#prompt: against the wall

[hawkeykirsah]

Kinktober Day 2: Against the Wall

Have some Soady (John "Soap" MacTavish x Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra) smut for Kinktober Day 2! This is currently completely unedited but I might clean it up and put it on AO3 eventually.

Temporary title: Getting It Out of the System Ship: John "Soap" MacTavish x Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra Fandom: Call of Duty Words: ~1500 Rating: E

Soap dropped his bergen on the bed and turned around to inspect the room Alejandro had shown him to, telling him to get comfortable and that they would meet for a debrief in two hours with a quick pat on his shoulder and strange look in his eyes. Knowing, somehow. He stretched, feeling his spine pop, and let out a low groan. 

He didn’t think he let his disappointment at not seeing Rudy show but perhaps he hadn’t been as successful as he thought. He missed him, okay? They hadn’t seen each other in months and phone calls and facetime could only do so much. Better than nothing for sure but still not the real thing.

Sighing, he grabbed his toiletry bag and made his way to the little ensuite bathroom. He’d have to thank Alejandro for assigning him this room because having a shower to yourself was pure luxury.

Soap let the water cascade over his body for a moment before habit kicked in, quickly lathering up and rinsing off with all the efficiency of the career soldier he was. 

A soft noise from the other room drew his attention just as he was getting dressed. He paused, shirt in his hand, and opened the bathroom door, only to come face to face with Rudy.

A smile flit over his face. ��Rudy.”

The other man let his gaze travel over his body before snapping his eyes back to meet Soap’s. “Juanito,” he rasped, closing the distance between them with two long strides. He captured Soap’s lips in a heated kiss, hands sliding to his thighs, and lifted him off the ground.

Soap grunted in surprise—the sound more a squeak, really, if he were to be honest—before wrapping his legs around Rudy, and melted into the kiss, flicking his tongue against the seam of Rudy’s lips. Rudy growled, walking him back against the nearest wall while he licked into Soap’s mouth.

“There’s a bed righ’ there,” Soap gasped when the other set him down again and palmed the growing erection in his jeans. Rudy just winked at him, popping the button and unzipping the fly of Soap’s jeans. He hooked his thumb under the waistband and tugged jeans and boxer briefs over the swell of Soap’s ass and down to mid-thigh.

Rudy shook his head. “No, I have you exactly where I want. I’ve been waiting months to do this, guapo,” he panted against Soap’s mouth, tracing a finger along the underside of Soap’s cock. “Thought about pinning you against a wall and fucking you. Dreamed about it.” He thrust his tongue into Soap’s mouth while brushing his thumb over his glans.

Soap groaned, dropping the back of his head against the wall, “Fuck, Rudy. Please.”

Rudy grinned at him sharply and wrapped a hand around his cock, stroking it lazily. “Begging already, mi amor?”

Soap wetted his lips. “Well,” he began, rutting up into Rudy’s fist, “I don’t know about you but I havenae had anybody’s hands on my junk other than my own for over eight months. And if my boyfriend kisses me like tha’ and then gets his hand on my dick—” He shrugged, giving said boyfriend a crooked smile as he trailed off. “Not gonnae last long, though,” he added, groaning at the little twist of the wrist Rudy added to his upstroke. He could already feel precome oozing from his tip. “Gonnae have me comin’ earlier than a teenager on his first shag.”

Rudy laughed softly, his breath hot on Soap’s still shower-warm skin. “Querido, I’m not going to last long, either. Let me fuck you up against the wall, yes? I promise we will use the bed later.” He ran a finger through Soap’s slit, gathering beads of precome, and slipped his hand behind Soap’s sac. He grinned wickedly, fingers brushing over Soap’s perineum to tease his hole. “I want to take my time with you while you fall apart for me but right now let us—ah, how does Ghost like to put it?—get it out of our system.”

“Yes,” Soap breathed, pushing up to kiss his partner again. He pulled away briefly. “Lemme get these jeans back off. Ye couldnae have come five minutes earlier, before I started gettin’ dressed?” 

“Fantasma is right, you are a demanding little shit,” Rudy said fondly, taking off his own shirt and undoing the button and fly on his jeans. He pushed down his underwear far enough to hook them under his balls, erection jutting forward proudly as he palmed it leisurely, watching Soap scowl at the pant leg currently caught around his ankle.

“Do ye have lube?” Soap asked, finally getting the second pant leg off. He dropped the garment to the floor and leaned back against the wall.

Rudy patted his back pocket and pulled out a small, travel-sized tube. “Por supuesto,” he replied, pressing close again, slotting himself between Soap’s legs. Their cocks brushed together and Soap didn’t bother holding back the moan building in his chest at the sensation of Rudy’s hard length rubbing against his own.

Rudy popped the lid open, squeezing some lube onto his fingers. He slid a hand between them, wrapping it around their cocks and giving them a few slow strokes. The slide of his lube-coted fingers felt so fucking good, Soap could have come just like that. But, Rudy let go of them again soon, moving his hand further back. He pressed the tip of one finger against Soap’s hole, circling its rim several times.

Soap groaned against his mouth as Rudy pushed the digit past the tight ring of muscle and fucked his finger slowly in and out a few times before adding a second.

“Doing so well for me, querido,” Rudy praised. “Ready for a third?”

“Aye,” Soap breathed, “don’ need it, though. C’mon.”

Rudy slid his other hand over Soap’s arse to his thigh, tugging the leg upward. “If you’re sure,” he growled, slowly slipping his fingers free and reaching for the lube again. He drizzled some more on his cock and spread it with slow, even strokes. Gripping his own cock, he lined himself up with Soap’s entrance, the tip pressing against the tight muscle.

“Ready?” he asked, glancing at Soap, eyes dark with desire.

Soap dug his heel into Rudy’s thigh, urging him closer. “Aye,” he rasped, “now would you finally fuck me?”

Rudy groaned quietly, eyes fluttering shut, and pushed inside until he was fully hilted.

Soap gasped, tightening his grip around his partner, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Rudy. So fuckin’ full.” 

There was no warning when Rudy lifted him a second time, though he probably should have expected it. He let out a laugh that quickly turned to a strangled moan as Rudy fucked into him, legs hooked over his arms. All Soap could do was hang on, feeling the plaster of the wall digging into his shoulders, the slide of Rudy’s cock pounding into him, brushing against his prostate with every stroke, his own dick caught between them. His arms, core, and legs burned with exertion as he clung to his partner, trying to hang on and make himself lighter, somehow. All these sensations were barreling him head first toward his orgasm. 

It didn’t help that Rudy was panting into the crook of his neck, a steady stream of Spanish intermingled with occasional English coming from his mouth, whispering either sweet nothings or complete filth against his skin. Soap only caught every other word, mainly Rudy’s preferred terms of endearment for him and variations of “You feel so good” but there was more.

“Rudy,” Soap keened, pleasure spooling higher and higher. “I’m—”

A particularly well-placed thrust sent him over the edge, the coil snapping. Electricity shot through his veins and down his spine and along every nerve, setting his whole body alight, and he came with a groan, spilling between them. 

Rudy’s movements became more erratic, hips stuttering. He dug his teeth into Soap’s shoulder and came after a few more thrusts, his cock pulsing within him, filling Soap with his spend. Rudy turned his head, meeting Soap’s lips in a slow, languid kiss.

“Bienvenido a México, querido,” Rudy said when they slowly broke apart.

Soap laughed, feeling Rudy’s softening cock slip out of him. “Aye, I think this was my favorite welcome so far. But now,” he glanced down at the drying release on his skin, “I think I need another shower."

“Mhm,” Rudy hummed in agreement, slowly setting Soap back on his feet. He looked at the clock. “We will have to make it quick. Alejandro is expecting us soon.”

“Of course he is,” Soap chuckled, taking Rudy’s hand and leading him into the small bathroom on shaky legs.

Ten minutes later they entered Alejandro’s office. Alejandro leaned back in his chair, quickly taking in their appearance.

“Get it out of your system, sí?” he asked, smirking, unknowingly echoing Rudy's earlier words.

Rudy looked over at Soap with a lopsided smile, “No, might take a few more rounds.”

[justaz]

magic reveal where arthur doesn't say a word and starts walking away and then merlin is at his heel calling for him, pleading with him to talk, to let him explain everything, begging for him to turn around and look at him, his voice breaking with grief. arthur has never been able to deny merlin anything and turns but he is still hurt and angry and merlin can see it in his eyes before he even opens his mouth to spew accusations. merlin stands, demure, as he shakes his head yet he doesn't say anything - fallen silent under arthur's rage. arthur walks away and around a corner, merlin doesn't follow. merlin breaks down into heartbroken tears and sobs and arthur is just around the corner, leaning on the wall for support, and listening to merlin fall apart.

[whump-in-the-closet]

when whumpee is pinned against the wall. by their hands, by their throat, shoved against it by their shirt collar. Just…the choking, the clawing hands, the suffocated begging. and whumper leaning in too close for comfort. the terror, the sudden shot of panic in whumpee’s veins and the floor-dropping sensation of being trapped. when they feel more like an insect pinned to the wall than a human with whumper’s eyes studying them as if they were under a microscope. just…caught. not even like an animal in snare, just caught off guard and disoriented and wide eyed.

[princessbrunette]

introducing… lord rafe! 🎀

comes with his very own gun and cocaine! pretty girls sold separately . ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃

things were different since rafe took the reigns to tannyhill. you hadn’t seen anything like it in real life, only in tv shows and movies. the party house of kildare. a house where rafe was a god and everyone else bowed down. you were the fresh meat, just a girl who got swept up in it all when things began. the older more experienced kook girls had befriended you with a perverted and deranged look in their eye, promising you elite access to tannyhill and rafe’s seemingly endless bank account. you had nowhere else to go, you couldn’t say no.

it had all but progressed into near worship over the few weeks you were staying there. it was a blur of parties by night, and days spent in little to no clothes curled up to the eldest cameron’s side in a pile of other women that massaged him and pet you like a baby kitten. you’d smushed your cheek into his side, still drunk as the sun came up on his porch and asked if he was the king of the castle.

“more like lord of the manor type of shit, you know?” he’d smirked, peering down at you with his sunglasses still perched on his nose. it was from that day it began, all the girls — including yourself addressing rafe as the lord.

“yes, lord.” “yes, my lord.” “anything you want, lord cameron.” the other girls would pur — swanning around him like you were his playboy bunnies, but at the end of each day, if you weren’t his arm candy at a party it would be you speared on his cock — surrounded by the other girls. like mentioned, you were fresh meat. the other girls were happy to be accessories, walking around in bikinis to make the house look good but you — you were his star of the show. his favourite.

he lays against the pillows, sighing out shakily as you sink down on him. maybe the slight tremble was from the line of coke he’d done off your tits, maybe he’d just been craving the hot warm clamp of your cunt. a handful of girls — maybe 6 or 7, surround the two of you on the bed, like watching prey get devoured by its predator. moaning though no one touched them, sliding their hands over you and guiding your hips to ride him. the most established of the bunch appears at your ear, staring down at the way your cunt swallows him and whispers to you “thats it. keep pleasing him. you’re so perfect.” you couldn’t tell if they all wanted what you had, they didn’t show it, nor did they act out in jealousy — it was like it had been an elaborate plan to steal you into their clan all along.

people talked, and maybe you’d been a little reckless — rafe often choosing his moments to fuck you with the balcony doors wide open, giving anyone who passes by a direct view into the master bedroom where he takes you apart. you’d become desensitised, no stranger to asking ‘daddy’ to put a baby in you as other girls wandered in and out the room, sometimes staying to watch the show. it wasn’t often people dared to make commentary on the things they’d heard about the goings-on at tannyhill however — not wanting to lose access to the best parties on the island.

you still remember the way that drunk guy approached you all on the porch towards the end of the night at a party, interrupting rafe in the middle of his elaborate stories with you tucked up to his side, surrounded by some friends and the rest of the usual women.

“awesome party rafe. you gotta let me in on your secret.” he stumbles, and rafe’s eyes flutter in irritation at the interruption.

“yeah, no secret man. just a good place with good people.” he drawls, uncharacteristically humble before going on to continue with his story.

“i gotta ask though, is this some fucked up cult? i heard some crazy shit, bro. its a little weird, you know?” he continues on anyway, and you watch rafe stiffen, smiling disappearing into a tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek.

he pushes up slowly and you slide off his shoulder where you’d been resting, watching the man slowly wander towards the guy as he scratches at his cheek in thought.

you see him untuck something from his waistband as he approaches, and you don’t quite catch what it is — but as rafe looms over the stranger, pressing whatever it is to his lower abdomen and speaking in his ear, you’re guessing from the look on the guys face that it’s a gun.

“get the hell off my property and don’t come around here asking dumb shit again, a’ight?” he drawls out in a fairly quiet tone, but the atmosphere had fallen silent enough to hear a pin drop. the guy scurried away, never to be seen again — rafe saw to that.

you had never felt the urge to challenge rafe cameron, but now you were certain you’d stay submissive to him forever.

[lnrdc]

#4 @sunlaire: Crozier from the Terror leaning against a wall in a moment of misery (Thank you for the prompt ⚓️)

[tennessoui]

Kit! I'm obsessed with your writing!

For the prompt list: 25!

(prompt list)

i don't think i've ever done this prompt/this combination!

25. librarian/avid reader au (sort of)

(2.6k)

As a Jedi who rarely goes undercover, Obi-Wan is used to the occasional stare. Citizens of the Republic are all too often fascinated by the Jedi, and Obi-Wan knows he looks like a holo-perfect one. His choice of wardrobe rarely deviates from Jedi standard, and he’s been told he radiates the sort of complete inner peace that people associate with Jedi. It’s all very flattering and it mostly means that it is impossible for him not to be made as a Jedi the moment he steps out of the Temple.

So he’s rather used to the occasional stare from civilians. It’s almost to be expected.

He is much less used to that sort of attention within the Temple. 

Especially within the Archives, where general practice and observation of decorum demands that all who are present must keep their noses out of everyone else’s business. Jedi do not come to the Archives to chat. They come to research, to learn, to study.

They certainly do not come to the Archives to gawp at other more respectable Jedi.

Obi-Wan tries to convey this in the glare he sends across the cavernous reading room to the padawan currently watching him from between the stacks of datapads.

It must work because the padawan’s eyes widen and then he ducks out of sight, disappearing in a flash of lilac robes, the color of fabric denoting an Archival padawan.

Huh.

He’s never drawn the ire of the Archival Jedi before, and he doesn’t quite understand what he could have done now. After all, he is waist-deep in a research project for Grandmaster Yoda—he is in the Archives almost every day of the week and makes a point to abide all of the Archive’s customs and rules.

When Obi-Wan leaves a few hours later, daily notes carefully tucked away in a bag and two datapads on loan, he checks with the droid that scans the serials on the ‘pads, but the droid has no record of Obi-Wan Kenobi possessing an overdue ‘pad or flimsi-book. 

It’s strange.

But then, padawans are strange creatures. Probably why Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’ll ever have one himself.

—-------------

Three days later, he returns to the Archives, one datapad in his bag for return.

It’d looked promising on the shelf, a database containing different accounts of the oral history of Jedha, but upon further perusal, it had been useless to his needs. What Obi-Wan was researching—what he needed to find were descriptions of the earliest Jedi on Jedha. The growth of two factions inside that temple, told from an outsider’s point of view. 

What he needed to find was a description of the beginning of the Sith, and that was proving difficult.

He deposits the datapad at the droid’s counter, tapping his fingers along the surface for a moment in thought before he turns to stride deeper into the Archives. He supposes—there are planets outside of Jedha with histories heavy in Sith ideology. He does not have to start with Jedha, even if that’s where the Sith Order began.

He can pull a list of the most notorious Sith lords; he can note down their homeworlds, perhaps request Council permission to travel to those planets. To understand the past, one must understand the present too—or the nearer decades of history at the very least. 

It’s a place to start, anyway.

Two hours later, he has neatly copied down the names, titles, and homeworlds of six different Sith lords.

And then he runs into a problem. His search of the Sith Lord Plagueius results in a short missive from the database:

>> User: OWKenobi, ACCESS has been denied. Your activity has been flagged as SUSPICIOUS.

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows furrow, and he looks around himself, half wondering if anyone else is experiencing the same sort of problem.

But the group of Initiates closeby seem to be carrying along fine, giggling quietly to themselves as they pick at the keyboards in front of them.

Obi-Wan frowns and turns back to his own keyboard, deleting the name of the Sith lord and typing in another’s. Darth Feindan, a ruthless Sith who had lived close to five hundred years ago, known as the ghost of the Outer Rim and known for—

>> User: OWKenobi, ACCESS has been denied. Your activity has been flagged as SUSPICIOUS.

Alright. Fine. Darth Derritus. He had risen to power a thousand years before, because of—

>> User: OWKenobi, ACCESS has been denied. Your activity has been flagged as SUSPICIOUS.

“What?” Obi-Wan murmurs to himself, putting down his stylus finally to stare at the locked screen.

When he drags the cursor across the screen, a new message pops up.

User: OWKenobi, your account has been LOCKED. Please see SYSTEM ADMIN for SUPPORT.

He blows out a shocked, annoyed breath, standing from his desk. Alright. Obviously there’s been some sort of mistake, and Obi-Wan can sort of understand what’s happened. The Sith are not much of a threat to the Jedi Order in this day and age, but they’re still considered rather…taboo.

Obviously, his purely academic interest was flagged as suspicious because of the nature of some Jedi attitudes towards the remnants of the Sith. 

All he’ll have to do is talk with the Archival staff and get his access back. Perhaps Jocasta Nu is present today. He will tell her of the error, that he has been assigned a research project by the Grandmaster Yoda, and she will straighten things out.

Yes, she’ll handle it completely.

Only it’s not Master Nu behind the Archival desk when Obi-Wan approaches the front entrance.

It’s the same lilac-clad padawan that Obi-Wan had caught glaring at him all those days ago.

And to make matters worse, the boy is glaring at him again, watching him approach with his arms crossed over his chest.

Obi-Wan fights the urge to glare back. He is an accomplished Jedi Knight, and this is a youngling.

Well, not a youngling. He is obviously a senior padawan, braid long enough to reach past his shoulder and rest over his heart. Obi-Wan would put him at perhaps eighteen, perhaps twenty. There’s something still rather boyish about his features, despite the overall pleasantness of his dark eyes, soft lips, apparent cheekbones.

Though that just may be the childish scowl he’s wearing as Obi-Wan approaches. As soon as he gets to the counter, however, the boy drops his eyes to the book in front of him as if it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “Hello,” Obi-Wan says, because he is an accomplished Jedi Knight who is capable of keeping annoyance out of his tone. “I seem to have run into a problem with my research.”

“Oh?” The senior padawan says, sounding somehow both insouciant and insolent. Obi-Wan bites on his tongue so he cannot say any of the first five things that pop into his mind. “Yes,” he says instead. “The problem being that a system administrator seems to have locked me out of my account.”

The system administrator in question turns another page in his book. “What were you researching?” 

“Information that I as a Jedi Knight have the right to access,” Obi-Wan snaps, irritation seeping into his tone despite his best abilities. “Now can you please give me back my account permissions, padawan—” he breaks off and cranes his head to look at the nameplate on the desk.  “—Skywalker so that I can get back to work?”

Padawan Skywalker shuts his book with much more force than is required as he turns his face up to glare at Obi-Wan. “You’re researching the Dark Side.”

“I’m certainly trying my best to,” Obi-Wan replies drily. “It would go a lot faster if you would unlock my account.”

“Why are you researching the Dark side?” 

“Because I’m deliberating the benefits of Falling and would like to understand their position on universal healthcare for Dark side users before committing, padawan. Now, could—” “You’re not funny,” Padawan Skywalker says furiously, lips suddenly pinched white, taking his book and his bag and turning away.

Obi-Wan watches him go with his mouth open.

Well, he supposes that means he must put a pin in researching the Dark side for the moment.

Good thing he has just stumbled upon another subject worth investigating.

—--------------------

He feels rather sheepish the next day when he returns to the Archives with a cup of take-away caf in one hand and folded piece of flimsi in the other.

Thank the Force Padawan Skywalker is behind the front desk once more. 

Damn the Force that Padawan Skywalker is behind the front desk once more.

He’s leaning with his head on the palm of his hand, pushing his stylus around on a blank sheet of paper with the Force as his other fingers drum restlessly over the protective covers of the datapads near him.

“Does your master allow you to use the Force in such a needless way, padawan?” Obi-Wan is saying automatically before he can bite his own tongue off which really would have been preferable. Anakin Skywalker lets the stylus drop and glares up at him as if he thinks so as well. “What are you doing back here?” He says, an accusation.

Obi-Wan, because he may be more of a youngling than he gives himself credit for, says, “This is a public place.”

And Anakin Skywalker, who is every inch a nineteen year old child, sneers and replies, “Maybe for people with account access,” which really just makes Obi-Wan want to close his eyes and take several deep breaths and then pinch at the bridge of his nose.

But he cannot do that, because he’s holding a piece of flimsi paper in one hand and a cup of apology caf in the other one.

So instead he places the caf on the counter and pushes it closer to Anakin. “I didn’t recognize you,” he says before Anakin can decide to throw it at him or push it away or point out the sign at the entrance to the Archives that says, in very bold letters, NO FOOD OR DRINK PLEASE.

Thankfully, Obi-Wan’s words throw him off guard. “What?”

“Yesterday,” Obi-Wan says patiently. “I didn’t recognize you nor your name. I’m sorry, Anakin.”

Anakin blinks. For the first time in ten years, Obi-Wan is treated with the sight of the boy’s face without a glare or sneer or unpleasant expression. He’s all wide-eyed disbelief, slightly parted lips, dark eyelashes, darker brows, creased in confusion.

Obi-Wan suddenly and very intently misses the sneer. At least then the boy was too annoying to be considered attractive.

He’s much too young to be considered attractive now, Obi-Wan reminds himself rather pointedly. 

And he’s still annoying.

“It’s been ten years,” Anakin points out. His presence in the Force has turned rather…shy, akin to a blush as he reaches out and takes the caf from the counter, curling both hands around the cup. “And we never met.” “No,” Obi-Wan agrees. “But we should have. We would have shared the same master, if the Force were kinder.”

And they really should have—Obi-Wan had been Knighted at the age of twenty-three. Two years later, his old master went on a mission with his old master to Naboo. When they’d ended up on Tatooine instead, Qui-Gon Jinn had found a stray he’d wanted to adopt, a little boy from the desert. And when he’d been murdered only a few days later, Yan Dooku had stepped in and taken the boy as his padawan.

Up until he left the Order four years ago.

“Yeah, well,” Anakin mutters, shoulders falling down and in slightly. “It is what it is.”

The rumors are impossible to escape, and Obi-Wan admits that they’re…intriguing. That Dooku didn’t just leave the Order four years ago, but that he Fell. That he succumbed to the Dark Side after years of fighting against it. That studying the Dark had become a fevered pastime of his in the last few months before he Fell. Before he left.

Before he left his padawan behind.

“Lilac suits you,” Obi-Wan blurts out, wholly without meaning to. The boy had just looked so despondent for a moment, so pinned and small. 

He has not had an easy lot of it, one master dead at the hands of a Sith after only a few days in his company and the other giving him up after several years to become one.

No wonder he’d been so suspicious of Obi-Wan’s research. The poor boy probably sees the potential for Sith in everyone’s shadows. Obi-Wan knows he would, if it were his master who Fell.

“Um,” Anakin says, and his cheeks flame red. Obi-Wan’s own darken in response. “Thank you.” He darts his eyes from Obi-Wan’s face and then back, as if he doesn’t want to look away for long. “Master Nu took me on after my master—left. She says I could become an Archival Knight within a few years.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, and he finds that he means it. Despite the boy’s terrible customer service. “And speaking of the Archives, padawan, I thought you might like to see this.”

He unfolds the piece of flimsi with a flourish and places it down on the counter between them. Anakin glances down at it and then back up, as if checking to make sure Obi-Wan would like him to read it. 

Obi-Wan gives him an encouraging nod. Padawan Skywalker seems like the sort of padawan to thrive under encouragement.

“Please reinstate Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Archival account access, as I as Grandmaster of the Jedi Order have given him leave to research a topic of great importance to me: the nature and nurture of Dark side use on Jedha, coordinates….” Anakin trails off, and then looks up at Obi-Wan again, eyebrows furrowed. “Yoda doesn’t talk like this, everyone knows that. Put more effort in your counterfeiting, you should have, Knight Kenobi.”

“Grandmaster Yoda did not write that,” Obi-Wan corrects. “I did. However, he did sign it,” he gestures to the edge of the flimsi.

But Anakin does not look impressed. He also does not look like a boy who is about to give Obi-Wan access to his accounts. “How do I know you didn’t just forge his signature?” “Because that’s the imprint of his hand,” Obi-Wan says incredulously. “And I do not have claws.”

“It looks like a pigeon’s foot,” Anakin studies the flimsi for another second before pushing it away. “I’m sorry, I can’t accept this. It’s obviously a fake.”

Obi-Wan had watched Yoda dip his claws into the ink for the signature himself. His irritation comes rushing back in a tidal wave of rage. “What.” Padawan Skywalker shrugs and sips his caf. “Sorry, Knight Kenobi. Thank you for the caf though.” 

There’s a fucking smirk at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are fucking twinkling.

Obi-Wan has never wanted to strangle someone more. “You don’t deserve that caf,” he tells him lowly, grabbing up the flimsi and crinkling it in his fist.

“Oh?” Padawan Skywalker says. “Was it a bribe? I thought it was an apology for being a dick yesterday.”

It was both actually. 

“Padawan Skywalker,” Obi-Wan says, closing his eyes and exhaling through his nose, reaching for calm. “I need access to those texts on the Dark side for important research.” “Knight Kenobi,” Anakin says in the same tone. “I cannot give you access to those texts while your account is under investigation for suspicious activity. However there are other titles you may find useful that you can access while you wait for the Archival staff to conclude their investigation, and I would be happy to point you towards them, should you like.” Obi-Wan’s teeth ache from clenching his jaw so tightly. “Fine,” he snaps. “What do you have?” “Methods for Mindful Meditation by Master Muinollie comes to mind,” Anakin blinks up at him with a beatific smile. “It’s currently on loan to the crechèmaster, but I can put you on the waitlist. Think of it like an exercise in patience.”

Obi-Wan lets out an audible growl and turns away before he can do something stupid like throttle his grandmaster’s old padawan.

It's almost as tempting as the boy looks when he smiles.

[weirdstrangeandawful]

TW: manhandling

I see a lot of shoving whumpees against walls in movies but I personally prefer them to be violently slammed against the wall. I want to see the momentum transfer. I want this to be so forceful that the shock absorption from their flesh is negligible to the amount of total energy involved in this collision. I want them to feel the rush of blood from the sheer inertia of being forced backward so quickly.

(I know this is two days after I normally would have posted it I had three midterms in a week and then accidentally slept though all of today)

[formerlycookierunauprompts]

Adding to the fusion AU, while Pure Vanilla had already gained his own identity and a new life, Shadow Milk didn't and still feel empty without Pv for many years? (I just like angst with Sm Lately sorry)

👀 oooo... that's so big brained./pos

this is probably just a submission but I wrote a bit of a prompt anyways

Submitted Prompts #7 / Request Prompt #15 - 💔

Ever since the Witches had sealed them all away ever so long ago, Shadow Milk Cookie had felt... Empty, It was as if something had been taken from him, yet none of the others felt this. Sure, they felt weakened due to the seal's effects, but not like they'd been torn open and robbed of their insides. So, he came to a simple conclusion. The Witches had to have stolen something from him, he just knew it. But what? There was also the fact of when the others messed up his name for some reason, it was Shadow Milk Cookie, not Vanilla Milk Cookie. It was weird, this whole thing was weird and it annoyed him. His virtue had been knowledge, so why was he so suddenly left in the dark? He hated it. There was also... that phrase... " Re-bake the Halves!" He didn't know what it meant, or why it lingered in his mind. Was it the key to this mystery behind the empty feeling lingering in him? Or was it something else entirely? He didn't know the answer to that either. Shadow Milk Cookie did not like not knowing things. But then the day came where the seal was broken, and he could finally escape that blasted tree. That was the day everything clicked into place, why this feeling of emptiness haunted him for years, what the Witches had taken from him. He'd been split in half, and his other half just delivered himself right to his hypothetical front door.

[puppyeared]

Some fucking guy (affectionate)

[shadowphoenixrider]

Kinktober 2024 Day 6 (and 2) - Thigh-Riding and Against the Wall

(No way I'm getting through all the prompts, so comboed these two together. Bit of a shorter one, but hopefully just as spicy! At least these two are actually doing something this time!)

"You're squirming, chère." Gambit's dulcet tones cooed into my ear, the hard lines of his body pinning me tightly to the alley wall.

Usually, I would have bitten out a retort - or tried at least - yet this time all that escaped me was a soft, pleasured whimper. Especially when the Cajun's thigh pressed ever harder between my legs, almost lifting me clear off the ground, my toes only just keeping purchase as I rubbed myself against him.

"Mmm, such beautiful noises ya make..." He murmured, nuzzling under my ear to press feather-light kisses against my skin - a vast contrast to how he'd trapped me between bricks and a hard place, tangling ourselves together like two horny teenagers.

"Gambit..." His name was a prayer into his ear, eliciting his own deep rumbling groan, his hips rolling against me, pressing his hardness into me.

Shifting my grip, I grasped him tightly, curling my fingers into his thick hair and the rough leather of his coat. He hissed at the prick of pain-pleasure, lips rolling back so I could feel his teeth at my pulse point.

"Drivin' me crazy, mon ombre." He growled, hoisting his leg up higher and taking me clean off the floor. I gasped as gravity suddenly came into play, and I wriggled, desperately milking that precious friction from my new position.

"Ah, Gambit, please~!" I begged, pressing ever closer to him, chasing those heady sensations against my apex.

"Please what?" The devil asked, so sweetly that if I wasn't so out of my mind with lust, I would have bitten him.

"Gambit!"

"Chère, Gambit can't give ya what ya need if ya don't tell him." Said the bastard in that infuriating sing-song voice. Twat twat twat twat-

"More! I need-!" Before my sentence was out of my mouth, Gambit pressed me tightly into his body, one hand on the back of my head to protect me as he wedged me against the wall and began a hard, fast rut against me, grinding the seams of our jeans against soft, needy flesh.

"Yes, yes, yes!" I chanted, trying to match his motions as best as I could, yet discovering the best I could do was wrap my legs around his waist and let Gambit have his way with me. He panted hard and heavy in my ear, my cries spurring him on. If we'd still had sense we might have paused to force our hands down our pants, but we were wrapped up in the thrill of the chase. The world meant nothing - just a pair of sweaty, clothed bodies entwined together, fumbling our way to completion.

"S-Shadow, 'm nearly there." Gambit grunted in my ear.

"Ngh...I need..." I grimaced as I fought myself, trying to tap into my powers to speed things up.

"I have ya, I have ya." He muttered, pressing hot kisses to my neck. "Let Gambit help ya."

His lips crashed into mine and our tongues tangled together, the Cajun devouring me as if I was his first meal in heaven. And he was dragging me there with him, break-neck, other hand shooting up my shirt and groping my breast, and I felt that coil wind tight, tight.

And snap.

Gambit swallowed my moan of ecstasy, my powers lighting my body up just as the pleasure did, my back arching underneath him, fingers turning into miniature vices. He made his own deep, rumbling groan as his own climax peaked, hips stuttering against mine, the heat between us nigh unbearable.

In the minutes-long seconds that followed, we did nothing - Gambit sagging against the wall as the only thing keeping him upright on jellied legs.

Then, gently, Gambit lowered himself to the floor, letting us both slump into sitting on the ground, leant up against the red bricks and the distant thumping bass that thrummed through them. Not the best place to rest, but we'd seen (and rested in) worse.

"Doin' alright, chère?" Asked Gambit, after a moment, tilting his head down to look at me properly.

"Yeah, yeah!" I nodded, listening to my heart slowly begin to settle from its frantic rhythm. I shifted uncomfortably, feeling the new wet sensations in my clothing. Hopefully it hadn't soaked through and left a mark. "Have a feeling they're not gonna let us back in looking like this, though."

Gambit chuckled.

"No, ah, think I might need to change 'fore we head back in dere." He grinned weakly at me, crossing his leg to hide the very obvious stain on the front of his jeans.

I raised my eyebrow, giving him a Look.

"Uh huh. So why do I have this feeling you decided to do this on purpose, hmm?" I asked, grinning as a smirk curved his lips.

"Didn' look like ya were havin' fun in dere," he said matter-of-factly. "So Gambit thought he could improve de night for ya..." His smirk became a grin, looping his arm around my waist. "Now...ya wanna get outta here? Gambit knows a few quick ways to get us home an' outta dese sticky clothes..."

I felt a sultry shiver shoot up my spine as his voice dropped, as dark and alluring as his beautifully devilish black and red eyes. A chuckle bubbled out of me.

"Sure, alright then, Cajun." I grinned. "Why don't you take me home and show me an even better time, hmm?"

"Oh, it'd be Gambit's pleasure..." He purred.

[gummybearstastelikesadness]

Sadness’ Shorts #2

Ectoplasm is catnip to Lazarus exposed individuals, the LoA crumbles upon contact with Danny.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Does anybody have any requests for what Fluffvember prompts should go with what blorbos/AUs of mine? I wrote day 1 already and want to write other days, but my brain has been... quite dead. For like. A week.

[artcake]

Congrats on your amazing Milestone!! I would really love to see a sketch of an intimate moment between Tara and Emily ❤️

Thank you!

[whumpasaurus101]

Whumpee let out a sob as they flopped on their matress. They wanted to get out. They needed to get out. Whumper's heavy fist banged on the door, "Open up, none of these childish games!!"

Whumpee sobbed harder, "No!" They sobbed. "Whumpee, I swear-" They took a deep breath, "Open the door now and I won't hurt you."

Whumpee's head slowly perked up, “Pr-promise?” Their shaking hand hovered over the lock.

"Promise," Came a gentle voice, instantly calming Whumpee as they turned the lock. The second the door opened, Whumpee was slammed against the mirror by their throat, the back of their head erupted in pain, feeling the glass behind them shatter.

Whumpee gasped, "I-I'm sorry! Ple-please-" "Quiet," Whumper growled, their hand tightening against the other's throat, "You know how much I hate repeating myself. Now, state rule twenty seven."

Whumpee flinched as they wheezed out, "N-no locked d-d'rs..." "No locked doors," Whumper hummed, and what did you do?"

Whumpee sobbed out, "ple-plea-" "Not the answer I was looking for."

"I lo-locked the door, 'm sorry!!!" Whumper nodded before speaking after a moment, "Oho, you will be."

[dressupdragonne]

Competition Entry - Shopping Spree

Final Rank: 28

[hailsatanacab]

Wip Wednesday babeeyy

eyy I've finally remembered that wip wednesday exists!! here's some proof that i'm working on something, and that something is the follower milestone gift i said i was going to do and i promise i'm doing it! i'm doing it it's happening i promise! so here's a little taster!!!! and here's Part One if you want a refresher!

And then the kid just vanishes.

In the blink of an eye, in the time it takes for him to look down, screw his face up because this is all confusing as fuck, and look back up, he’s just gone. There’s nowhere to hide, there’s nowhere to go, Jason can see everywhere around him—but he can’t see Danny.

“Well… shit."

“What, what happened?” Dickybird hisses in his ear, the unsaid, exasperated “now” very clear in his voice. 

As much as he loathes to admit it, Jason is feeling very much the same way right now. What was meant to be a simple case of “investigate the potential child abuse and put an end to it” has instead become something… less simple. When is it ever simple in his life?

Still. If working with supers, metas, vigilantes, whatever, has taught Jason anything, it’s that just because you can’t see someone doesn’t mean they’re not there.

“Hey, kid… Danny. Listen, I’m not here to hurt you and if you’re still here, if you can still hear me, then, I don’t know, do you want to get a bite to eat or something? I just want to talk. I just want to figure out what’s happening.”

Jason doesn’t hold his breath. 

Okay, no, that’s a lie. Jason holds his breath, but he swears he’s holding it so he can more accurately hear if Danny is still around. That’s all it is, he’s not attached to this kid already. He’s not.

When no answer comes—not even a whisper of a breath or the scuff of a sneaker on the pavement—he suppresses a frustrated growl and opts instead to breathe deeply and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“So…” Tim begins, drawing out the word.

The urge to growl—hell, the urge to pull out his comms and smash them on the floor—grows.

“The kid’s a meta, then. Potential powers including but not limited to: invisibility or teleportation. You think he’s still there?” There’s no reason for the kid to still be around, not at all. If it was Jason, he’d have scattered as soon as he realised the stranger impersonating his dad wasn’t the guy he thought was impersonating his dad, and honestly, wasn’t that extra fucked up? That someone impersonates people in this town often enough that it’s not a surprise? The way Danny spoke about him… What was his name?

Amorpho. Amorphous. Without shape. 

A shapeshifter?

Whatever. It’s a mystery for another time, because there’s still a more pressing mystery in front of him.

Or,. rather, not in front of him.

Yes, there’s no reason for Danny to still be here, but…

Jason sighs. 

“I’m going to Bat—Nasty Burger. Really? Is that the best burger joint here? Nasty Burger? Whatever, I’m going to get some fucking fries.”

Jason feels fucking stupid talking the air like this. He must look fucking stupid, too, but the thing is… There’s a prickling on the back of his neck, a rolling taste of green on his tongue when he glances through his peripheral, the vague weight of an unseen eyes on him. 

Call it wishful thinking, call it a hunch, call it something else, but Danny’s still here.

“There’ll be a burger waiting for you, too, if you want it. My treat.” Jason turns in a full circle, examining everything in his surroundings. Nothing seems out of place, nothing screams wrong to him. “I just want to talk.”

He waits for a full minute with no success, which makes Jason feel even more stupid, before clicking his tongue and making his way to the, hopefully ironically named, Nasty Burger.