#the inside outtakes prompts

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

Get in the Truck - A Pedrotober Drabble

Day Five of Pedrotober: Esquire Outtakes Pedrotober hosted by @norththelemon and @alyssamariag. View the full prompt list HERE and view my entire Pedrotober drabble catalog HERE.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: E because this is mostly just filth. With a hint of angst. I can't not write angst apparently. Unprotected p in v, oral, they fuck in a truck here, y'all. Honestly probably could have made it hornier but I had to go touch grass after writing it.

Word Count: 1324

a/n: WHEW It's been 8 million years since I last wrote smut but this Esquire outtake would not let me rest until Joel was written into it. This one is dedicated to the wives of Joel Miller. You know who you are. <3

"Get in the damn truck."

You cross your arms in refusal, standing your ground as Joel glares daggers at you, one arm slung over the side of the truck bed, the other braced against the open door. You can see the tension in his shoulders, you always can when you fight, but you're not about to give in. Not this time.

"Make me."

"For the love of god, why are you so fucking stubborn?" He walks back toward you, but you're practiced in the art of Joel Miller, and you don't move a muscle even when he's right in front of you. His broad frame towers over your much smaller one. "Get. In. The. Damn. Truck." he grits out again, teeth clenched.

He'd called you stubborn, but truthfully you'd learned from the best. "I'm not getting in that truck until you tell me what the fuck we're doing." His expression shifts to something unreadable, just for a moment, but you catch it, the way the pain flashes behind his eyes.

"LET'S GO!" Ellie interrupts as she plows into the garage with her backpack in tow, hopping in the front seat and shattering the tension between you and Joel. He holds his position for a moment and then you both resign to the excitement of the young girl left in your charge. Joel opens the back door so you can slide onto the bench seat. You ignore him as you slip in.

"Get in the damn truck."

His voice is as rough now as it was the first time, even when it sounds as a harsh whisper against your ear. Your gaze flickers to Ellie's sleeping form on the other side of the smoldering fire, and when you look back at where he'd been just a moment ago, you realize he's already halfway to the truck.

He's opened the door to the backseat by the time you catch up to him and you slip inside, the space becoming crowded the moment he joins you. "What the fuck are we doing, Joel" you ask him again once the door is closed, but he leaves you in an odd silence that feels suffocating.

"We're taking her to Tommy," he returns as though it's the simplest of tasks. As if crossing the country would be easy without the presence of infected and raiders and FEDRA in every major city across what used to be called a country. As if he has any idea of where his brother actually is.

"And you just expect me to be okay with this? With risking my life to go on this wild goose chase?" you inquire, your voice quickly rising in volume and intensity. "Joel, you know how often people talk about a cure. It never pans out. What if we do all of this, put our lives at risk, put her life at risk, only for it to be for nothing anyway?"

"We don't know that," he insists. "We owe it to Tess to..."

"Tess is dead, Joel."

Quiet hangs between you, and you wonder why you used to find solace in its intensity before the outbreak. Back when you'd sit in your car before work trying to compose yourself before going in.

"Tess would have wanted us to see this through," he grumbles, the same ache in his voice that you'd heard earlier.

"And she also wouldn't have wanted us to die trying."

You sit in silence again, and you can't tell if he's being stubborn or if he's actually contemplating your point.

"Tommy, then? Think this is the way to find him?" You wince at the sound of your own voice, aware of how much his brother's disappearance has hurt him. Made him feel so undeniably unworthy of any kind of love.

"Fuck no," is his response, followed by a low growl. His hands find your waist in a grip that makes you want to wince and pull away. But you can't. Not now. Not when you can already feel the heat pooling between your legs.

"Then what is it?" There's a sense of finality to your tone. An unspoken ultimatum stands as the only barrier left between you. He has to tell you or this is as far as you'll go. There will be no more getting in the truck. No more protecting the girl. No more of whatever the relationship you two share is. "Joel?" you ask again.

Instead of an answer, his lips are on yours as he shifts you back against the passenger side door. Your hands are collected in one of his calloused palms as he pins them above your head, the glass of the window cool against your skin. Your mind screams at you to stop him, to remind him that this isn't why you're here, but your body disagrees.

This is exactly why you're here.

It's already hot in the truck despite the chill in the air outside, and your mind flashes to your high school boyfriend and the shit job he'd done of getting you off in the back seat of a truck not unlike this one. You're thrust back to the reality of something much better as Joel works his way down your jaw, chapped lips against smooth skin. You struggle against his grip, a silent request for him to let your hands roam his body the way you want them to.

He refuses, instead guiding your hands to the headrests on either side of your shoulders. "Don't move them," he instructs, and you can do nothing but obey.

Your mind is fuzzy as you struggle to remember why you were angry with him in the first place. It's hard to recall when he's between your legs, dragging your jeans down your thighs. Impossible to remember when he's there, fingers pressed against your center, gathering the slick and pressing inside. A distant memory when he drops down to eat you out like it's what he needs to survive.

And maybe, you consider for a moment, it is.

His name falls from your lips again when you come, dulled by the sound of your heart beating in your ears. Your shoulders scream in pain from the awkward angle and the way the door handle presses into your back, but you can only focus on the way his tongue continues to circle your clit.

He laps at you until your hand falls from where he'd placed it to push him away from your overstimulated body. It's dark in the truck, but you can feel his eyes on you when you realize your mistake.

"I told you not to move."

Joel hauls you against him, your knees digging into the worn seat on either side of his hips as he forces your hands on the headrest behind him. "Keep them there." This time, you follow his order, even as he lifts you just enough to pull his cock from his jeans so you can sink down onto him, your body shuddering as he fills you.

"Please," you whisper, your head falling to his shoulder as his hands sit firm on your hips, preventing you from moving the way you want to. He holds you there, stretching you until you feel like you've forgotten everything. Forgotten why you were mad, what you were doing, where you were going.

Why you were going.

"I need you," he grunts out, one hand slipping between you to rest against your stomach. "I need you here." He presses his hand against you and your fingers dig into the headrest behind him, nails biting the fabric as you feel him filling you. "Do you feel that? Here."

And you do. you finally understand. It doesn't matter why or how or where or when. You'd do anything for him if it meant you got to feel this. He might be willing to risk his life for a lost cause, but you'd simply be willing to risk your life for his.

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

I Choose You

Gale x Single Mom!Tav, Gale x OC, Gale x Gwen, Gale POV, Hurt/Comfort, Light Smut

Summary: Gale knows the end is coming, sooner rather than later. The only question now is, whose will is stronger? A goddess or the woman laying in his arms.

Based on prompt from @kaldurcalm: “forever mine” kisses

Warning: Thoughts about Death, Nudity, brief descriptions of PiV Sex

A/N: This kinda got away from me. It’s a little spicer than my usual fair, but hopefully you all still like it. If you want the run down on Gwen, I’ve got the basics here.

Word Count: 1.5K

Gale couldn’t sleep. Nobody would blame him. The specter of death would keep any man staring at the ceiling. A second unconscious sacrificed a second of one’s sight, smell, speech, even the simple awareness of every intake and outtake of breath which felt so precious to him now.

He was luckier than most in that regard. He at least had someone other than himself to place all these weighted attentions on.

Gwen laid sound asleep in his arms, her head resting peacefully against his chest. He took the time to just look at her, taking everything in from the curve of her cheek to the sporadic strands of white peeking through her dark red hair. Laugh lines touched the corners of her mouth. There were just the hints of freckles across her nose. She had a small bump just below the tip of her left ear. He suppressed the urge to kiss that ear, contenting himself to simply take it in, cataloging every detail.

If they had the time, he’d conduct a more thorough examination. Their time in the field had been a start, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. It had been so long since he had been with someone wholly in his own body, he had forgotten all the detailed sensations the material plane could provide.

The taste of her skin was addicting, made more potent with every bead of sweat he worked down her body. Her breasts fit perfectly in his hands. She had a scar on her right knee and was slightly ticklish around the waist. She wasn’t loud when she came, but the breathy moan of his name whispered warm and real against his ear was a sound he could spend the rest of his life chasing. Of course, that really wasn’t saying much these days.

“You should be sleeping.”

He blinked, his fingers pausing in their absent minded pacing up and down her bare back. Gwen only smiled, her eyes clearly tired but still crinkled at the edges in genuine amusement.

“Sorry,” he said, softly. “Did I wake you?”

“Clearly, but I’ve woken to worse.”

She shifted forward then, pressing a breath of a kiss to his jaw line.

Even that simple touch was enough to remind him of his own naked state and how perfectly their limbs were already wrapped together.

He hand moved up, curling into the thick strands of her hair, tilting her head back to allow for a proper kiss. She smiled against his mouth, her nails scraping deliciously against his skin. Without even thinking he grabbed the back of her thigh pulling her closer so she was straddling his hips. He wasn’t as young as he once was, but he’d be damned to all nine hells if he wasn’t going to savor every moment he had left to have this woman in any way she’d let him.

She pulled away, bracing her hands on his chest. Her lips were beautifully full, wet and swollen from his kisses. He let his hands wander, moving up and down her thighs, across her belly and to the swell of her breasts.

Every part of her was so soft and inviting. Her eyes closed, a small hum of pleasure coming from her chest as he continued to touch her.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was as close to a purr he’d ever gotten from her, save for the odd wild magic surge.

“Thank you,” he whispered, unable to keep it inside him any longer.

She looked down at him, her expression caught between surprise and the daze of pleasure.

Her eyes were green, the purest green he’d ever seen. No hints of brown or gold. Simply a difference in shading, forest green around the edges before fading to something paler towards the center. Although, that black of her pupils were much wider now.

“For what?” she asked.

“For being with me.” His hands moved up her body, allowing his thumb to brush against her nipple before moving further to caress her neck. “For letting me touch you like this.” Her breath hitched, her hips rolling instinctually against him. He could feel his cock harden against her sex. She was the single most intoxicating creature he’d ever beheld.

“I could never have dreamed my last nights would be spent like this,” he confessed.

She stopped then, her body becoming still as her eyes blinked clear. His hands were still on her, but she paid them no mind. Her attentions were solely on him.

“No,” she said, so plainly it took him aback.

“No?”

“No,” she repeated. “These aren’t your last night.”

It wasn’t a statement one was meant to argue with. He couldn’t imagine most people would. It was how she had found herself as the leader of their party. Her will would be done. This time, however, another’s will came above hers.

“Gwen—“

“And don’t “Gwen” me,” she said sternly. She leaned forward, bracing herself on the bed as her other hand cupped his cheek to ensure he didn’t look away. “You’re not dying. We’re going to find another way.”

Gods above, as if he couldn’t love her more. She spoke with such clarity of purpose, he almost believed it was true.

“I’m open to ideas,” he said.

Her expression remained firm, but her silence was telling. It was a valiant effort.

He leaned into her touch, placing his hand over hers.

“I want to live,” he assured, gently. “Believe me, I want to live, but my life cannot be more valued than the countless that will lose theirs to the Absolute.”

“That’s assuming Mystra is right,” she countered. “Are you going to look me in the eye and tell me the gods are infallible?”

His lips parted to speak, but he fell short. Even the most diametrically opposed religious scholars could agree the gods, every god, had their flaws. He was certainly aware of Mystra’s, perhaps more than many could boast, even if he had been blind to them for so long. The fact of it made him falter. Just how much had his worship blinded him?

Gwen’s eyes softened, as her nose brushed against his.

“You told me you were in love with me,” she said, her voice gentle. “Were you telling me the truth?”

His grip tightened around her, a sudden twist of guilt settling in his stomach. “If I’ve made you doubt that for even a second, clearly I’ve been doing something wrong,” he said, firmly.

“And would you let me sacrifice myself on the word of a god?”

He shook his head. “That’s different.”

“How?”

Again he found himself at a loss. There are so many things he could say. There were the logical reasons: the fact she was a mother with a daughter relying on her, her position as the leader of their merry band, her prowess as a caster which would be too useful to lose in the coming battles. None of these sprang to his mind. His only thought was his own selfish desires. He loved her. He didn’t want her to go.

She seemed to understand, as her thumb traced soft reassuring circles against his skin.

“I’m no goddess. I can’t claim to know every possible outcome to every possible scenario. I only know that I love you. And I’m not letting you go, not for anything. You’re not going to die.”

She kissed him then, her touch just as true as her words. He was hers and nothing, not even the will of a god, could take him from her.

He sank into the kiss, surrendering to her without a thought of protest. This was so much more than the possessive nature of a goddess. It held a desperation only mortals could feel, a need that acted as a drug in his veins. Her time on this earth had a limit and she chose to spend those precious seconds with him.

She loved him.

He pressed her tighter against him before flipping them both over so she laid beneath him.

He couldn’t wait another moment. Taking his cock in his hand he guided himself into her tight heat. Pure pleasure and a sense of rightness pulsed through his veins as he sunk deeper, pressing hungry opened mouthed kisses against her lips.

“Gale,” she gasped. Her legs wrapped tight around his waist, her fingers tangling in his hair and nails digging into his back.

Fuck, he needed this. He needed her.

Without another word he set a hard pace, pushing a strangled moan from her throat. He didn’t stop. Nothing short of her command could make him.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I’m yours. I’m all yours.”

It was the only thing he could say. Those three sentences repeated again and again in different orders, all declared in shaking breaths against her skin. Only when she brought his lips to hers did he finally fall silent.

“Then don’t leave me,” she pleaded. “Love me. Don’t stop.”

He didn’t have the words. All of them became lost as he kissed her with a passion that would defy the gods.

Of all the people in the world to love, she chose him. And Mystra be damned, he chose her. He would always choose her.

[averseunhinged]

wip wednesday! still diligently chugging away at finishing some things.

this is less of a sneak peak and more of a probably going to get drastically edited down and become an outtake once i figure out how much backstory is too much backstory. i've been trying to improve my habits and hork up words without overthinking everything too much just to finish complete working drafts. anyway, that's why it's so long.

if you want to read other bits of what was meant to be pwp and has turned into a nothing hurts, post-s4 epic with a rebekah-centric prequel, the order it occurs is:

this week's

then this

this

this one

then this

and finally this

probably. it's probably that order. idk. insomnia is a thing that is happening again.

The mansion was dark when she pulled up. Even the exterior lights were out. Not that she was surprised. Klaus rarely turned them on unless he was expecting human company. 

Say you're a creature of the night without saying you're a creature of the night, she told him once. Why don't you go ahead and shout it? 

Klaus, she'd learned, went a little bit feral when he was at loose ends. He wasn't great at pretending to be human to begin with. Too many years of being too powerful, too wealthy, too Klaus to bother. It's not that he was rude to waitstaff or anything like that. He just didn't care about the little, everyday interactions that went along with being a person in a functioning society. He'd told her story after story about interesting things that had happened around him in the years he'd been alive, but they rarely involved his own participation. The ones that did were usually about some sort of caper. Art he'd compelled into museums and collections under bland assumed names. The milder sorts of mischief he'd got up to with Kol or occasionally Elijah, to Caroline's surprise. He didn't tell many stories about Rebekah, and Caroline wasn't sure if that was a subtle, ingrained sexism, or because he was leaving Rebekah's stories to Rebekah. She wasn't quite the orator her brother was. Caroline learned that quickly. She'd been surprised by how quiet the other woman could be. Rebekah often needed prompting to share anything, but it was almost better that way. At least it was with her. Caroline was hesitant to admit how much she liked Klaus' tendency to be a little bit of a showoff. She wouldn't want to inflate his ego, of course, but it had been a little bit scary how much he entertained her, too. 

She let herself into the house the way she had dozens of times previously, even before she'd liked him, or could admit she did. It was inky dark inside, the light of the waning moon barely making a difference. She listened for him, trying to catch the sound of a paintbrush or the turning of pages, but the house was silent.

"Up here, sweetheart," he murmured after giving her a moment to try to puzzle it out herself. 

"Did you already go to bed?" Caroline triangulated his location and trotted upstairs, her heels clicking against the ostentatious staircase. Rebekah's heels, technically, but she had a habit of buying things, deciding she didn't like them after all, and passing them off to Caroline without worrying about having spent $1200 on a pair of strappy stilettos that didn't suit her. "I know you're old, but that's pretty boring."

"Says the young woman who abandoned her evening plans to drive an hour in order to find this old man."

She wandered the dim hallways upstairs, letting herself get a little bit distracted by the artwork lining the walls. There was too much to ever really take in at once, and Klaus often manifested new pieces, seemingly out of nowhere. Some were from online auctions, he'd explained warily, once, waiting for her to snap at him, and then, when he realized she was genuinely curious, went into more detail as time went on. He had climate controlled storage facilities nearly everywhere in the world, some for his whole family, but many secret ones only he knew about. With Mikael dead and Klaus more or less on tolerable terms with the residents of Mystic Falls, he'd started sending for more of his favorites. Rebekah's, too, though he'd need a personality transplant to get him to admit to doing something nice specifically for her.

And there were some he'd either bought or brought in, because he'd thought Caroline would like them and was trying to get a more precise sense of her taste. He never pointed them out, but always seemed to know which ones she lingered over the most. While her taste in paintings was, in Rebekah's assessment, pretty, but obvious, they'd both been surprised by how often Caroline found herself in the solarium, staring at a sculpture by Tony Cragg. Klaus had smiled knowingly, though, and explained that Cragg used mathematical formulas as the basis of his art. No matter how haphazard they might seem, there was precision in his work some people responded to without knowing why.

Caroline was pretty sure Klaus had switched out a few paintings near the top of the stairs. She'd have to ask later. He always seemed so pleased when she noticed, and she was planning on taking Art History next semester, anyway. The acting class she'd thought would be fun was a mix of uninspiring and irritating, and she'd shuffled a theater major into the probably not column.

The room with northern exposure Klaus used as his atelier was dark, so she turned the corner and found light diffusing into the darkness from his bedroom. He was stretched out on the settee shoved in one corner, directly across from the open balcony doors. The late summer heat had eased enough that the breeze coming in was a pleasant contrast to the warmth of the room. She could feel the humidity in the air from the shower he'd just taken in the en suite. He'd only bothered putting on a pair of dark pajama pants, and his hair, which had been well into unkempt territory the last time she saw him and was now on the verge of shaggy, was still damp enough to curl into incredibly unfair, glossy ringlets. When left to its own devices, her own formed into an ill-behaved mass of cowlicks and loose waves, with the occasional sproingy curl poking out at random.

Caroline had worn a dress she'd bought at a boutique near Whitmore that afternoon with Rebekah. They'd arranged their schedules to always have Fridays off and had used the past few weeks to explore the surrounding area. The boutique and nearby coffee shop and bakery had become a favorite of theirs. The clothes were cute, college age appropriate, and weren't so expensive that they made Caroline uncomfortably reconsider the application of compulsion in retail settings. The café made a mean raspberry mocha and had tiramisu brownies that never failed to improve her mood.

It was a great dress. She'd decided the night called for breaking the golden rule of fashion and bought something sassy that showcased both leg and cleavage. It had worked at the bar. She hadn't paid for a single drink all night, but Klaus barely allowed a flicker downward before he returned his eyes to hers, lifting his glass of probably bourbon--it was never not bourbon, unless it was wine or champagne--to his mouth.

"Do you still want to fuck me or what?" she said too loudly, even with the ambient racket of crickets outside trying to pick up someone, too.

Klaus shot into a more upright position, making a choked, heaving sound, and coughed like he was playing Beth in a community theater production of Little Women.

[theoneinmultiplefandoms]

Bo month! Bo Burnham month! The month when Zach Stone will have its 10th anniversary, as well as INSIDE's 2nd and the Outtakes' 1st anniversaries!

Why not celebrate along with a Bo-related art challenge? ;>

*Check back under the reblogs/Keep Reading tab every week to see the (upcoming) other prompts!*

Let's start off nice and nostalgic!

WEEK 1: Under the Late '00s & Early '10s eras, we have: Lights, Fame, Mirror, Video Game, Tall, Stars, and Future!

---

WEEK 2: Under the Late '00s & Early '10s eras, we have: Angel, Flowers, Guitar, Marker, Piano, Brain, and Oreos!

---

A new range of eras have now begun!

WEEK 3: Under the Late '10s & Early '20s eras, we have: Fire, Ocean, Hair, Rainbow, Sweater, Peanut Butter, and Music!

---

WEEK 4: Under the Late '10s & Early '20s eras, we have: Past, Chair, Merch, Camera, Door, Socks, and Eyes!

[sam-glade]

Seven Snippets, Seven People - pt. 1

Tagged by @talesofsorrowandofruin here, and @writernopal here. Thank you💜

And passing the tag to: @moonluringfrost @scribe-of-stories @late-to-the-fandom @blind-the-winds @liv-is @mjparkerwriting @amewinterswriting

I want to go through the various canon-adjacent stories for this one...

1. [Prince Atterius and Weaveress on the battlefield]

“Starlight.” He whipped his head towards her at the old, old name. “There’s nothing more you can do.”

“I have to try,” he snapped back. She held his eyes stubbornly. “He’s the Sun King’s son. His only child. We can’t just kill him. We have to bring him back to the Palace, we have to–”

“Starlight,” she spoke softer, only for him to hear. “You have tried everything. You have done everything you could, and you keep forgetting you're not omnipotent. Not even you could have changed the course the Dispossessed has chosen.”

2. [Hanging out with Catnip]

Ilona cooked, since she was so good at it. Meanwhile, Catnip set the table, straightened up the tattered cushions, and checked that the water bowls weren't running dry.

"You're fidgeting!" Ilona called from the kitchen, over the sound of bubbling pots and sizzling pans.

Catnip supposed she was. It wasn't everyday that Ermine was coming over for dinner.

3. [Outtake from the training montage]

They tossed a bundle they’d brought from Redguard towards Lissander — it was a long-sleeved padded jack, patched many times over. He caught it easily and unfurled it.

“Put that on, kid.”

Gullin narrowed his eyes, observing Lissander as he pulled it over his head and adjusted its shoulders. The Brigadier turned to Varré.

“Sir? Isn’t that mine?”

“Yeah, I thought it might fit him,” they said with a shrug. Gullin kept looking at them pointedly. “Your orderly was very obliging.”

He ground his teeth.

“I see. I’ll have a word with her next time I’m in Redguard, sir,” he drawled, then realisation dawned on him. “Do I not get protection?”

“You’ve got your greatcoat and decades of experience.” They swirled their hand. “Sword sparring, no release,” they instructed Gullin and swept snow off of a stool-sized boulder.

4. [A little bit of down time between the 2nd and 3rd book]

"What are we doing with our lives?" Gullin asked when the sun started dipping towards the low hills.

"Hm?"

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, gathering shreds of courage. "No, fine, I know what you're doing," he said after a while. "Making the world a better place. But look at me. Youngest bloody general in history, and what good is that? It's a dead end."

5. [Missing home]

“So, how are you finding Redguard?” Ianim asked, watching Lissan with polite curiosity.

Lissan stretched an arm over the iron-wrought back of the weathered bench and looked around the small square. It was carved out of a corner of a limestone townhouse, on the eastern side of the river. A lush lilac bush sprawled in the middle of a paved circle, with four benches surrounding it. Ianim took a seat on an adjacent bench.

“It’s… fine.” Lissan’s tone was too guarded.

Ianim leant in, resting his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands.

“But?” he prompted.

“You know what it looked like back home. Green fields, green orchards, green woods. And here, everything is brick and stone. It’s… weird.”

Ianim smiled gently.

“Missing home?”

6. [Just some relationship drama, move along]

"What the hell is going on with you?" General Erya asked on Wednesday night two weeks later, when Gullin turned up to her quarters as per their routine.

"Ma'am?"

She shoved a glass of rakija into his hand.

"Sit down." He did. "You're working yourself ragged. What for? It's not like we have anything urgent on our plate. What are you even doing in your office at eight in the evening?"

He shrugged, looking away. The truth was, he was avoiding his cold, empty quarters. Not something he could tell her.

"I just have nothing better to do, ma'am." She narrowed her eyes, and he looked back with an expression as innocent as he could manage.

"Really? What happened to your buddies from the Infantries?"

They were meeting in pubs with him and it was better if Gullin stayed away.

"Or your lover?" He winced. Of course she'd noticed it. "Hm?"

"Ma'am, it might be of interest to you, that you don't need to worry about that anymore. I realised that our relationship was jeopardising his reputation and reflecting badly on the princes' family–"

"You broke up!? Moron."

7. [after the... 3rd time? Lissan ends up in a hospital, badly injured]

"Stop trying to get yourself killed, will you? My back will thank you for it."

"Your back…?"

Gullin rolled his shoulders and arched his back pointedly, but his smile waned. Lissan frowned at him until he squirmed.

"Just… stop doing it to me. Please?" The word was carried on a raspy breeze.

"It's okay. I'm alive."

Gullin shook his head violently, and opened his mouth, then closed it. The wind picked up, uneven and jagged. He wasn't going to ask again, Lissan realised.

"All right. I promise, I'll do my best not to land in a hospital on your watch ever again," he said quickly.

The wind steadied, and turned into a light, pleasant breeze.

"Thank you."

Days of Dusk taglist (please message me to +/-): @acertainmoshke @another-white-hole @poetinprose

[periwinckles]

Sorry this has then me so long. I thought of a prompt for an outtake from the train back to twelve.

A snippet from a camping trip Thom and Cyrus take together sometime in the future talking about their families.

(Headsup: not canon compliant as I'm giving K and P three boys, and they are born earlier than in the epilogue. Plus Thom and Cyrus end up talking more about the Mellark's than their own families, but I hope this is still ok!)

“We need to pick up the pace, if we want to get there before nightfall.”

Cyrus is taking the lead, but I’m right behind him. I always let him take the lead on our yearly trek to the forgotten bunker of district twelve. As if I didn’t know the way by heart now. I could probably do it with my eyes closed at this point, after coming here every year for twenty three years. Which is why I know he is right. If we don't pick up the pace it will be nightfall before we reach it.

“We’re getting too old for this aren’t we?” I ask, a little out of breath.

“Nah, you know what they say about District Twelve, Thom. We’re a tough nut to crack.”

“Yeah, but you’re not really from Twelve, are you?”

The snort that comes out of Cyrus tells me he takes my lighthearted joke for what it is. It’s been a long time since Cyrus has felt the effects of prejudice against him. He might have been a peacekeeper in the old regime, but everyone considers him one of us now.

We reach the bunker just as the light is fading away. Some years we just go there but opt to sleep outside in some of the old sleeping bags, just talking nonsense until we fall asleep. But we are getting old, so tonight we’re sleeping inside. Coming here always takes me back in time, to those first few months when we had to rebuild the district and none of us really knew what we were doing. Being suspicious of Cyrus, not knowing he would become one of my closest friends. Funny how things go. 

I start to unload my backpack, fruit, a couple of beers and a meat pie Delly packed for me, and a Rosemary focaccia, courtesy of Peeta Mellark.

“You went to the bakery? Is that why you were late to our meeting point?”

“No, and yes? It’s Peeta’s, but I picked it up from Victor’s village. I dropped Summer there. The kids are having some sort of board game night at the Mellark’s.”

I really shouldn't be calling them kids, should I? Summer is twenty two years old now. It feels like I saw her in Delly’s arms for the first time only a couple of days ago. Delly and I were way younger when we started a life together. But this new generation has a completely new life than what we had. For the first time, they can enjoy their young years, not dreading the reapings, the mines, hunger. Some of them even go to college, though they still need to do it out of district. One of the things I wish I get to do before I retire as District Mayor is to start a community college. Our population is not big enough for a fancy one like the ones they have in four, or three, which is why the government keeps putting down my proposals, and offering scholarships to our students instead. I still haven't given up though.

“You’re letting your daughter hang out at Mellark’s all by herself? You think that’s safe? You know… with all that testosterone going around?”

I can't stop the chuckle. It is sort of a private (or public?) joke that District twelve’s baker always produces three sons. The firstborn, Blaze, is a couple of months younger than Summer. They’ve been sneaking around for a while now, though Delly and I have agreed along with Peeta and Katniss to pretend we haven’t noticed yet, until they are ready to come clean. We had our first suspicion this would one day happen when Delly was tutoring Summer on her math homework (Seventh? Eighth grade? Damn, I’m getting old.) and she had Mrs Mellark written all over her notebook. Oh, but it was because Katniss is such an inspiring role model , or so she tried to convince us. Peeta caught them making out behind the bakery a couple of months ago, while Blaze was supposedly on a break.

“Peeta and Katniss were there. Besides, I trust Summer. Blaze too. He's a smart kid.” 

He's more than smart. That kid's strong. Probably the circunstamces of growing up with two hunger games's survivors and war heroes as parents. Katniss and Peeta were doing a lot better by the time he was born, but being the oldest one means he still took the major load, out of all three of them. Occasionally the bakery would be closed without prior notice, and we all knew what that meant. Peeta was having a bad day. By the time Blaze was fifteen, never again did the bakery close, because he would pick up the slack and skip class to get the bakery running. I remember that leading to a lot of arguments in the Mellark household. Blaze obviously won.

“Yeah, if I were you I wouldn't be taking any chances.” Cyrus answers back.

“Your daughter was there.”

Cyrus widens his eyes in a deadly stare as he places his beer bottle on the table with a loud thump.

“They’re kids, Cyrus. She 's graduating. Let her have fun, for a bit.”

“I let her have fun all the time. But preferably with no Mellarks in sight.”

I get his discomfort. It’s not easy for a father to see his little girl grow up, and honestly? I’m kind of glad I don’t really know when Blaze and Summer started whatever they have, because I might have reacted poorly if I did. Now, I’m mostly resigned.

“They’re good kids. Which one are you worried about anyway?”

They are. They get a lot of female attention, partly due to their parents' status, partly due to their looks. But they are actually quite down to earth, and I’m actually happy for Summer. She and Blaze were always good friends, and became closer throughout the years. And if it goes well, I guess I’ll get three grandkid boys out of it.

“Well, BabyToast is too young for my Calla.”

“You mean Rye?” I think he’s fifteen or sixteen. Not that young, but for teenagers a couple of years feel like a lifetime.

“And your daughter has the older one whipped, which leaves FrenchToast.” He says with a hint of annoyance.

“Robin? What’s your problem with him?”

“None! But have you heard him sing? That kid is going places.”

It is a well known fact that Robin Mellark is the spitting image of his late grandfather, Jack Everdeen, from his laid back demeanor, right to his singing voice. Just a couple of days ago we found out he won a scholarship to college, for an Arts, Music and Performance degree. In fact the last time we had dinner at Victor’s Village all we talked about was his plans for the future. Robin not only inherited Katniss’ musical skills, but also Peeta’s way with a brush. He lives and breathes art. Cyrus is right. That kid could make a name for himself, apart from his parents' legacy.

“Calla mentioned he’s going to college. In the Capitol.” Cyrus’ finally says with a pensive look.

Twenty years may have passed, but the Capitol is still the Capitol. We don't like it. We stay away from it. We deal with them as little as we can. 

“He’s just going there to study, he’s coming back after the three years are done.”

“You don't know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

I tell Cyrus’ all about the dinner we had at the Mellarks. How Peeta approached the idea of starting an art department at our local highschool, once Robin was done with his education. Teaching art and music in district twelve: that would have been the most ludicrous idea a couple of decades ago. It still would be now, if Peeta and Katniss didn’t offer to fund it. There is no way we would have the money to back it up, but if they are willing to pay for their own son's salary, who am I to say no? 

“If you’re scared he’ll drag her away from here, you have nothing to worry about. He’s fully committed to come back and teach here.”

After a few seconds Cyrus’ breathes out with relief. 

“I’m just glad none of us have more daughters. We would probably lose them to BabyToast.”

-------

- Blaze Mellark: Zac Efron when he was younger (because he totally has that Mellark vibe, doesn't he?)

- Robin Mellark : Tom Holland

- Rye Mellark: Josh Hutcherson, but with his dark hair. (picture him in Detention. Yeah, that's Rye Mellark.)

- Summer Campbell: Alexandra Dadario

- Calla Johnson: can't make up my mind. Suggestions welcome.

[endlessnightlock]

For horror prompts: 16. Vengeance (or) Unseelie Court

Vengeance 

from 31 Horror Prompts

So, I've wanted to write a follow-up to Why Is The Window Open? for a long time. If you haven't read that story, this outtake won't make much sense to you. Reference to previous non-con, dub-con as well.

Adult subject matter/horror under the cut. 

It’s taken Katniss a long time to shake off the trance formed by shock and despair she’s existed in since the night the angel of death, otherwise known as Peeta, took her away from the life she’d known and dropped her off on this mountaintop he called home. Not that she could have stayed in the village any longer. Peeta burnt down the meeting house and every cabin in the place, save one, to the ground. Her world turned upside down and dumped her out on the ground, pregnant with the spawn of the devil and forced to deal with the sick desire he awoke in her. Fatherless, motherless. A sister she would never see again.

For a while, she lost her mind. The events of that night were more than her fragile brain could handle. Memories of her father's unjust punishment at the hands of Snow. His death must've been horrible, torn limb from limb the way he certainly was. And the fire that burned her village and everyone in it to the ground.

Her captor and provider and protector is evil incarnate. Peeta is ruthless, cold, and unfeeling. He tells her he loves her but she knows he doesn't really. He doesn't know how to love. She simply fascinates him like a new toy. That's all.

But Peeta is all she has left. Without him holing her up on this mountaintop, she would be alone. Vulnerable, wandering through a world in which she's unequipped to survive alone.

It would be easier if she were alone, Katniss decides, placing her hand over the swell of her belly. She might even let the Walkers take her if it weren't for her child. Although that’s ridiculous. She could end her life just as easily by throwing herself down the mountainside. The rocks would be less painful than being eaten alive by zombies.

Except for Prim. And the Odairs, Katniss reminds herself. She's unsure why Peeta did that for her, sparing her sister and the only people in the village who refused to participate in her trial. It puzzles her, because it’s not enough to make her happy with him. He seems to care very little if she is happy. He still gets to have her, and willingly, because she is weak and above all craves something that makes her feel alive living with the harbinger of death. 

She would like to tell herself she lies with him because he forces it on her, like the first time. Unfortunately, Katniss hasn’t learned how to lie to herself. When he looks at her that way, she goes to him, willing, eager for his touch.

If only she could sink into the oblivion sex provides, permanently. Remain blissfully unaware of what she’s become. Unfortunately that’s not possible. Now that she’s awake, she’s awake.

But lucidity has brought with it a renewed purpose. Revenge. Katniss doesn’t know how yet, but she will get back at Peeta for what he’s done to her. Her family. The world. She will destroy him and she will find great satisfaction in it.

She touches her stomach with the baby shifts inside her womb, a knee or foot or elbow seen moving beneath her tightly stretched skin. It won’t be much longer now. Once the child is born, then she will act. 

This is the part that always trips her up. How? But there has to be something she can do to stop him.

“Katniss,” Peeta murmurs, distracting her from her thoughts. He’s standing before her, a skin tied at his waist and nothing more. She looks up into his deceptively-beautiful face, and forces a smile. The fluttering in her abdomen should be revulsion. They both know it’s not. 

“Come here,” he says, taking her hands, pulling her to her feet. She watches, mesmerized, as he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumbnail lightly trailing behind her earlobe, down further, settling between her breasts. “I want you.”

[staringatthesky11]

Hey hey! Currently reading through Where the Heart is saga. I adore the first story and the second one is great. I got caught up reading the first 20 chapters of love beyond and sobbing through those which prompted me to read the first two because I can’t live in a world where Rosalie isn’t. Rereading this has me wanting to ask if you have any outtakes or one shots from the time in which Emmett and Rosalie are together? Luckily I found the outtake on archive but I just love these two together, and I love the way you wrote my two favorite Cullens. I also adore Emmett and Rosalie with a family. Just curious and as always, thank you for sharing your wonderful work with the rest of us! 💕

Thank you!

I really loved writing Where the Heart Is, and it's always made me really happy to hear about people reading and rereading it. I never set out to write a whole series, but the characters were so great that it was like the whole world just existed inside my head - I didn't have to make it up, I just had to wait for them to tell me.

Actually, Where the Heart Is Now was written because I was talking to someone about the first one and she said that she was so invested in them that she almost wanted me to just write regular updates on what they were doing in their life. The whole comment made me laugh, but then the idea of Esme writing a Christmas round-robin newsletter to go out with her cards and putting a very Esme positive spin on Alice's teen pregnancy just popped into my head fully formed and so away I went. And while I'd never been particularly focused on writing sequels, I really enjoyed seeing how they grew up and how everything I'd written before made sense of how they felt and behaved in new situations.

Love Beyond is always kind of a weird one though. In some ways I love it - I do think it's pretty well written (I mean, the angst is absolutely crushing) and the process of writing and posting it on a schedule became a touchstone that really got me through that first horrible covid year. I'll always love it just for that. At the same time, I almost think of it as fanfic of my fanfic - it's not a REAL part of the Where the Heart Is world, it's just made up! Emmett and Rosalie and that ridiculous herd of children are still living happily ever after and will have wonderful lives together! I mean I do always like people to read my stuff and talk to me about it, but I really understand the (lots!) of people who tapped out on Love Beyond.

I don't have any other outtakes for it though, sorry. At the moment I'm working on a Rosalie/Eleanor story - it's slow going, but it turns out when I said Emmett and Rosalie are my thing in every version and every universe it encompasses this too.

[akatsukirites]

GYD Outtakes: Driving Home

for Drabble_Zone's prompt #384 | 100 words

“You don’t have to go inside,” Konan says, pulling up to the old house. Nagato turns to her with determination. “And how many years have you been coming here to pray?”  It feels like he has to fight for everything these days; even the dignity to pay his respects. Konan's taut frown as she helps him out of the car reminds him that it's only a matter of time before he must succumb to a wheelchair. He grips his cane tighter, and Konan's hand tighter still. He's not ready. At the shrine, he kneels painfully before Yahiko's bright picture.  "Tadaima."

[stardustprompts]

bo burnham’s  inside   sentence starters 2.0 +  the inside outtakes change tenses/pronouns as needed !!  some lines have been edited for clarity / length / ease of roleplaying tw :  mental health ,  depression , suicidal thoughts ,  nsfw ,  language

‘and so today I’m gonna try just getting up, sitting down, going back to work.’

‘might not help but still it couldn’t hurt.’

‘I’m sorry I was gone.’

‘what the fuck is going on?’

‘I wanna help to leave this world better than I found it.’

‘the world is so fucked up.’

‘I self - reflected and I wanna be an agent of change.’

‘maybe I should just shut the fuck up ....  I’m bored.’

‘should I be joking at a time like this?’

‘that’s the deepest talk we’ve ever had.’

‘it’s similar to a constant state of sleep paralysis.’

‘don’t you know that the world is built with blood! and genocide and exploitation...’

‘don’t burden me with the responsibility of educating you. it’s incredibly exhausting.’

‘this isn’t about you. so either get with it, or get out of the fucking way!’

‘I hope you learned your lesson.’

‘I can’t believe it. it’s been a decade since you’ve been gone.’

‘still figuring out how to keep living without you.’

‘it’s got a little better but it’s still hard.’

‘can any single person shut the fuck up about any single thing for an hour? is that possible?’

‘the coffee is free, just like me. I’m an unpaid intern.’

‘I’m being a little pretentious.’

‘it’s pretty unlikable that I ... that I have this need, this desperate need, to be seen as, uh, intelligent.’

‘it’s a defense mechanism. I’m so worried that criticism will be levied against me that I levy it against myself before anyone else can.’

‘look at where you came from. look at you now.’

‘sexting. it isn’t sex, it’s the next best thing.’

‘we’ll talk dirty like we’re ancient egyptians.’

‘jesus fucking christ, I guess I never learn.’

‘I was a kid who was stuck in his room. there isn’t much more to say about it.’

‘there isn’t much more to say about it.’

‘when you’re a kid and you’re stuck in your room, you’ll do any old shit to get out of it.’

‘you went out to look for a reason to hide again.’

‘now come out with your hands up, we’ve got you surrounded.’

‘isn’t anybody going to hold me accountable?’

‘I tried to hide behind my childhood and that’s not okay. my actions are my own, I won’t explain them away.’

‘and I’m really fucking sorry.’

‘I turn thirty in less than a minute.’

‘I used to wake up with a smile, and go to bed at night with a dream. but now I’m turning thirty.’

‘oh fuck. how am I thirty?’

‘I used to make fun of the boomers. in retrospect, a bit too much.’

‘and now my stupid friends are having stupid children.’

‘I’ll be honest with you, didn’t love it.’

‘we shouldn’t be dead forever, yet. so let’s not, right?’

‘nevermind, I don’t wanna know.’

‘I thought it’d be over by now. but I got awhile to go.’

‘I’m holding the flashlight like a cop. why am I doing that?’

‘are you feeling what I’m feeling? I haven’t had a shower in the last nine days.’

‘staring at the ceiling and waiting for this feeling to go away. but it won’t go away.’

‘well, I feel like shit. feeling like a saggy , massive bag of shit.’

‘my current mental health is rapidly approaching, um. an ATL. which is, uh, an all time low. not ... not atlanta.’

‘I feel okay when I’m asleep.’

‘could I interest you in everything all of the time?’

‘you know, it wasn’t always like this.’

‘and if we stick together, who knows what we’ll do.’

‘it was always the plan, to put the world in your hand.’

‘and that has made me completely freak out.’

‘one should only engage with the outside world as one engages with a coal mine. suit up, gather what is needed, and return to the surface.’

‘in honor of the revolution it’s half - off at the gap.’

‘there it is again. that funny feeling.’

‘hey, what can ya say? we were overdue.’

‘but it’ll be over soon, just wait.’

‘I am not ... well.’

‘don’t be scared. don’t be shy. come on in, the water’s fine.’

‘pray for me.’

‘I got better.’

‘I’ve been hiding from the world and I need to reenter.’

‘you say the whole world’s ending, honey, it already did.’

‘you’re not going to slow it, heaven knows you tried.’

‘so this is how it ends.’

‘I’m slowly losing power.’

‘has it only been an hour? no, that can’t be right.’

‘am I going crazy? would I even know?’

‘oh shit. you’re really joking at a time like this?’

‘it’ll stop any day now.’

the inside outtakes 

‘am I dying? is this real? oh, right, it’s this again.’

‘is it gonna end? when?’ 

‘I’ll bother getting better when I bother getting dressed.’

‘I don’t know what’s happening.’

‘what the fuck is going on?’

‘I wanna be my dad in the 80′s.’

‘if I could be anybody dead or alive, I would want to be my dad in 1985.’

 ‘I just wanna feel good.’ 

‘can you teach me how to feel good?’

‘buy some jeans and find out why jeans are jeans.’

‘maybe i’ll feel better when I go to bed. maybe, but probably not.’

‘if your least favorite word is ‘moist’ and you tell people that ... I hate you.’ 

‘my least favorite word, by the way, is ‘injustice’.’ 

‘just google it. you’re an adult, you can figure it out.’ 

‘you know me and I know you.’ 

‘you’re a psycho. and I don’t want to fight so let’s just drop this, it’s not a big deal.’ 

‘for the record, you own me a dumpling. I mean it, I won’t forget. you owe me a dumpling or a dumpling equivalent.’

‘um, no, fuck that.’ 

‘shit like this brings the movement down.’ 

‘everyone’s a feminist until there is a spider around.’ 

‘I’m trying to make microwave popcorn, in the microwave.’

‘that’s kind of a wide range...’

‘I burnt my fingie...’

‘shit, I burned it.’

‘how’d I miss this button? there’s a button and the button says ‘popcorn’ on the microwave.’

‘I often wish I could just start over.’ 

‘I ain’t afraid of no spider.’ 

‘show yourself! you motherfucker! show yourself!’ 

‘it’s very upsetting that the future is in front of now, do y’know what I mean? like that we have to keep living from now, onward.’ 

‘this isn’t a joke, so don’t joke about it.’ 

‘not ideal, but we’ll make it work.’ 

‘just a little update; time is still ... passing.’ 

‘am I going crazy? maybe, maybe not.’

[whatnotmemes]

-------------------BO BURNHAM’S INSIDE OUTTAKES SENTENCE STARTERS change as needed. language, adult content, mentions of mental illness.

“I’m going a little crazy.” “I don’t have a kid. I crochet instead.” “I’ll bother getting better when I bother getting dressed.” ”I’m living in the future.” “Am I kinda hot?” “I’m just hoping I can write or film something soon that’s usable, or I’m just gonna stop and play PlayStation.” “Is this fucking doing anything?” “Is this looking cool or just fucking stupid?” “I’m a stupid little bitch!” “I just wanna feel good.” “I’m not even close to kidding.” “I wanna know when Dippin’ Dots is going to condemn child sex trafficking.” “Maybe I’ll feel better when I got to bed.” “I wrote a joke. Wanna hear it?” “If your least favorite word is ‘moist’ and you tell people that, I hate you.” “My least favorite word, by the way, is ‘injustice.’” “I wrote a song for you.” “You’re an adult. You can figure it out.” “You think I am the worst.” “Why would you assume that you’re entitled to a dumpling?” “I don’t wanna fight so let’s just drop this- it’s not a big deal.” “You owe me a dumpling or a dumpling equivalent.” “Um no, fuck that.” “Your whole worldview collapses the moment there’s a spider.” “I get it, this is the real you. It’s a pleasure. Nice to meet you.” “Shit like this brings the movement down.” “Everyone’s a feminist until there is a spider around.” “Our culture has been taken over by a radical group of SJW feminist freaks.” “Now we’re fucking talking.” “Offer yourself by being yourself. And if that doesn’t work, be somebody else.” “Who you are on a fundamental, sort of unchangeable level, may just be uninteresting.” “How is the best case scenario Joe Biden?” “Soon after I posted my first couple videos, they went viral.” “There’s a lot of material that I’m just really embarrassed by and makes me cringe for a lot of reasons.” “I often wish that I could just, you know, start over.” “Fuck you, dude. Fuck you, alright?” “I ain’t afraid of no spider.” “It’s very upsetting that the future is in front of now, do you know what I mean? Like that we have to keep living from now onward.” “This isn’t a joke, so don’t joke about it.” “I don’t wanna talk about it.” “I’m doing fine. Twenty-nine, in my prime.” “I am a weird looking dude.” “You’re supposed to see the top of your head when you come out of your mother’s pussy, but you saw my face. I came out face first.” “Other days, like today, I just feel like I’m completely spinning my wheels and wasting my time.” “I’ve been eating these things for basically every meal for the past six months.” “I’m using a paper plate. I know they’re bad for the environment but I’d rather put a gun in my mouth than do another dish.” “We could and would and should have done better.” “Our doing isn’t done and our done-ing isn’t did, okay? So know that.” “We are living in a golden age of content.” “Time is still, you know, passing.” “It’s only a problem when you go outside.” “I’m done being sad.” “Am I going crazy? Maybe, maybe not.” “Pray for us.” “The more I wait for it, the more shitty I feel and look.” “I realized the only way this thing is going to stop is if I stop doing it, so I’m going to stop.” “She likes her life as a mother and wife, but is that all she is?” “Her future is waiting right there for the taking.” “The chicken must first cross the road.” “I’m an adult man in a baseball hat.” “I don’t know what’s happening.” “What the fuck is going on?”

[priceof-freedom]

That was your first smut?? DAMN, that was so good 🥵 you should write more! Maybe something about calling Bob “Lieutenant” in the bedroom?

This isn’t the first ask I’ve gotten about Bob being called “lieutenant” in bed, so I figured I’d take a stab at it!

Drabble: Over the edge

Pairing: Robert “Bob” Floyd x F!Reader (Top Gun: Maverick)

Warnings: Smut, 18+ only, MINORS DNI

TOP GUN: MAVERICK MASTERLIST // MAIN MASTERLIST

It was too much and not enough at the same time.

The sensory overload was threatening to drive you over the edge. And oh how you wanted to go there. “I’m so close,” you whimpered.

“Not yet, baby.” His gruff voice accompanied a harder grip on your hips, as he guided you along.

You braced yourself on his shoulders, riding him in earnest, feeling him solid and throbbing inside you. The peak was so dangerously close, and you were teetering. It wouldn’t take too much to reach what you craved. If only you could get there. If only.

The glint in Bob’s eyes made it clear that he was thoroughly enjoying it. He snapped his hips upward, filling you to the hilt. You should be embarrassed by the way you’re moaning, but every bone in your body was too focused on the feeling of him.

Your cunt trembled, squeezing and tightening around him. You knew you couldn’t hold out much longer, but you needed his permission.

“Bob— I c-can’t,” you whined breathlessly.

“Use your words, baby.”

“Please, lieutenant,” came your pained whisper.

Bob’s eyes turned feral. His fingers dug harder into your hips, where you’re sure to find a bruise tomorrow morning. A wicked grin on his lips, he finally gave you what you sought. “Since you asked so nicely…”

This man will be the death of you.

Check out the other stories in this universe:

A one-shot featuring Bob and Doc!Reader, plus the follow-up smutty outtake

A fluffy drabble on Bob and Reader’s date

A one-shot featuring Rooster and Penny’s niece

A drabble set right before Rooster and Niece!Reader have their date

Send me some questions or prompts for headcanons/blurbs!

Currently, I do not run taglists. I might in the future. :)

[holdinbacksecrets]

Oooh ooh, what about this as a prompt for BTS?

What color is their love? What's the temperature? What's the vibe? At their best, most consistently, most comfortable, what's the way to describe their love?

💜

i'm genuinely in awe of your request... holy shit? i feel like i could revisit this- no, i have to revisit this bc ohmygod it deserves the best writing i can come up with. thank you for requesting!

namjoon: his love is the warmth that settles throughout your body while drinking a hot cup of tea. it’s consuming and vibrant and familiar. it’s intimate and personal and tastes like honey and chamomile.

jin: his love is the orange at sunset, painted across the sky and impossible to recreate no matter how hard one tries. and it’s calm. it’s the coolness you feel when words are trusted. that exhale when the heaviness is lifted from tired shoulders and sleep has never been easier to fall into

yoongi: dark brown. coffee grounds. whiskey shots. lasting. lingering. completing. something impossible to forget once it’s known to the senses: seen tasted felt enjoyed. but it started intense… unknown… evolving to soft. he’s soft and so much more than what’s seen on the surface. turn him over. hold him in your hands. feel him last in your space despite his person being far away. outlasting dreams. continuing dreams. better than dreams.

hoseok: neon signs in a city’s midnight sky, blurred by his car's speed: highway bound. feet on the dash. windows down kind of wind that whips and curls your hair and sends his cologne through the air

jimin: the deep purple of gratitude of understanding of a love that’s survived- is surviving. the deep purple that’s never mistaken. that’s never-changing. reliant. strong. heavy but never suffocating. like a weighted blanket on restless legs. he’s got you.

taehyung: sage green. willow trees. fallen leaves. soft grass beneath bare feet. laying down in a meadow with the support of earth. the history of earth. the aroma that erupts from freshly cut fruit. sunshine-warmed juices on fingertips licked clean

jungkook: starlight. golden. sparkling. night skies. brightness in night skies. an october moon. quiet before the peak, before the anticipated climax. the ride is electrifying. a heart that warms. a smile that’s religious. lips to worship. a comfort within his magic, despite your wondering that surrounds his extraordinary. nearly unworldly, entirely ethereal

outtakes:

summer mornings before it’s too hot, before the heat hits that keeps you inside. his love is summer mornings that feel like heaven on a balcony with your legs exposed and a worn out t shirt covering just-showered skin.

laundry. your face pressed into sheets just washed on a bed just made. the texture is smooth and soft. everything is soft and white. bright white. renewal. angelic. the possibility of starting over.

[streetlightsky]

p.s. i love you, the outtakes

at the gentle prompt, here are some outtakes to p.s. i love you, my latest sebchal fic. namely, there were two other planned versions of this fic that never came to be. i always save my notes outline for every fic i start, so i thought i would share a little bit if anyone is interested in hearing more about the ficverse or random thoughts of mine in the writing process.

the first version was going to be a traditional fic of longer length. story would've been the same but naturally with greater detail to establish the ficverse. seb starting a foundation, which i briefly mentioned in the published version, would've played a larger role. the barely perceptible conflict in the published version would've been far more visible and drawn out and included The Fight i alluded to. but the core of the story would've been the same: charles finding it difficult to have and hold onto this relationship when he and seb are going in two very different directions upon seb's retirement (same old, same old from me), and one of the ways and the primary way in this fic that seb tries to resolve those exact challenges that he sees and faces as well is through the notes he leaves charles.

the entire first scene for the original version:

Charles didn’t find the little yellow sticky note until morning.

The day before, he had utterly embarrassed himself with the way he had plastered his body against Sebastian’s before the older man departed. But he hadn’t cared one bit. His hands wormed their way underneath light layers of fabric to clutch at the hot heat of skin, and his mouth pressed tenacious and wet kisses hoping for a repeat performance of the previous thirty-six hours.

It wasn’t every day they found uninterrupted alone time in Monaco anymore. And with such a luxury in their grasp, Charles was just that unwilling to see the indulgence come to an end.

“Honestly, you’ll be so busy, you won’t even miss me,” Seb said in the lift ride down to the underground carpark. Charles pinched his features so hard before dropping his forehead against his boyfriend’s shoulder. Sebastian promptly pushed him to the other corner of the elevator cabin.

Honestly, he never saw a single driver in his building—didn’t even know any of them lived here—except when Sebastian had stayed over for the first time and Charles had been angling for a goodbye kiss only for the doors to open and reveal Nico Hulkenberg and a baby carriage, ruining all of his hard-earned progress.

While Seb tossed his bag in the boot, Charles took the opportunity to lean against the pilot’s door with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Thurgau was an eight-hour drive away—a majority of those hours that could’ve been spent together if Seb weren’t starting a public charity that stole all of their time together in more ways than one.

“Well? Go on, then.” Seb stood in front of him with a cheeky smile that said he knew exactly how he affected Charles. It was unfair, really, how the older man could still make him feel like a boy with a crush.

Charles hoped he would never stop feeling this way.

“There’s no one. If I kiss you here, you can’t push me away,” Charles said, trying to inject some kind of authority in the space between them.

“If you kiss me here, I’m going to go home and eat all those biscuits you like so much and thought you hid so well in the back of the cabinet.”

The soft laughter from Seb’s lips twisted his insides. Refraining from leaning in for what he wanted, he settled for a hand on the German’s arm. The solid contact was firm, unassuming, but still close as his thumb caressed the skin of the man’s elbow.

“It’s just a few days,” Seb said.

“Nearly a week,” he countered.

“Yes, and it will go by fast with all the things Mattia will have you do for the team.”

He was two races into the season—two podiums but no wins. The team expected to deliver in Imola. The tifosi expected them to win. Charles was still without a championship, but this could be his year. Again.

He sighed and stepped aside. And Seb—

Seb had cupped his cheek for a flitting moment and promised with his eyes that this was nothing to fuss over. Charles had held onto the silent promise as the older man got into the car, waved, and drove off. He knew that Seb knew that there was more he was withholding, more that made this difficult for him, more that Charles wasn’t sure he could share yet.

So, he took whatever Seb offered without asking, and that included the note stuck on the inside of the closet door hidden in plain sight for his eyes only.

I miss you already too.

Charles almost heaved.

Six days, including an entire race weekend, seemed too much to bear.

part of The Fight, a culmination of charles throwing all his frustrations and accusations at seb that leads to him storming out and them not speaking for a few weeks:

"You always say things like that. Like you don't think I can do it. Like you don't want me to win."

"Of course not. How can you believe that?"

"Well, I don't know! You always just tell me things like that. Just because you didn't win does not mean I can't."

"Charles, I never said that."

"I feel that you don't believe it can happen. Like you don't want it to happen. If you couldn't do it, then I can't either. Just because you couldn't, doesn't mean no one else can."

either another fight or another snippet/version of The Fight:

“You never come to any races. You never want to hear me talk about the car or what’s going on with the team. You always seem to want as much distance between you and the sport. You wouldn’t even look at me or care about me like this until after you retired. And even then, I was the one that came to you. You are never interested in my life.”

“That’s not true. I never said that. Would going to races honestly make a difference?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Why? You would be busy all the time. I would just be in the way. What's the point of me going?”

“Because I want you there!”

part of the reconciliation:

"Don't try to be someone else. Be Charles. And maybe that wins seven titles. Maybe one. Maybe four with another team. You can never please everyone. You can never make them all happy. But if you like who you are, if you are happy with yourself when you wake up and go to bed every day, and if you are happy with who you surround yourself with, then you'll be all right."

"Are you? Happy?"

"Yes. I am now."

the second version of this fic i attempted was to write a strict 100 word drabble for each scene with one post-it note message per drabble and stitching all of them together to create a coherent timeline/story. as this fic was for the @sportsrpffest that had a minimum word limit, i was originally aiming for a total of 10 drabbles at 1000 words exact. i wrote three drabbles but then abandoned this idea. and legit the reason i abandoned it was because i was adamant on including the last scene of charles going home in the published version that i could not find an elegant and appropriate way to break for the drabble format. go figure. in the end, i did integrate the drabbles i had already written into the published version of the fic.

anywho, i think this fic turned out the way it was supposed to. i'm finding it harder and harder to stick completely to 'canon' fics here, so a feature-length fic probably would've been redundant and worth too much effort and trouble for the return. but to whoever prompted this for the rpf fest, thanks for such a cute idea! i hope i did it some justice.

[procrastinatorproject]

I have recently taken up drabbles. My brain has been in A Bit Of A State for a while now, and long-form fiction just... hasn’t been happening. And one night when I couldn’t get myself to read or write or map or watch anything, I had an idea:

I run the Mapping La Sirena project on my sideblog, where I take a look at all kinds of details surrounding La Sirena, the starship from Star Trek: Picard. (I know the vast majority of you know this and follow and support me over there, but you know. context. XD)

Because of the project, I have 1.4k screenshots of La Sirena (and a few of Picard’s office in La Barre, since that gets recreated on the holodeck). So I decided: I’m going to figure out how to make my computer pick a random file out of this mass, and then I’m going to write some short scene inspired by that screenshot. Maybe just a tiny detail from the screenshot, but it’s my version of giving myself prompts.

And then the first two turned out to be drabbles that, shame on me, I still need to post, but I can’t decide on a title. The Series of all of these prompt-based ficlets is going to be called “Screenshot Scribbles”, because I love a good series, and I’m a medievalist, so I also love me some alliteration. But I still need a title for the fic where I collect the standalone drabbles. We’ll see.

In the meantime, the third screenshot my computer picked for me was this:

If you know anything about me, you’re not gonna be surprised that my reaction was basically to swoon. Look at the detail on the inside of the wings! Look at the sun glinting majesticaly off the dark front window! Look at the gentle glow of the deflectors in her shoulders! I love this ship SO FRIGGING MUCH!

So, of course, I needed to write a whole series of drabbles based on this, and it turned into a possible telling of how Cristóbal Rios, formerly of Starfleet, becomes Captain Cris Rios of the independent freighter La Sirena.

I’m about halfway through, but one of the drabbles didn’t quite feel right. I’m not sure it’s gonna stay in the story, of if it gets moved to the collection of standalone drabbles, or if it will disappear into the Outtakes folder. But since I am feeling inspired by This Post to “share guiltlessly”: A Drabble Draft!

“Hrngh…”

“Good, you’re awake.”

The strangely familiar voice bored into his pounding skull.

“I was starting to worry this biobed’s blood-filters might not be up to the task. It’s a rather basic model.”

He groaned as the voice blathered on about inadequate medical equipment. He opened his eyes a fraction, then bolted upright.

“Who the fuck are you?!”

He got a weary look in response. “I’m the EMH. You initialized our programmes last night, remember? Well, no, you wouldn’t…”

He stared, dumbfounded.

The EMH raised two judgemental eyebrows. “Next time you find yourself black-out drunk, maybe get a tattoo instead?”

The main reason I’m ambivalent about this one is because I imagine when Emil (the EMH) was first activated, he might not have been at the snark level that we see him use with Rios in ep 3. (”So, what seems to be the problem?” -- he asks Rios who has a giant piece of tritanium shrapnell stuck in his shoulder, after he chose to walk from whatever he was doing at the back of the ship to the bridge rather than materialize there directly and then took the time to stop and greet Picard. That is some dedicated trolling right there.)

I imagine Emil might have had a slightly better bedside manner upon first activation. The full-out exasperation only set in after years of Rios getting himself hurt and neglecting his health, and Emil reverting to passive-aggression to bully him into occasionally taking care of himself anyway and dealing with all the grief he gets for trying to keep his captain alive.

I don’t know. Like I said, I’m ambivalent.

But here is a little sharing of what has been going on over here ;9

[endlessnightlock]

If you want to do it, if one speaks to you, song lyrics prompts: 15, 26, or 27. And 45 for By the Moonlight Side (perhaps with smut)?!

45. With a full moon and a shitty mood.

I have plans for more of this @jhsgf82 that I’ll probably continue on Ao3. I don’t know that the story has anything to do with a shitty mood, but I don’t think you’ll mind. ;) 

I wanted to write this for the make you feel better campaign, but I couldn’t get my act together in time, lol. But here it is now.

An outtake from 

By The Moonlight Side

Trigger Warning for non-explicit (yet! ;) ) sexual content.

Katniss lies on her back. gaze focused on the dandelion she plucked from the grass moments ago. She dangles it above her head, twisting the stem between her fingers. 

Peeta can tell his girlfriend is distracted, lost inside the world in her head. The lunch they packed for an impromptu picnic in the park is spread out at the foot of the patchwork quilt she grabbed on the way out the door. Peeta lies on his side, supporting his head in the bend of his elbow, discretely watching her flick the dandelion around. He knows he should sit up and put the leftovers away but can’t seem to move.

After dangling the bloom low enough to her nose to sniff it, a move that makes Peeta smile, Katniss lets the flower drop to her side with a sigh. She rolls onto her side and props herself up with her elbow to look at him directly. Meeting his eyes, she captures her bottom lip with her teeth. 

He realizes she’s mulling something over. He thinks about moving closer to kiss her but doesn’t get that far. Any thoughts Peeta had of moving from the spot he lays in evaporate when Katniss begins playing with his hair. She scratches his scalp lightly, and his eyelids instantly fall shut. He lets out a contented groan, wondering if she’s actively trying to get him to go to sleep- she knows how much he likes it when she scratches him, whether he’s in “Peeta” or “Scruffy” form. 

Katniss’s hand stills in his hair, so he peeks one eye open to look up at her. 

"Is there any truth to what they say about the full moon?" she asks out of nowhere. 

They’ve never talked about lunar patterns before. The question is odd, so Peeta frowns, confused. "What do you mean?" 

She’s wearing this expression he can’t figure out, but he knows her flushed cheeks can’t be from the sun. 

After an awkward moment, she starts moving her fingers through his hair again. “I don’t know, ah-”

“You can ask me anything, Katniss. You know that.”

There’s a definite blush on her cheeks now.

Peeta can’t take his eyes off her as the familiar feeling of warmth and desire to protect her grows in his chest. It’s powerful when she’s all awkward like this, although she rarely gets that way with him anymore. He wonders for a moment if this is what imprinting looks like—not that he would know. His dad still hasn’t explained jack shit to him about that. 

Katniss laughs nervously before trying to explain herself. “When there’s a full moon, does it make you more, um, aggressive?”

Peeta’s smile drops off his face. He’s not sure what he’s getting at. Is she asking if she should be afraid when he’s in wolf form during a full moon, or is she telling him she is? He’s never frightened her, at least not after the first time he shifted from Peeta to Scruffy, when Katniss ran screaming out of the woods behind her house. 

Okay, Katniss wasn’t screaming that night. She saved making a lot of noise for other times, something that’d come as a pleasant surprise when they began fooling around together. Peeta wants to smile at the thought, although it doesn’t seem appropriate since he’s in the dark as to what she’s getting at with her questions. 

Peeta worries that he won’t have a chance to switch back to “Scruffy” form soon enough to save his bacon one of these times. One thing is sure—it can be nerve-wracking if it’s the middle of the night and they’re at her house when she starts moaning loudly, giving little thought to Prim and her mother down the hall. 

Thank goodness Katniss’s mother knocks before walking into her bedroom. His house would never afford them that sort of privacy. Rye would stand in the doorway and laugh if he ever caught them, no matter what state of undress they were in.

“Oh, no,” Katniss finally says, putting two and two together, realizing why he’s so reticent all of a sudden. “Obviously, you’re never dangerous, full moon or not. I guess what I meant was—oh, never mind.”

Peeta scoots closer to her on the blanket. “Don’t. You can ask me anything.”

She ducks her head. “I just don’t want you to think I’m weird,” she explains softly.

“Weird? Katniss—I’m a fucking werewolf. It doesn’t get much weirder than that.” He smiles at her quiet laughter. When he puts his free arm around her waist, she shivers as she will sometimes when he pushes her shirt off her body. It gets his imagination going.

“Yeah, you’re right. Okay, so it’s about that,” she admits. “When there’s a full moon, does it make you feel? Ah, I’m not sure how to phrase this….”

And just like that, Peeta realizes what Katniss is getting at. He grins devilishly. “Are you asking if a full moon makes me horny?

Katniss laughs. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Her laughter trails off while Peeta mulls the question over in his head. Does the full moon make a difference in how Peeta Junior is feeling? 

If he’s honest, he’s pretty much always horny. Around Katniss, at least, or anytime he thinks about them together. 

Okay, Peeta lives in a constant state of horniness.

Peeta leans back a little and tilts Katniss’s chin up to try and figure her out. Her pupils are a little dilated, and her skin is hot. But why is she asking that? She bites her lip again the way she does before initiating anything sexual between them. The idea of the full moon making him more sexually aggressive is turning her on—a lot.

“Yes, it does,” Peeta says, swallowing hard. It’s not exactly true, but technically, it’s not a lie either because the idea of anything he can do to turn her on does it for him. He’ll probably never look at a full moon the same way again.

“So you’d better watch out,” he teases, wiggling his eyebrows. Katniss laughs.

But the thing is, Peeta’s not teasing. He’s thinking.