#thank you for the prompt

[themeraldee]

Awkward sex prompt: homelander figuring out how to control his strength with a human reader, who still wants rough sex, but would prefer to be alive at the end of it.

[Masterlist]

18+ Only | 1.2k | Homelander x gn!Reader | Realistic sex. Communicating during sex. Choking. Penetration (but not specified). Fluff at the end.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“But I want you to.” 

It really should have been no surprise to Homelander when you requested he goes a little rougher on you in bed. At first he was taken aback, stopping the pace he was fucking into you with, jerking his head back as if offended, choking on his breath in surprise. You know who he is, bringing up the use of his strength is no small ask. But you’ve shown the signs before. He could hear the spike in your heart rate anytime he’d showcase the incomprehensible strength he possesses. Whether it was him moving heavy objects, accidentally bending steel frames in his penthouse or breaking furniture—like that one time he ripped the headboard off during a particularly fine blowjob—you loved it. Though he never thought that your dirty little thoughts went straight to him using that strength on you. 

“What if I can’t hold back?” He looks down where you’re right below him, all flushed and spread out for him. He’s been giving you a damn good time but it’s like you can never get enough of him. Always wanting more, more, more.

“You can. You’ve been doing it your entire life. Adding a tiny bit more pressure isn’t gonna change anything.”

The one thing Homelander loves about you the most is the pure trust you have in him. After all you’ve seen of him you still believe that there’s no world in which he would purposefully hurt you. So to hear you all but beg for him to use strength that has more than decimated many gets his heart soaring. The feeling of acceptance and unconditional love blooms warm in his chest spreading all the way out to the fingertips currently wrapped around your neck.

“Come on, what’s the point of being the strongest man in the world if you can’t rough me up a bit? I’ll tell you if it’s too painful okay?”

Your hand sat on top, your fingers tracing over his as you squeezed your hand.

“A little more.” You guide him verbally and manually. Your hand is still squeezing around his own until you reach a point where you’re satisfied with his confidence to do this himself and you pull your hand away. “Yeah, that’s it.” You squeak out a little breathlessly as he restricts your airflow.

“That’s good?” He asks, choking on his words halfway at the way you squeeze around him while he’s still lodged firmly inside you. He jerks with his movement, giving you a very short snappy thrust but after your little intermission where you taught him how to choke even this little sensation made you moan.

Homelander’s eyes widen when he realizes the sheer potential of your request. Not only could he hear your heartbeat, your shaky breaths and moans, he could now also feel them. Right against his fingertips. The moan vibrated against his hot skin, your heartbeat constantly thrumming all around him. He felt it in the way you were tight and clenching around him and now he felt it under his grip.

He released his hand a little, settling the palm of it in between your collarbones.

“See? Wasn’t that good? I love feeling your strength, let me have a little more of it.” You say it with such conviction, inviting him in, accepting him exactly—no, especially—because of the way he is.

The last thing Homelander wants is to not be able to fulfill your needs. As much as the thought of hurting you—actually hurting you—kills him, if it’s something you find excitement in he’ll be damned if he doesn’t deliver.

He pulls you down the length of the bed a little bit to give himself more space and with a grin he pins your wrists above your head, holding them down against the mattress with little effort. He knows he’s doing something right when that startles you, you let out a cute yelp that quickly turns into a moan. God, he could eat you up with the way you’re looking at him. But he’s gonna need to leave that for round two. Now he’s here to fulfill a wish.

He slowly picks up the pace. He’s thrusting slow and deep while his other hand freely explores your body underneath him, giving it generous squeezes as he goes. He’s testing the give of you. Learning where he can apply the pressure you so desperately crave. 

He’s fucking into your faster now, grunting at the sheer heat of you surrounding his cock with every slide. His hand glides up your body, settling back on your neck. He gives you a look as if he was warning you of what’s to happen. Yet he still manages to catch you off guard. With the snap of his hips and the iron-clad grip of his hand your eyes widen in what Homelander only translates to fear.

Immediately, he lets go.

“Why did you stop?!” You look at him, your own hand gliding across where his hand was squeezing a second ago, as if to chase the phantom feeling, recreating it yourself.

“Why did I stop? You got scared and I don’t want to fucking kill you!” He sounds angry but it’s mainly to hide the genuine worry that comes with this irresponsible play. It’s already hard for him to hold back anytime you’re having normal sex. Wanting him to rough you up conjures very different imagery in either one of your minds.

“Baby, the scary part is the best bit. I know you’ll stop before it’s too much. You can feel the give of my body. Let yourself feel that, okay?” You say softly, soothing his fears. In your entire relationship he’s not managed to hurt you, you don’t imagine it was about to start now.

“Now come on, I wanna cum with your hand around my neck.” You give him a cheeky smile that breaks him out of any doubts he had about manhandling you the way you’ve requested.

He’s given you exactly what you’ve asked for. Just enough squeeze and pressure that you feel so overwhelmed with the greatness of his presence pinning you down and nearly squeezing the life out of you that you succumb to your release. Homelander follows you there, unable to hold off after seeing the way you look at him with such adoration right after he let your airways open fully and you regained your senses. 

After you’re both beyond blissed out you snuggle up to one another, locking the jigsaw pieces of your bodies together.

Homelander traces a finger across the bruised finger marks wrapping around your neck. Part of him relishes in the way he’s managed to brand you where you won’t be able to hide it easily. Even with a scarf or a turtleneck, any slight move of the garment will expose the impressive size of your lovingly placed bruises. 

The other part of him isn’t that happy about it.

“I hurt you.”

“Duh! I wanted you to!” You scoff as if it was the most obvious thing.

His fingers trace over them some more before he leans in, placing a soft kiss against the marred skin.  

“You’re fucking crazy.” He lets out a little disbelieving laugh as he pulls you closer into his arms.

“Yeah, you’ve been rubbing off on me.”

“Nope, this is all you.” 

“Maybe. Hey, can we try spanking next?”

Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged anytime I publish a new Homelander story): @infinetlyforgotten  @rafecamsgirlll @nervoussystemss

[diazsdimples]

hi james <3 make em swoon prompt: hugging them from behind for bucktommy

Hi Nolan!!! As you wish 🫡

Something Buck was really learning to love about having a firefighter boyfriend was how well he fit in at the station with the 118.

Granted, it helped that Tommy knew Hen, Bobby and Chimney from way back when he was a probie himself, and can provide banter with Eddie that even rivals Buck's level of teasing, but it still takes Buck by surprise at just how perfectly he nestled into their little family.

The first time Tommy came over to surprise Buck, he'd been leaning against the outside wall of the station when the engine had pulled in after responding to a 2 alarm fire. He'd had his arms crossed over his chest, with that indulgent "god you're adorable, Evan" smile on his face as Buck had dropped down from the passenger seat and strode over to him, burying his face in Tommy's shoulder.

Times after that included Bobby secretly inviting him over for lunch with the station on the 4th of July after Buck had lamented about spending their first holiday apart, Tommy showing up with breakfast after a long, arduous night shift, and Tommy hiding in a storage closet late in the evening during one of Buck's 24 hour shifts, grabbing Buck as he walked past and pulling him in for a mind-blowing fuck while the rest of the station slept.

And Buck - well Buck was pretty sure he hadn't been happier in all his life. Whenever he saw Tommy playing pool with Hen, or sparring with Eddie, or battling Chimney on the XBOX, his heart would flutter, like it had become a butterfly and grown wings, and ready to beat out of his chest. It just felt so... perfect.

It had been a couple of days since he and Tommy had seen one another, and Buck was missing him. They'd exchanged texts and facetimed a couple of times but it wasn't the same as having Tommy's arms around him, or feeling Tommy press soft kisses against his neck. He missed that physical contact.

"You seem a little down today, man," Eddie muses as he and Buck chop vegetables in the kitchen. Bobby had ordered 3 finely diced carrots and some chopped celery sticks to make part of tonight's dinner, and had put Eddie in charge, with Buck's supervision.

Buck looks up from where he's been systematically shredding the end of a celery stick with surprise. "Really? I-I'm fine, I swear."

Eddie raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. Not that Buck's entirely surprised; his best friend could scope out a change in Buck's mood before it even happens. He'd be stupid to think he could hide anything from Eddie.

"Uh, sure you are. Nothing to do with the fact that you're missing a certain 6'2 muscular pilot, hmm?"

Buck blushes, the red heat creeping up his cheeks, and he quickly drops his eyes back to the celery in front of him, trying desperately not to meet Eddie's eyes.

"That obvious, huh?"

Eddie laughs, a sound that Buck had heard so rarely over the last year and now can't seem to go a day without hearing, and pats Buck on the shoulder. "Just a little bit, yeah. I mean, you've been moping around the station the last few days, and everytime your phone buzzes, you practically pounce on it to see if it's him."

Buck's blush deepens, and he shoves the half-shredded celery stick back onto the chopping board, dropping his head into his hands. "I miss him," he says, his voice small.

Eddie softens a little, and reaches up to grasp Buck's shoulder, giving it a little squeeze.

"Yeah, I'll bet," he says sympathetically. He puts the carrot back on the chopping board with a sigh. "Hey I left something downstairs, mind if you keep doing this? I'll be right back."

Buck rolls his eyes, familiar with Eddie's get-out-of-cooking tactics.

"Yeah, whatever. I'll finish it for us."

Eddie gives him a big grin and claps his shoulder again.

"Lifesaver. Be right back!"

And with that, he's crossing the loft and taking the stairs two at a time, footsteps echoing through the firehouse. Buck shakes his head and chuckles to himself. He's pretty sure Eddie would rather step on a thousand Legos than ever help prepare dinner.

With a small shake of his head, Buck continues to chop the celery and carrots, throwing them into a small bowl together. He's been doing it for a few minutes when he hears footsteps behind him. Assuming it's Eddie, Buck doesn't turn around, and continues to chop.

"You find what you were looking for?"

"Oh, I think I did."

A deep, gravelly voice fills Buck's ears as a pair of thick, strong arms circles his waist, and Buck's heart leaps instantly as he recognises the smell of Tommy's cologne.

"Tommy? What are you doing here?!" Buck exclaims, putting down the knife and lacing his fingers with Tommy's. Tommy rests his head on Buck's shoulder, pressing small kisses into the skin just above Buck's uniform shirt.

"Thought I'd stop by and surprise you, baby. I missed you. Eddie helped me organise it."

Buck grins widely and turns in Tommy's arms, leaning forward and pressing their lips together in a deep, searing kiss. His arms wrap around Tommy's neck and he tugs him closer, revelling in the feel of Tommy's hands resting against the small of his back, holding him steady.

After a moment, they break apart, and Buck leans their foreheads together, a wide, beaming smile on his face.

"God, I've missed you," he murmurs. "This is the best surprise."

Tommy smiles back at him, rubbing their noses together.

"Yeah, I missed you too, Ev. It's good to see you."

He gives Buck one last peck on the lips, and then releases him, turning his attention to the celery and carrots Buck had been chopping. He picks one up between his thumb and forefinger, scruitinising it with mock-intensity.

"So, what you making?"

Tagging bucktommy friends

@theotherbuckley @bidisasterevankinard @watchyourbuck @neverevan @hippolotamus

@wikiangela @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @jesuisici33 @emilybahu @detectivehorror

@disasterstans @ioncedreamedaflower @bandluvr97 (mutuals pls lmk if you want to be tagged in Bucktommy stuff, I haven't quite scoped out who's okay with them and who isn't)

[turnaboutdick]

miss Agnes Montague for the tma drawing prompt?

miss montague.......

[pencap]

Broken glass, rain, heartache

sometimes a dream shatters like broken glass sharp-edged pieces ready to cut and the future you saw through it vanishes like a mirage leaving behind only darkness.

but darling, we make mosaics and murals of stained glass and rose windows in cathedrals out of broken glass.

the heartache is bitter and sore and bone-deep

but the heart is a strong muscle steady and dependable and unceasing and it will beat on and you will beat on.

so cry with the rain. rage with the thunder. tear the sky with the lightning. let your heart grieve and bleed and scream.

and tomorrow the sun will rise again. the seedlings will rise from new-damp soil

and you will, too. and we will, too.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

I know you've retold these before, but if you want to do one in the form of a flash fiction... My request would be The Goose Girl or Twelve Dancing Princesses.

I've pondered over a few possibilities for this prompt. This morning, I came up with an idea for a Twelve Dancing Princesses retelling that had me bolting out of bed to start writing. I don't know how to end the story, but I like the setup, so for the sake of sharing something, I thought I'd at least share what I have here.

*

The Unseen Soldier

Edmund slipped through the city streets, nimbly dodging around the people who couldn't see him. His pay jingled in his pocket--a gift from a generous shoemaker who'd been grateful for the invisible help--but no one heard. No one looked his way. No one ever did.

At the corner sat a ragged beggar child. Edmund was careful with his money now--he could never be sure of getting more--but he dropped the largest of his coins in her tin cup. She looked up--astonished at the miracle, confused when she couldn't see her benefactor--but didn't meet his gaze.

Edmund always noticed beggars now, after the one who'd cursed him. He'd been young and thoughtless then, newly released from the army with a pocket full of pay. A night in the tavern--celebrating the war's end--ate of most of it, and he stumbled into the streets at sunrise wondering how on earth he could make his money last.

He'd stumbled over the beggar woman, then pretended he didn't hear when she asked for a coin. He had none to spare; he had to look after himself.

Then she proved herself a fairy in disguise and pronounced his doom.

Because you have made yourself blind to the needs of others, this is your curse: to wander the world unseen until you give yourself entire to another.

An unbreakable curse, he'd found--a princess might marry a man sight unseen, but people of his own class liked to see their husbands before they wed.

So he wandered, scrounging where he could (never stealing--a fairy who cursed a man for ignoring a beggar would undoubtedly do much worse to a thief), sometimes doing odd jobs for men willing to arrange his hire and payment by letter. Doing unseen good where possible--at first in the hope that he might be observed by another fairy who'd reward him by lifting the curse, but then because he could--he could see the invisible problems, and give his help without shaming those who received it.

A hardscrabble, desperate life. Sometimes a satisfying one. But--more and more as the years went on--unbearably, unspeakably lonely.

The sun rose higher. The crowds increased. Edmund slipped into the doorway of an abandoned shop and considered waiting out the morning rush. Then he noticed that the entire crowd was drifting in one direction.

This was too much for an invisible man to resist. Edmund drifted at the rear of the crowd until the mass of people pooled around a fountain in the middle of a city square, where stood a royal messenger making a proclamation.

So declared the king: his daughters were wearing through their shoes every night, though the doors of their bedchamber were locked and bolted. The princes set upon the problem had all failed to solve the mystery. So the king decreed that any man who, in three nights' time, could solve the mystery of where the princesses went at night, could have his choice of one to wed.

The crowd gasped. Murmured. Chattered. Shared gossip and rumor. Wondered who'd be daft enough to take the challenge--princess or no, the men who'd tried to solve the mystery before had died.

But at the edge of the crowd, unseen by all, Edmund smiled.

He'd found the way to break his curse.

[2009editingtips]

58 for writing prompt 😎

Thank you thank you <3

"Would you please just kiss me?"

Rating: G Word Count: 306

Between the two of them, Dan could say confidently that he is the less clingy one.

Phil is the one who sits practically on top of Dan when they're lazing about on the couch. Even though they specifically got one big enough for both their obnoxiously long limbs to splay out comfortably on.

Phil is the one who intertwines their fingers at inopportune moments, typically when Dan needs his hand for typing responses to work emails or for gripping his switch controller so tightly it squeaks when he's up against 6th graders in Mario Kart.

Phil is the one who presses close, shoulder to foot, trapping the heat of their bodies between the sheets as they sleep. He's also the one who complains in the morning, limbs tangled, back and neck aching.

But he pulls Dan in just as close the next night anyway.

Yes, Phil is the more clingy one.

But Dan is the more needy one. Typically craving a kind word or gentle reminder of his worth above physical closeness.

But there are times, times when Phil is pressed to his side, one of his pale feet worming its way under Dan's leg and causing him to shiver at the cold, when Dan has the sudden, consuming urge to pull him closer. To press their skin together with such force that there is nothing for it to do but meld into one.

But he won't say that.

Instead he says, "Would you please just kiss me instead of putting your nasty, hobbit feet up my ass?"

And Phil giggles, light and tinkly and beautiful. He doesn't move his foot, still pressing the icy plane of it to the inside of Dan's calf, but he does shift up, pressing his face into Dan's already grasping hands to place the gentlest kiss on Dan's upturned lips.

[ohtobealady]

I saw that you were asking for one-word prompts... my suggestion is:

Accident

However you want to interpret that.

Thank you!

Well I am sorry. This is angst, pure angst. Season 1 terrible awful angst.

Missing scene from S1E7.

—————-‘,——————

Accident

“I’m alright,” she softly insisted again as she tied the dressing gown sash loosely around her still-damp body. Beneath it, the chemise the woman had dressed her in stuck to her back. She’d not dried herself well enough.

“Milady—“

“I’m afraid I’ll look a-fright come tomorrow. His Lordship will suspect I’ve taken up boxing.”

“Please, milady,” Cora could feel O’Brien untie the silk she’d wrapped her hair in before the bath. Half of her hair hung from it now, anyway. Had she fallen that hard? “If you’ll only let me send for Doctor Clarkson.”

Cora let her hand probe softly at the places she’d hit—her hip, her elbow. And her stomach. Now that the shock of it had gone, her entire body felt immediately bruised and tender. Her hand lingered at her middle. “No. Really. I don’t think there’s any real damage done.” She wasn’t even certain if she believed herself, and she glanced at her maid and sighed. “My clumsiness is no reason to disturb him. After all, he can’t mend embarrassment.”

She forced a small chuckle, but stopped short: her abdomen was immediately too sore to laugh that way. She cleared her throat and shook away a quick sting of fear.

When she glanced up, O’Brien stared at her without blinking.

“Truly,” she lied to her maid. “I’ll be fine. I’ll have a lie down, and I’m sure that’ll sort it. Now go. I don’t want to keep you any longer than I have.”

She turned away from O’Brien to appear to search for the book on the small table beside the chaise, and her pantomime achieved what Cora had hoped: with a small “Very well, milady,” the woman left her.

Looking behind her at the click of the door, and determining O’Brien had gone, Cora turned slowly back toward her mirror and gently pulled up the dressing gown and chemise under it to inspect her left hip. It was as she expected: a red and already purpling oval. And then swallowing, she lifted her clothes higher and to her stomach. She’d hit it there against the rim of the tub—nearly in the center—as her foot had slipped as she stepped from the bath. Her middle had caught all her weight, and it had nearly knocked the wind from her before she fell upon the floor. She looked closer, to find the evidence of the accident, and in the morning sun, found a faint pink blotch below her navel, but nothing more. It was only the little swell O’Brien could still tug into her corsets, but that she and Robert had chuckled at last week.

Cora smiled at that, and dropped her hems. Yes. Everything appeared well, and this settled her fear enough for her to really retrieve her book.

She slowly settled onto her chaise. She slid her book from her little table and into her grasp. She leaned forward and reached behind her to straighten her pillow, but stopped. She inhaled at the quick tenderness of her belly. She blinked, still, and then forced herself to exhale. It was only a bruise; she’d inspected it herself. If the injury was worse, then it would’ve looked like her hip and, she assumed, her smarting elbow. Wouldn’t it have?

Yes.

So she opened the cover of the book; she flipped through a few pages to find her place; she tried her best to make her eyes read the words printed there, but found she could not. The soreness she felt when she leaned forward to adjust her pillow, it hadn’t subsided. Her abdomen felt tight. And then tighter still. And then her muscles—-those muscles low in her belly—-began to burn as they tightened.

Oh.

The fear Cora managed to assuage earlier prickled back again, and reminding herself to be calm, she pushed out a small exhale through pursed lips. She was alright. She was bound to feel a little sore, to have a small cramp; it was quite a blow. And perhaps she was thinking of it too much.

She made her eyes look back at the novel. They scanned the letters and words, dutifully, line by line as she worked her way down the page. But she couldn’t make her mind pay attention. For there was another tightening pain. And this time, it lasted longer than before, as if making itself known.

Cora closed her eyes and evened her breathing. If there was another, she told herself, she’d ring for O’Brien.

But there won’t be.

Her self-reassurance was weak however, and she let her fingers go to her middle, cradling the little life there. She indulged herself by looking at the small mound beneath her housecoat. She let her fingertip touch it. And, quite suddenly, she felt emotion begin to choke her.

“Of course I’m pleased.”

He’d been so happy; shocked, yes, but Robert had been so happy this last month.

And the letters. He’d written so many letters. Telling Rosamund. Shrimpie and Susan. Dickie. Murray. Jarvis.

Cora was sure that Lady Shackleton knew. Harold. Mother. She’d wanted to come over.

She closed her eyes. Please move, she pleaded. She willed it. Move, she prayed. She’d felt it last evening. Yesterday. She’d been able to feel it for a few weeks now, since right after Clarkson had confirmed it, the little flutters and then soft bumps inside of her. Just two nights ago, she’d taken Robert’s hand and pressed it to her middle. “Can’t you feel it?” she’d asked. His face had gone pink, but he smiled

Oh. Oh, it was another. She pulled in a deep breath and held it as the lowest muscles in her abdomen tightened, burned. And then—-Her eyes opened at the sensation of something—fluid��coming in a small gush between her legs.

There was no more suppressing the fear. She waited for the pain to pass, tears threatening her vision, and she moved to the pull to ring for her maid. Her head throbbed —-had she hit her head?—-every muscle now felt sorer than before, and she felt her stomach begin to roll as if she may retch.

She took deep breaths, and she pulled the cord again. Then, her fingers trembling, she made herself pull the fabric of her chemise beneath her dressing gown toward her, the back to the front, and she looked at it.

Wet. And pink.

She took calming breaths, but she knew better. She knew what was happening.

Another pain. More fluid with it, but this time it ran down the insides of her legs. She moved her eyes to her bare feet and waited for the little rivulets to stop.

Pinker than before. And then as the rivulets lingered on, there was red.

It was that, the bright color, that moved her to the truth at last. Her head felt too light, there was a ringing in her ears, and Cora fumbled her way to sit upon her bed and waited. The pain kept going this time, only growing tighter and burning more—sharp and twisting—and Cora clung to the side of her bed and did her best to breathe. The minute it let up, she moved to the washroom. She needed a towel. She needed water.

“Milady?”

She heard O’Brien, but she couldn’t make herself call to her.

“Milady?” She heard her nearer and then as she pushed open the washroom door.

And all the composure she tried her best to have vanished when she saw O’Brien, her maid whose face had gone white as a sheet, and Cora began to weep. “Oh.”

“Come,” her maid ushered her, but Cora could hear the emotion in her voice—high and wavering—even through her own. “Come and lie down.”

“Wait, oh.” She felt another pain creep itself into her belly. But this time there was no small trickle of fluid. This time it came quickly. “Oh, no. No. No.”

She heard O’Brien begging her to lie down again. She heard O’Brien leave her room as she did so, and then, through a blur of pain and the tears she blinked back, she saw as Mrs Hughes rushed into her room.

•••

“Nearing six now,” Robert watched as Doctor Clarkson closed his pocket watch and replaced it. The metallic click reverberated around the gallery, and it sounded strangely too loud in the quiet. “The bleeding isn’t stemming as much as I would expect. It is difficult to say if her injuries don’t go beyond the delivery—“

“She—“ he managed to begin, even if he felt his throat was too tight to move a single word from it. There was blood on Clarkson’s oversleeve. “But she isn’t—”

“No, your lordship. At least not yet. ” His voice interrupted, sparing Robert the word, but it lacked the quick pace of before. Robert felt the doctor eyeing him, and the gentle interlude felt like thunder before rain.

“But?” he asked, though the question made him afraid.

“At the stage of her pregnancy, it is important to know that her recovery may be as difficult as if she’d given birth at nine months. She will need rest. And her body may experience the…changes, for lack of a better word,” Robert felt his face flush, “that it would in ordinary circumstances.”

He wasn’t sure what Doctor Clarkson meant, but he wouldn’t ask. He couldn’t. His mind kept going back to Carson’s words two hours ago.

“My lord, there’s been an accident since you’ve been out. It’s her ladyship.”

“I am happy to speak with Mrs O’Brien and Mrs Hughes about what to expect in the coming weeks. And I can provide a list to Mrs Hughes of items that can be helpful.”

His good manners listened though every other thought was elsewhere—-in the room with her—-and he nodded his head. He thanked the man.

“And, please forgive me, Lord Grantham, but there is the matter of …”

Silence. Enough silence for Rober to pay attention. And he lifted his eyes at the doctor’s pause.

“Of the body.”

Robert blinked at him. “The … body?”

Doctor Clarkson nodded slowly. Solemnly. “I am sorry.”

But Robert couldn’t make himself comprehend. “Cora—That is, her ladyship is well? That is…I apologize I’m not sure—-“

“Of the child, my lord.”

“Oh.” He felt all at once foolish and ill, his stomach turning over itself. “Of course.” The child. Their child.

Clarkson spoke so softly. Too softly, but her room was just there. Her door was opened a crack. Robert could see light filtering in from where she lay. “In these situations, the hospital does offer to arrange burials in the churchyard amongst the others—“

“Others?”

“—though, should your wishes be different…yes.” Again, Doctor Clarkson paused. He lowered his voice again. “The other stillbirths and infants, Lord Grantham. Of the village.”

Robert shook his head, again his mind whirling, not understanding. “But it wasn’t as far along as that? It couldn’t be—“

“Not fully there, no. But …” He didn’t imagine the way Doctor Clarkson grimaced. “She’d made it to her fifth, nearly her sixth month. The child did—“ He stopped, and he quieted. “It did live. For a moment.”

In the following quiet, Robert felt as if he’d somehow grown smaller. There was no other feeling. Only that.

“I know that this is very difficult, and you have my sympathies, Lord Grantham.”

“Yes,” Robert blurted, strangely relieved in a painful way, as if the doctor’s words were a sort of excuse to let his chin tremble the way it needed to. To let his eyes sting with tears. “Thank you. I will speak with her ladyship about the—“ he took a small breath. “Burial.”

Clarkson, however, opened his mouth but didn’t speak. Robert watched him move his jaw, as if searching for the words.

It frightened him. “Yes?”

“Only, I’m not certain it best to—-” The doctor shifted his weight from his left to right foot, and Robert stood straighter, dread gnawing away at his nerves. “It may be best to make the decision on your own. She isn’t…”

“She isn’t what?”

The doctor nodded again, though at what Robert didn’t know.

“She is going to be alright, isn’t she?” Robert heard the waver in his voice, but he didn’t care. “You mentioned the bleeding, but otherwise, she’s not in any danger, is she?”

“No. No, I don’t think so. It’s only … well, it may be too distressing for her to speak of the burial.”

Robert furrowed his brow.

“You may consider making the decision on your own.”

“I—“ he shook his head. He couldn’t. “I don’t believe I could keep that from her.”

Doctor Clarkson drew in a long breath, and Robert watched as the man looked to the door behind them and then back to him. He frowned. “I did my best to hide the child from her sight, but …” another dreadful pause. Robert clenched his jaw.

“What is it?”

“You had a son, Lord Grantham.”

He stood still. He stared at Clarkson who spoke on, but Robert couldn’t hear what he said. The doctor nodded at him as he returned through Cora’s door, but though Robert’s heart ached to see her, to hold her and press a kiss to her head, he could not.

Robert walked from her door and into his dressing room. He stood at the window. And he stared.

Outside the afternoon was golden.

[dude-why-3]

Hi Cris!

I hope you're doing well (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)

For the casual affections prompts, 28. Pressing their foreheads together, for AruAni from Star-crossed lovers AU or post-canon, in Fort Salta. The choice is up to you💛

Thank you, and have a wonderful *timezone*!

prompt list in question

Hi Anna!! Thank you so much for sending this in, i had so much fun writing it! I hope you're doing well too! I'm so sorry this took so long, i wanted to write a little snippet but it turned into a full fedged fanfic ahahaha, but I hope you like it nonetheless!♡

Without further ado, here it goes:

Prompt: pressing their foreheads together

Setting: Forbidden Lovers AU

Wc: 1148

November 1950

The night is young and the house cold when Annie makes it to her room. The door closes behind her with a soft click. She tightens her woolen cardigan around herself, the cold still seeping through, and stumbles through the dark. Annie collapses into bed, rolls over and brings the blanket over her shoulders in a poor attempt to warm herself up.

She sighs, letting her eyes close for a moment. She ought to make a fire soon, for winter has come earlier and angrier than she would have expected. It has been snowing for weeks now, and the snow banks have been growing bigger and bigger, making it almost impossible to get about and around.

Yet, her father had insisted that he must go to the court house, for it was his duty– and slipped on ice, ending up with a broken leg. Doctor Yeager had recommended bed rest for the time being, entrusting it to Annie to take care of the careless man. After many insistences, and days spent dismissing her attempts, he finally gave in today and allowed her to care for him.

Annie rolls over again, bringing her knees to her chest, and hugging them close.

The sound of something breaking makes her eyes snap open. She shots up, narrowing her eyes, scanning her surroundings through the dark. A shiver runs down her spine when she hears the sound again. She follows the sound, her eyes landing on the window. Frowning, Annie raises to her feet, shivering slightly when her bare feet touch the cold floor again. She steps towards the window, wrapping her arms around herself. She bends slightly forward, peeking through the closed window, making out a dark figure below it, and–

A snowball crashes against her window. Annie takes a step back, her eyes widening. What kind of sick joke is this?

But when the snow slides off the glass, she sees the figure from earlier a bit clearer. As he bends down to pick up some more snow, his golden locks shine slightly in the dim light the moon casts down. Annie's heart skips a beat.

She slides the window open, taking a moment to take him in– the golden locks of his hair shining in the moon's light, barely touching his shoulders, his hunched figure as he picks up more snow for a ball, his brown vest that she knows bears the specific blue embroidery of his family.

“Armin?”

The boy's head snaps up, and a smile spreads on his face when his eyes land on her. He abandons the snowball and raises to his feet, waving at her with both hands.

“Hi, Annie!”

Her fingers grip the window sill tighter as she stares at him, waving at her in such a childish manner, his eyes sparkling through the dark.

“I haven't seen you in so long, I figured I might come and see you!”

Her blinking becomes erratic, her eyes damp.

Armin's smile softens. “How are you, my dear?”

Annie parts her lips, but no words come out. She hasn’t seen him since the first snow fell, so many weeks ago.

Oh, how she's missed him. How she's missed his smile, and those eyes of his, so intense, always reading right through her. Oh, how she misses his warmth.

Before she knows it, her hands snap the window closed and the door open. Her feet carry her down the hall, echoing through the walls when she descends the stairs in a hurry. She flings the front door open– the cold brisk of the night hits her as soon as she closes the door, but there he is.

His smile boardens when his eyes land on her.

He whispers her name like a prayer, opening his arms, “Annie.”

A sob escapes her lips. She leaps across the distance and jumps into his arms. Armin takes a step back, a short laugh escaping his lips, and wraps his arms around her frame. She buries her face in the crook of his neck, taking in his scent, a mix of burnt wood and home, and the sharp cold of the snow on her bare foot becomes almost bearable. He brings a hand to the back of her neck, running his fingers through her hair, eliciting a sigh from her.

“I've missed you, Annie,” he whispers into her ear.

Annie presses her face further into his neck, nodding slightly, fisting the back of his vest between her fingers. Oh, how she's missed him, too, and his safe, warm touch. But the snow is harsh, and cold against her feet, making her wince.

Armin draws back, his eyes narrowed in worry. He finds the source of her hurt in a heartbeat.

“Annie, did you come out in this snow barefoot?”

She pouts, wanting him to just hold her. “Maybe.”

Armin sighs. His hands circle her waist, sending shivers down her back.

Annie’s eyes widen. “What are you –”

But before she gets to finish her sentence, he picks her up, a shrill of surprise escaping her lips, and carries her to the porch. He makes sure to set her feet on his when he finally lets her down. She leans her back against the wall.

“You should go back inside,” he nods towards the door. “You'll freeze out here.”

Annie shakes her head slightly, bringing her hands to his shoulders. “Five more minutes.”

Armin smiles softly, leaning his forehead against hers. “Five more minutes,” he agrees.

Annie finds herself mirroring his smile. Armin brings a hand to her cheek, grazing her skin with his thumb, so gingerly, as if afraid to hurt her. She closes her eyes, letting herself relax into his touch. His breath is warm on her skin, mingling with her own, his touch soft.

“I heard Grisha passed by a few days ago,” he says, breaking the silence.

Annie hums without opening her eyes. “My father slipped on ice and broke his good leg,” she explains, in an even voice.

Armin hums in understanding, moving a piece of hair behind her ear. Annie opens her eyes, and crooks an eyebrow at the little sparkle blooming behind his eyes– for she knows it all too well, the sight of his mind coming up with an idea.

“What?”

“Your father broke his leg.”

Annie narrows her eyes. “And?”

“And, he'll be out of our hair for a while,” he mutters, a conspirant tone in his voice.

Annie’s lips arch into a smile as the meaning of his words sink in. “He will be,” she agrees.

“So…”

Annie’s face warms, the tips of her fingers tingling in anticipation.

“So, would you like to come in?” she mutters, bringing his face closer to her own. His eyes widen, staring into hers with such intensity it takes her breath away. Her lips ghost over his own. “Make up for all the time we've missed?”

[apprentice-s]

don’t say I never give u guys anything

[dedkake]

echo | 1.6k, t, gen/mcshep

prompt fill for @texasdreamer01: draping the arm around their shoulder while sitting next to each other

It’s good whiskey, not the cheap stuff that had been on the drinks table inside. John’s made a decent dent in the bottle, but not as much as Rodney would have guessed.

read it on ao3

[cauldron-of-oddities]

Ekko making jewelry out of his owl feathers as presents for his 'pretty bird'

May turn into a drabble at some point as I seem terribly prone to that. 

@youmaycallmeyourhighness hope you enjoy these little headcanons.

Jewellery for his pretty bird 

He gets the idea when she's about to turn 13

He’s in half a panic, yeah sure she always seems happy with the gifts he finds for her, but this year has to be special. 

Usually, he would get her some really nice materials to work with or a pretty stone or two. Now, that's not enough. 

He remembers how enamoured she seemed with his feathers and decides to combine the two.

He's a full year ahead of her and so has had his first moult. His mother nabs a feather and gets a bit mushy about her boy growing up. His dad joins in, and Ekko is horribly embarrassed, but he likes people happy, especially his family and friends, so, ok, yeah, he can deal with his parents cooing over him. 

"Such a handsome boy you are”

His father teased him, soon he'd fly the nest, and he'd charm all the girls with that pretty plumage. 

“Hush you, there's only one girl.”

"Mom! She's my friend”

“You didn't need to ask who we meant, though.” his father chortled. 

When she comes by Benzo's shop to ask for some replacement parts for the taps. He's busy trying to get a stubborn wing feather out, and his beak is not doing the trick. Her long fingers pluck it out gently. 

Shyly she asks if she can keep it. It's gorgeous and a soft sort of smoothness to it, and she keeps running her fingers over it and against her cheeks, zoning out for a bit as she gets lost in the feeling. So he knows she likes his feathers.

He also knows touch grounds her, so he figures it can be a stress reliever, so something she can fiddle with and keep with her. 

His first attempts at making a piece didn't go well. He breaks multiple feathers. The stem of the feather is definitely not like metal. 

He makes 3 pieces eventually that year.

An earring set with a shiny cog blue beads and a long flight feather for her birthday.

A bracelet with little fluffy feathers, this one is made of string that looks like a mini boa is wrapped around her wrist. Makes it for her first moult. He asks if he can have some of her feathers. 

The third is a necklace. In an echo of the earrings, he alternates some of his smaler feathers and hers alternating with little cogs. This one he has not given yet because the implications are very clear.

He's secretly thrilled that he's with her in some form most of the time. 

She wears the earrings often, and it soon becomes her lucky charm. 

Vi thinks it's adorable and ribs her sister good naturedly. 

Vander just lets out a chuckle “kids” “It suits you, Powder. That's quite the special gift.” Is all he says but does raise his eyebrow at Ekko. 

Mylo teases her mercilessly “Can't be without your knight in shiny feathers, eh?” 

Claggor thinks it's sweet and wonders if he should keep some of his more colourful feathers for the future. 

Mylo stole them once, when she was ignoring him, and as a bit of revenge for the challenge race, she beat him in. He knew it would get a rise out of her. It does so spectacularly. It sends feathers flying. Yeah, it's not pretty. The awkward little Powder has it in her to be a right terrifying hellion.  

[the-littlest-kojin]

"Sea", for Alha

Clambering up the cliffside, unheeding for the brambles on it scratching his hands and feet, Alha mumbles to himself, eyes narrowed. The golden hour was fast approaching, and the artist was determined. "Alha, why are we out here?" his sister's voice echoes from the sand dunes. "All that's at the top of that cliff is another cliff, down to the beach." Reaching the top and dragging himself up over the brambles, Alha grins - the glittering dawn laid out over the ocean before him, the golden disc of the sun just cresting the water. Immediately, he sits cross-legged, putting his brush between his teeth and opening up his easel, starting to mix the right paints - blues and yellows and reds, hands so quick that flecks of colour land on his bare chest and face. By the time his sister - carrying the day's food and water over her shoulder - reaches the top of the cliff through a more sedate path, Alha is feverishly painting, tongue held between his teeth - the furrow of deep focus on his brow.

[attemptsupon]

Must start with:

"Tell me," they said,  "not a story but a plan,"

with the sun shining down  on us as if we were

only anything ornamental. Our  day flowers open to show:

"Free line; use  however you like!"

oh, and we like how our  togetherness pertains to dreams,

reckoned not in clanging conversation  but in an onomatopoeia.

The figure of you is in blossom  like a Hanna-Barbera character:

hearing you repeat one word three times,  again again again

repeated as if a natural phenomenon,  a storm so unavoidable on

earth our shelter. Safe and  weak like nakedness in sharing;

even now that I found you,  and the title of one of your favourite songs

[in-the-dark-collabfic]

I had an idea for another prompt I hope you'll like

Remy and Emile have a "get to know you" convo that starts out really awkward and ends pretty friendly

Ooh this prompt is interesting. I wonder what will prompt the conversation

I'm not able to get to my computer until Tuesday, so it won't be added properly to the prompt masterpost for a few days. It'll be there, but because of the fact it's on my phone the link will he below the words instead of being linked to the words.

And here's a link to the pinned post for those who'd like to submit a prompt to this blog! One more and I'll be able to start writing the story with enough for the second chapter as well!

[2009editingtips]

#69 for the writing prompt thing?

You wanted angsty friends with benefits, no smut all feels, right? No? Too bad.

"You do know that we're in public, right?"

Rating: T Word Count: 503

Dan is drunk. Like properly sloshed. Phil knows because he's smiling.

And isn't that a sad thought?

Dan is smiling and giggly and looks to all the world like he's in the prime of his life.

He is, Phil thinks. He is, and yet Dan can't see that. He only sees these weekends where he can drink and dance and fuck Phil with the deniability of the liquor.

The worst part is that Phil will let him. Phil will let him drink himself gay and savor the whiskey on his breath and tell Dan's passed-out form all the things that would be too hard if the lights were on.

Dan is getting to that point. He's stumbling into barstools, and the amused looks he was getting are turning sour.

Phil steps in, putting a hand to his shoulder to pull Dan away from another tripping hazard.

"You ready to go?" He asks, having to shout over the noise of the bar.

Dan's eyes are glossy and unfocused as they zero in on Phil's lips. Phil tells himself it's just so he can read the words, but he knows better by now.

Dan hums a little noise that Phil wouldn't be able to hear if it were anyone else, but it's Dan, so he does.

"Yeah, y-yeah," Dan slurs, "Wanna go home with you. Wanna..." He trails off, licking his lips in a way that has Phil's heart pounding and sinking at the same time.

Phil nods once before turning to the door.

He makes it one step before he is being pulled back by his hips into Dan's warm body.

For being a good four years younger than him, Dan has more muscle and fewer inhibitions.

Phil lets out a squeak and tries to extricate himself from Dan's arms, which are winding further around him, clutching him like he's something precious. Like he's treasured. Like he matters.

"Dan!"

It's no use; Dan's holding him tight, burying his face in the back of Phil's head and breathing him in.

He's drunker than Phil thought.

"You do know that we're in public, right?" Phil asks warily.

"Hmm, don't care." Dan's voice is muffled where it's buried in Phil's jet-black hair. "Never let me hold you. Never stay in the morning. Gonna have to make you."

And yes, Dan is much drunker than Phil thought because he isn't even making a move. He isn't trying to grind up or touch Phil in any way that would lead him to believe this is sexual. He's just holding Phil, in the middle of a crowded bar, sniffing his hair like some weird dog/cat hybrid.

Phil sighs. Unable to shake off the hold on him, he starts walking forward, careful not to jostle the younger boy too much.

"C'mon, Danny, let's get you home," he says to no one in particular.

Dan hums; Phil can feel it vibrate against the base of his skull. "Take such good care of me, Philly. Always do."

Always will. Phil thinks to himself.

[owl127]

If you take requests, could you please do an alpha firefighter lexa and omega Clarke, where lexa is called to the scene of a fire and freaked out realizing that it's her house and Clarke is injured and trapped inside? Only if it isn't too much trouble please

(Ao3)

Three slices of bread. Two medium slices of fresh mozzarella—and not the pre-sliced stuff, but the good, wet, supple kind that Lexa could only find in the farmer's market. Piping red tomato and the lettuce a crunching green, and yes, the roasted beef, dripping in caramelized onions sauce.

It was the perfect sandwich.

"Someone’s happy." Anya sat next to Lexa on the dining table, the hub of the station dying down in the kitchen. They had returned from a call where the police did most of the work, and Lexa finally had time to prepare dinner: the perfect sandwich dinner. "Did you finally learn how to cook?"

"Clarke prepared all the ingredients," Lexa confessed with a mouthful. "I stack them like legos."

"A true chef." Anya stirred her canned soup. "But you’re not smiling like that because of a sammy."

Lexa took her time chewing and nodded at Lincoln as he perused the fridge. He emerged with a pink Gatorade and chugged it down in four long gulps. Lexa placed her sandwich back on her plate with the care of someone dealing with something precious. "I got the ring," she said, and Anya froze with her spoon halfway to her mouth.

"No shit. For real?"

"For real."

"Holy shit, Lexa, congrats!" Her captain patted her on the back, and Lincoln joined them at the table. 

"What happened?" he asked while trying to grab Lexa’s sandwich, but she swatted his hand away.

"Lexa is finally going to propose."

"For real?" Lincoln’s cheer was a paradox in his hard-angled face; his smile and eyes were always so kind. "Congrats!"

"Griffin is going to flip," Anya added. "I need to tell Raven."

"Don’t tell her yet!" Lexa protested. "We’re going to her dad’s hunting cabin this weekend. I want it to be a surprise. So no telling Raven or Octavia." The last warning was for Lincoln, who mimicked a zipper over his lips. "I mean it," she threatened, and her cousins shared equally innocent looks. "Hell, I really want it to be—" The blaring station alarm sounded, and the firefighters reacted on impulse, dropping everything to answer the call. Lexa took the biggest bite she could from her perfect sandwich and ran to grab her uniform. If they were lucky, it would be their last call of the night.

The cops had formed a perimeter when they arrived, and Anya instructed their crew to check the victims in both cars. Lexa followed Niylah to the first vehicle, while Anya and Lincoln went to the second, overturned one. "Call if you need help," Lexa shouted, and Anya nodded. A bad crash, but the truck Lexa checked was in better shape, and they had the victims in the ambulance in a short time. The second ambulance arrived, but there was no sign of Anya and Lincoln. Lexa caught Anya’s eyes between the first responders' crowd of police officers and paramedics, seeing the concern there. She understood it as a call for help and trotted in the direction of the upside-down SUV.

She didn’t notice at first. She didn’t read Anya’s concern as a warning and approached the car, kneeling down. Lexa didn’t recognize the vehicle, running on the adrenaline of the call. She didn’t recognize anything. And then she saw it; blonde hair spilling on the car ceiling, pink with blood; unconscious arms down and unmoving; and eyes she knew so well closed and unblinking. If she weren’t kneeling, she would have fallen. Pain flared at a grasping hand on her rough uniform collar, a thumb pressing down on the base of her throat hard enough to leave a mark. 

"Can you do it?" Anya asked, eyes flashing in kaleidoscopic emergency lights. "If you can’t do this, I want you out of here." Lexa’s tendons protested in her neck, and she swallowed. She nodded. "Good," Anya continued, "you hold her while I cut the seat belt. Lincoln and Niylah are ready for her when we take her out."

A loud knocking on the car’s side. "There’s smoke," an officer in full navy uniform said, "you got a few minutes tops." Anya nodded, and Lexa’s heart hammered in her chest as she adjusted to receive Clarke’s weight once she was free from her seat belt. Blood trickled on Lexa’s uniform, and she grasped her girlfriend tighter. She nodded at Anya.

"One, two, three!" Anya ordered and cut the seat belt. 

The scream that broke from Clarke’s mouth was unlike anything Lexa had ever heard. It was raw, visceral pain, her arms flaring in desperation, hitting Lexa square on the jaw. Lexa was prepared to receive Clarke’s full weight on her arms, but realization hit her amid Clarke’s desperate wails. 

"She’s stuck," Lexa yelled at Anya, who grunted an affirmative and crawled her way to the passenger’s window. "Clarke, stay with me. It will be okay." Blood flowed rich and arterial on Lexa’s shirt. Clarke, her unfocused eyes landing on Lexa, controlled her sobbing for a single moment. "It will be okay," Lexa promised. "Anya, can you see it?" she asked, her arms burning at her effort to keep Clarke’s weight from pressing on her wounds.

"Two penetrations: hips and calf. I need a saw!" Anya commanded, and Lincoln brought it from the other side of the car.

"One minute!" the same officer from before said, extremely unhelpful.

Lexa held Clarke, smelled smoke, and cursed. The ringing of steel on steel echoed in the crumpled car, and Clarke, feeling the vibration of foreign bodies inside herself, screamed again. She screamed and screamed until she abruptly stopped. Lexa held her with smoke on her nose, blood on her arms, and tears in her eyes. Anya cut the first part off Clarke’s hips—an ugly, sleek black piece of metal jutting from skin and muscle. More weight fell on Lexa’s arms.

"I need another saw!" Anya yelled from above Lexa, working on the second wound.

"Thirty seconds! The fire will spread!" 

Lexa wanted to strangle the officer yelling at them. She knew protocol; she knew that in different circumstances, they would leave the car, with or without Clarke. 

The gritting sound of the saw resumed, and Clarke’s eyes blinked awake, tears marrying the blood and sooth on her face. "Lex," she cried, sobbing. "It hurts."

"I know, baby, I know, she’s almost done." But Clarke had lost consciousness again. Her face had been red from being upside down, but as Lexa’s uniform grew redder, Clarke’s face turned pale. Lexa swallowed bile. 

"You gotta go! Go, go, go!" Yelling from outside the car increased, and Lexa wasn’t only smelling smoke; she was seeing fire, hearing it crack, and hearing the shouts of her colleagues to control it. Her nose was full of blood, chemicals, and smoke. But also Clarke, the woman she wanted to be her wife. 

"Lexa, I’m sorry." Anya’s voice was small in the cabin, and Lexa’s heart grew heavy in desperation. She saw Anya’s face, and a sudden calmness took over her.

She nodded and held on tight. 

Lexa made it to the hospital 90 minutes later. She would have made it in 80 if Anya hadn’t stopped her at the station. "Shower," Anya had ordered, looking down at the drying stains over Lexa's uniform that coagulated into one long, horrific crimson flag over her body. Lexa hadn't noticed her state in the past hour, trying to balance her work with the other victims, controlling the fire, and finally being able to rush to the hospital.

She saw Abby outside the ICU. Clarke’s mom talked to a doctor in scrubs, and no one had made him change his blood stains. Abby’s jaw worked from afar, processing what the doctor said with sharp nods. Her left finger spun her wedding band constantly, something that Clarke also did with her rings.

"Lexa." Abby’s voice was rough. "Did anyone call you? There was an accident—"

"I was the first responder." She held Abby's eyes and watched the recognition there—a tired, respectful tilt of her head. 

"Thank you," Abby said with the weight of the world, and she also nodded at the doctor. "Thank you for the update, Jackson."

Lexa stood next to Abby in that well-lit hallway, the noise of beeping, scrubbing, and whispering carrying around them. Everything smelled sterile, and Lexa hated it. For the hospital, it was just another night. But for both these women, everything they cared about was intubated inside that door. 

Lexa didn't ask. She gave Abby time. "Clarke is in the post-op. They think she will make it."

Lexa exhaled hard, only then noticing she had held a full breath for hours. She almost gagged in relief, a reaction so strong she bent forward and held her hands over her head.

"Thank God," she whispered. 

Abby's voice shook as she continued. "They told me it saved her life.  That it had to be done. Was it… was it you?" Lexa shook her head. 

"I was there with her, though. She was not conscious."

Abby’s ring spun and spun and spun. "Good."

They sat there for hours. They were only allowed to see Clarke the following morning. 

Five days later, in a hospital room, Lexa proposed. In its own way, it was perfect.