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#prompt fills
wisteriagoesvroom · 2 days
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WIZ ITS ELLIE. soft + landoscar please?
Oscar doesn’t know why they’ve found time to sneak down to Oakleigh. Or how, exactly. Just that he had a contact of a contact, and they were always going to welcome him back here. And they’ve given the both of them some race suits, free run of the track, and a “go have fun”.
They’d found this place, like a shared secret. Clattering through the gates and sneaking away from their handlers. Each making an excuse about quiet time. Nobody questioned either of them about it, chalking it up to the general air of celebration after Albert Park. That’s the beauty of being golden children, you see. When you win. Standing in the sun, silverware in your hands, in front of a camera. Oscar hadn’t even needed to pretend at all - he beamed at Lando because he really meant it. P3, P4. For the team. Nothing to do with the way Lando’s smile creeps into him like sunlight. Nothing like Oscar’s own reflection staring back at him from the dish, gently held in Lando’s hands.
Besides, Oscar knows he’s hungry. He wants more. But it’ll be his time.
And right now, he gets to relive his memory of karting, on the track where he started. Growing awkward into his limbs that didn’t work how he wanted to yet, a fierceness that he hadn’t tamed, conscious of the knowledge that there were boys always faster, faster, faster than him. And chasing people like them, chasing Lando, was like driving towards an apex and knowing you would hit it — it was just a matter of time. How fast you could launch yourself at it, come close to bending time. Oscar has tried, and he will try still. There is something in him that will not be sated, and it is in Lando, too.
But for tonight: they rest. Just him, and his teammate. The floodlights. Boisterously loud crickets. Their own helmets, in their own hands. Two karts. Back to the beginning. Except the beginning is here, it’s when he was seven years old and dad helped him climb into the kart. It’s him in an airplane with one stop going to a cold and wet country where vegemite has the wrong name. It’s Rokit and Prema and Alpine and lawsuits and loud chatter and media distractions.
It’s a sea of eyes assessing him, but only one person’s that he cares to remember. Blue-green eyes, daring to ask the question without words: who are you? what will you become?
Oscar knows, because he has looked into the mirror and asked himself the same, too.
Those blue-green eyes search his own now. Then they steady.
The two of them. Same height, barely two years between them. Same dreams.
Then Lando smiles. Eyes the colour of soft streaking sky, the way it is when Oscar’s in the car and has a chance to look up.
“Ready for me to kick your arse?”
“You won’t.” Oscar says, easily back.
It’s taken them a year, but Oscar thinks he gets it. Talking to Lando is like holding a bird in the palm of your hand. A fluttering thing, fast.
And he thinks of the journeys birds take. Of comings and goings, of the silent effort of flight. He thinks of being two years behind and too small, and looking at the boy in the go kart, on the screen of his phone, who believed in himself enough to do it too.
Oscar zips up his race suit. And he grins. Lando’s eyes glitter with promise.
“But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
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oochilka · 5 months
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Hello! I absolutely adore your art (I'm still not over your drawing of Thomas as a flamingo)! May I prompt a drawing of Lady Button and Dante and/or one of Nigel the Plague Ghost?
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an unofficial portrait
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bearhugsandshrugs · 5 months
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Glory Hole Fic – Gortash x Tav
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Oh yeah I'm hitting you with the slutty hand gif. Now go and read the fic under the cut.
E | 2.5k words | Chapter 1/2 | Gortash x Tav | AO3 Link
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“Go ahead, make yourself comfortable. I’ll go around and help you get settled on the other side. If there’s anything you need, ring that bell.” Tav’s eyes fell on a copper bell with a string just in arm’s reach from the soft bed she’d be lying on. She nodded towards the matron.  “Thanks.” 
This would be exciting. After making her way to Baldur’s Gate with the strange set of companions she’d collected – of whom a surprising amount had wanted to sleep with her, much to her dismay as she was trying to keep it professional – she had finally found a brothel that was so well hidden, only the most exclusive and most knowledgeable of clients would find their way there. Over the past weeks Tav had been burning up with need. It had been hard turning down Lae’zel, then Astarion, and finally Halsin, and her sessions with herself were far from enough to clear her mind from the constant influx of images her mind would torture her with. So. She had decided to call in some favors and get herself fucked in the establishment that called itself “Wholesome”. 
The word play was a little cringey, but the place was not. At any given time, there were only three rooms accepting clients, each of them divided into two parts so clients and workers wouldn’t see each other. On her side, Tav had a comfortable bed for her upper body, a carafe with water, and towels to clean herself up. On the client's side was a side table with lube, massage oil, toys, and of course towels and water too, plus alcoholic beverages of their choice. Both sides were hidden from view from each other by a wall with a hole on hip-level, through which Tav now positioned her lower body. The matron was already waiting for her on the other side, guiding her legs into holders made of leather that were suspended from the ceiling and could be adjusted by the customers however they wanted.  Her ass was lying on a more practical extension of the bed made out of hardwood – sturdier and easier to clean. Being spread open like this, naked and depending on the whim of whoever was on the other side, was already turning her on. She couldn’t wait to get started. The matron pulled at the cord that tightened a dark cotton curtain around her hips, an extra precaution so the privacy for both sides was being kept. Rumor had it in select circles that some bored noble women and men went to Wholesome to get fucked or fuck, anonymously and with no one the wiser, and the secrecy was crucial to the brothel’s existence.  
Tav heard the matron leave, and after a few moments she could make out a conversation outside her room.  “I have something special for you today”, she heard her say. “It’s her first time.” The voice of the man was dismissive. “I don’t like virgins. You know that.” “Oh, she’s not a virgin. But it’s her first time selling her body.” There was a pause, and Tav felt her heartbeat quicken. If he decided to choose her, he’d come in any time now. The anticipation sent a short burst of heat to her core.  Instead of a reply, the door on the other side opened, then closed, as strong footsteps strolled into the room. There were sounds of fabric shuffling, then a glass being filled and, after a brief moment, being set down. 
Suddenly, a hand was on her left foot: warm and strong. Tav flinched instinctively, surprised by the unexpected touch, earning her a low chuckle from the other side.  “So”, the voice she’d heard earlier began, “You want to get fucked like a whore?” Her lips trembled as she fought a reply. She wasn’t allowed to talk, not on her side. He knew that, of course. The clients could say whatever they wanted – they had absolute power, while the only sounds that were allowed out of her mouth were sounds of pleasure – or pain.  Tav wasn’t going to ruin her chances of doing this again within the first minutes. So she kept quiet.  “Studied before coming here, I see”, the voice mocked, running his hand along her leg and up her thigh. Oh, he was full of himself. She wanted to kick his face, but her leg was held firmly in place. On the other side, there was a chuckle, obviously loving her reaction. But there was something else, tugging at the back of her mind: Where did she know that voice from…
A slap against her cunt pulled her back to reality as her mouth yelped in shock. 
“Ah, nice to meet you”, the voice laughed, bringing both hands to the insides of her thighs, scratching all the way down to her knees. The pain was delicious.  Tav took a sharp breath in as the man dug his nails into her skin again and again, leaving her thighs sensitive to even the slightest touch. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of whimpering, having understood almost immediately that this was a game to him. When she didn’t let out the desired sounds, he pinched her so hard she cried out. 
He laughed, voice smooth and low, then dipped two fingers to her entrance.  “Wet already”, he murmured, almost as if to himself, spreading her slick between her folds. Tav sighed. Yes. She was wet. She couldn’t wait to have him inside of her. The way he teased her, mocked her, promised great things to come.  The man on the other side pulled his hand away as she heard him fumble with his clothes. She felt him line himself up against her, then seemingly change his mind as he dragged the tip of his cock across her folds in slow, deliberate motions.  “Say please”, he demanded, voice low. He knew she couldn’t do that. But her hips bucked against him, a wordless plea, that wasn’t quite enough for him. Another slap, this time precisely against her clit, made her gasp. “Come now”, the man continued, “You can do better than that.”  Where did she know that voice from–
The next slap was even harder and immediately followed by two more, and he finally dragged out the whimpers from her mouth that Tav had refused to let him have. He chuckled, satisfied, then pushed himself inside of her without further notice until he was completely buried in her cunt. “Ahhh”, he sighed, pulling out slowly before shoving back in with force. “What a tight little cunt you have.” Tav moaned at the sudden praise, clinging to his words as they gathered even more heat between her legs. There was a small laugh on the other side in response to her sounds, and he brought his hands to her hips, just behind the curtain, pulling her down on his cock while he started to fuck her in earnest.
The way he filled her up sent shivers down her spine. Tightening his grip on her, the stranger started to roll his hips, his cock rubbing against a spot that made her mewl. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he seemed to enjoy himself as well, his breathing growing heavier and heavier the longer he fucked her. Tav wanted to reach for him, wanted to run her fingers over his back, wanted to slap his arrogant mouth, but she was stuck on her side of the hole, clenching her fists in frustration.  “You like that?”, came the voice from the other side, and she groaned in response, not even caring anymore that she didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.”  He... stopped. 
Tav felt like her body was on fire, and she wailed as she realized he had paused on purpose, interrupting her climb. On the other side, his fingers ran lazily over her thighs again, softly pressing against the reddened skin, still sensitive from his scratches.  “Me doing all the work does not seem particularly fair, does it?” Tav stared at the ceiling in confusion. Wasn’t this the point? “If you want to come on my cock, you need to earn it.” She swallowed down the reply that had already formed in her throat and instead just let out a shaky breath. He heard that. Of course. Chuckling he loosened the cord from the privacy curtain. What was he–
“Since it’s your first time as a whore, I’ll let you help yourself”, he said, his hand sliding underneath the curtain and beckoning towards her. “Don’t be shy now.” She knew the stranger wanted her to take his hand and let him pull hers to the other side, something that was allowed if both parties agreed, but she had an idea of her own. With a smirk she yanked his hand upwards, and he grabbed her waist for balance, as she brought his free hand to her breast. The sigh she heard from behind the curtain  was divine. Inside of her, his cock twitched against her walls as he squeezed her tit, hand full, rolling her nipple between his thumb and index finger until she moaned. Her hips bucked upwards on their own, and the scoff he let out was as sexy as it was venomous. He pinched her nipple so hard she cried out, then blindly slapped her breast, hitting her surprisingly (and painfully) well. His hand retreated behind the curtain while Tav gasped for air, trying to breathe away the pain that was flowing down from her breast to her core. 
“Oh, I like you”, the stranger said, bringing his fingers to her clit. “But believe me, you’ll do yourself a favor if you do as I say.” He started to squeeze, lightly at first, but increasing in pressure as Tav started to sob, trying to yank her hips away from him, but the leg holders kept her in place. It hurt. More than she wanted it to, so much so, that it wasn’t enjoyable anymore.  “Stop, you piece of shit”, she cried out hoarsely, breaking the house’s rule if he decided to tell on her, and she slid her hand through the curtain as he’d asked. Seeing her follow his request, the stranger broke off his assault on her clit.  “That sounded beautiful”, he murmured, his voice deep as it extended a peace offering, “and I shall forget it ever happened.”
Rolling his hips into her, he took her hand in his as he started fucking her again, an intimate gesture that was hotter than it had any right to be, especially in the middle of this brothel. Tav knew he wanted her to touch herself, but there was an unspoken agreement between them to give her a chance to recover, to reset from the pain. So she enjoyed him pounding into her, pushing his cock in and out while she tried to meet his thrusts with her hips. 
When the stranger decided enough time had passed, he stilled again, chuckling behind the curtain. 
“Ready, little whore?”
Ignoring his tease, Tav reached tenderly between her legs, trying to find a pace she enjoyed while knowing full well he was watching her get herself off. The man was humming with approval as she sighed, starting to fuck herself on his cock and her hands. Having less room for her to move her body meant she couldn’t get a lot of friction, her cunt clenching around his cock instead in desperation, trying to find those sweet spots again that he’d been hitting. No, she had to rely on working on herself with her fingers, rubbing her clit, while the stranger ran his hands up and down her legs and otherwise stood still. 
She knew her body well, of course. The past weeks had brought her more opportunities to distract herself at night, alone in her tent, than ever before, and it didn’t take her long to find that high she’d been chasing again. From the other side, the voice groaned as he watched her movements turn frantic. 
“Such a good whore”, he sighed, and Tav moaned at the praise. “I wish I could see your face, mouth hanging open while you get yourself off on me.” There were more whimpers from her, and the idea of him seeing her face, seeing her eyes half closed with lust, made her legs tremble. “Maybe next time I’ll fuck your mouth”, he cotinued, his needy tone sending sparks to her cunt, “Let you choke on my cock.” Tav gasped, she was close, and her hips had started to set their own rhythm against their static partner, that stranger, who’d come here to stand still and watch her bring herself to climax using his dick like a prop. 
“Fuck”, he groaned, apparently realizing she was about to come, and pulled out of her. Tav nearly cried at the loss of him inside of her, but instead his mouth was on her in an instant, his hand grabbing her wrist and stilling her fingers, while his tongue swirled around her clit. The sob she let out was guttural, and she bucked herself into his face, imagining she could ride him properly, without the wall dividing them. Her hand reached for his head, wanting to steer him, and she had to pull strands of hair aside to actually reach his forehead. Long hair, that had fallen into his eyes–
This time it was Tav who cursed out loud, realizing who this voice belonged to, understanding whose face she was just fucking, learning whose tongue was eating her out. As Lord Gortash’s image formed in the back of her mind, that thought pushed her over the edge. She moaned as her hips jerked into his mouth, his teeth slightly grazing over her sensitive skin as she came apart. When she was done, he licked a long streak from her entrance to her clit with the full width of his tongue, before standing back up. 
“Delicious”, he praised her, and now that she knew who he was, she couldn’t unhear it. How had she not realized–
Gortash started to pump his cock in his hand, the rubbing sounds unmistakable, and it took mere moments before he groaned, spilling his seed on her, the warm strings dripping down between her folds. “Fuck”, he moaned, his free hand still on her waist. “I think you’ve ruined me.”
Grateful for the house rules of not being allowed to talk, Tav stared at the ceiling and tried to gather her thoughts. Her breathing was still shallow and quickened, and her heart was beating in a rapid rhythm trying to process what had just happened. He didn’t know it was her, she realized. He couldn’t. There was no way–
She heard him clean himself up on the other side, then stroll back over to where she was lying. “I’d wipe my cum off you, but honestly, I think it suits you”, he said, voice low and full of mockery again. Tav’s mouth ran dry. “Goodbye.”
And with that, he was gone. 
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jokeringcutio · 5 months
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Severus Snape x Reader - Halloween (Contains Smut)
AN: Follow me for more Halloween Reader Inserts. More stories will follow this month.
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Fandom: Harry Potter Pairing: Professor Snape x Reader Rating: Explicit Summary: A grown-up dressed as a Hogwarts student on Halloween… Snape has his own thoughts about it.
Warnings: Explicit Sexual content, spanking, blowjob.
Not a Real Hogwarts Student
Halloween evening draped its eerie shadows around you, the crisp autumn air nipping at your cheeks as you and your friend Melissa guided a gaggle of excited children from house to house. Their laughter pierced the night as they scampered from door to door. To match the group, Melissa and you had decided to dress up as well. Moonlight shimmered on the velvet fabric of your Hogwarts uniform, a tribute to the fantasy world you loved so much. Your favorite house, of course. It had been an easy decision.
"Let's try this place!" one of the kids exclaimed, pointing at an old, imposing residence. It fit Halloween perfectly, although you could tell it wasn’t decorated for the occasion. This house looked just creepy on itself.
Little did you know, it was the home of none other than Severus Snape himself.
The tallest of the kids rang the doorbell, an ominous creak echoing through the darkened hallway within. Your heart thudded in your chest, anticipation lacing your veins.
The door swung open to reveal the tall figure of Professor Snape, his black hair framing his pale face. The children gasped, staring wide-eyed at the man they knew to be the famous strict, no-nonsense professor.
"Trick-or-treat," they mumbled hesitantly, their previous enthusiasm dampened by the sight of him.
"Ah, my little ghouls and witches," Snape purred, his voice dripping with mystery. "I have something for each of you."
Reaching into a crystal bowl, he pulled out handfuls of candy, distributing them among the children with uncharacteristic gentleness. The kids were hesitant, but when they saw the copious amount of candy they were given, they started to smile again.
Melissa threw you a look that showed she was as confused as you. “Nice outfit, sir,” she said, betraying that she hadn’t recognized him. But you knew who he was, and you trembled slightly at the crooked smile he flashed your friend.
He wasn’t wearing a Halloween costume, you thought. Snape was in his ordinary black clothes. His usual.
"Thank you, Professor," the kids said, smiling brightly and clutching their treats tightly.
“You’re welcome,” Snape said, his voice had that unmistakable low buzz to it that made it uniquely his; words drawn and stretched like a hum.
“Come on,” one of the kids said, signaling the others to head to the next home. They started to run, their laughter filling the air once more. You and Melissa turned around to follow when you heard a familiar voice behind you.
"Girl in the Hogwarts outfit," Snape called after you as the children scampered off. "A word."
Your eyes widened and you looked at Melissa. She was dressed as a pirate, her dress showing off her bare knees and shapely thighs. She looked stunning and alluring. She wasn’t dressed as a Hogwarts student.
You were.
“What do I do?” you mouthed the words silently at Melissa, aware that Snape couldn’t see them as you stood turned away. Provided he wouldn’t read your mind. But no. You should not think of that, because if he did, he would read that too. And this. And this. And the fact that you’d gotten hot for him for ages. Bummer. If he could read your mind he probably saw all the flashes of erotic daydreams involving him and you that instantly surfaced to the front of your mind. You tried to push your dirty thoughts far away while you tried to focus on Melissa as she stepped closer to you.
“Go to him?” she whispered. Melissa clutched your arm, her eyes wide with confusion.
"Is that a good idea?" you whispered, your voice trembling.
"Why not?" She asked, then frowned. “Look, the kids are already at the next house, someone has to stay with them. Just talk to the man, they seem to know him. Plus we know where he lives. If he tries anything funny….”
She left the words dangling in the air and you nodded, knowing what she was trying to say. You could feel the weight of Snape's dark gaze upon you, beckoning you to him.
“All right,” you said, “I’ll talk to him.” Somehow you were more than a little intrigued that Snape had asked you to stay behind. Not sexy and pretty Melissa. But you. You needed to know what it was that he wanted.
“But if anything happens to me,” you threatened.
Melissa rolled her eyes. “God's sake, girl,” she said, grumbling. "I’ll make you a deal. If you're not back in half an hour, I'll come looking for you."
You stared at your friend, glowering until she cracked a smile. “And you have your phone. You’ll be good.”
"Deal," you said, taking a deep breath before you turned around. Behind you, you could hear Melissa’s hurried footsteps as she ran over to the kids. While your fate awaited you at the door of a dark and gloomy-looking house. There were actual black bricks and wood incorporated into the house’s exterior. How fitting.
Slowly, you walked back to the porch. He stood there, an enigmatic figure framed by the doorway, waiting patiently for you to return.
“You asked for me, sir?” you politely started, but he cut you off by turning briskly and retreating into his house, not even waiting to see if you followed. You only heard his low voice drift towards you.
"Come inside," The words were a low hum, vibrating in your soul. A command. You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest, before finally stepping into his home.
The moment you crossed the threshold, the whole atmosphere seemed to change. The cold and morbid exterior seemed to be replaced with a pleasant and warm interior. A small hallway with flowery wallpaper led you to a cozy living room that was filled with strange knick-knacks – a bubbling cauldron, rows of vials containing mysterious liquids, and countless books lining the walls. You could feel the power emanating from every corner, but at the same time, it felt oddly inviting.
"Sit," he ordered, gesturing to a spot on the floor in front of a comfortable chair by the fireplace.
You blinked up at him, not quite sure if you understood him. Did he want you to sit on the floor?
“A grown-up woman dressed as a student,” Snape’s low voice sounded, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. You hoped he didn’t notice, that he didn’t see how much his voice affected you. “Deplorable.”
Now wait a minute. You hadn’t come here to be insulted. But as you opened your mouth to say your bit, Snape raised a hand and spoke again. “I won’t ask you again. If you want to dress up as a student, you better listen to your professor. Sit.”
The floor again. You’d seen it correctly then. Reluctantly, you obeyed, sinking to your knees as he lowered himself into the chair in front of you, staring intently at you. Just his gaze alone sent shivers down your spine, and you couldn't help but feel the heat rising between you, an unspoken tension leaving you breathless.
For a while, that was all there was to it. Just him staring at you, and you trying not to let your thoughts get in the way. Moistness gathered between your legs and you prayed he wouldn’t see. But then again, his eyes… they were so intently upon you, darker than the blackest coal you’d ever seen. What was he looking for? What was he hoping for?
You shifted, uncomfortable, and placed your hands between your knees, sitting up meekly.
"Are you aware of the effect your costume has on me?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Dressed as a student from my school... At your age… What do you have to say for yourself.”
“Sorry, Professor. I didn’t know you were-” real? Here? What was it you could say that wouldn’t raise his anger? “It’s my favorite house and it was just a bit of harmless fun.”
“Harmless, right?” The words were drawn, his dark eyes roving over you. “Seeing you like this… it awakens something within me."
You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of your own vulnerability. "I... I didn't mean to, Professor," you stammered, feeling the intensity of his gaze burning into you.
"Didn't you?" he pressed, leaning forward ever so slightly. "You must have known how it would affect me. How it would make me feel."
Your heart raced and your breath hitched in your throat. No, you hadn’t, you thought. But if you had, you would have put the costume on all the same. You desired him, and now he would see you.
Snape's dark eyes held yours captive, almost as if he knew he had you caught, and you knew there was no escaping the dangerous attraction that crackled between you.
"Your apology is inadequate," Snape declared, his voice low and dangerous. "You must make amends for your indiscretion."
A shudder raced through you as you struggled to comprehend his intentions. "What do you want me to do, Professor?" you whispered, your voice trembling.
"Come here," he commanded, patting his lap.
Obediently, you approached, uncertain what exactly it was that he wanted from you. Although you were starting to have an inkling. You wanted to ask him ‘Really, Professor?’ or tease him. But he grasped your arm, as quick as a snake, and tugged you toward him. The jerking motion made you tumble over. You felt a strong palm against your back, pushing you as he laid you across his knees, and you gasped.
He had tricked you, just like that. You tried to look up but then froze at the feeling of his hand brushing past the skin of your leg. Gently at first, then more demanding, until it slipped underneath your skirt and pulled it down.
“Professor!” You called out in surprise. But he hissed at you as a sign to remain quiet, while his hands toyed with the naked flesh of your ass. A gentle rub of his palms, kneading and fondling your soft skin.
An experimental pat. Then, another one. You bit your lip in pleasure.
"Count them," he ordered, and you instantly knew what he was going to do next. You braced yourself for the first slap. It landed with a resounding smack, stinging your flesh. "One," you gasped, trying to maintain your composure.
"Again," he murmured, his voice thick with anticipation. The second slap struck, harder than the first, forcing a whimper from your lips. "Two," you breathed, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
"Perhaps this will teach you a lesson," he mused, landing another sharp blow to your tender skin. "Three," you choked out, unable to hold back the sob that threatened to escape. God, this felt good.
"Enough," Snape decided, his fingers tracing the red marks he'd left on your behind. "But you're not truly sorry yet, are you?"
You shook your head, frightened by the dark desire that flickered in his eyes. "No, Professor," you admitted, your voice barely audible.
"Then prove it," he growled, guiding you off his lap and back onto your knees before him. As you hesitated, he placed his hands on yours, moving them between his legs. Your fingertips were brushed against his fly. When you looked up at him you saw how the professor had cocked his head, how his eyebrows raised in anticipation. He wanted you to do this.
Slowly, you unbuttoned his pants, releasing his throbbing cock into view. It was large. Not as pale as the rest of him. Riddled with purple veins and pulsing.
“Now then,” a low murmur from his lips. "Show me how sorry you are."
Tentatively, you reached out to touch him, your fingers trembling as they wrapped around his length. Experimentally, you brushed your thumb past the head, noticing how a droplet of pre-cum stuck to your finger as you brushed past the slit. Did a shiver just run down his spine? Did he tremble underneath your touch?
Feeling empowered, you started to move your hand up and down. With each stroke, your confidence grew, and soon you leaned forward, brushing your lips past the wet tip.
“Yes,” the pleasure was audible in his voice. “Use those pretty lips.”
Encouraged, you gripped the base of his cock with both hands while taking the tip of him into your mouth. It tasted funny, but good. Eager for more, you tried to take him in deeper in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks while you pushed your tongue against him. Slowly, you started to move your head up and down, taking him a little bit deeper with each thrust.
"Good girl," he praised, his hand tangling in your hair as he guided you to take him deeper. "That's it, just like that."
You tried to focus on pleasing him, suppressing your gag reflex as he filled your throat. His grip tightened in your hair, urging you on as your lips and tongue worked their magic on him.
"Almost there," he groaned, his breath hitching as you continued your diligent efforts. The taste of him was intoxicating, making you crave more.
As he neared his climax, you felt the muscles in his thighs tense beneath you. "I'm going to come," he warned, voice thick with lust.
His grip on your hair tightened further, a guttural moan escaping him as he thrust one final time into your mouth. You felt the hot, thick jets of his spunk hit the back of your throat, and you swallowed greedily, not wanting to waste a single drop.
When he was spent, Snape released his hold on your head, allowing you to gasp for air. You were feeling a little dizzy, the salty taste of his cock and his cum lingered on your tongue. Something cold and wet was on your cheek and you wiped it away with the back of your hand. It seemed a few droplets of cum had managed to get away.
Snape’s dark eyes bore into yours, searching for something within their depths. "I enjoyed myself," he admitted, his voice low and intense.
Your cheeks flushed with both arousal and embarrassment, but you met his gaze boldly. "So did I, Professor," you confessed, feeling a strange thrill at admitting your desires to this powerful man. "I would like to do this again."
He regarded you thoughtfully for a moment before nodding. "Yes," he agreed, his tone almost gentle. "We will have to continue your… education soon."
A flurry of excitement stirred in your abdomen, as if a thousand butterflies took flight. He wanted to meet with you again. To do this again. Just the thought that you would get to see and pleasure him again got you all flustered.
You stood, smoothing your skirt and attempting to regain some semblance of composure.
“Let me know when,” you said, leaning forward to scribble your telephone number on a piece of paper that conveniently lay upon his side table. You felt him as he watched, but when you spun around, he was decent again. Still seated in his chair, he watched you.
“Well, I probably need to go,” you started, hesitantly. You didn’t want to leave but…
“Or your friend will come with the police in tow,” Snape added. “Get moving, girl.”
Here, the two of you locked gazes and flashed each other a smile.
“I’ll see you around, Professor,” you said, more cheekily now. You flashed him a smile and, with an elegant twirl, turned around and made your way to the door.
Just as you were about to step outside you heard him call out your name. Confused, you turned back to face him. He gestured toward the bowl of candy on a table near the door.
"Don't forget your reward for being such a little goody two shoes," he told you, the corners of his lips twitching ever so slightly.
"Thank you, Professor," you murmured, quickly grabbing a handful of candy before slipping out into the cool night air, your heart pounding in anticipation of what was to come.
~ Fin ~
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tennessoui · 3 months
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For the prompt list, nanny/single parent obikin would be amazing!!
(from this prompt list)
(the first time I answered this prompt two years ago, the nanny anakin au was born)
so to do something different, here's some gffa widowed anakin, nanny (sort of) obi-wan!
(2.5k)
It is hard to find time to grieve. There are too many things to do. Too many appointments to make, too many decisions Anakin isn’t sure he’s qualified for. Some decisions are easier than others. For example, the funeral will be on Naboo. There will be two services: a public one to honor Padmé’s public service, and a private one to honor who she was as a person. The casket will be closed, because his wife died when her cruiser exploded. There isn’t much left to bury anyway.
But some decisions are harder. Which flowers should go on her casket. What songs would she want sung and who should sing them? Would she prefer her grave closer to her ancestral home or the home she created in her adulthood?
If she told anyone the answers to these questions, it wasn’t Anakin. But then, the people who knew her best, who loved her most, died with her. Sabé, Rabé, Saché, Yané, all of her handmaidens—an assassination such broad strokes that it was impossible for it to fail.
So Anakin chooses Yali lilies, because Leia’s eyes linger on them the longest. He chooses a small Nabooian folk band to play after her service because their music is the first thing to make Luke lift his head from his coloring books in days. He formally requests that her body be buried among her ancestors, and the Nabierres agree immediately.
And he keeps telling himself that he will grieve, but there is so much to do. 
And then—then there’s after the funeral. Then there’s the rest of his life, sprawling out before him in a long, hazy road. 
There are more decisions to be made.
There are people who have opinions on them now, people who sat back and let Anakin muddle through flower arrangements and kriffing seating charts, who now step in to peer over his shoulder, monitor his every breath.
Should he really move the children back to Coruscant? Does he truly plan to continue to work as a mechanic in the Mid-Levels? Should he not think of the children, their needs? How can he support them on the thin amount of credits he makes? Would it not be better for the children to live on Naboo in the care of their grandparents and their extended family?
It would be what Padmé would have wanted.
Anakin cannot care about what Padmé would have wanted, because she isn’t here. Not to argue with him, not to make her wants known. She is dead. She doesn’t get to haunt him in the waking world too.
“What do you want?” he asks plainly, sitting down across the table from his two children. The twins blink back at him. Leia has finished her cereal. Luke has barely touched his.
“Bacon,” Luke says.
Anakin hadn’t meant for breakfast, but he figures it’s as good of a start as any. “Alright,” he agrees.
He stands once more and goes to the kitchen. It’s not exactly his domain. It was never Padmé’s either. The way Padmé grew up, food was made once you requested it—by droid, by cooking staff. Not by the hand of a Nabierre.
The way Anakin grew up, food was cobbled together carefully, sparingly no matter how much you requested it. And no matter how you cooked it, it always tasted a little like dust, which took the joy out of experimentation.
But the serving staff have been dismissed for the past two weeks to give the family time and space to grieve in private. 
(Padmé’s parents have been given a schedule for visiting hours for that exact reason.)
Anakin locates the pan; then, he locates the package of bacon strips.
When he glances up, both twins are watching him over the edge of their barstools, tiny faces showing both skepticism and incredulity.
“I want to know what you want to do,” Anakin says, raising his voice as he places the pot over the heating plate, the meat in a moment later. “Do you want to stay here with your grandmother and grandfather? Do you want to go back to Coruscant?”
The twins are quiet. Anakin twists his neck to look at them again, and they’re looking at each other, silently communicating the way only twins can.
“Where will you be?” Leia finally asks, looking at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes, bottom lip already jutting out.
Anakin blinks. “Wherever you are,” he answers.
“You won’t leave too?” Luke asks rather tremulously.
Anakin takes the pan off the heated plate and turns it off with a decisive flick of his wrist. “Of course not,” he says. “Come here.” He crouches down and barely has enough time to open his arms before the twins are there, pressing in as close as they can get to him. He holds them back just as tightly in return.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises into Leia’s hair. “Not without you two.”
—-----------------
It becomes apparent fairly quickly that this is, by necessity, a lie.
The twins don’t want to stay on Naboo, which Anakin is secretly incredibly grateful for. He doesn’t want to either, but he knows he’d just be called selfish should he express the opinion.
But the twins don’t want to go back to Coruscant either. This makes sense as well. It would be incredibly jarring for them to go back to living in the quarters they shared with their mother, her Upper Coruscanti apartments in the nicest district of the planet, without her there.
Anakin wishes it were as simple as sticking a pin on a planet and deciding to uproot the entirety of his family to live there. 
But it’s not.
Perhaps if he were still young, nineteen, newly free and in love with the taste of that freedom, it would be.
But he’s a widower now. He has his children to think about, their futures. Any planet he chooses must have what they need as well. 
And they are four year olds who have just lost their mother. Their needs are numerous.
What makes the decision for him in the end is that his boss knows a man from Stewjon, who is willing to hire him. Who is willing to pay a premium for his expertise with mechanics.
Anakin doesn’t know the first thing about Stewjon, other than that it’s an ocean planet in the Inner Core and his dead wife always said the Senators from Stewjon were so frigid and tight-lipped because they spent the first few days of each visit trying not to be seasick on the Senate floor.
Anakin isn’t sure why this is the very first thing he tells the man—his potential boss—he meets behind the counter in the mech-shop on Stewjon.
He’s left the children with their grandparents for the week—long enough to fly from Naboo to Stewjon, meet with his potential employer, interview, apply his work practically, and fly back out.
He’d explained to both twins why they had to stay on Naboo. He’d explained many times. That hadn’t changed the betrayed look Leia had worn as she saw him off. It hadn’t wiped the tears from Luke’s eyes.
“Ah, well, I can’t say I’ve heard that one before,” the mechanic says. He sounds amused, and Anakin is incredibly shocked to hear a Coruscanti accent. Everyone he’s spoken to since arriving planetside has had such a heavy brogue that he’d honestly struggled to understand their directions to the shop—Kenobi & Sons.
Anakin lets himself look again at the man behind the counter. He’s rather clean for a mechanic, he decides. His beard is red, a common factor around these parts apparently, but his beard is short and neat, trimmed to accentuate the strong lines of his jaw. His eyes are a stormy blue, the kind of blue that matches the Stewjoni ocean.
“Between you and me though,” the man smirks and leans onto the counter with his elbow. His tunic is dark gray, white starchy fabric peeking out beneath the v-necked collar. “I’ve never been a fan of Stewjoni politicians anyway.”
“Oh?” Anakin asks, sidling a step closer to the counter. The man has the beginnings of gray at his temples, and his eyes are lined with wrinkles. They don’t make him look old though, Anakin decides. They make him look…well-lived.
“I’ve not a head for politics much at all,” his future employer shakes his head slightly with a small smile. His eyes flick up and down Anakin’s face, lingering on his lips and then lingering longer on the scar over his brow. Anakin feels rather flushed under the inspection, and he shifts his weight forward until he’s leaning up against the counter too.
There’s something about this man that’s rather…magnetic. It pulls him in. It makes him want to linger.
Good characteristic for a shopkeeper to have, though Anakin privately decides that the man before him has a face that’s wasted on mechanics, buried under some ship’s underbelly in a backroom.
“Me neither,” he admits, a moment too late to sound anything but highly distracted. It makes the man smile again though, a flash of straight white teeth.
“Is there anything you do have a head for then?” he asks. His tone is light, airy, rather teasing.
This is the strangest interview Anakin has ever had.
“Um,” he says. “Well. There’s mechanics.”
“Oh?” The man’s eyebrow lifts at an elegant angle. He props his chin on the palm of his hand and looks up at Anakin through his eyelashes. “Then why come here to us then?”
“Um,” Anakin says, and not because the man looks rather unfairly flattering like this, amber eyelashes in sharp relief against the blue of his eyes.
They’re interrupted by the sounds of clattering in the backroom, stomping and cursing. The man before him straightens with a slight sigh and picks up the closest flimsipad. “And what brings you in here today, sir?” he asks rather loudly, pitching his voice back to the other room of the shop pointedly. “Problem with your speeder? Serving droid? Cruiser? If it’s your astromech droid, I regret to inform you that I’ll have to refuse you service on account of the fact that I don’t particularly care for them.”
Anakin thinks he splutters, but whatever noise he makes is definitely drowned out by the rather irritated shout of Obi-Wan! that comes from the back.
A moment later, a man storms through the door, looking annoyed. "We will service an astomech if that's what's broken, Obi-Wan."
Now this is a man that Anakin can believe is a mechanic. His nails are blackened with oil, and his bare, burly arms carry smudges of the stuff. He’s much broader than the man—Obi-Wan—that Anakin had been talking to. He’s bald with a reddened scalp and a rather large red beard that’s the antithesis of the other man’s in every way. His clothes are dirty, loose, and the color of ash. He looks older too—whereas Obi-Wan could easily be in his thirties, this man must be pushing fifty.
He snaps at Obi-Wan in a language that Anakin doesn’t understand. Obi-Wan shrugs and hands over the flimsi pad without argument.
“Um, actually,” Anakin says, feeling incredibly wrong-footed. “Which one of you is Kenobi?”
“I am,” both of them say. Obi-Wan’s smirking slightly. The other man’s voice is louder, carrying that Stewjoni accent so obviously lacking in Obi-Wan’s speech.
The older man closes his eyes as if he’s praying for patience. “We both are,” he says. “Though if your ship’s malfunctioned, sir, I’m the Kenobi you want to see. This one’s good for naught but magic tricks.”
“I have been told I’m rather good at other things,” Obi-Wan turns his smirk full-force at Anakin, dropping his eyes to Anakin’s lips once more.
“My name is Anakin Skywalker,” he says very quickly in a very normal tone of voice that is most definitely not a squeak. “I’m here to interview for a position. As another mechanic.”
“Oh,” the older Kenobi says.
“Oh,” the younger Kenobi says in a much different tone.
The older Kenobi pinches at his nose for a moment before turning around the counter and offering his hand. “Ben,” he says. “Ben Kenobi.”
Anakin takes his hand and shakes it, eyes traveling back to Obi-Wan. Is he supposed to shake his hand too?
“I’m the Son in the sign,” Ben says gruffly as if that answers his question.
“I’m the reason it’s plural,” Obi-Wan adds, busying himself with the contents of the counter. From what Anakin can tell, the man is just messing up the carefully organized piles of receipts. 
He decides that he would rather not get the job than point this out to Ben.
Ben huffs out something in Stewjoni that sounds downright insulting, but that doesn’t stop Obi-Wan from smiling sunnily up at Anakin. “My brother enjoys bitching and moaning that I came back home when I was seventeen, but he’s awfully quick to foist his children off on me when he’s called to shift at the rig offshore and Marci’s off-planet too.”
Anakin blinks. He feels like that’s the safest answer.
“Only thing good that blasted Jedi Order ever taught you was how to handle younglings,” Ben says, and then spits on the ground as if the words themselves have left a bad taste in his mouth.
Anakin blinks and wonders if he should say something to remind the brothers that he’s here. For an interview. “And my magic tricks,” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes slightly before catching Anakin’s eye and winking. With a wave of his hand, a flimsi-sheet flies over the counter and into Anakin’s chest. He catches it unthinkingly. “Would you like to sign in, sir?” “Get out of here,” Ben barks, snatching the flimsi from Anakin’s hand and pushing it back to the counter. “Like I said, the only one’s impressed with that is the younglings.”
“I don’t know, your man looks impressed,” Obi-Wan says slyly, even as he pushes himself away from the counter and around the edge of it.
Anakin isn’t sure what he looks like. He doesn’t think impressed is the word he’d use though.
When Obi-Wan brushes past him, the static electricity in the air jumps between their shoulders. Anakin feels as if he’s been shocked.
Obi-Wan must feel it too because he stops only a few inches away and looks at Anakin. For the first time, his expression is open. Curious. Considering.
“Get!” His brother insists, and Obi-Wan obeys, throwing one last look over his shoulder at Anakin before he slips out the door.
The shop feels somehow much bigger now that the other man has left. Ben sighs and rubs a hand down his face. He looks older now. More worn. “So that was my brother,” he tells Anakin wearily. “Who you would most likely see frequently if you were to take this job. I would understand completely if you would like to start by talking compensation.”
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for the kiss prompts - a playful kiss to make the other stop rambling + geraskier, pretty please 🥺
Jaskier has never been one to suffer stage fright. Since the first time he gave an impromptu performance at one of his parents’ banquets at the age of seven, he’s soaked up the spotlight at any chance he can get. There’s nothing he delights in more than having a crowded tavern or ballroom watching him with starry eyes, hanging onto his every word. He knows he’s good at what he does, a far cry from the boy who used to get bread pelted at his head while he sang about hags and abortions.
Except that as he stands behind the stage at the Oxenfurt Music Festival, listening to a pair of Nazairi troubadours sing a lovely duet, his insides roil with the same queasy nervousness he’s carried with him all day. He glances over at Geralt to make sure the witcher doesn’t notice. Geralt is leaning against the wall, looking remarkably stoic for a man who has been dragged to a music festival entirely against his will. 
Jaskier can’t let him know how nervous he is, not when Geralt took on two wyverns singlehandedly only three days ago. The fact that Jaskier, who has been a traveling bard for years, who has faced far scarier things than a crowd of onlookers (usually while cowering behind Geralt, but his point stands) has stage fright is too mortifying to admit. Luckily, Jaskier is excellent at keeping his feelings under wraps after years of traveling with his witcher. He’s sure Geralt has no idea.
“You’re nervous,” Geralt says.
Fuckity fuck.
“Nervous?” Jaskier breaks off in a monologue about how he lost the Student Bardic Competition to Valdo Marx his final year due to trickery and biased judging. “I’m not nervous! Merely excited to claim yet another in my long list of accolades.”
“You stink of anxiety.”
Jaskier just manages to resist the urge to sniff himself. “Why, thank you, Geralt. How kind of you to say. And here I thought you liked this new perfume.”
Geralt just stares at him, unimpressed.
Jaskier sighs. “I seem to have come down with the tiniest case of stage fright.”
“Stage fright?” Geralt arches an eyebrow. “But you perform all the time.”
“Not at places like this.” Jaskier waves his hand in the direction of the stage.
“You just told me in detail about all seven times you performed here before. You said you won five times.”
“And it would have been all seven, if Valdo Marx weren’t a cad and a cheat.” Jaskier puffs up in remembered outrage. “But that was the Student Bardic Festival. Everyone expects the acts there to be a little bit shit. Melitele help them, but my classmates didn’t give me much of a run for their money, save for Valdo and Essi. This is the first time I’ve performed in a professional competition.”
“And that’s why you’re nervous.”
“Yes!” Jaskier throws up his hands in exasperation. “I know this isn’t a wyvern or an angry mob, but I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of thousands of people!”
Geralt gets an expression on his face like he’s valiantly refraining from pointing out that Jaskier doesn’t normally care about making a fool of himself. “You perform all the time.”
“For drunks in taverns who won’t notice if I make a bunk of the pronunciation of an elven ballad or courtiers who wouldn’t know a wrong note if it hit them in the face. Many of these people are trained musicians themselves who have come from all over the Continent to be here today. I have to be perfect.”
“Then be perfect.”
“Geralt.” Jaskier moans and slaps his hands over his eyes. “Have you ever heard of Elsa Svensen?”
“You know I haven’t.”
“Of course you haven’t! She was a cautionary tale when I was at Oxenfurt, a rising star in the bardic circuit until she tried to sing The Six Swans at the Lan Exeter Bardic Festival.” At the blank look on his witcher’s face, Jaskier elaborates. “It’s a famously difficult ballad in Elder. Very long, lots of tricky notes. She butchered it so badly that she was laughed off stage! Suffice to say, there was an unfortunate mispronunciation and she sang a line about the hero committing unspeakable acts with a donkey in front of the entirety of Lan Exeter, including the king and queen. It ended her career. Rumor has it that she changed her name and is now working as a traveling player.”
Geralt doesn’t look suitably horrified, in Jaskier’s opinion.
“A traveling player, Geralt!” Jaskier practically shrieks, which isn’t good for his voice, but he can’t stop himself. “I can’t act! There isn’t a single troupe of traveling players that would have me. I’ll starve. Gods, I should never have let Essi talk me into this. I’m too young to live in disgrace. Can you go out there and tell them that a horrible tragedy has befallen me and an evil witch has stolen my voice? Ooh, yes, say I’ve ruined her for all other men and this is my punishment. Do you think we can find an actual witch in—”
He doesn’t realize Geralt is approaching him until the witcher presses a brief kiss to his lips.
Jaskier blinks, surprised. Geralt isn’t one for displays of affection where anyone else might see. “What are you—”
Geralt kisses him again. Jaskier can feel the curl of his lips.
“Geralt, this is—”
Another kiss, this one accompanied by Geralt nipping at his lower lip.
“Geralt,” Jaskier says through another kiss. “Are you trying to distract me?”
“Trying to shut you up.”
“How dare—”
Geralt kisses him again. “You were working yourself up.”
Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, then realizes he was just plotting to find an actual witch to steal his voice in order to get out of a performance. Perhaps Geralt has a point. “Right.”
“You know Elder too well to accidentally sing about donkeys. And if you do manage to fuck up so badly that you ruin your career, I won’t let you starve.”
Jaskier melts into him. “Geralt, that’s the sweetest—”
“Because you’re right, you’d be a shit traveling player.” Geralt’s lips quirk.
“You—”
Geralt kisses him again, slow and sweet, and Jaskier feels the last bit of tension drain out of him.
“Jaskier the Bard!” a woman’s voice calls from the stage. “Also known as the Dandelion!”
“That’s you.” Geralt pushes him towards the stage. “You’ll do great, Jask.”
Jaskier can’t help but smile at him. “How can I not, after a sweet pep talk like that?”
“Hm. Probably not as great as Valdo Marx did earlier.” A full-on smile spreads over Geralt’s face at Jaskier’s outrage. “But we’ll see.”
And just for that, Jaskier gives the best damn performance of his life. Which is probably what Geralt intended, the terrible man.
***
Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome
Kiss prompts
212 notes · View notes
honeyteacakes · 8 months
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For the soft prompts, 34!
34. odd socks
(from this prompt list, requests always welcome! 💖)
Of all the ways that Dream could wind up naked in his apartment, Hob had never quite envisioned...... this.
Dream had shown up on the doorstep on his flat, soaked through to the bone, after apparently having been kicked out of his "realm" by his "librarian" because of the "weather." Hob understood all those words individually, even if they didn't quite make sense to him in the ways that Dream had used them. Though parsing Dream's meaning had seemed less important than trying to comfort the man, who looked nearly on the verge of tears when Hob opened the door. So Hob had pulled him inside and ushered him into his bathroom, arms full of dry towels and soft clothes scavenged from Hob's own wardrobe.
So Dream was naked. Probably. Behind the bathroom door in Hob's flat, changing into Hob's clothes. And Hob was trying very, very hard to be as normal about that as possible.
He distracts himself by putting the kettle on, by putting together a plate of biscuits and steeping the tea. He would try to persuade Dream to eat, to see if he could get him to open up about what exactly-
"Hob?"
Hob nearly jumps at the sound of his voice, turning to find Dream standing behind him. He's wearing the clothes that he'd been given. The band t-shirt is nearly falling off of one of his shoulders, the sweatpants hang loose around his hips and-
Hob hadn't been paying attention to the socks when he'd grabbed them.
They're bright pink. And covered with ducks.
Hob bites his lip. He doesn't particularly feel confident that Dream wouldn't take offense if he accidentally smiled at the sight, god forbid if he giggled. But Dream looks cute. Not that Hob would say that to him.
Hob presses one of the mugs of tea into Dream's hands.
"Right," he begins. "So what exactly happened in your 'realm' again?"
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wannab-urs · 11 days
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Knife
Prompt: "I've always wondered why it had to be you"
Pairing: Dave York x gn!reader
Summary: It was always going to be you
Warnings: implied major character death, implied smut
WC: 407
A/N: The challenge was to write a prompt fill for my assigned character in 20 minutes + 10 minutes of editing. I did this in about 15 and didn't edit it because it was midnight when I completed the challenge lol. Enjoy!
Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi | Prompt Fills | Dave York Masterlist
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Dave had opened the file folder expecting to see another random operative, another practically faceless target he cares nothing for. His stomach dropped clear to his feet when he saw your picture, a name he doesn’t know you by typed neatly beneath it. It was definitely you, though. It was your hair, your nose, your lips in the photo. You. It always had to be you. 
Every beautiful and terrible thing in his life seemed to come back to you. He had met you on a job – first mistake. You were a fellow agent, newly assigned to his team. He’d immediately known he was going to fall for you. You’re beautiful, intelligent, and god the way you handle a gun. 
You had bonded over drinks at the hotel bar, competing for the attention of your target – a stunning blonde in a skimpy but elegant red dress. You took turns flirting with her, vying for her attention. At the end of the night, she went up to her room with you. He was a fucking goner. 
Your relationship had been fraught. You were always dancing in and out of reach. Close but never close enough. You loved him, he could see that, but you wouldn’t commit. Not that he was any better. You both refused to acknowledge the bone deep feeling that you belonged together. Your work was too dangerous, too time consuming, too solitary. 
Neither of you could ever refuse that magnetic pull toward each other, though. Give you three minutes in a room alone and you’d be on each other. Trousers shoved half way down, shirts rucked up, hands and mouths roaming. You weren’t subtle, you weren’t careful. Everyone knew you were fucking, but no one really cared. As long as it didn’t interfere with work. 
It had been a knife to the gut to open that file folder and find your name. The file had it all. You’re a double agent, had been the entire time. You’re actively working to take down several operations within the DIA from the inside. And you were good. You probably wouldn’t have been caught if not for the last job – maybe he had distracted you. He had almost wished he hadn’t, wished you had been on top of your game, wished he didn’t have to kill you. 
Now he’s slumped on the floor with a real knife in his gut. Yours. 
“It was always going to be you, huh?” 
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doomspoon888 · 2 months
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Megastar kink prompts
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Send me a kink, or kink prompt, and I'll try to fill every day of February with megastar smut ;)
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disillusioneddanny · 1 month
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Hello, yes hi.
I am trying to claw my way out of a writing slump and my long fics aren’t sparking joy. Soooooo
If you have any DPxDC or DC one shot requests send them my way! I’m hoping it will kick my butt into gear and inspire me :3
Feel free to drop ideas in my asks or my submissions spot on my blog 💚
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lilredghost · 3 months
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"i think this is the part where you're supposed to kiss me" for the prompts!
And this wasn't on the list, but if I can be greedy: wrist kiss?
OK I got a bit carried away with the backstory in this one, but basically it's a no-war AU and 600 words of Obi-Wan pining [Kiss prompts]
Obi-Wan’s leg jitters restlessly.
No one can see it, so he allows himself this one indulgence. This one insecurity.
He has been waiting to see Lord Set’en Toa for three days. Officially, atleast.
He’s been waiting to see Anakin for three and a half months.
It’s been a rough adjustment, in the wake of his Padawan’s Knighting.
At twenty-one, they had both known it was coming for years, but knowing had done little to prepare Obi-Wan for the reality of waking up to an empty apartment.
It is quiet now, in his rooms. He only makes one mug of caf in the morning. He only rolls out one meditation mat, only brings home dinner for one.
As a youngling, he was always with his crechemates. As a Padawan, with his Master. And then, with Anakin.
For the last eleven years, his life has rotated around this boy.
So for the first time, Obi-Wan is learning to be alone.
(He doesn’t like it.)
(He avoids the cafmaker, avoids meditating and eating and living in his quarters. He haunts the refectory, the salles, the gardens, the archives, looking for things that don’t remind him so much of Anakin’s absence.)
(He fails.)
Normally, there would be more of an adjustment period, he knows.
Normally, he would get time to gradually acclimate himself to being without his boy.
Normally, his Padawan wouldn’t be sent on a months-long undercover mission just days after his Knighting.
But Anakin has hardly ever been anything resembling normal.
And when word came in of a missing Lord— one who had risen unexpectedly to succeed the throne— the Council had taken one look at the grainy flimsi photos of the man’s countenance and decided to send Anakin in.
Another Jedi had taken up the hunt for the missing Lord, while Anakin, as the man’s spitting image, had taken his place in an attempt to keep the peace. To buy time, fool the opposition, and, hopefully, smoke out the would-be assassins.
Now that the Lord— the real Set’en Toa— has been found, Obi-Wan has been sent to extract Anakin.
If they’ll ever let Obi-Wan see him.
He breathes, trying not to stew in his impatience for about another twenty minutes before the door opens. Obi-Wan shoots out of his seat, standing up immediately.
The steward eyes him with a bit of suspicion and a great deal of boredom before announcing the arrival of one Lord Set’en Toa, King-imminent.
Obi-Wan doesn't even think about it. He drops to his knees.
Anakin— his Anakin— is standing before him, golden hair falling in waves around his beloved face.
His tall, broad shoulders are lined with fur, a belt cinched to an impossibly tiny waist. A diamond cutout on his chest gives Obi-Wan a tantalizing glimpse of tanned, muscled skin.
His shoes— elegant knee-high boots with bight white designs— tap loudly against the floor as they come to a slow halt in front of him.
One hand enters Obi-Wan’s field of vision in a pointed motion. He takes hold of it, barely holding back a gasp as their bond reconnects.
Because there Anakin is, again. He’d left Obi-Wan’s life a boy and waltzed back into it a beautiful young man.
His former Padawan nudges at his mind, feeling amused and a little exasperated. I think this is the part where you're supposed to kiss me, he laughs.
Obi-Wan feels something turn over in his chest.
Something that has, maybe, been there all along, taking a new shape.
He grips Anakin’s hand with reverence, turning it so he can brush one gentle, understated kiss across the inside of his wrist.
I won’t let you go again, he vows to himself.
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oochilka · 1 year
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For a prompt: patcap dancing ?
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Yes I just had to make it silly
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freeuselandonorris · 4 days
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followup to bimbo hypno slut lando and max f ?! <3
💕🌸🎀💝💘🌺 anon, thank you SO much for prompting this and i'm so sorry it took me a million years to get to!
on AO3 (🔐 archive locked) because it got LONG and EXPLICIT.
bodies bodies bodies
(nortrell, 6.5k, explicit - all consensual, but cw for erotic hypnosis, kind of somnophilia and generally weird consent play i guess?)
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arealphrooblem · 1 year
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Surrender Prompt Fills #2
Part two of @whither-wander-whump's amazing voluntary surrender prompts
CW: torture mention (but not torture) #body horror (what a healer mage could do to a body if they wanted to)
Part one here
- a character who is powerful, far more powerful than whoever has them cornered. But they extend their hands and let themself be taken, because if they don’t, someone less powerful will be hurt instead of them. They aren’t willing to live with that, so they go willingly.
The decision to surrender came easily. Perhaps part of them knew it would always end this way. Their ragtag group of mage rebels could only avoid detection for so long; eventually the location of their base had been compromised, as they always knew it would be. Swarms of soldiers exploded from the trees, as if they possessed magic themselves. They didn’t of course. They possessed something just as terrifying.
The General.
When the Mage stepped out of the temple with their hands in the air, every gun moved to aim at them. The General stood at the bottom of the steps, hands dangling within easy reach of his weapons. His second in command stood next to him, also pointing a gun at the Mage.
“Walk slowly,” The General called out. “Any of my men are altered I will burn this forest to the ground and everyone in it.”
The Mage fought an eye roll as they followed his command, taking the steps one at a time. Their hands did not so much as twitch.
“Isn’t this a bit overkill?” the second in command asked, voicing aloud the Mage’s thoughts. “They’ve already agreed to surrender. And they’re a healer mage. What are they going to do — heal our paper cuts? Cure my migraines?”
The General did not take his eyes off the Mage as they walked down the last few steps.
“A healer mage is trained to take control over the body. They could explode your heart in your chest, flood your brain with your own blood, block the electrical signals in the photoreceptors of your eyes so that you never see again. So no, this is not overkill.”
The second in command looked at the healer with fresh eyes, now hard with suspicion and fear. It was a depressingly familiar look in a world hostile to magic. And yes, the Mage could do all those things -- but if they had wanted to, they wouldn’t be a healer.
The cuffs were metal rounded cones that covered the Mage’s hands like iron mittens. They had to curl their fingers into fists to make them fit inside, which meant they couldn’t do the necessary movements to control the flow of their magic.
The Mage stood patiently, fists held out, while the General cuffed them with quick, efficient movements. He did not touch them any more than necessary, as if their skin would burn him, as if that was no exaggeration.
The Mage could feel every pair of eyes and the barrel of every gun trained on them. Panic started to climb up their chest, into their throat, and they couldn’t even channel their magic to calm themselves.
This was worth it. No matter what lay on the other end of this journey, the rest of their people could live another day. It was worth it.
Those words echoed as a mantra in their head as the General led them to his ship, the second in command’s gun pressed against their back. Sleek and fast, a scientific marvel that could break the sound barrier, it sat nestled and hidden in the forest. The Mage hadn’t even heard it touch down. If one of the apprentices hadn’t spotted the fleet in the air from the top of the temple, no one would have gotten free today.
“Sit,” the General said, pointing to a row of leather seats strapped to one wall.
The Mage obeyed.
“Cross your arms over your chest.”
The Mage obeyed. With that same efficiency, the General fastened the safety harness over their chest, trapping their arms. This time he lingered, testing the restraints, making sure the harness sat snugly against their chest, before he strapped himself into the chair next to them.
“If you kick, I will lock your feet together,” he warned.
The Mage nodded.
The General barked orders to his Second in the cockpit and the ship hummed to life, rising so smoothly and silently over the trees, only the gentle vibrations against their feet showed them any sign they had moved at all.
“You don’t need to be so afraid of me,” the Mage said softly. “If I liked hurting people, I wouldn’t be a healer.”
“I’m not afraid of you.” The denial came quick and sharp and utterly untrue. “I’ve just not stupid. I know what your people are capable of. I’ve seen it.”
The Mage could not deny the horror their own people were capable of, especially in response to the hostile society they lived in. But they weren’t the only ones capable of inhumanity.
“I didn’t give myself over blindly,” they said. “I know what your people are capable of, the kind of torture that awaits me. When I’m gifted the release of death, I know it will be slow and agonizing, and yet still a welcome relief. And I know that none of my people will come for me, because the loss of all those lives against your guns and machines is not worth keeping mine, especially when our numbers are so few now. So I will die alone and away from everything I love and the last thing I will ever know is excruciating pain.”
The General said nothing, but the Mage felt the weight of his gaze.
“So tell me,” they said, turning to meet it. “Who should be afraid of who right now?”
To their surprise, the General looked disquieted. “You seem remarkably calm for someone so afraid,” he said.
The Mage gave him a sorrowful shadow of a smile. ‘It’s a well trained lie. You should understand that, as a leader.”
The General’s gaze broke away, as if he could not bear to look at them any longer. He said nothing for the rest of the journey, and he did not look at the Mage again.
When they landed at the General’s headquarters in the heart of the city, far away from the peace of the hidden temple, the General waved off the second in command and led the Mage himself. The Mage followed, their pulse thundering in their ears, as he took them to the elevator.
His finger hovered over the basement floor button before jerking suddenly upwards, to a button on the top row. As if making a split second decision. The Mage dared not to question him as they followed him down lushly carpeted hallways, past framed artwork, and dark wood paneling.
They stopped at a door that required the General’s eye scan and fingerprint. It slid open to reveal . . .a sleek, beautiful apartment.
This time, the Mage could not hold back as he guided them inside.
“What are you doing? What is this place?”
The General said nothing as he led them down a short hallway and into what looked like a spare bedroom, devoid of all personal effects.
“This is where you stay until I decide what to do with you,” he said. “That door connects to a bathroom. Otherwise, you will not leave this room. You will not attempt escape in any way or any harm or alteration on my person or any vandalism of the apartment or I will have you tortured in all the ways you fear.”
The Mage swallowed, afraid to believe him. “And . . . where am I?”
The General fixed them with a stare, his expression a touch bewildered, as if he couldn’t believe himself.
“These are my quarters.”
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heat wave - kink prompts 2023
The writing of the prompts has taken decidedly longer than I'd like, so I've decided to have a little fun with a few of them-- connecting them to a larger whole and eventually putting them in a fic. My intention is to try and fill each of these in the next couple of weeks.
Completed Prompts:
blindfolds and exhibitionism (tomarrymort)
cum inflation (harrymort)
daddy kink, spanking (tomarry)
mirror and/or petplay (tomarry)
deep throating, cockwarming (tomarrymort)
mindfuck (tomarrymort)
breathplay, temperature play (ice), knifeplay (tomarrymort)
overstimulation (harringroveson)
cream pie and snowballing/intercural (harringroveson/steddie)
feminization & humiliation (harringrove/steddie)
Incomplete Prompts:
begging and potentially fuck or die (harringrove)
face sitting, tit fucking (tomarrymort)
exhibitionism and knotting (tomarry)
praise kink (tomarry or harrymort)
tentacles/monsters, knotting, and eggs/ovipos (harringroveson) 
Whoops, added prompts:
foodplay, waxplay (tomarrymort)
Tomarrymort Heat Wave Fic:
Harringroveson Moonburn continuation w/ prompt fills:
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if you have time i would love to see what you do with prompt number #5 “i can’t believe i married you” with geraskier please!! i feel like geralt would say this when jaskier is being silly and ridiculous but also jaskier would use it when geralt gives him only one good morning kiss instead of two lol. but only if you have time!!!! 💖✨💖✨
Jaskier is still half-asleep as he shuffles to the fridge, his eyes bleary and unfocused after a late night of composing. Hoping for a few slices of last night’s leftover pizza, he opens the fridge, only to let out a little shriek of surprise when he finds a pair of bulbous eyes staring back at him.
“Geralt!” he yelps. “What the fresh fuck is in our fridge?”
His witcher appears in the doorway, already dressed and ready for the day. “A drowner head.”
“Right, good,” Jaskier says. “Let me rephrase. Why the fuck is it in our fridge?”
“It didn’t fit in the freezer.”
“Geralt!”
Geralt’s lips twitch. “Its brains are useful for potions. I’m going to harvest them later.”
“Not in our kitchen, you’re not.”
“Would you prefer the bedroom?”
“Geralt, I swear to Melitele, if you get drowner brains on the duvet—” Seeing the grin on Geralt’s face, Jaskier breaks off, scowling. “I cannot believe I married you.”
“Hm. Jask, we’re not married.”
Ah, right. They’ve been together so long, Jaskier forgets that sometimes. Their friends and family are always complaining that they act like an old married couple anyway. “And if you keep putting drowner heads in the fridge, we won’t be!”
Geralt comes to press a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. “Go take a shower and I’ll make coffee and deal with the drowner.”
“You’ll make the coffee before you touch drowner brains, right? Avoid cross-contamination?”
“Drowner brains are good for you. Protein.”
Jaskier huffs and turns on his heel to leave the kitchen. “I want a divorce.”
“Again, not married.”
Jaskier starts up the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “Then we should get married just so I can divorce you.”
“Okay.”
“Okay!” Jaskier makes it to the top of the stairs, then pauses, registering what they just said, and turns around. “Geralt?”
From downstairs, there’s the rumble of Geralt’s answering hum. “Hm?”
“Did we just get engaged?”
“I think that’s traditionally what comes before marriage and divorce.”
Jaskier hurries back down the stairs so fast that he nearly trips over his own two feet. He finds Geralt standing right where he left him in front of the fridge. “Do you really want to get married?”
Geralt looks at him like he’s started singing in gnomish. “Sure.”
“Sure?” Jaskier lets out an exasperated laugh. “Geralt, my love, this is one of those things where I’m going to need an unequivocal yes or no from you.”
Geralt leans against the front of the fridge, frowning slightly. “I never thought you wanted to get married.”
“What?” Jaskier is bewildered. “When did I say that?”
“Back when you were dating Vespula.”
“Geralt, I was twenty-two when I dated Vespula! That was nearly a decade ago! Of course I didn’t want to get married.” Jaskier throws his arms around Geralt’s neck. “I never thought you wanted to get married. All that witchers walk alone bullshit.”
Geralt’s lips twitch. “I think that ship has sailed by now, Jask. I think it sailed about five minutes after we met.”
“Well yes, probably,” Jaskier says. “So, Geralt, will you marry me?”
“Seems like a lot of trouble to go through just so you can divorce me over drowner brains.”
“Darling, you should know by now that it’s going to take more than drowner brains to get rid of me. I told you when we first moved in together and I’ll tell you now, you’re stuck with me.”
“Romantic.”
“You know you love it.”
Geralt’s eyes crinkle as he smiles, pressing a kiss to the tip of Jaskier’s nose. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
The few times Jaskier has pictured proposing to Geralt, he’s imagined grand gestures: singing a love song in front of a crowded stadium of fans, holding a sign as he jumped out a plane, a moonlight boat ride and a four-string quartet. But standing with Geralt in the kitchen, still in his boxers with a drowner’s head in their fridge, somehow feels more right than any of those fantasies.
They just hold each other for a moment before Jaskier pulls away. “Want to go get breakfast to celebrate?”
Geralt’s eyes are soft with fondness as he watches him. “Did you propose just for an excuse to go get pancakes and mimosas?”
“Like I need an excuse to get pancakes and mimosas.” Jaskier is smiling stupidly. “Let me go get showered. I can be ready in twenty minutes.”
“See you in an hour.” 
“Har.” Jaskier turns and hurries up the steps. In the bathroom, he draws back the shower curtain, slapping a hand over his mouth to stifle his shriek at what he finds inside. “Geralt!”
“What?” Geralt calls from downstairs.
“What the fuck is in our shower?”
“Oh,” Geralt says. “That’s the rest of the drowner.”
“Excellent. Just so you know, I’ve changed my mind about that divorce!”
***
Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome
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