#first prompt fill!!!!!

[plisuu]

Welcome to DADWC! I’d love to see “ There’s only one bed… ” for Cassandra/Varric!

Ohhh, thank you for the warm welcome and prompt!!! @dadrunkwriting 154: “There’s only one bed… ”

Cassandra let out a huff, hip cocked to the side and arms folded in frustration as she glared at the over-embroidered, gold-gilded mess that Orlesians considered bedding. The room was certainly luxurious, she’d give them that. “It looks like Ruffles’s legendary charm really did those nobles in. Do you think I could get them to do some favors for me if I worked the dwarfish magic a little bit? Maybe I should work the “famous author” angle more often,” Varric joked, sweeping his gaze over the expensive decor with an appreciative gaze. “I think that the only thing your dwarfish magic would gain you is much less pleasant,” Cassandra scoffed. She looked over the room again, committing its details to memory. A balcony to the south with elaborate railing could invite an assassin, but the foot of the bed faced the double-doors so the sleeper would be able to see out without much trouble… The foot of the single, massive bed in the center of the room... “There’s only one bed!” She exclaimed, and the realization caused her to flush red. “Maybe we should have asked her to work the charm a little harder,” Varric chuckled. When the Inquisition had reached their generous lodging in Orlais, the news was broken to them by Josephine. “Due to the limited number of rooms that we’ve managed to acquire, we will need to share many of the accommodations,” the ambassador had informed them. Unfortunately, Varric had offered to take any spot left open, and no one had volunteered to subject themselves to Cassandra’s snoring. They weren’t exactly told that the bed was part of the accommodation they would be expected to share. “I will sleep on the floor,” the Seeker announced abruptly, marching to the far side of the room and dropping her belongings. “Oh, come on Seeker. What, worried I’ll spend all night whispering sweet nothings? Don’t think I can keep my hands to myself?” he goaded, tugging off his leather gloves and wiggling his fingers at her. “Really, you don’t give me enough credit.” A frown formed on Cassandra’s lips and she furrowed her brows. “There will not be room for both of us. And besides, It wouldn’t be appropriate.” “This bed is big enough to fit half of the Inquisition’s troops, and you’re worried about that?” Cassandra’s frown deepened. She had shared tents before without trouble, even with Varric, but something about sharing a bed was intimate. “Are you blushing?” Varric laughed, turning to the freshly filled water basin to start cleaning off the grime from traveling. “I am not!” Varric laughed again, and Cassandra marched up to grab him by the scruff of the shirt. “Whoa there, we haven’t even gotten to the bed part yet,” he teased. “You could at least treat me to dinner first.” “Ugh!” She shoved him away from the basin and splashed her face, hoping to cool down the furious heat that prickled there. When she turned back around, Varric had taken the far side of the bed, causing the frame to creak. She eyed the mattress again. It was quite large. There would be at least 3 feet between herself and the dwarf, if he managed to stay on his side. She let out a defeated sigh. “Fine. But if you touch me, I will strangle you in your sleep, dwarf.” Varric let out a drowsy chuckle. “Is that a threat, or a promise, Seeker?”

#dadwc #varric x cassandra #Varric Tethras #Cassandra Pentaghast #my writing #first prompt fill!!!!!

[luxaofhesperides]

Dancing in the rain ; requested by @wandixx!

He hadn’t been expecting the Signal to chase after him. It is, after all, well after midnight, and he had seen the vigilante out earlier during the day. 

Maybe the Bats are understaffed tonight, he muses as he leaps over the rooftops, a wild grin on his face. Being on the other side of a chase is a lot of fun, he’s discovering. He can see why Selina enjoys it so much.

Though, it probably has to do more with who’s chasing her than it is the chase itself.

But Danny’s become a bit of an adrenaline junkie after a few years of being a hero, fighting ghosts and governments. He’s not a hero anymore, especially not in Gotham, but being Catwoman’s partner in crime is way more fun than being responsible for everyone’s safety.

It’s like he’s doing anything bad, either. Selina can steal whatever she wants; if they couldn’t protect things against her, then should they really have it? Danny doesn’t focus on jewelry or gems. No, he takes ghost artifacts or items contaminated with ectoplasm back to the realms where they won’t cause problems to any humans. There are enough ecto-contaminated people in this world, solely from Amity Park. Best not to let that number grow.

So here he is, leaping over rain-slicked rooftops and only using a little bit of flying to keep ahead, holding a cursed pocket watch that a ghost had requested he return to them, with the Signal chasing after him, disappearing into shadows and popping up unexpectedly. 

“Stray! Get back here!” Signal yells, and Danny takes a moment to spin on his heel to face the vigilante to stick his tongue out at him, then backflips away.

“I didn’t even steal anything important!” he returns, tossing the pocketwatch in the air ahead, then jumps up to catch it and scales his way up to the roof of the next building. 

“Seriously,” Signal says, suddenly in front of him. “Stop running and we can talk this out.”

“Woah!” Danny tries to get around him, trips over his own feet, and crashes into the Signal’s chest. 

“Careful, there.” He looks up to see the Signal’s smile, and he absolutely can not be blamed for having his half dead heart skip a beat. He’s in the arms of a hero who’s smiling at him so sweetly, what’s a guy to do? “Ready to talk now?”

Danny goes intangible for a moment, smoothly sliding out of the Signa’s grip. “Nope,” he grins, starting up the chase once again.

The rain isn’t very strong, and the drops feel cool against his face as he runs, getting a little more air with each jump as he uses more of his flight to keep ahead. He can hear the Signal chasing after him again, heavy footsteps that start and stop unpredictably as he travels between shadows. 

Just to be safe, Danny stashes the pocket watch inside his chest, leaving his hands free to grab onto the rough brick of the walls and scale them up, aiming to go higher and higher. Maybe if he finds a good building, he can dramatically fall off the edge and fly away invisibly. 

“Got you!” 

The Signal pops up out of the wall and grabs Danny, who yelps and tries to pull his arms away. The Signal is too strong, and his tight grip on Danny’s wrists is warm against the chill of the rain. 

They stand there for a moment, just staring at each other as they try to catch their breath. And then, “Is that any way to treat a guy?” Danny jokes, trying one last time to pull his wrists free.

“It is when it’s you,” the Signal replies. “Man, you sure know how to run.”

“I’ll be sure to put that on my resume for my next heist.”

“Seriously, can we talk?”

Danny eyes him curiously. The other Bats mostly tried to take back whatever it is he’d stolen that night, occasionally trying to get information from him. None of them had outright asked to have a chat with him. The Signal at least has some manners, compared to the rest of him. There’s no harm in sticking around for one conversation.

It helps that the Signal is cute, especially when he had saved Danny a few weeks ago. 

Sue him, he’s a bit soft on the Signal. Wouldn’t anyone be with their favorite hero?

“Alright,” Danny says, relaxing. “Go ahead. Talk.”

“Great! Okay, um.” The Signal bites his lip and Danny should really look away, but his eyes are fixed to his mouth. He doesn’t speak for a solid minute, during which Danny really begins to feel the chill of the rain. “Can I get less comments from the peanut gallery?” he says suddenly.

“What?” Danny laughs, confused.

The Signal sighs. “My comms are on. The others are being annoying. If they wanted to ask you questions, they should have caught you first.”

“Oh, protecting me from the big bad Bats? My hero,” Danny says sweetly, pretending to swoon. Except, the Signal follows his movements, releasing his wrists to catch him by the waist, holding him steady. Danny’s breath hitches, and from how close they are, he has no doubt that the Signal heard it. They freeze for a moment, then the Signal dips him like some fainting Victorian maiden.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind sweeping you up in my arms.” The smirk on his face only lasts a moment before he grimace and says, “I shouldn’t have said that on open comms. Man, they’re annoying. It’s not my fault I know how to flirt.”

Danny…

Well. Danny short circuits for a moment, running the words over his mind again, then blushes so hard he’s sure there’s steam coming off his cheeks. “You’re flirting?” he squeaks. “With me?”

“Flirting,” a new voice confirms, making them both jump, stumbling against each other as Black Bat hops down onto their rooftop. “Both shy and silly. I’m better.”

“You can’t even ask out Spoiler,” the Signal retaliates.

“She can’t even WHAT?” Spoiler yells as she also vaults herself over the alley below to join them. “You want to ask me out?”

Though she doesn’t say anything, Danny can practically feel Black Bat’s glare through her mask. The Signal winces, then says, “Oops.”

“Man, you can keep yourself busy, clearly Sig doesn’t need backup,” Spoiler says. “I need to go on a date with Black Bat. The rest of you suckers are on your own!” And then she grabs Black Bat’s hand and grapples away.

There’s a beat of silence, then Danny and the Signal share a glance and start laughing. 

“Well,” Danny says, “Good for them! Good for them.”

“They’re probably just going to Bat Burger.”

“And are you going to be treating me to a burger any time soon? I should be compensated for this conversation, you know.”

“Please, if I was taking you out on a date, it wouldn’t be to Bat Burger. I’d take you out dancing.”

It sounds like a date his dad would take his mom on. It sounds nice. Danny smiles and leans in closer to the Signal, taking hold of one of his hands. With the other, he puts Signal’s hand on his waist, then brings his own up to the Signal’s shoulder. 

“Why not dance with me now?”

Danny leads them in a few clumsy turns of a waltz, silently thanking Sam for forcing him to take a few ballroom dance lessons with her. The Signal seems a little dazed, following his lead, and when he lightly squeezes Danny’s waist, he shivers. 

Catwoman should be done with Batman soon. They had agreed to meet up at the newly opened Vintage Boutique in Diamond District, and he intends to beat her there. 

Reluctantly, Danny pulls away from the Signal with one final spin, and hops up onto the edge of the roof. “If you can find me during the day,” he says, “Then I’ll dance with you again. See you around, Signal!”

And with that, Danny hops backwards off the roof, free-falling towards the ground before he lets gravity lose hold of him and slips into invisibility, flying up just as the Signal peers over the edge, searching for him.

Unable to help himself, Danny floats closer until he can give the Signal a quick kiss on the cheek, then flies off, grinning wildly. 

He certainly can’t wait to see the Signal again. 

Maybe if he hired a few guys to pretend to rough him up while Signal’s out patrolling…

Well, either way, this cat is already half dead so he can jump straight to satisfaction bringing him back. And, hopefully, back into Signal’s arms again when they won’t be interrupted by other Bats. 

He’s already looking forward to it.

. . .

[send me a ghostlights prompt!]

#ghostlights #dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #dpxdc #stray!danny #first time writing stray danny but i love him :) i think selina can make him worse :) #duke really worked overtime just to have a chance to flirt w danny #he heard that stray and catwoman would be out that night and suited up immediately like. dont worry guys i got stray :) yall can go now :) #thank you for the prompt!! #prompt fill #my writing

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 189

“Hey Danny,” Tucker’s voice came from the other side of the couch, echoing slightly in their developing Lair. “Do you remember our third grade hamster?” 

Danny raised his head from Sam’s leg, blinking green-blue eyes. “Yess…?” 

Tucker was looking down at him, hands on the cushions. “Alright so you know how Cujo came back and practically every other animal in Amity?” 

“Yeah?” Sam was the one to answer that time, pausing in playing with Danny’s hair. 

“We should totally see if Mr. Nibbles the III also came back.”

“So what you’re saying is we need to go on a roadtrip to find our childhood hamster and not explain to anyone why?” 

“I mean, I’m in, but why not explain?” 

“Because think about the chaos Sam. Besides, vacation time is supposed to be fun!”

#Prompts #Danny Phantom #Danny Phantom Crossover #Honestly it can be either it’s up to the peeps who fill the prompt lol #Do they find their childhood hamster? Maybe #Do they cause chaos all across the zone and several dimensions? Yes #Eternal Trio #They share a lair because it’s free boarding during college when they go #They’re on break before their first years and going to use it to go feral #Life Core Sam #Storm Core Tucker #Space Core Danny #And they were Roommates #Dcxdp #Dpxdc #DP x Marvel #DP Crossover

[starflungwaddledee]

💘 happy valentine's day! 💘

#cw: angst #cw: blood #cw: violence #<- hope these are enough. this is a misleadingly “cute at first glance” image on purpose. ask to tag. #running a little bit late but i figured i couldn't do a Whole Month of cute ships and miss one on The Day.....!! :) :) #so here's a totally normal one for today! :) :) happy day! rhomance!! whee! wahoo! #galacta knight #🎀💖 #“no ask prompt?” there is one (👍👍👍👍) but we'll come back to it. imo this wasn't a good enough prompt fill #okay you know what i'll tag her even though she's barely visible bc it is rather the whole point isn't it. sorry sorry sorry #starstruck dee

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

Ninjavember Days 25-30! 🎉🎉🎉

#ninjavember 2023 #rc9gn #randy cunningham 9th grade ninja #rc9gn sorcerer #rc9gn peddler #rc9gn first ninja #first ninja #randy cunningham #howard weinerman #can't believe i managed a whole -ber event!!!(except for one day but considering how much i drew for others its like meh) #like it happened only once or twice in my life before where i got thru whole month! lol #thank u evilspiritweek again for hosting! (also dude my brain literally didnt comprehend the 31 day thing until u pointed it out. so like #no worries dude we are all brainfryed around here) #also thank you anyone who enjoyed my prompt fills!! im glad my insanity didnt go unwitnessed! xD

[mortalstrife]

a holy war

minvember prompt 1: prayer

#babylon 5 #minvember 2023 #neroon #branmer #dukhat #valen #minbari #i may have gone overboard on this one lol #anyway yes fINALLY posting my fill for the first prompt #i still want to finish the rest too but WE'LL SEE

[tennessoui]

18) waking up with amnesia au pretty please! I was delighted with how many of the prompts you've already done, it was a really fun bingo!

Best friends sibling = band au

knocking on the wrong door = actually name of the fic

Nanny/single parent au = Nannykin

Etc etc etc!

hello hello this was sent january 10!! hope you still want some waking up with amnesia au! this just demonstrates how long i can hold onto a prompt i have every intention of completing

(from this prompt list) (& this is the waking up with amnesia au prompt fill i did a few years ago when i first reblogged that prompt list!)

(3.5k)

(warnings: angst but not incredibly sad. more like. here there lies some future manipulation/mind fuckery because of angst established in this ficlet but not resolved in this ficlet but would be in the future)

(also warning: vader)

It is somehow both the hardest and easiest part of the day, every time. 

It is easy to let his feet turn in the direction they beg to go during all his waking seconds. It is easy to allow them to lead the way. It feels as if a great and crushing weight has been lifted from his shoulders the moment that he sees the pillars standing sentry at the entrance of the Halls of Healing. It is so easy to give into his body’s desire to allow it to find its other half.

It is almost harder to stay away, to pretend to be the respectful and poised Jedi master he masquerades as during those long moments of the day that he is not by Anakin’s side.

But what is infinitely harder than journeying there or keeping his distance is arriving. Is what waits for him within the Halls.

“How is he today?” he asks the moment he sees a healer—it does not matter which one these days. They must all know him by now, know the series of questions he demands answers to.

This time, the man he finds is healer Ramak, at least, one of the primary specialists on Anakin’s case. Rarely can Obi-Wan corner him. Ramak is incredibly busy both within the Temple and outside of it. He has numerous priorities. 

Obi-Wan really only has one priority. Often this puts them at odds. 

“Ah,” Ramak says, adjusting his robes. “Master Kenobi, hello.”

“Yes, hello,” Obi-Wan says. And then, “How is he today?” In case Ramak has missed his question.

“He is much the same, Master Kenobi,” Ramak replies. “As he was yesterday.”

Obi-Wan swallows. The words get stuck in his throat for a moment and he has to force them up past his teeth. “What does…what has he remembered?”

Healer Ramak’s face slides from reluctantly indulgent to pitying. It would grate against Obi-Wan’s rather impressive sense of pride if he did not already know exactly how pitiful he is. 

“Memories are not stored within the mind chronologically, Master Kenobi,” Ramak says carefully. Obi-Wan has heard this before. Obi-Wan could recite this speech. 

Obi-Wan listens to it silently anyway. Perhaps this time, Ramak will find the correct combination of words to explain his loss to him in terms he can understand. “Uncovering them again is not simply a matter of starting from the beginning of his life and moving forwards. We cannot simply recover and present him with all of his memories from age nine, from age thirteen, to now.”

Obi-Wan can feel a muscle tick in his jaw and he crosses his arms. Another healer crosses behind him, jostles him in their hurry to get to another patient. Differing priorities. 

But Obi-Wan only has one.

“It is like…” Ramak trails off, thinking. “Picture the rain. What do you think of?” It is much too transparent, what Obi-Wan thinks of when he thinks of the rain. He thinks of Anakin as a youngling. The ashes of Qui-Gon’s body had not fully cooled before the skies of Naboo had broken open in a torrential downpour, and the boy, padawan braid that was both his and Obi-Wan’s newly weighing on his shoulder, had escaped from the palace in Theed, ran outside with arms raised up in wonder.

“When you think of rain, you do not recall your memories chronologically,” Ramak says kindly, as if he understands where Obi-Wan’s mind has gone. “That is to say, you do not immediately think of the first time you experienced it. Our minds store memories based on their significance to us, the meanings they hold for us, which makes mind-healing to this degree incredibly difficult. Not to mention, not only was Knight Skywalker stripped of his memories, tortured, and indoctrinated, he was held for several months. Long enough for new neural pathways to form, new connotations and memories to take the place of the ones he lost.”

“Master, please,” Obi-Wan says. When he holds up his hand to forestall the other man’s words, it is shaking slightly. “Please just tell me.”

Will he recognize me? 

Will he hate me?

Will another day go by where he does not know me?

“He has a long way to go yet,” Ramak says finally, lifting his hand to stroke over his beard. “His time as Vader left scars—”

“His time captured,” Obi-Wan interrupts. “He was a hostage.” Ramak looks at him. Anakin, kidnapped by the sith, without his memories, trained to be deadly and taught to Fall, was more than a hostage. They both know that. Everyone in the galaxy knows the dangers that Darth Vader represented to the Republic.

Very few know that Darth Vader was Anakin Skywalker. It had been a terrible surprise. It had been the sweetest sort of relief too, to find him at all.

“Yes,” Ramak finally allows. “His time as a hostage left innumerable scars, Obi-Wan. Even after he regains all his memories, he will have a long journey ahead of him.”

“How is he?” Obi-Wan repeats, even though it is rather rude to cut the healer off. “How is he today?”

Ramak hesitates for a moment and then another, and his Force signature tenses as if at war with itself. “He requested to see you,” he finally says. “We’re not sure that’s a good idea.”

Obi-Wan’s breath catches in his throat. The Jedi saved Anakin Skywalker from the Sith five weeks ago, and though Obi-Wan has spent each of those days trekking from his quarters to the Halls of Healing and back, accousting various healers and Council members alike, desperate for any information they can give him…he has not yet been able to sit beside Anakin. He has not been allowed to talk with him at all.

It is for the best. That is what he’s been told and that is what he must believe. It is for the best. Anakin does not remember him. He remembers the word master—he does not remember that he used to say the same word with respect. With affection. He does not remember Obi-Wan at all.

He remembers his master, Sidious. He remembers his master on Tatooine. He does not—Obi-Wan doesn’t understand why he cannot remember him. 

Anakin has never once asked to see him. 

“I want to see him,” Obi-Wan says immediately, turning towards the wing where they are keeping Anakin. 

“Master Kenobi, it is not a good idea,” Ramak says, but it does not matter what they think is a good idea. It is what Anakin wants and it has been so long since Obi-Wan has been something Anakin wants.

Something of what he’s feeling must flash across his face, because the healer sighs and rubs at his forehead as if he finds the whole ordeal incredibly trying. 

“I will not hurt him,” Obi-Wan says quickly, and Ramak shakes his head, dropping his arms to his sides. 

“That is not the concern, Master,” he replies, but his shoulders have slumped. His forehead is wrinkled, but his Force signature has relaxed. He has given in. Obi-Wan has won. “I—”

But Obi-Wan has won. And so he has already stepped away, intent now on seeing his padawan. He leaves the healer behind where he stands, pushing through the doors of the wing and finally—finally to Anakin’s room.

He’d been so volatile at first, when he was still Vader. The Jedi rescuing him probably felt more like being captured. Without his memories of the Order, of the Temple, of Obi-Wan, he’d Fallen so quickly as far as anyone knows. Sidious had taken him and twisted him and when he was found again, he’d fully believed in the Sith doctrine. He’d killed two Jedi before he was subdued.

So when he’d been brought into the Temple, into the Halls of Healing, they’d outfitted him with Force suppression cuffs. Given him his own room in order to protect the other patients.

Obi-Wan knows he still wears the Force bracelets and collar, but there’s knowing and then there’s seeing.

The seeing part takes his breath away. It looks so wrong, Anakin, his Anakin, wearing the cuffs and the collar. 

Anakin, his Anakin, with yellow eyes watching him intently from the moment he enters the room.

“Anakin,” he murmurs, a reflex. The sounds are punched out of him.

He is thinner. His hair is greasy. There are dark shadows under his eyes. The skin around the collar is red, rubbed raw. He looks a thousand times older. Guant and hollowed out as if the captivity and the Darkness has leached away all of his youthful energy.

“Master,” Anakin says reproachfully. And it sounds—it sounds so much like him, like Obi-Wan’s Anakin, that he has the rather ridiculous urge to cry. Master, master.

“How are you feeling?” Obi-Wan asks, though it is a useless sort of question. He isn’t sure what to do with his hands. What to do with his tongue. He suddenly cannot remember the last time he asked Anakin how he was feeling. It was never a phrase that was part of their lexicon—for so many years, they shared a training bond. Obi-Wan was able to ascertain his padawan’s emotions with a gentle Force touch across the planes of his mind. More often than not, he was telling Anakin to search his own feelings. He was not asking him to interpret them for Obi-Wan’s sake.

Now though, their bond is severed and Anakin does not recognize him as anything more than another Jedi, another man who he once called master, and Obi-Wan stands across the room from him and does not recognize him either, save for all the ways that he does.

“Surely they have been giving you updates,” Anakin murmurs. “I know you have visited every day.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says because he will not lie to Anakin. He doesn’t think he remembers how. It has been—so long. Since he has last seen him. It is all he can do to stay standing now. To keep a respectable distance between them. To not fall to his knees. To not stumble forward and take Anakin’s hand in his own.

“What have they told you?” Anakin asks, and he tilts his head slightly. His golden eyes are as disconcerting as they are beautiful. They’re his. They’re his eyes, set in his face, and Obi-Wan has missed that face for so long. For months. He’d thought he’d never see it again, and he is just now realizing that he has no defenses left against Anakin. None at all. The boy could ask him for anything and he would fight to the death to give it to him.

The Force is in flux in the air around them, bucking up, riled, in a way Obi-Wan usually interprets as danger. But the Force could be screaming a death knell and Obi-Wan, in this moment, would only be able to hear a sweet cry of wild joy.

Anakin, this is Anakin. This is his Anakin and he is here. Back—partially. Back, incompletely. But back. Obi-Wan…he’d stopped hoping he’d ever get him back.

Instead of answering his question, he presses the backs of his fingers against his mouth to try and stop their shaking. Every day he has walked here, accosted the healers, demanded to know the latest. And he has never once realized how incredibly difficult it would be to lay eyes on Anakin. How incredibly difficult it would be to maintain his composure, to hold himself in. 

Anakin’s eyes glow gold, but Obi-Wan’s eyes are that of a starving man. All he can see is honey.

“Come here, master,” Anakin says, reproachful. “Did you not miss me?”

The words move him forward where his own feet could not. “Of course I did, Anakin,” Obi-Wan whispers. Hoarse, too hoarse. Too trembling and old, but it has been so many months. He had thought him lost forever. Dead and gone and one with the Force, and for the first time in his life, that had given him no comfort.

Anakin holds out his mechno hand, palm up, fingers slightly crooked. He’d built them that way on purpose, Obi-Wan remembers. At fourteen, he’d broken his index and middle finger in a duel, bones shattering under the blow of another padawan’s sabor. A lucky hit, an unlucky outcome. Though they’d healed near perfect due to bacta, they’d always remained slightly bent out of place. When he lost his arm to Dooku five years later, he’d fiddled with the replacement until the mech digits tilted the same familiar direction.

Obi-Wan stares at them, caught up in the tide of the memory.

Had Vader ever looked down at his mechno hand and wondered about the imperfection? Had he thought to fix it once he had the time? Had he spared a thought for the black spots in his memory, the cavernous gaps in his past?

His fingers fall to rest against the sensors of the mech tips. They’re sensitive enough that he can see Anakin shiver at the touch. 

“Did you not miss me, master?” Anakin asks again, and his hand closes around Obi-Wan’s tightly, pulling him forward another few steps.

Obi-Wan nods, then shakes his head. Yes, he missed him. No, missing—missing is not a vast enough word. 

“You asked for me,” he hears himself say. “Do you—what do you….”

Do you remember me?

You must. You call me master. And you want me close.

But they pulled the memories of the word master from your mind days ago, and you hated me then. You did not want me near you. What has changed? What have you remembered?

“I wonder if they would treat any patient like this,” Anakin says. He uses his hold on Obi-Wan to pull him even closer, til his thighs brush the edge of the bed. “If it is the war that makes me special, if it’s my own power. Or if it’s you.”

Obi-Wan tenses. Him? He doesn’t—

“They’ve tried everything they can think of to trigger my memories of you, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Anakin says. When Obi-Wan tries to move back, take a step away, find the air in the room to breathe, Anakin tightens his hold and pulls him forward until the only option is to either topple over onto his padawan’s chest or sit on the bed at his hip.

He sits.

“They debated for many days, you know,” Anakin says. His mech thumb begins to sweep over the inside of Obi-Wan’s wrist. “If they should trigger the connections my mind has made to the word master. It’s a weighted word for Anakin Skywalker. Surely you know that.”

“I do,” Obi-Wan says carefully. When he tries to breathe, he can only do so shallowly as if his entire chest has shrunk to half its capacity.

“He was enslaved before he was a padawan,” Anakin explains as though Obi-Wan has not spoken at all. Maybe he hasn’t. For the past several months he has not been able to speak to Anakin aloud, could only talk with him in his mind—could never hear a reply. Perhaps he has forgotten how. “They were worried that after ten years studying under you, after two years fighting side by side with you, my strongest connotations to the word master would still be to slavery.”

Anakin ducks his head slightly, tilts it to the side to give Obi-Wan a small, private grin, as if the healers’ concerns are so unfounded that they are amusing. As if the concept that something could outweigh Obi-Wan’s importance to Anakin is so foreign and preposterous that it’s funny.

His smile knocks into Obi-Wan’s chest like a punch to the solar plexus.

“But they decided to risk it,” Anakin says. His voice is light as a feather. Airy and unconcerned. “Perhaps they should have started with smaller things. A light saber. A braid. A pear. A planet. But they wanted to re-establish my firmest conneciton to the Light as quickly as possible. And they thought that was you.”

Obi-Wan holds his breath, eyes leaping from their connected hands to the yellow of Anakin’s eyes. He has still fallen. He has not been healed. He is still—he is still—

“So they gave me back my masters,” Anakin pitches his voice low. “All of them, though I suppose I remember Sidious well enough. But they gave me back the Toydarian. And they gave me you.”

“They said you did not want to see me,” Obi-Wan whispers. “Why, Anakin, if you remember, why would you—”

“Because I hate you,” his padawan says as if it’s the easiest thing in the galaxy. “Because they could give me back Master Kenobi, but wherever Anakin Skywalker kept his love for you, it was not in your title. He hated your title.”

Obi-Wan flinches back so violently that his forearm slips from Anakin’s grasp. Before he can move from the bed completely though, his padawan’s hand lashes out and curls around the fabric of his tunics. 

“No,” Obi-Wan says because he must deny this—he cannot stand to hear it and not deny it. No, Anakin—there was love there, in the way he pronounced the word master. The way he looked at Obi-Wan: admiration shining in his eyes when he was younger, cooling off over the years into acceptance and affection. They had their arguments. They had their—misunderstandings, but Anakin did not resent him for his role in his life as his old teacher. His master. “You’re wrong.”

“He hated it more than he hated his actual slave master,” Anakin murmurs. Lightly, airily. As if his words are not landing devastating blows on all of Obi-Wan’s softest spots. “Do you know why?” “I don’t believe you,” Obi-Wan whispers because he doesn’t because he can’t. Because he’d have known. Because this is Anakin, this is his Anakin, but there are still cavernous dark spots and gaps in his mind. This is not entirely his Anakin. He is still missing things. Thousands upon thousands of memories and moments and learned contexts and—

“I think you know why,” Anakin says as if he has not spoken. Funny, as Obi-Wan had thought he was screaming.

“I assure you I do not,” he snaps, spitting the words out as quickly as he can so that his voice cannot break between the syllables.

“Because Anakin Skywalker believed til the day he died that if you had not been his master, you would have allowed him to kiss you. To take you. To be taken by you. Don’t you remember, Master Kenobi?” Obi-Wan tears himself away from the bed, from the boy in it. Just a boy. Not a man. Not when he was seventeen and drunk for the first time, slinging his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck and pressing his face into his chest, whining and begging and pleading—and not when he was eighteen either, bold and staring at Obi-Wan's lips, not when he was nineteen, on the verge of his Knighting ceremony and demanding to be given into.

Just a boy, just his boy. But never—never anything else. 

“Like I said,” Anakin but not Anakin murmurs. Anakin, but Vader too. “Wherever Anakin Skywalker kept his love for you, they have not yet been able to find it in my mind. I can only assume he loved you at all.”

Obi-Wan flicks his eyes over the familiar face, the beloved face. The stranger’s face. If it were anyone else sitting before him, he’d have a retort already on his tongue. He’d have raised his shields, gone on the offensive. There are few people left in the galaxy that can land a blow on him, and many have tried.

But this is not anyone. This is Anakin. This is his Anakin and this is something for which he has no defenses prepared.

“How ashamed did you make him feel for loving you, master?” Vader asks, tilting his head in cruel curiosity. “That he compressed all of it into something so small that a whole Temple of healers have been unable to find it?”

“Don’t call me that,” Obi-Wan snaps and this time he does not get the words off his tongue quick enough. His voice breaks in the middle of the demand, ribs cracking and parting to reveal the heart of him. “Not if—” not if you do not know what it means for him. For me. For us.

“Why not?” Vader says, and he raises his flesh hand to tuck a piece of greasy hair behind his head before allowing his fingers to fall to rest against his collarbone, ghosting against the Force suppression collar around his neck as if it’s a diamond encrusted necklace. “After all, am I not wearing your chains, master?”

#asks #prompt fill #obikin #vaderwan #so you know vader's number one priority is going to be to manipulate obi-wan into freeing him #because he can probably remember a little bit of anakin's love for obi-wan #it's not as gone as he says #but he also probably remembers the obsession with his master first #and that's tinted even darker by being a sith now #so within the next few weeks his priorities shift from torturing obi-wan for sport #to wanting him to free him so that he can kidnap him and keep him #and get away from the temple and all the memories the jedi are trying to give back to him #he doesn't want those #he wants obi-wan kenobi #hate and love and all

[wisteriagoesvroom]

lestappen + beach day

The whistle blows. The spike was solid. There was no way it was out. It was simply impossible. He’d worked perfectly with Pierre on it. Pierre going low on the dig, Lando shouting when Charles leapt and smashed it down the court, right in the gap where two bodies stood.

It was good. And Charles is good at a lot of things. But the problem was, the other person standing on the other side of the net, looking shockingly muscular while topless, of course had to be one Max Verstappen.

(It’s very hard not to stare at the gleam of his boobs while Charles stalks up to the net. He adjusts his sunglasses. That is what they did in the films. So he can channel being cool for now, too.)

“It was not over the line. Absolutely not.”

“Mate.” Max replies. “You can clearly see there is a dent there.”

“The edge of the ball did not touch that line.”

“Are you blind?”

“The way your chest is shining? Yes, perhaps.”

Somewhere off court, Alex makes an ooh noise. Somewhere off court is the sound of George slapping Alex’s shoulder, ostensibly to make him shut up.

On the back of Max’s court, Oscar adjusts his cap. “Listen, it’s a friendly—”, but the noise dies in his throat as Charles shoots him a look.

“It’s not my problem if you’re so easily distracted.” Max continues. He steps closer to the net, and rests his hands on his hips.

“And it’s not my fault if you’re blind and can’t see that the ball was clearly out.”

As if sensing that this is going to take a while, Oscar rolls his eyes and goes to open the cooler with the popsicles. Lando follows in quick succession, and Pierre mutters a few choice words in French that Charles chooses to ignore.

Charles feels like his mother’s carefully taught decorum is the only thing keeping him from smacking Max or escalating the situation to something even worse to contemplate, and certainly against FIA parental guidance rules.

“Why are you always being so difficult, Max?”

Max shoves up his sunglasses higher on his head. Charles realises with a start that Max’s nose is sun-flushed, and he’s got the start of some freckles just below his eyes.

(Charles will spend too much time staring at the ceiling fan later in bed, trying not to remember the exact placement of these very freckles.)

“Because, Charlie.” Max says, carefully, clear enough for the whole court to hear, “I think you like it quite a bit when I do.”

#lestappen #1633 #max verstappen #Charles leclerc #cl16 #mv33 #3316 #wiz.promptfills #look i did this prompt fill while in transit #if it’s bad do not judge #i mean fine if you judge #judge it silently #thanks #I hit post too soon so if you saw the unfinished version? no you did not #THERE WERE SO MANY TYPOS ON THE FIRST DRAFT BLESS Y’ALL FOR NOT SAYING ANYTHING

[rriavian]

may I propose for December Prompts "starry night" for Morpheus x Lucienne or "hot chocolate" for Morpheus and baby Orpheus? :)

A small foot stomped. 

“No sleep!”

“Orpheus.” Dream said, unimpressed at even such a bold declaration of war, unmoved by even such defiant vehemence. “It is time for bed.”

This was not accepted as an adequate reason for Dream’s interruption of Essential Activities—the four hours Orpheus had spent playing his new favourite song on the lute—so opposed was his son to it that his announcement was immediately rejected by no less than five head shakes. The response made it clear that not only was Dream’s reasoning inadequate, but that it was actually an insane suggestion bordering on the ludicrous.

His sons small face had become one of determination, fixed in a set expression of horrified disgust. “No.”

Time for a wildcard.

“Then you do not want hot chocolate?”

This seemed to stump Orpheus quite completely.

The offer of hot chocolate proved to be a most compelling rebuttal, one his son had not anticipated, the proposal revealing an unexpected vulnerability in an otherwise flawless defence. Attrition was slow though, capitulation still not guaranteed, small fingers fiddling with the hem of a raven patterned pyjama top as this new contender was assessed. The frown turned thoughtful rather than angry, tension softening as Orpheus paused to consider this new argument for what it was worth, evidently taking the time to review every possible angle.

The silence stretched.

In terms of a game face it was quite impressive; Orpheus gave no sign as to which way he’d fall, and yet this silence at least confirmed a bribe was not yet off the table.

After a minute or so he blinked but otherwise remained impassive. The dark eyes—so like Calliope’s, so beloved—quietly considering, remaining so even when a deep breath was taken. Perhaps to steady the impulsive actions encouraged by a rush of anticipation, though who could be sure?, because when it came the question was merely curious.

“Hot chocolate?”

“Yes.” Dream confirmed the offer, set the scene for what could be attained, allowed a small pause and then continued in a tone soft and the slightest bit sly. “It is good for encouraging drowsiness after all. Though if you do not want—“

An excited interruption.

Orpheus had skipped closer. He’d wandered within touching distance—a dangerous prospect when he’d so recently felt at risk of being scooped up and delivered to his room—grabbing Dream’s hand and blurting out his question. “May I have some?”

Dream smiled. “Will you go to bed?”

It was important to name one’s price before agreeing a trade.

There was still a gamble in mentioning the apparently dreaded topic that was 'bedtime', but Dream believed he’d weighted those odds far enough in his favour to be safe. There was a caveat in this bribe after all, an exchange to be made, an agreement to be reached. It was polite to make the terms certain even as success was already within his grasp; Orpheus only tightening his grip on Dream’s hand in response, for all he was taking his time to answer he was also now tugging him towards the kitchen.

A decision had clearly been made. Orpheus seemed unwilling to risk the loss of hot chocolate even if there was a sacrifice to make in return. “Can I take it to bed?”

Still negotiating though. 

Dream pretended to think about it while allowing himself to be led. “You may.”

“Can I have a story too?”

Further requests? 

This deal certainly required a lot of sweetening. Dream’s smile only widened.

“Always.”

#dream of the endless #the sandman #Orpheus #winter prompt fic #i hope you like! #I'm filling both of these btw #but this one was finished first #no spoilers

[jokeringcutio]

The Gift - The Grabber x Reader Insert

Summary: Your curiosity got the better of you.

Fandom: The Black Phone (2022) Pairing: Albert Shaw | The Grabber x (f) Reader Rating: Mature Warnings: Dark themes, kidnapping, older man\younger woman, age difference, size difference, allusions to dubious consent, dub con, reader insert. Read it [ here on AO3 ] or read it below <3 Written for the amazing @willshipanything-blog ~ * ~ Despite the blue lucid sky, the house in front of you looked grey and solemn. As if the building was covered in shadows despite the sunlight shining brightly over Denver.

A deceitful wind was blowing, chasing the clouds away, tricking people into thinking it was warmer outdoors than it actually was. Though, when out of the wind, the weather could actually be described as nice, hot. Bone-warming.

A lamppost nearby was flickering lightly despite it being day. And then the wind reminded you again that there was still a chill in the air.

The front door to the house was open, inviting strangers into the otherwise uninviting home. A paradox with a sense of mischief to it. It let itself be pushed by nature, its hinges creaking and cracking every time the wind picked up and played with it.

So this was the house your friends had been talking about, eh? A rather elongated ground floor building with a tiled roof and a low iron fence around it. You hardly ever crossed this street when on your way home, so you hardly had paid attention to it. But then your friends had taken their sweet time to tell you stories about this place, challenging each other to be the first to check it out.

You had doubted their words then, thinking that if no one had gone inside, how did they know it was abandoned? It had something to do with the lease, one of your friend’s – whose father was into real estate – had told you. And now it just stood there without a purpose, waiting for a new owner to come and lay claim. But so far, no one had bothered yet. It was positioned in one of the less interesting neighborhoods, a suburb of Denver. Most young people wanted to move uptown. When you looked at the house you could imagine why. It was no castle. Just an ordinary looking building.

The door creaking caught your attention again and you watched it swing in the wind. Surely the neighbors must be annoyed by the sound, you thought. Perhaps you should go and close it?

Not that you were curious and looking for an excuse to step closer, of course.

Slowly, you made your way to the porch, pausing a few times to glance over your shoulder to see if anyone was approaching. But no one seemed to be around.

As you lay your hand on the doorknob, you wondered what would happen if you had a little peek inside. The idea of an abandoned home – history unknown – was thrilling to you. Would there be any furniture left behind? Any clues of whoever had lived there?

Your fantasy ran wild.

And so you did the brave thing and quietly placed one foot over the threshold. You listened with bated breath, but apart from the wind you heard no other sounds. The building emitted a sense of forlorn peacefulness. The air being quiet, like the silence before a storm.

Carefully, you moved forward until you stood fully inside, your eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness surrounding you. You gasped when you realized you’d come into a little hallway. Plain cream-colored walls and floor stretched in front of you. A rug the only thing giving color to the space.

There was still furniture inside.

An ordinary hallway with a little empty white plastic cabinet to the side and a tin umbrella stand in the shape of a misshapen flower in the corner to your right.

A cold gush of wind brushed past your arms and sent shivers down your spine. You subconsciously closed the door behind you, eager to get away from the wind’s chilly touch.

You did it! You’d been naughty and entered someone else’s house. No, scratch that. You were exploring an abandoned building. How more exciting could things be?

Taking a moment to revel in this feeling, you closed your eyes, took a deep breath and smiled. The air around you felt warmer here. It did not smell dank or musty like you would have expected for an unmaintained house. Perhaps it had not been abandoned for that long? You couldn’t recall if your friends had said anything about that.

As quiet as a mouse, you continued your exploration. Two doors at the end of the hall made you come to a halt, and you decided to try the one to the left first. It opened with a click, and when you carefully peeked around the corner, you spotted a twin-sized bed in the middle of the room, its wooden headboard pressed neatly against the wall. There was an old wooden closet there, and a nightstand next to the bed on which you could see an old glass, fingerprints smudged over it.

You wrinkled your nose. Someone’s bedroom then. Judging by the sight of clothes strewn in one of the corners of the room, you wondered if someone else had been here before you and ransacked the place already. It would explain the lack of little nick-knacks in the hall.

Carefully, you closed the door, resting your hand against it as you thought about the things you’d just seen. One room down, another to go, you thought. And with your head held high, you stepped to the door on the right, opening it swiftly but carefully. You were afraid to make a sound, despite knowing that you were the only one around. The room  that was revealed was darker than the bedroom. Long curtains were drawn in front of the windows at the other side, blocking the daylight. A door lurked on the other side in one of the corners, signalling that there was at least one more room to explore.

Taking one step forward, you heard how wooden floorboards creaked under your weight. It made you pause and look down. With a frown, you noticed that a thick Persian rug was lying several inches away from your foot. It seemed to cover most of the room like a squared blanket. You understood the owner’s choice. At least it would dampen the sounds of the wood cracking whenever you walked on it. You made sure to tread lightly upon the rug, making as little noise as you possibly could. Your curious gaze slid past a large wooden cabinet with many drawers that stood to the left side of the wall, and then over to a quilted blanket that lay upon a couch opposite of it. You stepped closer, picking it up, feeling the mixture of soft and rough fabrics slide underneath your fingertips. This seemed to be hand-made with love, you thought. Why would someone leave it there?

A scratch.

Was that a sound? You stood frozen, listening. Like paws sliding past something solid? You held your breath, fearing that a dog might come running round the corner any moment now, but nothing came. Slowly, you turned to face the direction from which you had come, but the door behind you was still open and the hall was still empty. You dared to breathe again.

Turning back to face the room, it was easy to see that this must be the living area, with the couch in the middle. A cushioned chair was beside it, a lamp standing to its side. Probably used for reading, you realized. As your eyes traveled past the room, you spotted the rather obvious television cabinet across the couch. And then, a television caught your eye.

You frowned.

Who would leave an expensive item like that lying around? Especially if others had been here before to ransack the place. But then you noticed that the room seemed clean, no signs of debris or destruction. No graffiti on the walls, no cabinets wretched open.

And so you did it yourself.

You placed the little quilt blanket back on the couch, walked over to the cabinet with all the little drawers, and started to pull open some of them. One drawer held leaflets, another cutlery. There were some glasses and a party cocktail set on one of the shelves above them. Another drawer revealed an unopened package full of black balloons. And then another drawer was opened and you had no idea what it was you saw in there. Like compressed little foam rubbery things? Were those bananas? Another one, and you saw how this entire drawer was filled with scarves and colorful fake flowers. And was that a glass of wine but folded? You quickly closed the drawer and caught your breath.

Such odd things, you mused. But it was all there. All of the drawers were filled. Everything seemed very much there, which meant…

Your eyes drifted to the television cabinet, neatly decorated. You noticed a pile of video tapes with some titles having recently been released.This place did not look abandoned. In fact, every surface seemed in tip-top and pristine condition. No cobwebs, no excessive dust traces. Why had you not spotted this sooner?

Your hand slipped past your thigh. A heavy feeling settled in your stomach, like a stone weighing you down. This house was not abandoned.

As if the devil played a game with you, at that precise moment, when you realized this house was not uninhabited at all, there was a loud sound behind you, like the rattling of keys. You instinctively dashed forward, rushing to the other side of the living room where a door was, determined not to be caught by whoever owned this place.

Surely this house must have some kind of backdoor? Or at least a window that would allow your escape? Imagine the embarrassment you'd feel if the owner of the house caught sight of you. It would be like Goldilocks, but so much worse, because it would be you who got caught. And you had no idea how to explain your actions. Would this person belief it was just curiosity? Or would they think you were a burglar, a thief? Would they call the police? No, you did not like to think of that. This was all a misunderstanding, a silly mistake.

Your heart beat wildly in your chest as you closed the door behind you, willing yourself to calm down and think rationally. A mere glance was all you needed to see that you had ended up inside a kitchen.

The window here was uncovered, allowing the daylight to spill in. A table was all prepped up, someone’s range of breakfast cereals posed on one side. By the look of the used plate at one end of the table, whoever lived here must have been in a hurry this morning. A smudge of yogurt or milk and a lonely forgotten berry adorned the plate. At least whoever lived here had taste, you thought sardonically. But there was no time to dwell on your thoughts for a sound came from outside. A dog barking. So you had been right, there was a dog out there. And were those paws again, tapping against the front door of the house?

A kitchen counter was to your right, a fridge to your left. It all seemed so ordinary and lived in. You could not believe you had thought this place to be abandoned only moments ago. So it had been a prank after all, you could not help but think bitterly. Your friends had pulled a prank on you and you’d fallen for it. Would they be laughing if they found out it had worked? That they had fooled you? And so easily, you thought angrily. How foolish you must seem to them, and how foolish you would seem if you got caught by the owner.

You looked around, frantically, for a place to hide or escape. The kitchen cabinets would offer you no room to hide, and underneath the table you’d be spotted within seconds. But there was a blue door to your right, and a staircase in front of you that spiraled to some place below ground level. It was an easy equation.

Without a second thought, you dashed forward to open the blue door in the corner of the room. But unlike the other doors, this one remained closed. In an attempt to force it open, you placed your shoulder against it and pushed with all your might. It took all of your strength, but the only result was a disappointing creaking. The door would not budge and you could only conclude that it must be locked.

You let out a small agonized cry when you realized that this must be the backdoor you’d been hoping to find, but it was offering you no escape. You tried to peek through the slats that covered the door’s glass and caught a glimpse of the side of the house. It was large, must larger than the rooms you'd been through. There must be more rooms, you realized as you looked at the house from this angle. There must be some door that you had missed. But there was no going back now.

You heard the tell-tale sound of a front door being opened and closed. Something was placed in the tin stand, the sound a loud clink that resounded throughout the hallway.

You looked up, sweat forming little droplets on your forehead. Then, an unbidden thought: It was getting later in the afternoon. What if they got hungry?

Swiftly you spun around, desperately looking for a place to hide. Footsteps sounded, heavy on the floorboards. Alarm bells were ringing inside your head. Whoever had just entered must be someone big, you mused. Who said the person wouldn’t come up to you with a gun? This was America after all.

The footsteps halted shortly, then grew louder, a clear indication that whoever had entered the house was now heading in your direction. You could hear the happy barking of a dog.

Shit. They were going to find you. If not the house owner, than probably the dog.

For a moment, you stood there indecisively. There was no place to hide in here. The kitchen counter was empty, the cabinets already in use with plates and mugs. The only way for you to go was forward, down the concrete stairs that led into some kind of basement.

I have no choice, you thought. If I go in there then hopefully they won’t see me. Perhaps you could stay hidden for long enough until whoever lived here would leave the kitchen, then you could get out unseen and unembarrassed for accidentally barging into someone’s house. Yep, that sounded like a solid plan.

You were swift to descend the stairs, wincing when you heard the first few steps creak alarmingly. There was no way to get up or down here without being heard, you thought. That is, if whoever lived here was nearby. You hoped the dog hadn’t heard or smelled you yet, but there was nothing to be done for it.

When you reached the bottom of the stairs you came into full-contact with a closed door. Dread it, you thought angrily. Was this how your great plan of escape was going to end? But luckily, all it took was just a push for the door to open. You wasted no time in getting into the dark space behind it, letting the door fall to a close behind you.

It was a basement, just like you had predicted. But it wasn't filled with anything like you had expected it do be. There were no crates and no racks filled with wine. It wasn't converted to some kind of game room or man cave. It was just a dark and empty place. You weren’t sure what you had hoped for. If the owner would have had all of his stuff cluttered in here, then at least you would have had the perfect place to hide. Now it was just an empty and open space with little to no room for you to curl your body into and pretend you weren’t there.

You hadn't hardly taken a step into the room when you noticed the change between the air here and upstairs. Here it was mushy and nearly suffocating. What was this smell? Your eyes darted to the only two objects in the room. A wired bed frame with an old damp mattress covered in dark spots. Yikes! And then there was a black phone attached to the wall. You could see the cord of it dangling into nothingness. That would not make any calls for your rescue.

Whoever lived here seemed to have taken little care of this space, perhaps even forgotten about it, you thought. It was obvious the room had been given little love in recent years, by the way the walls showed traces of crumbling and the floor was covered in dirt and grime. A little window at the other side of the room caught your attention, but it was way up high. You doubted you could reach it.

Breathing heavily as your pressed yourself against the brick walls, you tried to listen to the sounds above your head. But oddly enough, there were none. It was as if the space you were in had been concealed, like a little pocket of time and space in another dimension. A little box of nothingness; of darkness and silence.

You knew that going back up was not an option. But where could you hide? As your eyes started adjusted to the meager light that came in from the window up high, you noticed there was a corner at the end of the room. Perhaps there was something hidden behind it?

You slowly made your way deeper into the basement. Your footsteps slapped on the uneven tiles of the floor. Yet, any sound you made, any breath that was a bit too loud, seemed to be absorbed by the walls. You hoped that whoever was up there did not hear you as you made your way to the other side of the wall. Your joy was short-lived and you flinched upon the sight of what you found around the corner. An old toilet. That explains the nasty smell somewhat, you thought. Though it did smell like a rat had died in here. You pulled a face and, with your nose pinched between your fingertips, you looked around. No rat to be found, must be the toilet then.

Looking around once more, you saw that there was nothing there. Now way out. No secret door. No room. Just some old rugs piled on top of each other.

With no wish to remain next to the smelling pit any longer, you headed back into the main room the basement had to offer. Your eyes flitted shortly to the door. Should you push against it? Set it ajar so you could hear whatever happened above you? Did you dare to do that? But what if the owner was up there and caught sight of you? What if the dog was there? You felt like you were left with no alternative but to seek your escape from the window that was up high. It was probably your best bet to get out now. But how could you get to it? You glared up at it, studying the window way up high. As if it had been put there at that exact height just to tease you. Then you squinted your eyes. Did you see it correctly? Did it have bars in front of it? You briefly wondered why it needed that, then remembered seeing bars on many more basement windows around town. It was a thing apparently, probably to keep cats and hedgehogs out or something. Or thieves, you mused. Now, however, the bars made it feel like you were inside of a prison. Just what you needed after barging into someone's home uninvited.

Your eyes slid back past the few items in the room. It wasn't much, but you figured you could use whatever you had. You could get the rugs and step upon them to try and reach the window, you imagined. But they seemed heavy and you would have to move the whole lot of them. That seemed like a mighty bit of work to do. Then again, it seemed like you had time aplenty now that you had yourself trapped in here.

Then there was the issue of the bars. How were you going to get past them? Standing on your tiptoes, you tried to study the window from afar. You thought you could see how some of the bars were bent. Perhaps if you used all of your strength you could bend them some more and find your way out. If only you had something to help you make the job of bending them easier. Then your eyes fell upon the black phone. Yes, that might work.  

As quietly as you could, you set about pushing and pulling the rugs from their resting spot and underneath the window until you had formed a nice pile. Nice.

Admiring your handiwork, you then set out to get the cord from the telephone. If you could get high enough on the rugs to reach the window, then you could wrap the cord around two bars and pull it tighter and tighter until the bars would bend under its pressure. At least, that's what these prison escape movies had made you believe. Stepping over to the black phone, you placed your hand on it and felt the dust bite into your skin. How long had it been here, you wondered? Forgotten and abandoned. Why had it been installed here in the first place? You wiped off some of the dust with your sleeve, then pulled at the cord. It slipped free easier than you had expected and with a thud, you fell backwards and landed on your buttocks. A groan escaped your lips. Of course this was just your luck. But at least the cord was in your hands. And dangling from it was the phone itself. You could use that, you thought, to smash the window when time came. It was a risky idea, but you thought you could get there. You had all the tools: something to climb upon, something to bend the bars and something to break the window. You got this.

Slowly, you got up to your feet and walked over to where the rugs had formed a nice slouched pile on the floor. You placed your foot on top to test if the pile would hold you. When the rugs didn't slip off of each other, you climbed your way up. 

You were close to it now, much closer than before but not quite close enough. Why were you this small? Why as the window so damn high up?

A creak sounded behind you but there was no time for you to react fast enough. Two strong arms encircled around your waist before you could even as much as turn around to look behind you, and then you felt yourself pulled downwards. Your feet slipped off the rugs whilst the phone fell from your hands. A cry escaped your lips. You’d been so close to getting away!

You had not heard the door open. You had not noticed someone approach, as concentrated as you had been on the task at hand. You'd been completely unaware. And now it was too late. You felt someone behind you, heat radiating off his body.

“My, my,” the voice was low and raspy. A man’s voice, definitely, but a man who sounded parched. Like he desperately needed a drink. Two hands were heavily upon you, sliding from your waist all the way up to your shoulders while your back was pressed against someone's front. A firm chest, you thought. Someone larger than you. You felt him push down on you, like you weren’t already smaller than his towering frame.

“A gift!” the man’s voice rose, becoming lighter and almost childish, then an added murmur, “for me.”

What had you stumbled into?

He slowly turned you by your shoulders until you faced him. You desperately wished to know who this man was. Yet at the same time, you were too afraid look up and meet the owner of the lilting voice. So many octaves, so many emotions, in just a few sentences. You did not think you had ever heard such a range in someone’s voice before.And so you kept your eyes on the floor. You did not dare look up.

Firm fingers pressed tightly into your skin, pressing through the layers of your clothes. You felt how he maneuvered you with his grip, making you stumble a few steps backwards until your back hit the firm wall. You saw his shoes. Black pants with red socks. He felt strong. Incredibly so. His warm hands were big when you felt them on your arms, his palms covering the entirety of your shoulders, his fingers curling around your upper arms.

You listened to his breathing, deep and slow. Was he studying you? You tried to subdue your own wildly beating heart and finally willed yourself to look up into the stranger’s eyes.

You instantly knew that you were going to regret this.

He's like dad, you could not help but think when you finally saw him. A man with lines on his face and grayness to his hair. A man around the age of your parents. A father type. A neighbor. Just another ordinary looking man. But boy, did he feel anything but ordinary. His hands lay heavy upon your shoulders. He’s a man, you reminded yourself. Just a man. But then his lips curled into the tiniest hint of a smirk. As if he was enjoying this – whatever it was that was happening between the two of you. His eyes, a pale color, bore into you. His forehead crinkled when he raised his brows, as if he saw something on your face or in your expression that you didn’t know and could not guess at.

Wisps of hair fell to his shoulders; a brown color that was slowly washed to grey by age. The darkness of the room fell upon him like a cloak. He could be part of it, of the darkness, you thought. With his black blouse and black jeans. If not for the red turtleneck that peaked out from underneath his blouse, like blood dripping from an artery, he could have been a shadow himself.

His skin was pale in the dark, dripping wet. As if he had recently been cleansing his face with water.

Strong pale hands gripped your shoulders possessively, thumbs digging painfully into your skin as he pressed you against the wall.

A low laugh escaped him. “Usually they don’t come to me,” his voice was higher now, then it got low again, “but look at you.” The last words came out like a purr.

He leaned his head a little more forward until his lips were near your skin, his breath ghosting past your cheek. You wished you could tear yourself away from his grip, especially when you felt him press his chest to yours. Could he feel your rapid heartbeat? Could he feel your breasts pressed against his chest?

But his hold on you was firm. And when he felt you move, his grip on you seemed to tighten even more.

“Oh,” it came out as a sigh from between his lips. As if something occurred to him. The distance between your upper bodies increased again, for which you were grateful. The heat that radiated from his body affected you less now that he was further away. And for a moment, you thought it was over. That he had touched you and invaded your personal space just to intimidate and scare you. That he had wanted to teach you a lesson after finding you illegally tiptoeing around his home.

You were prepared to step away, but then he chuckled.

“Look at you, honey.”

Dread crept upon you upon hearing his light voice, teasing almost. Elated. This was not good. Your heart was hammering inside of your chest, your breast heaving as you tried to remain calm. The man’s eyes flew downwards, as if he had caught sight of your sped-up heart-rate. An eerie smile slid on his lips, and it was as if a dark twinkle had appeared in the man’s eye.

“Oh,” his voice was low and guttural, coming deep from his belly. His left hand slipped from your shoulder and all the way up to cradle your neck. Cold rings pressed against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. You tried to pull your head away, to move your neck out of his reach, but it seemed the man had you trapped against the nearest wall and in no position to edge away from him.

A hum rose from deep within his chest, appreciative almost. As if he was studying you and liked what he saw. “You’re special.” The low murmur hardly reached your ears, so soft and quiet it came.

You could feel his fingertips twirl into your hair. A gesture that felt almost lovingly. It was hard to swallow, let alone breathe. You tried to pull your head away from his touch and tear your eyes from his gaze, but he would not let you. With just a tug at your hair he had you lock eyes with him again, deep pools of grey that swirled with darkness.

“Up here, sweetheart,” you heard him say, indicating you should look at his face rather than avert your eyes. The whispered words turned something deep inside of the pit of your stomach. Raw emotion laced his voice. He sounded hungry, starving. His fingers re-positioned in your hair, as if to get a better grip.

Then suddenly, all of the tenderness was gone and his fingertips dug deep into your skin again. It was painful. You tried to reach up to relieve some of the pain, but he started walking and you had no choice but to follow him as he half-dragged you to the bed. Your hands reached out for his to alleviate his grip, your fingers curling around his in vain. He was too strong, his hold never relenting. Not until he dropped you face-first upon the spot-covered mattress.

The bed frame creaked with your weight as you were thrown upon it. What was happening? Your mind was running overtime as you tried to think of ways to get the man to stop. The moment you felt that his hold on you was gone, you tried to push yourself up, crawling with your elbows in front of you as you tried to lift your belly from the bed. But a firm hand pushed against your lower back, effectively pressing you down until you felt the springs of the mattress prick your stomach. Then another weight was added. The man pressed himself against you. His hands caught your wrists with ease, forcing them in front of you with a grunt. And then you felt your whole body being flipped over, roughly, before his weight settled on top of yours.

He had roughly turned you over, trapping you uncomfortably beneath his thighs, and you tried to arch your back to loosen his hold on you. But his weight remained on top of you, his legs at either side of you, keeping you caged underneath his body. Now on your back, panting heavily, you looked up to see his frame atop of you, hurled in shadows, as he slowly leaned over you. His hands pressed down tightly upon your wrists, keeping them pinned above your head. The whites of his teeth glinted as he smirked down at you, like the cat who got the cream – or the predator who finally pounded upon his prey.

“You know,” he said through gasps, as if it had become hard to breathe. In this position, with him leaning over you, you had every opportunity to study his face. The wrinkles that adorned his skin, the black dilated pupils in his otherwise pale eyes. And the maniacal glint that lay within them.

“I never had one like you before,” he breathlessly said, his arms keeping yours pinned above your head.

No wait.

Your eyes grew wide when you realized his right hand had slid down to your collarbone. Which meant he was restraining you with only the one hand. His left. How strong was he? How big compared to you?

“But you know what they say,” he continued, voice laced with delight as he traced a knuckle past your cheek, “can’t look a gifted horse in the mouth.”

You growled, teeth gritted and showing. How dare this man? You were most certainly not gifted to him. "Let me go," it came out fiercer than you thought it would. But here you were, telling the man to stop and let you out. Your voice was unshaken. You sounded confident. He shifted, sitting up straighter to have a better look at you. You would almost say that his eyes softened at what he saw, if it wasn’t for his voice which was still low and husky. “No sweetheart, I can't do that. You see, I so do love a challenge,” the words weighed heavy upon you, almost as heavy as this man’s frame.

Then he was upon you again, fully. His chest brushed against yours, making it hard to breathe. You noticed the first stripes of grey fanning out from his long hair as he leaned over you. "Stop," you begged him, "just let me go, sir."

"Sir," he said, mockingly. "I like that, little girl." His breath was hot on your skin and then his lips brushed past your cheek, ever so slightly.

“You’re gonna be a good girl for me?” he purred in your ear.

Your eyes widened again. No, you could not think of it, should not think of what he might have in mind for you. None of that was going to happen to you. It just could not. You struggled with renewed vigor, wildly thrashing against his body. His fingers curled painfully around your wrists, hard enough to bruise, desperate to keep you there, trapped underneath him.

His hips pressed flushed against yours. Something hard poked into your abdomen. Something hard and hot. You instantly ceased moving, your eyes wide and wild. Was that...?

Then you heard him laugh near your ear. “I thought so,” and with those ominous words, you felt all the fight leave your body. Be his good girl? He chuckled again.

“I think I’m gonna keep you.”

#first part? #Albert Shaw #Albert Shaw x Reader #The Grabber x reader #the grabber #black phone movie #the black phone #black phone 2022 #albert shaw x you #albert shaw x reader #mature fanfiction #prompt fill #older man x younger woman #ethan hawke #(sorry to your family mister actor but I am writing this about your character to please a few ladies ) #grabber x reader #grabber x you #female reader #reader insert #dark fantasy

[luxaofhesperides]

For the ghostlights drabbles: “Say my name” with a favor being called in?

Duke had saved Phantom years ago, back when he was just out of high school and working to take down a branch of the government that was kidnapping and experimenting on people, targeting magic users and metas. Phantom had been working on his own to take them down, and they met in the middle, trashing a lab and freeing as many people as they could.

They had managed to shoot his back, knocking him down and making him bleed a glowing green. Phantom couldn’t move, protecting two kids with his body, and Duke couldn’t reach them in time before they were taken away by another swarm of agents. 

He was able to go after them in time, free Phantom and the kids, and evacuated the victims before Phantom rained hell down on the facility.

At the end, standing in the background as they watched paramedics treat the victims and take them towards the nearest hospitals, Phantom had turned towards him and thanked him.

Or rather, he thanked the Signal and offered him a bracelet with a rounded orb of ice, glowing faintly in the dark. If you ever need me, he had said, Hold this, and call me name.

Phantom vanished once the last of the victims were transported to a safer location, and Duke hadn’t seen him since.

He’s kept up with news about Phantom as best he can, but from what he could tell, Phantom is based primarily in Amity Park, Illinois, and the town is fiercely protective of their hero. News rarely leaks out of there, and with them running on their own servers and independent internet, it was nearly impossible to get in from the outside. 

Phantom remained a curious and distant figure in Duke’s life. He holds onto the bracelet still, guarding it carefully and sometimes running his fingers over the ice that never melts.

But he doesn’t call in that favor. He’s never to.

At least, not until now.

Sucking in a breath, Duke prepares himself and holds the orb of ice in the palm of his hand. He’s in civies, unable to hide his identity for this, and closes his eyes. “Phantom,” he says.

For a moment, nothing happens. Duke blinks his eyes open and frowns, mind already forming new plans to contact Phantom. Then the ice goes bitingly cold, almost painful, and the temperature in the room drops dramatically. The ice lifts up from his hand, floating in the air, then cracks open.

White-blue light spills out of it, growing brighter as it seems to swallow up the room entirely. Duke hurries to back up, an arm thrown up to protect his eyes. His breath mists out before him and he shivers as the sound of ice cracking fills the room.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, the light disappears and the cold fades away like a bad dream. 

Slowly, Duke lowers his arm and looks up at Phantom, floating in the middle of his living room with a crown made of ice, engulfed in blue fire, hovers above his head. He looks older, more regal, holding his head high. 

He regards Duke carefully for a minute, then tilts his head and says, “Signal?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Man, I’m so glad you came.”

“You… need help with something? You’re calling in your favor now, right?”

Duke nods. He understands Phantom’s confusion; being in the hero business means that favors like these tend to be used only during the most hopeless of times, when the world is close to ending, when the chances of getting out of a situation alive is close to impossible. It’s exactly the kind of thing Duke was expecting to call Phantom in for.

Not the kid sleeping on his couch.

“You’re a ghost, yeah?”

Phantom blinks at him. “Ghost king, now. Why?”

“Well…” Duke rubs the back of his neck, nervously. “I didn’t really know who else to call, and I can’t do this on my own since I’m not a ghost. But this kid got attached to me and won’t leave, so now I’m taking care of her and I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“I don’t know why you think I have any experience with kids but—”

“She’s a ghost.”

Phantom stops short. “Ah. I see.” He floats down until his feet touch the floor, and then he’s standing like any other person. “Where…?”

Duke looks past Phantom’s shoulder, and Phantom turns to follow his gaze. Chelsea, the ghost girl, looks to be around nine years old and is fast asleep on the couch, curled up under Duke’s softest blanket.

“Signal,” Phantom says quietly, “What, exactly, is the favor you need from me?”

“You can say no,” Duke starts. “I get that this is a lot. But I need help raising her. And since you’re a ghost, I figured you could help me learn about the ghostly side of things. You don’t have to raise her with me or anything! Just… I would appreciate any help you’re willing to give me.”

Phantom doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares down at Chelsea, an unreadable expression on his face. 

On the couch. Chelsea shifts in her sleep, brows furrowing as she makes a choked noise in the back of her throat.

Moving on autopilot after so many nights of this routine, Duke kneels next to the couch, fishing one of her hands from beneath the blanket. He gives it a few reassuring squeezes, keeping it a slow rhythm to pull her gently from her nightmare. She settles down in just a minute, brow smoothing out as she continues to sleep. 

The silence grows and Duke is all too aware that his heart is the only one beating. 

He doesn’t hear Phantom move. Doesn’t realize he’s right next to him until he sees Phantom’s hand reach out towards Chelsea. When Duke looks, Phantom is sitting on the floor next to Duke, looking at Chelsea with something soft and devastated in his eyes. His hand hovers about her head for a long moment, then slowly lowers to rest on her head. 

The touch looks gently, barely putting any pressure on her head, but it’s enough to make Chelsea’s eyes snap open, suddenly wide awake. She stares at Phantom with wide eyes, then sits up and looks between him and Duke.

“Who are you?” she asks in a small voice that makes Duke want to stand against the world to keep her safe. 

Phantom smiles. It’s casual and charming and makes him look like anyone else, as if he’s not a powerful king from a realm unreachable to humans. “Hi there,” he says, “I’m Danny. I’m a ghost like you. Signal called me and asked me to meet you.”

The Ghost King is good with kids. Who would have thought?

Chelsea looks at him for confirmation and only relaxes when he nods. “I’m Chelsea. What do you mean ghost? I’m not dead.”

Both he and Phantom tense, carefully keeping their expressions neutral. She hasn’t told him much at all, just that her parents were gone and forgot her and she got hurt, so she wanted to stay with ‘Mr. Signal’ because he’s a hero and heroes keep people safe and he was the only one who was Black like her. Duke hadn’t had the heart to say no, and began searching for her family, only to find that her parents had fled the state, and likely the country, after killing their only child through neglect and a dangerous environment. 

It was then that he realized that her powers were not because she was a meta, but because she was ghost.

It still hurts to realize how young she is, how much of her life had been stolen from her in an instant. Duke hadn’t been brave enough to broach the topic with her, instead choosing to let her grow comfortable in his presence, get them both settled into a routine now that he was her primary guardian. 

“I know it sounds scary,” Phantom says, “And you may not want to believe me, but it’s true. I’m sorry that you died so young, but that just means you get to hang out with me and other ghosts from now on!”

Chelsea crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. “I am not dead,” she says.

“Cici, I’m sorry to say this, but you are,” Duke cuts in. “That’s why I called… Danny. You have new powers as a ghost, and he can help you get used to them.”

“I’m not dead!” she says again.

“Kid,” Phantom begins, but Chelsea shakes her head hard and hops off the couch.

“I’m not lying! Watch, I’ll prove it to you!” She closes her eyes and scrunches up her nose, concentrating. Her hands curl into tight fists by her sides, and the glow around her grows dim. Two faint, stuttering rings of light appear around her waist. They flicker and wobble in the air, as if weak and uncertain of their own existence, then split apart, one moving up towards her head while the other falls to her feet.

Beside him, Phantom sucks in a sharp breath, but Duke can’t turn to see what’s wrong when he’s trying to take in the sight of Chelsea suddenly full of vibrant color, looking more solid that he’s ever seen her, very much alive.

“See?” she says proudly, lifting her arms and doing a spin to show off her right she was. “I told you I’m not dead!”

“No, you’re not,” Phantom agrees, sounding shell-shocked. When Duke is finally able to look away from Chelsea to check on him, he looks awed. There’s the smallest smile on his face, just the slightest upturn of his lips, but it makes him look softer.

Duke turns his attention back to Chelsea before he can be caught staring. “Cici, can you come here for a second?”

She goes before he’s finished speaking, crossing the space between them in a single jump, then grins up at him. Her hair is a bit of a mess, the two buns he managed to get her hair into falling askew. He makes a note to visit the old aunties in the Narrows later to ask them to teach him how to do hair. For now, he holds out a hand and Chelsea drops an arm into it.

It seems to good to be true, having her be alive, but her pulse is steady and strong when he presses his thumb against the inside of her wrist. 

“Well,” he says, leaning back and letting go of her arm. “You certainly proved us wrong.”

Chelsea doesn’t have much time to look smug before PHantom quietly says, “You’re like me.”

“What?”

“You’re like me,” he tells Chelsea. “A halfa.”

She tilts her head to one side. “What’s that?”

“Someone who is half human and half ghost. Both dead and alive.”

Duke blinks, taking in the words, then turns to face Phantom so quickly he’s worried he might give himself whiplash. Halfa, he said. Like me, he said. 

And sure enough, two rings of light, bright and strong, appear around Phantom’s waist before splitting in half, moving over his entire body. 

Gone is the Ghost King, all powerful and adorned in dark clothing with a crown of ice above his head. In his place is a guy who looks to be Duke’s age, eyes a deep blue and his black hair messy, feet set solidly on the floor. He looks completely normal, completely human, and no longer an impossibility.

“You still up for learning how to use all your new powers?” Phantom asks.

Chelsea grins. “Yeah!” And then, with a quick flick of her eyes going from Phantom to Duke that he almost misses, very innocently asks, “Are you going to stay with us then?”

“I… don’t know?” Phantom looks to Duke for an answer.

Already, Duke can see this going two ways. The correct way forward, the normal one, has Phantom popping in every so often, taking Chelsea out for a few hours to work on training her and her powers. It’s easy and routine and they can keep their boundaries uncrossed and be professional. 

The other path is what Duke wants most that he shouldn’t impose onto the literal Ghost King. He could have Phantom living with them while he’s on Earth and out of Amity Park, having a place at the table, a section in the closet for his own clothes, a quietly domestic night together while Chelsea sleeps where they can get to know each other more, get to know each other outside of news reports and texts on a screen.

“You can stay with us if you want,” Duke offers, casually, “It might keep my apartment safe from her powers acting up on their own again.”

“Are you sure? I could always just fly in on the weekends or something.”

“I’d appreciate having you around. So you can help Cici.”

“If you don’t mind,” Phantom says, looking away. Like this, fully alive with a beating heart, it’s easy to see the blush steal away across his cheeks. 

“I don’t.”

“I don’t either!” Chelsea pops in, looking far too gleeful by their awkward conversation.

Duke can’t help but laugh, feeling lighter than he had in ages. The relief of knowing that Chelsea is alive, for the most part at least, eases the guilt of thinking he had been too late to save her, that there was no chance she could have made it out and had a future, makes him feel weak. All the exhaustion of the past few weeks hits him all at once and he wants nothing more than to collapse in bed and sleep for twelve hours.

“Alright, squirt,” he says, reaching out to pat her head. “It’s late. We can talk more in the morning, so go to bed. In your actual bed this time, not on the couch.”

Chelsea stands up taller, ready to argue, but Duke gives her a Look™ and she quickly shuts her mouth, nods, and drags her feet back to her room (the former guestroom he can never give any of the other Waynes ever again, once they find out about her). 

Sighing, Duke collapses onto the couch once he hears the door shut behind her. Phantom joins him after a few seconds, sitting tentatively on the edge of the couch. The cushion moves beneath his weight, another reminder of how solid and alive he is right not.

Duke wants to touch him, to reach out and feel for himself his pulse, the warmth of his body, his chest lifting with each breath. 

He doesn’t move. He stays where he is, hands carefully still, and tries to think past the dizzying thoughts of she’s still alive, I’m not too late, he’s still here, he’s alive.

“Rough week?” Phantom asks, voice purposefully light.

“Something like that.”

“You should get some sleep too.”

“I don’t think I can. Not after everything. My mind’s too loud right now.”

Phantom shifts closer to him, hesitant in a way that Duke has never seen before in him, and asks, “Want me to stay with you until you mind quiets down some?”

“Yeah. I’d like that. Thanks, Phantom.”

“You know, if I’m going to be around so often as Chelsea’s halfa mentor, then you might as well call me Danny.”

Truth be told, Duke didn’t think that was his real name. He’s glad to know it’s not. 

“Then call me Duke.”

“...Are you sure? You could still hide your identity from me.”

“Nah, I trust you. A name for a name, yeah?”

Danny smiles. “Duke,” he says, testing out the name, and it’s never sounded better than when it falls from Danny’s mouth.

“Danny,” Duke returns. He belatedly realizes that they’ve leaned towards each other, drawn together like gravity, stuck in each other’s orbit. It feels natural. It feels like this is where they’re meant to be.

Maybe he should be more cautious. They’ve only meant once before, after all. But he’s read all he could on Phantom and has seen how Amity Park loves him. He’s stressed and exhausted and trying to figure out how to look after a half-ghost child that’s already been dealt a bad hand in life. He should be keeping Phantom at a distance, watching over him carefully to ensure he isn’t a threat to Chelsea.

But Duke saw how he acted with Chelsea, so gentle and understanding and kind. That’s all he needed to see.

He may not know much about Danny, but he knows this: he is trustworthy.

Enough to entrust his identity to him.

Enough to entrust Chelsea to him.

It’s more than a favor; it’s a promise to walk this road together. 

There’s no one he’d rather do this with. 

“Thanks,” he says again, “For all of this. I know it’s a lot.”

Danny shrugs. “I don’t mind. Really. It’s nice to know there’s another halfa out there, no matter how she came to be one. Makes things feel less lonely.”

“Will you tell me more about halfas?”

“Later. Once you get some proper rest. We’ve got time, haven’t we?”

“We do,” Duke agrees, affection settling warm in his chest. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

Learning how to control her new powers won’t be easy for Chelsea. Learning how to take care of her won’t be easy. Learning how to do things together, as Duke and Danny rather than the Signal and Phantom, won’t be easy. But Duke knows with a certainty he feels in his bones that they’re going to be fine.

So long as they’ve got each other, they’ll be fine.

#ghostlights #dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp fic #prompt fill #my writing #thought a lot abt what the favor could be but i could not resist the idea of surprise co-parents once i thought of it #here's a kid who clings to someone she knows is safe bc she is scared and alone!! #heres a stressed out hero trying to take care of a kid with no knowledge of how to do that!! and the kid is a ghost!! #heres a ghost king expecting to be used as a weapon and called in for a big battle suddenly finding another halfa!!! #so much going on here. so much to think abt with this!!!!! #i do love found family like this where they all kinda stumble into it and do their best to make it good #also could not resist making yet another oc. chelsea has my whole heart i love her <3 shes my daughter first #the bats dont know abt chelsea yet!! bc she can go invisble. its all been instinct every time they pop over to visit duke #soon she'll be able to control it and meet them properly #by properly i mean dukes gonna go over for sunday brunch and a little girl is gonna pop out from behind him like 'hi! im new!' #they will all love her of course. they will be shocked but happy!! #and a little less happy abt the GHOST KING duke has been hiding in his apartment that hes co-parenting with #sorry for the long tags im obsessed w this idea i want to Expand on it #maybe one day... with my other wips out of the way...

[leqclerc]

'Tis The Season 🎄| Sebchal Prompt-Filling Event 2023

Hello everyone! 👋🏻

Welcome to the Sebchal Prompt-Filling Event 2023! 🎁

Do you have an idea for a Sebchal fic that you'd love to see come to life, but you don't think you're going to get around to writing it? Maybe you just want to see somebody else's take on it? Do you want to write something, but find yourself struggling for inspiration? Submit a prompt, claim a prompt, find inspiration, have a bit of fun, share some Sebchal love, and give others the gift of a prompt fill this Christmas season! ❄️

The event will be open for prompt submissions from November 29th to December 6th on ao3. Prompts can be filled from December 6th until January 6th.

You can submit a maximum of 4 prompts, but don't feel obliged to send in that many if you can't think of anything! It's just there to give people some wiggle room. But there's no requirement to submit more than one prompt.

Note: As ao3 works best with text, I'm thinking of setting up a seperate prompt submission system for gifmakers/graphic editors/fan artists/etc. (and then publishing the results either in a post or Docs page or spreadsheet or something for easy access.) Maybe a Google Form will be more appropriate? 🤔 I'll set that up later when I have a bit more time 🙈

#sebchal #sebchal prompt-filling event 2023 #signal boost #let me know if this works bc it was my first time trying to set something like this up 🙈😭 #i'll try to troubleshoot later if something comes up

[compacflt]

I wonder why Maverick never joined the astronaut program? Space Shuttle too boring? Not wanting to be called an ASCAN (astronaut candidate)?

I think Mav and Ice would be pro-SpaceX. possibly even pro Elon pre-twitter meltdown.

as someone who likes space as much as the next queer ND girl (love space sooo much)… planes are way cooler ngl. yes. space is a bit boring. slow & quiet. no one to hear you scream and no one watching you be cool. space suits are clunky and awkward. no fast piloting maneuvers (mav’s specialty). no room for horseplay. “someone’s already beat me to the moon what’s the point😞.” NASA gets mad at you if you say anything rude over their public radio waves. and, this is a headcanon that has no evidence in canon? But i feel like mav is one of those pilots who takes a LOT of his confidence from the assumption that, whenever he chooses, he CAN bring his plane back down to the surface and come home. And has never really considered space as Somewhere You Can Go, and once he’s presented with that opportunity it…kinda scares him a little. space is just so big. and empty. and far from home. i know the requirement for astronauts is 50km off the ground… whatever the darkstars max altitude is (110k ft AGL?) he’s probably like, yeah, that’s good . That’s as far from the earths surface i ever need to be. That’s good enough.

oh yea Ice and mav were DEFINITELY pro-elon pre Twitter meltdown. they live in a wealthy part of California. every other car on the street in Cali is a tesla i s2g. coming from someone who’s spent most of their life in the SF Bay Area—most Cali liberals were pro-elon until extremely recently. now every third tesla i see has a “i bought this before I knew elon was insane” bumper sticker

#going to space means Ieaving ice :( #he will only go to space if ice comes with #back when i was doing prompt fills i was brainstorming hard a NASA au #where ice & mav violate NASA’s ‘NO SEX IN SPACE!!!’ rule flagrantly and often #actually it was gonna be an apollo 11 au where ice and mav are competing for who gets to walk on the moon first #with goose being the michael collins character #too bad idfk anything about the space program in the 60s :( would’ve been a good story #pete maverick mitchell #tom iceman kazansky #icemav #top gun #top gun maverick #i have a LOT of answered asks in my drafts so bear with me if i haven’t answered urs… 90% chance it’s answered & sitting in my drafts #and thank you all for sending in asks 🫠🥺🥺🥺

[landwriter]

Hello Mrs landwriter. Would you consider writing a continuation of your You've Got Mail Dreamling AU? I just stumbled across it and it's really very good and I am yearning for more. Much love to you 💖

part one for context. I would also like to take the opportunity to announce that despite my Advanced Internet Age of late twenties, I am scandalously unwed and unattached. any and all comers are welcome to pitch me for my hand in marriage in my askbox.

OP - thank you so much! I have plans to write a full You’ve Got Mail AU at some point but here is another scene, just for you! thanks for enabling me :)

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“8 o’clock, boss, right on time,” said Matthew, as they stopped outside the cafe that was definitely gonna be Morpheus’ future Last Known Location. “This mystery penpal date is some real serial killer shit, man. You know? He could be anyone.”

“Matthew,” said Morpheus, and turned to look at him with a terrifyingly smitten expression. “A mystery he may be, but he is still the single most charming person I have ever come in contact with. The way he writes of life. The stories he tells! His passion, his hunger, his wit. He could be a bike messenger, and I would be a madman to not turn my life upside down and marry him.”

Matthew felt the rare, exquisite discomfort of actually being the fuckin’ voice of reason in a situation. “You don’t even know what he looks like, boss. Marriage seems a bit, uh, full on? If you haven’t even swapped photos?”

Morpheus regarded him a little satisfied smirk. “We haven’t exchanged pictures of our faces, no.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said in disbelief. Morpheus just raised his eyebrows. “You slut! What is it with gay dudes and-”

“It would be tremendously unprofessional for my assistant to make generalizations about an entire population,” said Morpheus. He sniffed. “Also, he is bisexual.”

“Okay, okay, boss, he’s bisexual, my bad, how about the professionalism of dragging your assistant to your date with this mystery bisexual whose name you don’t even know?” He was, truth be told, pretty fuckin’ invested at this point, but if he could guilt Morpheus into a more generous Christmas bonus, he would. Shame was for suckers.

“You are here in your capacity as my friend,” said Morpheus. Oh, the cold-hearted asshole, invoking their friendship on a Nets game night.

“Then at least let me be homophobic!” he protested. A passerby glared at him. Tourists. “You only get to choose one, man. Loyal assistant or lovably brash bosom buddy, making the protagonist look like less of an-”

“Go on, then,” said Morpheus, heading off his loving insult and folding his arms expectantly.

“No, fuck, the moment is gone. It’s not the same if you give me permission, man. I’m taking an I-O-U for later. One homophobia, when you least expect it,” he said.

Morpheus, who actually did look like he might vomit from his nerves at any moment, at least rolled his eyes at that. That was something.

This was definitely a pep talk moment. God, he was shit at pep talks.

“Well, I’ve loyally delivered you to your fate, or date, or whatever, so, uh, have fun! Don’t get stabbed, text me how it goes, and remember: don’t let him take you to a second location. That’s how they get you, boss. Unless I’m in your will. Then totally do,” he said. He clapped Morpheus on the shoulder and added, in all his generosity of spirit, “Good luck, man. You’ve got this.”

Morpheus clapped a hand on his shoulder too. It stayed. It squeezed painfully tight. “Matthew. My best friend,” he said.

“Yeah?” he asked. This was not good. This was Big Favor shit coming on, he could smell it.

“Would you go and look for me?” asked Morpheus, in a rush.

“Me?” he asked, and thought That’s it? Morpheus had it bad. So, so bad.

“Yes. Just go look through the window and check him out. Please,” said Morpheus. His voice was edged with hysteria. Matthew thought he might actually start to vibrate apart.

“You’re pathetic, boss,” he said, cheerfully. “Also, that’s creepy as fuck.”

“Matthew,” said Morpheus.

“Alright, alright bossman. I’m going. I’m looking. As your best friend.”

Morpheus nodded and sat himself down heavily on a nearby bench. It sounded like he was doing La Maze breathing.

He climbed the steps and, yes, very fuckin’ creepily peered through the window into the cafe. All groups and couples, definitely not Mystery Bisexual, except - there was a waiter taking an order from the table at the back. There was a closed book on the table. “Is he uh, supposed to have a book or something? You know, since you don’t know what his face looks like?” he asked, and didn’t even make the joke, excellent best friend that he was.

“Yes,” said Morpheus. “Yes, and?”

“And the waiter’s blocking him,” he said. “Wait, hold on, he’s moving-” The waiter left and he sucked in a breath.

“Well? Can you see him? Can you see him?”

“Uh,” he said, dumbly.

“Matthew, New York is an at-will employment state. Matthew. What do you see.”

“I can see him,” he said, slowly. Well, at least Morpheus wouldn’t get murdered by his date. Or he would, actually, but at least Matthew would be able to point the cops in the right direction.

“And?” Or - third possibility - Matthew would be the one murdered, by his own  best friend.

“He’s, uh, he’s hot, boss.” He was. Nice smile, warm eyes, broad shoulders. The sort of approachable hot guy-ness that could make another guy wonder about sucking dick after a few drinks. Y’know. Theoretically.

“I knew it,” said Morpheus, triumphantly. “I knew it. I knew he would be, Matthew. He had to be. Had. To. Be.” He laughed in delight.

Matthew had never heard him sound happier in his life. It was fuckin’ unnerving. He felt like he was witnessing a Great White cavorting through the water like a dolphin. Felt wrong. Felt a bit too toothy. He took a moment to mourn his Christmas bonus, and then sighed and spoke again.

“Uh, boss, it’s just. He sort of looks like, uh, that Hob guy?”

“What, Hob Gadling with the little bookstore?”

“Yeah, I mean, he’s hot, right?”

“Yes. I suppose. Absolutely. I don’t care about Hob Gadling. He’s irrelevant.”

Hoo-fuckin’-boy. Matthew grimaced.

“Boss, if you don’t like Hob Gadling, I can uh, I can promise you, you’re not gonna like your man with the book.”

“Why not?”

“Because it is Hob Gadling.”

#dreamling #the sandman #the sandman fanfic #dream of the endless #hob gadling #matthew the raven #my writing #you've got mail au #sry it's just comedy and not dreamling op but this scene is iconic and the first thing i thought of #asks #prompt fill #dream x hob

[ylvaslooks]

#ssoblr #hollow woods #im just gonna post these and probably disappear for another few weeks tbh #the update is lovely. literally the first thing i saw was someone standing on top of the waterfall so thanks to whoever that was #A+ mystical vibes #back to posting everything unedited. cropped at most #the prompts were fun but the goal with this blog was to capture the game as is and quite frankly i don't think hw needs any editing #the lighting is SO pretty #also shoutout to my new favourite thing. spinning race markers my beloved <3 #everything in this update is great. don't be surprised if i suddenly fill your dash with reblogged hw whenever i return

[anakinsthot]

34 and obikin for the fic list! 👀👀👀

Thank you for this prompt!

from this prompt list

34. meeting at a masquerade ball au (760 words)

Someone had allowed the event planner to hire a quartet of jizz-wailers for the masquerade. The off-key kloo horn player was adding to the headache that Obi-Wan’s elaborate suit and matching mask had brought on at the beginning of the night. The only upside to the mask Obi-Wan had been required to don for it was that it hid his facial expressions. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to hide his distaste for the worst of the songs otherwise.

The mask otherwise was nothing but a hindrance. The Order had sent him because they’d gotten a tip that there would be an illicit deal taking place during the ball: that the Zygerrians were selling force sensitives to the Neimoidians. For what purpose was unknown, and Obi-Wan was tasked with stopping the deal and gathering information. He had his suspicions on which Trade Federation and Zygerrian representatives would be here, but it was difficult to identify anyone with the ornate masks and disguises every being in the room wore.

Obi-Wan was startled out of his perusal of the dance floor – he’d been tracking three different Zygerrians on the floor, and he was about to rule out one of them as his mark - by someone bumping into his elbow and spilling their drink on him.

“So sorry, I didn’t see you there. Here, let me help you clean up.” Before Obi-Wan could say anything the stranger had looped their arm through his and was pulling Obi-Wan toward the freshers.

“I’m quite alright,” Obi-Wan protested, “It’s just white wine, I can just grab a napkin here to clean it up.”

“Kriff,” the stranger muttered. “I knew I should have grabbed a different drink.”

Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes and dug his heels in. Regardless, the other man kept dragging him. Unwilling to cause a scene, Obi-Wan gave in and followed. When they made it through the fresher door the stranger took off his blue and green mask, covered in large feathers, and revealed his face.

“Again, I’m so sorry Master Kenobi, but I’ve got important information for you.” Earnest blue eyes met his and Obi-Wan swallowed back the biting retort he’d been prepared to reply with.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” he said instead. The stranger bit their plush lip, drawing in Obi-Wan’s eyes, while they debated whether to reveal their identity or not.

“Knight Anakin Skywalker,” the man said finally, offering his hand out for Obi-Wan to shake. Instead, he grasped his fingers gently and bent down to press a soft kiss to the back of Anakin’s hand. “I – I’m a shadow from the Tatoo system. I’ve been tracking the Zygerrians you’re here for.”

Obi-Wan pushed his own mask up so he could speak to Anakin face to face. It was a relief to have another Jedi here. Normally this mission would have been assigned to a Master with a senior Padawan, or two Knights, but with rising tensions throughout the galaxy the Jedi were spread thin.

“Pleased to meet you Anakin,” he said warmly. “People might start to notice if we hide in the fresher for too long, why don’t you fill me in on the dance floor?”

Anakin smiled and put his mask back on before looping an arm through Obi-Wan’s. “I’ll follow your lead, Master.”

On the dance floor, Obi-Wan drew Anakin close and guided him into a simple dance step. Anakin followed his lead easily. They spun around the floor and Anakin pointed out the Zyerrian he’d followed across two systems, and told Obi-Wan what he’d learned about the trafficking operation. They had some time until the handoff, and Obi-Wan decided to keep them on the dance floor and wait for the mark to leave before they followed.

Tipping his face down, Anakin whispered into Obi-Wan’s ear. “What do you say after we kick some slaver ass and free some force sensitives, you give me a ride on your ship after?” He let one of his hands slide down Obi-Wan’s chest, making his intentions clear.

Obi-Wan pulled back slightly to get a better look at Anakin. “Surely they teach shadows how to flirt better than that?”

Anakin shrugged. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

“Force help me, it is. Though you could have gotten what you wanted without opening your mouth.” Anakin smirked at him and started to say something. “Don’t say anything,” Obi-Wan said exasperatedly.

Anakin wiggled his eyebrows and pulled Obi-Wan off the floor. “Come on,” he said excitedly, “it’s go time. We can talk about what to do with my mouth after we take care of this.”  

#by take care of this anakin does mean murder the zygerrian and the buyer #i'm thinking he was found and trained by a jedi shadow #and the order has him remain a shadow so they can turn a blind eye to some of his methods that the senate wouldn't approve of #i.e. light saber first ask questions never when he's taking down hutts and slavers regardless of their ties to republic commerce #obi-wan is a little bit horrified and a lot turned on by how ruthlessly efficient anakin is #and they manage to save the force sensitives that were being sold ofc #obikin #prompt fill