

“Well,” says Morpheus, “you are the first to have me so.”

Even aware that Morpheus is only playing at it, the words make Hob feel like he’s clinging to sanity by a thread. “You’ve been waiting so long, haven’t you?” he manages, as he starts to move, still holding Morpheus by the hips. Morpheus sighs at the slide, thighs trembling. It’s enough to make Hob obsessed. Morpheus is so tight and hot, Hob really doesn’t know how long he’s going to last, but he’s determined to give Morpheus just a bit of that ruination first. “Waiting for the right cock to fill you?”

Morpheus pushes back on him with a whine. “Yes.”

“Kept yourself as a prize for me?”

“Yes. Hob.”

Hob reaches around to take him in hand, and Morpheus cries out, bucking into his touch, pinned in place. Hob moves faster, each thrust pushing Morpheus into his grip, his breeches scraping roughly over Morpheus’s bare thighs, and it feels so base to have him like this, still clothed, taking him like a casual whore when he’s a prince. It feels wrong. But so good.

“How’s it feel?” he asks, voice gratifyingly steady. “For your first time?”

Morpheus lets out a wordless groan. Then, “Good. So much. I—” he trails off again, losing his breath. And this, too, is gratifying, reducing Morpheus, usually so eloquent, to broken sentences and simple words.

“Good, love.” Hob soothes a hand over his hip. “That’s good.”

But before Morpheus can settle, Hob increases his pace, pounding into him so hard and fast that Morpheus loses what remains of his balance and is held in place only by Hob’s hand on his hip, his arm wrapped around his belly. Each thrust pulls a sharp gasp from him, his face pushed into the sheets— and Hob’s nearly insensate with how good it is, but still he manages to pull Morpheus off in time with each thrust.

“Hob—” Morpheus chokes, “Hob, I’m—”

“You can come, love. I want to see you.”

Morpheus comes with a bitten-off cry, spilling over Hob’s hand. He’s so beautiful like that, Hob’s formal, perfect prince—crumpled in pleasure, eyes screwed shut, hair damp with sweat. It’s a collision of every illicit thought Hob’s swallowed down when he’s looked at him. In the palace, on campaign, at times when he was meant to be guarding Morpheus and when he wasn’t. He can’t last long thinking about that, seeing that, so he bends low over Morpheus’s back and kisses the back of his neck. One small, tender touch in this game of roughness and transaction, one touch before Morpheus inevitably swans back out of his tent, back to his writing and his diplomacy and his other diplomacy, and— fuck—

Hob holds Morpheus to him as he comes, wishing he could say, don’t go back to anyone else. You’re mine now, come to me. But those aren’t his words to say.

Morpheus slumps down to the bed, boneless and satisfied. Hob follows him, breathing hard against the back of his neck, finally releasing him from under his weight. Morpheus only winces a little when he pulls out, and Hob yanks off his own shirt and uses it to wipe off Morpheus’s stomach, between his thighs. Morpheus sighs, tipping his head back, a tiny smile on his face, then turns to face Hob, leaning on his arm.

Hob’s swiftly learning how weak he is for that smile on the face of the usually unreadable prince. He trails an exploratory finger along Morpheus’s jaw, up his temple, into his hair. Morpheus closes his eyes at the touch, slow and sleepy.

“Was that better than your many transactional trysts?” Hob asks. “Or do I have work to do?”

“I would not know,” says Morpheus, a self-satisfied little smile now curling on his lips. “Considering those did not occur.”

Hob blinks hard, mind going blank. “What.”

“I spun you a story, Robert,” Morpheus says. His voice is sex-rough, his hair a mess, his gaze drags over Hob’s body with a proprietary touch. “And it is a fun story, is it not? Plying secrets from between the sheets, returning home victorious when one was thought to be had. And,” he drags a fingertip down the center of Hob’s chest, “coming back to the bed of a lover. One whom one wants to be with. To be made his again.”

Hob is still stuck on this. “Wait, are you telling me you made all that up?”

Morpheus smirks. “Do you truly think that my words would ever be insufficient to obtain what this kingdom needs? Do you think I need to use my mouth other ways to get treaties signed?”

Well, when he puts it like that.

“It was a compelling story, though,” Morpheus muses as Hob continues gaping at him. “You seemed compelled.”

“Morpheus, why?”

“I wanted to see how my favorite knight would respond to knowing other men had had me,” he says, and keeps dragging his fingers through Hob’s chest hair in self-soothing patterns. Then his expression shifts from clever to almost shy. “And. I thought that if you knew the truth, you might defer too much to me. Treat me only like your prince.”

Hob’s stomach swoops. “And… what’s the truth, then?”

“That evening at the state dinner, when someone meant me harm and you saved me…” his voice holds a note of wonder now. “That. Was the first time that I had ever.”

“What?” He can’t lie to himself, the thought of being Morpheus’s first, for real, does spark something in him. But also. Morpheus is a prince. And Hob had been…

“I had never before had cause,” Morpheus explains. “I was uninterested in marriage. And I never found anyone worth threatening my reputation over. Until…” His lips purse, stressed now. “And I wanted you so. And. You wanted me.”

Hob is speechless, running through every second of that night in his mind. Sweeping Morpheus into his arms and out of the way of a blade. Morpheus’s wide eyes staring at the slice in Hob’s arm, the blood welling there. Blinking and finding himself crowded into a side hall, Morpheus panting into his mouth, the hunger of his pretty lips, heat and adrenaline running through Hob’s body, pushing Morpheus against the wall and sinking to his knees in front of his charge, his dear, his prince to worship. The tears that had pricked at Morpheus’s eyes as Hob had taken him all the way down.

Christ.

“Does that bother you?” Morpheus asks, uncertain now.

“I’d have shown you a better time then if I’d known,” Hob says, because doesn’t he deserve to be properly taken care of? “In an actual bed.”

Morpheus lets out a little huff of a laugh, expression easing. “I enjoyed it.”

“And then…” he lets his hand come to rest low on Morpheus’s waist. “You came back for more.” He kisses Morpheus and swallows his pleased sigh. “Hungry little thing.”

Morpheus’s breath shudders, and he clings to Hob’s hair, his shoulders. Hob’s about to roll on top of him again and kiss him properly, maybe more once they’ve recovered themselves, but pauses as a realization sinks in. “Wait. Does that mean—”

“Yes, Hob. You were the first man to fuck me.” He sighs. “Use that information against me if you wish. It is out of my hands, now.”

Hob is reeling with shock, and even more so with arousal, heat flashing through his body at the mere thought that all Morpheus had pretended at, newness and learning and raw, unpracticed want, had been, at least somewhat, real. And he had let Hob have that. Catch it. Had trusted him.

“Never,” Hob swears, kissing his cheek. “I would never. You’ll be my secret. Besides. I don’t think anyone would ever believe me even if I said. Me, with you? A prince? And a gorgeous one at that?”

Morpheus runs his hands over Hob’s shoulders. “You are handsome. And very gallant. I do not see what you mean.”

“Well, that’s flattering. And I won’t tell you to take it back.”

Morpheus runs his tongue over his lower lip, eyes dark where they trace over Hob’s jaw, shoulders, chest. “I have. Wanted you from afar. For a very long time.”

Obligingly, Hob kisses him, and sweeps his hands over Morpheus’s lower back, drawing him close. “You’re a prince,” he says, breathless again with want for this wonderful being. “You can have whatever you want.”

“So,” Morpheus nuzzles at his jaw, “I may steal my way into your bed? You would not mind that, Ser Gadling?”

“Sneak in, or stay, I won’t mind. I’ll give you all my secrets.”

Morpheus hums. “And your loyalty?”

Hob thinks he means it playfully, a continuation of his ruse from before—but it comes out much more serious. His gaze finds Hob’s with a deeper wanting than when he’d swanned into Hob’s tent, all draped fabric and fluid lines of desire.

“You have it already,” Hob murmurs, and Morpheus’s pleased sigh as Hob kisses him is a balm to his soul. “My prince.”

[bigfootsmom]

seven sentence sunday

i was tagged by the lovely and talented @smallandalmosthonest, @tizniz, @try-set-me-on-fire <3 <3 <3

i started a new wip 😔 been writing a lot of fluff and smut recently I needed some blood and guts. I'm gonna call this the helicopter crash fic and it's gonna be for my "broken ribs" BTHB square <3

Cold dread seeps into his veins. Evan was with him when he went down— where is— Tommy jerks against his harness, a sharp groan of pain getting caught between his teeth as the straps dig into his ribs and make something click and grind in his chest. He twists in his seat, head feeling too heavy on his neck but still he forces himself to hold it up. He lost his headset at some point during the crash, but he doesn’t care about that, not when his eyes land on the slumped form in the copilot seat.  “E–Evan!” Tommy shouts or tries to shout, but his voice cracks down the middle, metallic smoke cinching his throat tight. He coughs with a wince, wrapping an arm around his side. “Evan!”

tags <3

@usersiren, @honestlydarkprincess, @holdmygum, @swiftietartt, @bibuddie

@maygrantgf, @bisexual-buck, @boykisserbuckley, @icarusbuck, @devirnis

@princessfbi, @homerforsure, @mellaithwen, @shyaudacity, @eddiebabygirldiaz

@monsterrae1, @loserdiaz, @giddyupbuck, @underwaterninja13, @father-salmon

@housewifebuck, @colonoscopys, and YOU if you want to post something!

[seiya-starsniper]

hello hello i see you're open to prompts 👀

how about #20"I'm just going to lie right here" for dreamling (or any ship you prefer 👀)

happy writing, my dear 💜✨️

HEY SO REMEMBER THIS PROMPT YOU SENT ME FIVE MONTHS AGO??? Apparently it took me getting another prompt to finally come up with an idea for it, so I've gone and combined the two 😄💖 Gentle Prompts Here and Soft Prompts Here (I'll still accept prompts from both because I am a fluff machine)

-------------

Hob knows something is wrong as soon as his roommate enters their shared apartment and slams the door behind him.

“Morph? You all right?” Hob calls out, pausing his movie and turning to the entryway where Morpheus is angrily pulling off his shoes and shoving his coat onto the hooks. He also practically slams his keys down into the tray on the side table by the door, and Hob winces at the loud clang that echoes through the apartment. He considers asking Morpheus again if he’s all right, but decides to let his moody roommate come to him instead. 

Something is definitely very wrong if his roommate is making this much noise. Morpheus Endless is normally so quiet of a roommate that Hob doesn’t always notice when the other man is even in the apartment at the same time as him. Morpheus was so silent and unassuming that Hob had felt like he was being haunted by a ghost rather than living with a real person the first few months they started living together. Hob would be jump-scared in his own kitchen simply by turning around and finding Morpheus there right behind him. He had no idea another person could walk so quietly. The worst time had been in the bathroom, when Hob had accidentally squirted half a tube of toothpaste all over the other man’s black shirt. From that point forward, Morpheus had started knocking along the walls wherever he walked, so that Hob would know where he was at any given moment.

Still, the pale man was an ideal roommate otherwise, if not a little socially awkward at times. On top of his eerily quiet nature, it had taken months for Hob to get Morpheus to even say more than five words to him whenever they were in the same room together. Hob had first thought Morpheus was just disinterested in being friendly all together, but then one night, like a cat, his roommate peeked his head out of his room to the smell of Hob cooking dinner. Hob has since learned to let Morpheus come to him, instead of trying to impress on the man himself.

Hob’s efforts seem to now be paying off, for instead of stomping off to his bedroom to sulk about whatever it is, Morpheus instead makes his way over to the couch and plants himself directly in front of Hob’s line of vision. Hob tries to give his best reassuring smile as he stares up at the pale man.

“Bad day?” Hob asks gently. “I’m happy to listen, if you’d like. Looks like you could use a hug too.”

Morpheus doesn’t answer, he simply sways somewhat unsteadily for a few moments, before he practically collapses onto the couch. The only problem is, Hob is still very much sitting on said couch, and instead of aiming for the empty spot next to him, Hob instead finds himself with an armful of gangly limbs and untamed hair. 

“Oof,” Hob grunts as he takes on the unexpected weight. Hug it is, then. Morpheus isn’t heavy by any means, but it still takes a moment for Hob to adjust to having what is effectively an oversized cat suddenly in his lap. Hob eventually manages to wiggle his arms out from under Morpheus, before wrapping them around the pale man and pulling him against his chest. Morpheus immediately takes the cue and buries his face in Hob’s shoulder, shaking like a leaf and failing to keep his breathing even.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay, it’s all right,” Hob soothes, rubbing at Morpheus’s back. His roommate is freezing from the cold weather outside, but he’s quickly warming up the longer Hob holds him.

Hob doesn’t know what it is that’s upset Morpheus so much, but whatever it is, he’s glad that his roommate isn’t trying to deal with it alone, that they’ve come far enough in their friendship (though Morpheus has yet to call him a friend at this point) for him to show Hob this vulnerable side of him. 

The only downside to this is that this newfound vulnerability is doing absolutely nothing to help Hob’s teeny tiny, absolutely miniscule crush on his roommate. But that’s neither here nor there. Hob tucks the yearning feelings that arise from their newfound intimacy quietly behind his ribs and focuses all his energy into comforting Morpheus instead. 

“Do you…want to talk about it?” Hob asks Morpheus. 

A soft inhale. Then a shake of the head against his shoulder. The motion alerts Hob to the fact that his shoulder is damp, and the realization makes his heart lurch up into his throat. He wants to go out and find whoever or whatever it is that’s upset Morpheus so much and give them an introduction to his fists.

“Okay…” Hob continues, taking a deep breath and trying to calm himself down. He’s here for comfort, not to be a white knight. “That’s fine, we don’t need to get into it. Uhm…can I readjust though? This position’s a bit uncomfortable.”

There’s a short pause, and then eventually, Hob feels Morpheus nod against his shoulder.  

Moving Morpheus is a fairly easy task. If Hob didn’t know any better, he’d think his roommate had been replaced by some sort of mannequin from the way he lets Hob manhandle him so easily. He seems to be mostly aware of what’s happening, which is good, but it’s clear he’s no in any sort of headspace for conversation just yet.

Eventually, Hob is able to rearrange them so that he’s lying with his back resting on the arm of the couch, and Morpheus is sprawled on top of him. Their legs are tangled together and Hob’s also thrown the large throw blanket over them for good measure. Morpheus, of course, reburies his head in Hob’s shoulder, and Hob takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around his roommate’s shoulders once more, rubbing soothing circle’s into the other man’s back.

“See, that’s better now, isn’t it?” Hob asks gently. “Nothing beats a good hug and a cuddle on the couch when you’ve had a bad day.”

Morpheus hums, but otherwise doesn’t offer any other sort of verbal reply. It’s a start.

“You can stay as long as you like,” Hob adds. “I’m just going to lay right here until you decide you want to move.”

“Then you’ll be here until tomorrow,” Morpheus croaks, his voice clearly cracked from crying.

Hob laughs and moves his hand up from Morpheus’s back to ruffle the man’s messy black hair. Morpheus groans in annoyance and bats his hand away, but otherwise does not move from his chin perch on Hob’s shoulder. Somehow, Morpheus's hair looks exactly the same.

“There you are,” Hob says, his voice fond. “Was starting to worry you’d gone mute on me.”

“No,” Morpheus says. “...I still don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s fine,” Hob replies, then adds, “and we can stay here until tomorrow, really, if you like. But I will need to pee at some point.”

Morpheus huffs. “I suppose that is acceptable.”

“Can I tempt you with some food too?” Hob asks. “I’ll even feed it to you if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Morpheus replies. “I can feed myself.”

“All right,” Hob says, shrugging and shifting himself into a more comfortable lying position. “Need anything else? Want to take a nap?”

Morpheus doesn’t answer for some time, and Hob almost thinks the man fell asleep on him already, but then his roommate readjusts his limbs as well and moves his body downwards until his head is resting on Hob’s chest. Hob wants to cry at how adorable he looks, at how right it feels that their bodies fit together so perfectly, like they were made for each other. 

“A nap sounds nice,” Morpheus finally replies, mumbling quietly into Hob’s chest. “And perhaps food when we wake up.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Hob agrees. He already knows he’s going to be ordering take-out for tonight, but come tomorrow, he’s going to make all of Morpheus’s favorite foods for the rest of his week. For the rest of his life, if he’d let him.

It doesn’t take terribly long for Morpheus to fall asleep on him, and Hob resists the urge to plant a kiss in the man’s hair, settling instead for gently rubbing at Morpheus’s back. Hob falls asleep not too long after his roommate, and when he dreams, he dreams of a home filled with warmth and joy and love.

[absenthearted]

FIC: BEFORE THE ENDING, A DANCE the quarry | travis/laura | work-in-progress | pacific rim AU

The day after the kaiju attack on Anchorage, Laura Kearney has her first drift compatibility trial with her partner. It doesn’t go well.

Seven years after the apocalypse begins, Laura Kearney enlists in the Jaeger Academy on Kodiak Island. There, she meets Travis Hackett, her instructor and a retired Jaeger ranger. To achieve her dream of piloting a Jaeger, Laura must find a drift-compatible partner. It's just not as easy as she thinks.

[juustozzi]

soccer club shenanigans! also, don't mind the alt uniforms, these were drawn while I was writing and while they're not exactly fic art they share the vibe

[joyfuladorable]

tagged by my cool awesome buddy @redstringraven in this post!

heads up, seven up!

rules: post the last seven lines you wrote, then tag seven people. reposting, as the reblog chains get long!

Interpreting seven lines as last seven paragraphs just so y'all can have a somewhat coherent snippet from the end of a scene I wrote for the Roadtrip AU. We got some gayyy boys over here /aff

Fingers intertwine with his, the matching rings clinking together softly. Usagi brings the hand up to his lips and kisses his knuckles lightly. Leo chuckles and mirrors him, feeling the warmth of his husband’s fingers against his mouth. “How was your day, Hamato-Miyamoto-san?” Usagi whispers into the darkness. Leo’s heart thumps, “It was Wonderful. How was yours, Hamato-Miyamoto Usagi?” “The same,” Leo can practically see Usagi’s smile. “And More.” Sleepily, he leans his head forward until their foreheads touch, “I’m glad.” “Me too,” Usagi breathes. Connected physically, mentally, and spiritually, knees knocking together and hands still linked, Leo and Usagi fall asleep with ease.

Wow, these two corny ass romantics. Anyways, tagging more buddies! No pressure, though!! @deadpool1763492 @forestwhisper3 @ccomilk @sibillascribbles08 @punctuated-equilibrium @halogalopaghost @brytehowlite (Also, actively inviting you to share whatever writing you wish, even if it isn't TMNT-related)

[beanghostprincess]

AU in which Usopp is a storyteller who keeps telling fairytales to kids in the village, and one of his most famous stories is about a lost prince who escaped from home because of how badly his family was treating him. It has drama and death and love and everything. The prince just wanted to be a simple cook, but his past still haunted him even after escaping his fate. And so Usopp keeps drawing him over and over again, both in his sketchbook and also making sculptures of him. It's not that he's, like, obsessed. But it is his favorite fairytale.

And then he meets Sanji.

It's weird, yes. He looks oddly similar to his Sanji (the one of the fairytale) but it doesn't have to do anything with it. It- It doesn't have to be the same guy. Maybe it's just a coincidence and his drawings weren't as original as he thought they were. Besides, Sanji isn't a lost prince.

But he is exactly how Usopp had imagined him. A sweet, caring cook with a strong personality who fights only using his legs to avoid hurting his hands. A cook who feeds whoever's hungry and is fond of rats and small, wild animals without anything to eat. Blond, blue eyes and so, so many scars that he refuses to talk about. A soft spot for women, because of course there has to be romance. A gentleman. Somebody who could save Usopp if needed but would trust him with anything too. He isn't- Usopp is not in love with his Sanji. But maybe this one- Maybe this one is someone he can fall in love with because it's not his creation, right?

And then WCI happens. It would technically make everything make sense, but it doesn't. It just makes Usopp even more confused. Because he's sure it sounds exactly the same as his story. So he keeps wondering if Sanji is real or if he truly was a product of his imagination. Or maybe- Maybe he can see the future. Usopp isn't sure about it and doesn't even have time to think because he's more worried about Sanji's well-being after WCI and Wano than how Sanji was made.

Sanji says it's a destiny thing, maybe, when he sees Usopp's sketchbook for the first time. It's scary too, he also mentions when seeing the little annotations about Sanji's backstory (the one of Usopp's story) being exactly like his past. Usopp is kind of panicking, but for some reason, Sanji isn't.

"Maybe you can see the future, ever thought about that?" Sanji laughs while running his hands through a very accurate portrait of him, that's quite obviously years older than their friendship.

Usopp pouts. "Don't laugh at me! It's scary!"

But Sanji just shrugs and takes a drag of his cigarette, so calmly in comparison it makes Usopp feel like he's taking this too well. "Is it, though?" The sniper hadn't seen Sanji smile so peacefully. Not ever since they got separated. It makes him feel all warm, and he has the need to draw him. "Wouldn't it be nice?"

Usopp tilts his head to the side, frowning and fighting the urge to take the sketchbook off Sanji's hands. "What do you mean?"

"Have you ever..." Sanji stares down at the ashes falling on the deck, brushing his thumb over the corner of one of the pages. His words are carefully chosen, but he doesn't hesitate when pronouncing them. "Have you ever thought about fate?"

The sniper can just chuckle and roll his eyes at that. "You're just trying to make it romantic."

"Maybe I am." And Usopp's heart stops at the sound of Sanji's dreamy voice as if he is asking for Usopp to grant him a wish. "Maybe you made me." He moves his free hand to link his fingers between Usopp's, right on top of the grass tickling their skin. Usopp lets him, even if he feels his heart is right in his throat. "Maybe you saw me before even knowing me." Sanji speaks softer now. Quieter. Even if there's nobody around to see them right now. As if it was just their secret. Usopp closes his hand around Sanji's and lets their shoulders bump against each other, taking in a painful breath. Sanji is too close. "Or maybe it was all by chance. Coincidences happen." Sanji shrugs and goes back to staring at the sketchbook one more time. He rests the cigarette between his lips so he can turn to another page, one where a little boy who looks too much like him dreams of sea creatures, oceans, and freedom. Sanji smiles in a nostalgic, achingly way that can only be described as appreciation. "But I like to think you saved me, somehow. You gave me- Him. Freedom. A family."

Usopp feels a pang in his chest at his words. "That wasn't me, though."

The cook rests his back on the wall behind them, turning his head around to look at Usopp with the brightest, softest of grins. "But wouldn't it be nice to think your heart knew me before meeting me? I think it's..." He sighs, resting his head on Usopp's shoulder. The sniper can only squeeze his hand back and lean his head on top of his. "Maybe my heart knew you too, back then. Somehow. I've always liked shitty, cliché fairytales like this, you know?"

"But-"

"Let me have this." A please goes unsaid. "Even if you didn't save me back then, you did now. So who cares if I want to say you've always been with me?"

Usopp grits his teeth and holds back a frustrated noise. He's aware his hands are shaking, remembering everything he has drawn and everything Sanji has gone through. "I wish I met you sooner. Maybe that way you wouldn't have-"

"You can't change what's already happened, love." Sanji presses a small kiss on his shoulder, which somehow melts every bone in Usopp's body. "But you can keep drawing our future, right?"

The sniper thinks of bright blues and soft yellows and a lot- No. A ton of drawings of Sanji's grins, because he refuses to portray his sadness in one of his drawings ever again. He dreams of a blank canvas filled with Sanji's eyes, hopes, and dreams.

"Right." He kisses his head back. "I can do that."

Usopp knows his hearts are linked together. Whether it's fate. Coincidence. His drawings. Because if thinking so saves Sanji once again, he won't hesitate to capture his happiness in different shades of blue for as long as it takes.