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player1064 · 2 months

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Still doing drabbles? How about after filming the podcast roy "nobody-fucks-with-gary-but-me" keano walks in on jamie cheekily pinning gary down/against the wall or something and is about to throw hands before gary awkwardly explains his former captain that yes he and the scouser are in fact a couple and yes he is very much consenting being manhandled by the said scouser

YES LETS GOOOOO I love love love the way Roy used to talk about Gary and about how he needed like. protecting... and the way he was always like 'but Gary's so small' babe you're the same height...........

---

There’d been a weird sort of tension in the air when they’d been recording the podcast today, though Roy seems to have been the only one to notice. Maybe it’s that Jill and Ian haven’t been putting up with Gary as long as he has (more than half his life now, Jesus), so they’re not as attuned to all his moods.

But he had definitely been in a mood, he’d been sneaking glances at Jamie like he was waiting for a bubble to burst, and Jamie had barely looked at him at all. Which, for Jamie, is definitely enough to ring warning bells.

As they’re heading out for the day, Ian asks if they’re on for their usual pub lunch, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Gary looking around shiftily before disappearing off into one of the offices down the corridor and he figures he’d better check up on him first. He tells Ian he’ll meet him at the pub in a bit, then sticks his hands in his pockets and wanders down the corridor like he couldn’t care less where he ends up.

Except, all of that perfectly practiced disinterest goes flying out the window when he hears a chair clattering to the ground, hears the thud of something (someone, from the sounds of it) being shoved against a wall.

It’s not that Gary’s special, mind you, or that Roy feels any particular sort of attachment to him. It’s just that, well, he sort of is attached to him, isn’t he? Can’t seem to ever shake him off his tail. And he’d do the same for any of his former teammates, of course he would, but none of his former teammates ever got into half as much trouble as Gary did.

And it’s just – Gary’s so small. Even now, with all ninety kilograms of him, he seems dwarfed by everyone he meets. So when Roy hears that thud, he doesn’t have to think about it at all before he strides to the door of the meeting room and bursts through it.

And of course, just his luck – it’s Jamie bloody Carragher who’s got Gary pinned to the wall, one hand dangerously close to his throat. His body is pressed close to Gary’s, and he’s got a few inches on him and he boxes, doesn’t he? Every day, he’d said once, so there’s no hope for Gary getting out of this on his own.

Gary’s frozen in place, looking up at Jamie with wide eyes, his mouth partly open like he’d been in the middle of saying something when Roy had come clattering in. Instantly, though, his eyes dart to Roy and his cheeks flush red as Jamie jumps off him. In a split second he’s put a good metre or so of space between them, keeping his hands in the air.

“Roy, fuck,” Gary says, breathless, “I didn’t realise anyone else was still ‘ere.”

“And good thing I was, eh?” he says, careful, measured. Because Roy Keane is in his fifties now, and he does not lose his cool. He turns to Jamie. “What the fuck d’you think you’re doing, Jamie! I’ve always thought you were a decent guy, but look at yourself, getting all up in Gary’s face when there’s nobody around to defend him.”

“Roy –” Gary tries to cut in, like he’s embarrassed that he’s still getting picked on after all these years, that he’s still an easy target.

Roy puts a hand up to stop him from talking. “We’re grown men! Whatever stupid thing Gary’s said or done this time can’t justify coming to blows, and even if it did it’s hardly a fair match now is it?”

“Roy –” Gary tries again.

“No, look, he should pick on someone his own size! Or better, just not pick on anyone at all! Honestly, how old are you again?”

“Roy,” Gary says, a little more forcefully this time. “We weren’t fighting.”

“Well that’s what I’m saying! It’s only a fight if it’s equal sided!”

“No, Roy.” He clears his throat. “Roy, um. That’s not – I mean, it weren’t –”

Gary shoots a desperate sort of look to Jamie, who steps towards Roy, hands still raised, and says “what he’s tryin’ to say is he was about twenty seconds away from stickin’ his hand down my pants, 'til you came in.”

“James,” Gary hisses, blushing even deeper.

Oh.

Well, that does make more sense, doesn’t it? All the – the touching, and the looks, and the fucking giggles that Roy’s been having to put up with for months now from the two of them. It does make sense.

“I wouldn’t, Roy,” Jamie says, and Roy must be glaring because he still sounds scared, like he’s tiptoeing around him. “I wouldn’t hurt ‘im. You must know that.”

Gary lets out a little high pitched hum, then claps a hand over his own mouth when both Roy and Jamie snap their heads to him.

The glare Jamie shoots him, combined with Gary’s face being redder than Roy had thought humanly possible, tells him far more than he ever wanted to know.

“Nope!” he declares, pointing between the two of them, “not another word out of yous. Gary, the sentiment from earlier still stands – you’re one of my own and if Jamie hurts you – don’t make that noise again or I swear to God – if he hurts you emotionally, like, I’ll kill him. Now please, please can we all pretend this never happened and that I know a normal amount about what the two of you like to do in the bedroom, and by a normal amount I mean I know nothing. Okay?”

They both nod silently.

“Fine. I’m off to the pub, then. See you next week.”

#thank you for the prompt!!!#love the idea of gary being consensually manhandled. love even more the idea of him trying to explain that to roy #and roy going NOPE NOPE NOPE IM HAPPY FOR YOU BUT DONT TELL ME ABOUT YOUR KINKS. PLEASE.#carraville #drabbles

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effervescentdragon · 10 months

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Charlos, 49

Thank uuuu ♥️

49) …out of necessity.

Human bodies are weird in general, but especially in motion.

He catches himself observing the way people move when they walk, or talk, or fuck, or exercise, or eat, or a million other little things during the day. His favourite thing to watch is when people dance, though. If he's had something to drink, or something stronger, he finds it fascinating, almost as much as driving always is.

Charles is awkward in movement always, except when he's driving. He moves like someone who wants to take up all the space but has been told he shouldn't, and the lesson never stuck. Carlos knows it's a problem he has, the amount of time he spends just looking at Charles. He knows it, and he ignores it steadily, and he allows himself the cover of the strobe lights and darkness of the club and the haziness of substance abuse as he watches Charles dance.

He is awful at dancing. He is also adorable. Carlos allows himself to think only of the first one.

The girl he's dancing with is almost definitely a professional dancer. She isn't happy with Charles' level of skill. It is obvious, Carlos sees her frown and her flinches when Charles steps on her open-toed sandals and crushes her feet, but she bears it all with a smile that is definitely at least half fake. Charles doesn't notice, but Carlos does. Another aspiring wag on a hunt, Carlos thinks unkindly and takes another sip of his Red Bull-vodka.

The girl is rubbing herself over Charles insistently, putting her face too close to Charles', obviously aiming for a kiss. Carlos should walk away. He should go and find a girl of his own. He should at least look away.

He doesn't, and that means he sees Charles put his hands on the girl's hips and push her away, giving her a wide smile. He sees Charles lean down to say something to her, and then leave her on the dancefloor and make his way straight to Carlos.

Carlos doesn't look away as Charles crosses the floor, evading people and climbing into the dark booth Carlos is in. He has teasing remarks on the tip of his tongue, bit he can't remember to say any one of them when Charles throws himself half across Carlos' lap with a sigh and reaches for his drink.

He knows they are safe in this club, as much as they can be given who they are. He knows people here had to sign NDA's as tight as that American torture prison before they were even let in, and that they can let loose. His heart still beats too fast when Charles grimaces at the vodka, or probably more accurately, at the Red Bull, and turns to Carlos.

His eyes shine like cat's in the dark of the club, and Carlos is a dog person. "I'm tired," Charles says, and Carlos reads the words off his lips more than he hears them. Charles leans his head on Carlos' shoulder, and he smells like sweat and gasoline and Armani Code, and when he looks up into Carlos' face and licks his lips, it's somehow the most natural thing to lean down just as Charles reaches up and to let their lips meet.

The kiss isn't long, or deep; just a press of their lips, a slow, graceless movement of their mouths one against the other. Charles' breaks the kiss first.

"I needed that," he says, eyes open and clear. Carlos can taste the wetness of Charles' lips on his own. "I'm tired."

Carlos nods. He's tired, too, suddenly. His head is starting to hurt.

When Charles moves away, pulling his phone out to call Andrea, he moves with ease and elegance. When Carlos brings his glass to his lips, it's already empty.

#thank you for the prompt!!!#effervescentdragonwrites #my writing #charlos #kiss prompts #f1 rpf #ferrari boys <3

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woahpip · 9 days

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rebelcaptain and 20 for the writing prompts? ✍🏼

20: "I can't save you if you don't want to be saved."

They’ve shared a room for months, but today they feel further apart than ever. Jyn leans against the wall, Cassian against the closed door. Staring at each other. Looking for something in each other’s eyes.

“I can’t save you if you don’t want to be saved,” Cassian said. He clenched his jaw after saying it, like he knew it was wrong.

“No one asked you to fucking save me from Wobani or the reach of Draven and Mothma. If they want to damn me, fuck them. I’m here for the Rebellion.”

“They are the Rebellion right now, Jyn.”

She pulled herself off the wall and walked to him, almost close enough to touch.

“They aren’t the Rebellion. We are. When Scarif needed doing we risked our lives to do it. Our friends died. You almost died.” She paused, pulling herself together before breathing and continuing. “If the dirty work helps us win, I will dirty my hands, but if it’s to get money in some ex-Senator’s pocket or to give her daughter a dowry, I will stay clean. I will refuse.”

Cassian nodded. He knew this, as much as he hoped they could play along. Isn’t this what Jyn had taught him since they met? That you’re the only person who controls your fate. Sometimes you look down, but they’re done doing that now.

Now, they’re looking up.

“Okay. I’ll help you say no. We’ll refuse, and so will the people we know. They can’t afford to lose us all.”

----

prompt me from this list!

#featuring vague draven/mothma kind of evil back story i don't know <3 #rebelcaptain #drabbles #my fanfic #thank you for the prompt!!!

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hazelkjt · 1 day

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knife - for the single-word fic prompt!

(It's been forever since I've written anything character related like this so it's gonna be shit and I apologize for that ;-;)

“And here is where you’ll be staying.” The Elezen man addressed Hazel, opening the door to reveal a rather sparse yet livable room. Having successfully bargained her way into becoming the apprentice of Lady Lia Amelune, Hazel was granted a place to stay in Ishgard while training under the Dragoon: a room in the Amelune household all to herself. The stone flooring was covered in spots by soft carpet, though much of the floor lay bare to see. Large stone walls surrounded her on all sides, held up with wooden pillars and support beams. There were no windows to the outside, the only light in the room coming from the candles burning on the desk and in the chandelier above, as well as the roaring fireplace off to the side. Aside from the desk the room was outfitted with a small kitchenette and a wooden dresser, clearly cut from the same kind of wood as the desk and pillars around the room. The bed was placed far in the back by the dresser, the wooden frame creaking as Hazel took a seat on the mattress.

Surveying the room from her seat Hazel couldn’t help this feeling of excitement welling in her chest, alongside something...else that she just couldn’t quite explain. Her tail slumps down next to her, the tip periodically flicking up and back down onto the sheets. She leans back and turns her attention to the Elezen employed by Lady Amelune. In spite of his formal appearance in his suit his demeanor and posture had him coming off as bored, for a lack of a better term. Shoulders slouched, legs crossed, head cocked to the side with a slight sneer on his lips. Emerald eyes locked with Hazel’s two-tone red and blue ones, not breaking contact as he opened his mouth to speak. “Once you’re settled you can speak to Lucca about renovations. Supper is in two hours, don’t be late or you won’t be getting any.” He spoke indifferently and bluntly, in perfect contrast with his calming baritone voice.

The Auri woman glared for a split second before forcing a smile. “Thank you, I wouldn't miss it for anything.” She had tried to match his tone the best she could. Hazel leans down to pick up Floof while speaking, hugging the karakul tightly in her lap. The Elezen man chuckled lightly to himself and ran a hand through his black hair. “Very well, I’ll leave the big girl to her big new room.” To anyone listening in it would have been clear his tone was mocking. Hazel grit her teeth and clenched her fists, but otherwise simply watched as the man began walking out of the room, waving to her without so much as glancing in her direction. After he had left, Floof wrestled himself free from Hazel’s lap and bleated towards the now closed door, as if telling off the servant for being rude. Or at least that’s what Hazel chose to believe Floof was doing. “You said it.” She told her small companion, giving him a boop on the nose and removing her bag straps from her shoulders.

Hazel took the next half an hour or so emptying the contents of her bag into her new dresser. Her parents had one back in the Steppe, but her mother forbade the family from placing anything but her book collection inside. After her clothes came various knick-knacks Hazel kept stored in the bottom of her bag. Her trusty whetstone, her diary, the pair of combs she had bought for herself and Floof, a bunch of bottles of red hair dye, as well as…

Hazel pauses as she pulls out the last item in her bag. It’s a large knife, the blade about six ilms in length. The sheathe was made of a striped hide, very worn but still in usable condition and sewn with tough leather. Dzo leather, she recalled. The same Dzo leather wrapped the grip of the knife, feeling familiar to her hands. Very, very familiar…

Hazel removes the knife from the sheathe, gazing upon the crudely carved blade of bone. It is a carving knife, her carving knife. The first one she ever made entirely on her own. The bone is a Baras fang, hunted down and killed on her own. She used the skin from that same Baras for the sheathe. The leather from the Dzo also came from her own kills, using her father’s carving knife to cut the straps and whittle the fang into shape. It was a crude knife, the blade not at all curved properly and the handle is lumpy in strange spots. But strangely, those uneven bumps and grooves feel right in her hand. No, not just right. Familiar?

Hazel noticed her vision starting to blur, tears welling in her eyes. She quickly wipes them away and lays down on the bed, holding the knife close to her chest. The ceiling was made of old and dull colored wood, a very stark contrast to the yurts of the Steppe. She blinked back a few more tears. Why was she thinking of home now, of all times? She turns on her side, bringing the knife up to her line of sight. Unconsciously she starts to wrap her tail around her legs, something she always did when she was scared.

That’s when it hits. Hazel curls up tight into a ball, clutching the carving knife close to herself. She missed home. That’s what this aching feeling in her heart she couldn’t explain was. She missed her mother, helping her with the karakul flock and reading stories together. She missed her father, his sparring sessions and little chats they had while traveling to Reunion. She missed being an hour walk from the coastline, where the warm ocean breeze could pass through her hair as she ran headfirst to the waters. She missed getting into trouble around the tribe, accidentally burning a hole in the chief’s yurt while practicing fire dancing. She missed having mock cavalry battles on the backs of karakul with the other children.

The crackling of the fireplace was drowned out by the sound of Hazel’s own heartbeat. Her breathing was erratic, and she clutched the knife harder and closer. Why did she ever leave? Was this really the right thing for her to do? What is she even trying to accomplish out here? What if she never gets to go back? What if her parents die before she gets to go back? Why did-

Her runaway thoughts were cut short by a loud “BAHHHH!” and a headbutt from Floof. “SON of a-” Her expletive was cut short as she rolled off the bed and onto the floor, the carving knife skittering away as her grip loosened. Hazel lay there on the ground, unable to pick herself off the floor. Her limbs wouldn’t listen to her, the beating of her heart still too loud for most sounds to break through. But while she couldn’t hear, she felt something instead. She felt the weight of a small baby lamb jumping off the bed onto her chest. Floof closed his eyes and laid down facing towards Hazel, not moving an ilm after laying down.

The two lay there for…well…Hazel isn’t sure how long it was. But over the course of that time the ringing she heard and her heartbeat became softer and quieter, until it was as if they were never there to begin with. Slowly, she reaches one hand up and begins to pet Floof, the karakul still not moving a muscle. She softly smiles at the lamb. “Thanks buddy…” She weakly forced out of her mouth. Floof simply opens his eyes in response before closing them once more. She takes a while to lay there, simply thinking while petting her companion. Slowly her vision shifts from gazing at Floof to behind him, to the carving knife on the floor, illuminated by the fireplace.

Hazel could still feel the gnawing desire to return home, lessened from earlier but still there. Memories of her time living and loving her life before keep flashing in her mind. Slowly however, the memories begin to move forward in time. Reminiscing over her deal with Calling Wind to bring her to Eorzea, her chance encounter with Nolanel and becoming his research assistant, becoming acquainted with and sparring with Yein, and now she has a place to call her own, learning about Ishgardian culture in one of the most hands-on ways possible. She smiled to herself once more, brighter this time, and moved to take Floof off of her chest. Turns out the karakul had fallen asleep on top of her, so she gently places him down on the bed to continue sleeping.

She walks over to the knife on the floor, kneeling in front of it. She reaches down to pick it up, but as her hand gets close it begins to shake. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath she grabs the knife and stands back up. She could feel her tail wrapping around her leg again, but not as tightly this time. Looking the knife over once more, she tosses it in the air and catches it on the way back down. “Man, I really didn’t do that good of a job on this, huh?” She states out loud to herself, placing the knife back in the Baras skin sheathe and leaving it on the dresser counter. She stares at the knife for a few moments, taking in the feeling of homesickness as she does. Cracking her neck and stretching a bit, she turns away from the dresser, the feeling of excitement welling up in her heart once more. “Now, for food!” She exclaims and jogs towards the door, hoping she isn’t too late for supper.

#ffxiv #ffxiv oc #ffxiv oc lore #au ra #xaela #hazel kha #thank you for the prompt!!!#this was fun but holy shit am I rusty as hell at writing

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sterekchub · 10 months

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Fat Stiles, immobility, darker you say? How about Stiles using some of the lingering Nogitsune powers in him to kinda "gently persuade" his pack into taking better care of him... But what it ends up doing is plant an obsessive seed inside all of them to fill up the "hole" that is in Stiles after the Nogitsune left, and the best way they come up with is with food. It all turns into a cycle of obsessive feeding, fattening, pampering, ignoring Stiles pleading and whimpering as they "plug the hole"~

I love this 😍 Let them them fill you. Pig among wolves. You’ll never need to lift a finger. Obey. Swallow. Eat.

Stiles just wants them to notice him. Wants them to realize he can bend and snap and break and it’s takes him weeks for the bruises to fade and the cuts and scrapes to turn into scars.

And they hear in their minds doesn’t he look I’ll? So small and fragile? skinny next to the muscles of all the wolves. He needs to be fed. Need to be streeeetched full to show everyone how we care about him.

But the nogitsune twists it further, not content only for them to feed Stiles so in Derek and Scott’s mind; they get a further message this one is stubborn. Disobedient. You know need to show him who is in control. Who he belongs to. Make him beg for us. So needy that only we can satisfy.

***

“That’s enough,” Stiles snaps, pushing Scott away. “What’s with you, dude?”

“You’re too skinny,” Scott pleads, words sounding innocent but the look in his eye is sinister. “Let me take care of you….”

***

Derek pushing Stiles into a wall and forces a shake down his throat- forcing him to swallow or drown. Gives Stiles a few seconds to sputter and take a gasping breath before a second one follows up.

***

Jackson catching him between classes and pulls him into an empty classroom, tossing him a bag of fast food. “Eat. Or I’m not letting you leave.”

***

Lydia refuses to let him walk anywhere. Insists no matter how close- she’s driving him.

“Too many calories, don’t exhaust yourself. Get in. “

“I can walk, you know.”

“I will drag you into this car.”

So Stiles let’s himself be driven around town, let’s wolves carry his groceries for him…he half expects Scott to carry him from class to class.

***

Stiles has to give in. He has no choice. He can’t find against a pack of wolves. Even the Sheriff seems to be onboard- Stiles comes clean to his dad about what’s going on- although there’s no sane way to say “my pack is forcing me to get fat.”

Tells him anyway. His dad pushes a box of donuts in him, hand going to his side to rest on his gun. “Don’t think so much, son. Eat.”

****

And maybe the part of his head affected by the Nogitsune still tells him give in. Let them them fill you. Pig among wolves. You’ll never need to lift a finger. Obey. Swallow. Eat.

Eventually they stop letting him leave his house. Tell him it’s too dangerous. Anytime he tries- he gets pushed back in and held down and fed until his belly is rounded and sore and aching and he’s begging them to stop. But even when they drain the pain and the soreness- he doesn’t want to go anywhere with how heavy his stomach still feels.

“You’re not eating.”

“Derek just fed me a pot of Mac&cheese,” Stiles whimpers, arms clutched protectively around his middle. He’s been house bound for months and the scale he hides in his closet says 246. He has two lone stretchmarks across his belly but he knows they won’t be the last.

“You need more.”

“I can’t,” he wheezes. “Scott, please, I’m so full.”

“You need to be eating.” Scott tells him firmly. “Isaac made you brownies.”

“No I can’t I’m too f-“ he’s cut off mid sentence as Scott shoved a brownie between his lips. It feels so filling and dense it’s a struggle to even get it down.

****

Stiles mind starts to break and he stops thinking about escaping after awhile. It’s not all bad- he’s got company at all times, at least one or two members of the pack making sure he’s got something filling his mouth, even if it’s just sipping on sodas.

And they’re attentive. rubbing lotion onto his belly and stretchmarks like they’re something sacred, making sure Stiles is carried to bed when he’s too full to walk, replacing his clothes with bigger sizes when his jeans won’t button.

When Stiles eats willingly- they praise Stiles for being so full, so well fed for them. So eager to stuff himself to please them.

The sheriff tells Stiles “I’m proud of you, son.” When he finishes off enough fried chicken to feed a family, and there’s nothing like parental approval to solve his belly feeling like he’s going to split open.

When he doesn’t eat willingly? On the days they catch him trying to do push-ups in his room or throw his food into the toilet because the scale is flashing ERR MAX and he looks down and can only see the rounding width of his belly…then they call him their pack pig. The wolves’ pig- there to please them and eat for them and they’re going to plus Stiles’ hole with cream until he’s bursting like a balloon from it.

***

And he can’t deny they’re all attractive and good at plugging other holes too. On all fours while Derek puts a cake in front of him…making sure he eats it as Scott thrusts into him. Or Derek riding Stiles while he’s on his back, Scott funnel shake into his mouth until he can’t see Derek over the mountain of his belly. Jackson jerking him off slowly and tortuously as he makes Stiles finish the pile of hot dogs in a pyramid front of him.

They make Stiles beg. He doesn’t get to come until his belly is taut with food, stretchmarks red and angry and throbbing.

***

Stiles knows there’s no end in sight- gets complacent, even starts requesting food and more and more often starts his day-long food binge without any prompting. As he’s gotten fatter, his stomach capacity is greater, his appetite stretched beyond the point of going back. But then he starts hitting the point of being…too fat.

Realizes with horror he had to stop going up the stairs to his bedroom to catch his breath. He’s stopped wearing jeans and taken to only pulling on boxers and a t shirt. He doesn’t move as quickly now, each step laborious, thighs rubbing together, standing up in the shower has started to feel more and more like a chore.

His love handles have started to brush against the door frame as he enters the room.

Stands and front of the mirror and really notices that his neck is totally obscured by a second chin. His cock is buried in a fat pad and his belly hangs heavily onto cellulite ridden thighs. Realizes even his wrists and fingers are swollen with fat.

“I’ve gained enough.”

The wolves laugh at him. “There’s no such thing as enough.”

“I’m too fat.” Stiles pleads. “Please. I can barely walk on my own now. I’ve lost count of my stretch marks. Please, stop feeding me. Let me go.”

“You’re hungry,” Scott says dismissively.

“You can’t think straight without food in you,” Derek agrees.

Stiles turns to run for the front door but he doesn’t take more than one step before Jackson is blocking his path. “Silly pig, you can’t go outside. We haven’t filled you up enough yet.”

Despite his pleading, tears streaming from his face; the wolves carry him to his supersized bed and chain his hands and feed to the bedposts. They funnel feed him for days and days straight as punishment, telling him it’s for his own good, they care about him too much to him him underfed. They always want him close to bursting.

Stiles loses track of the days, a funnel always on his mouth, sometimes he’s lifted out of bed to be cleaned, other times he’s on his back, someone gripping his fat rolls as they mutter “going to fill you so full, Stiles.” Between the orgasms and the pain in his overfed stomach and the immediate heavy sleep that hits him after a day of guzzling down calories reaching past 6 digits….he can’t remember much: can’t speak much.

***

When he wakes up from his daze- he goes to get out of bed but finds he can’t, and while he can’t see the chains around his feet, assumes they must be there.

“Have you learned your lesson?” Derek asks.

“Y-Yesh, ...*BRRPFFBLTTT*... yesh” Stiles slurs. It’s so hard to form words, like something is pressing his lips together and the words don’t quite come to his mouth. He’s so hungry…

“C-Can ...*HRRPPphh*... I ...*BBBRRRpp*... get'sh ...*burRRPPpp*... o-out'sh ...*uhhmm*... of ...*aaahhh*... bed?”

“Of course.”

Stiles tries; face furrowed in concentration. He can feel sweat starting to drip down his forehead and back. He just needs to get a leg off the bed. That’s it!

Nothing moves. He feels so heavy. Only his toes wiggle.

Scott puts a hand on his shoulder, his innocent look that Stiles doesn’t trust in his face. “Trouble?”

“I can’t *wheeze* move.” Stiles pants. “Untie…me.”

“You aren’t tied down.”

That can’t be right. Stiles tries to move his arm and finds he can wiggle his fingers and can lift his arm only an inch or so before it falls back down.

Derek laughs. “We finally overfilled you, Stiles. Just like we promised.”

“Ours forever.”

They point to mirror over Stiles bed. He can’t move his head much, neck fat obscuring his Movement, but he can look straight up and sees…nothing but himself. A behemoth, bed-bound sack of lard. Weighed down just by the sheer excess hanging off his frame.

Stiles doesn’t have any words, the realization hitting him thst he’s never losing weight. Never getting out of bed again. The pig trapped by wolves “T-Too ...*nggnhh*... ...*Bllbbfffttt*... much. ...*nggnhh*...too ...*hnnff*... ...*Rrrltbllpft*... f-fat.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“You’ve still got a few inches of mattress showing,” Scott tells him cheerfully, slapping his many rolls of flesh. “We can fix that.”

Derek comes back over with the funnel. Stiles tries to shake his head, tries to protest, but the words are caught behind burps and groans and soon the funnel is back in his mouth and he’s stuck in the haze of food.

His only coherent thought before he slips away is wondering how fat a human can really get anyway.

****

His next awakened thought is the pack standing over him, all proudly flashing their eyes: Stiles feels a dull aching on his side that has nothing to do with a belly pumped full of slop. “Welcome to our pack, piggy.”

Even with the tube taken out of his mouth, Stiles can’t form any words but a drooling, wheezing grunt. The voice in his mind whispers I think you’re hungry…

#chubby!stiles #well this is maybe past immobility but #thank you for the prompt!!!#i loved writing this….

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spell-cleaver · 3 months

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Flower language prompt: Anemone for whatever character you like.

“Run,” Luke whispered to himself. Han couldn’t hear him. The blast doors had already slammed shut, the airlock disengaged, and the Falcon was off. But it kept him steady. It reminded him why he was still here, while they were gone. They hadn’t left him behind. They hadn’t forsaken him. Luke had told them to go. Somebody had to save Leia. Luke had to face the person he had forsaken, himself. The rapid, pounding footsteps slowed, replaced by a more cautious gait. He took a deep breath. His father knew he had stopped running, just as surely as he must know that the Falcon had already jumped to lightspeed and was out of his reach. For now. After a moment, those footsteps sped up again. Longer, more determined strides. Anger built like the tide behind a dam that was finally about to give way. Luke felt the ground of the Force tremble around him with the strength of those tides, felt narrow jets of fury spurt out with enough pressure to carve someone’s eye out, and he felt every inch of him cringe away from the feeling. He knew what was coming. Selfishly, he wished Leia was here.

Read the rest on AO3 here!

Send me flower prompts here!

#thank you for the prompt!!!#i have fun with this one <3 #luke skywalker #darth vader #random words on a page #my writing #for darkness shows the stars #ultrarebelheart

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croctus · 7 months

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I think Tai would rock C4 if you think so!

EXTREMELY correct take

here's the fit post

#thefaceofthneedinc #crocdraw #thank you for the prompt!!!#old man serving looks

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evilovesyou · 1 year

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I'd love a drabble about Harry coming into the kitchen to find Louis raiding the fridge at night (might be bc I'm super hungry lol) 🙏🏼

Harry blindly followed the quiet, indiscernible sounds, eyes almost closed in the familiar hallways of their house. He squinted when the light spilling out from the doorway of the kitchen came into his field of vision. He had half a mind to turn around, but light probably meant Louis. It might also mean a very clumsy burglar, but Harry was willing to take that chance. He’d seen Home Alone.

Standing in the doorway, he saw Louis’ legs beneath the open door of the fridge. He’d found him, then! Time to close his eyes again. He leaned against the doorframe and started to drift off again, when he heard Louis humming a song. It made him smile, knowing the melody, and took him a little while to hear that the lyrics were entirely wrong.

“How the fuuuuuck do you make pancakeeessss? Where the fuuuuuuck is the flooouuuur?”

“Recipe’s in the purple book,” Harry mumbled, licking his dry lips, “flour is in the cupboard with the pasta above the stove.”

“Christ, love! You almost made me drop the eggs!” Louis’ lively voice was loud in the quiet of the night.

“Why aren’t we sleeping?” Harry grumbled, opening his eyes enough to walk up to Louis and wrap his arms around him from the back as he strained to reach the flour.

“Pancakes!” Louis explained, humming happily when he finally got the box of flour down and he could lean into Harry’s front.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Perfect time for pancakes,” Louis said very matter-of-factly. “Wanna sit down while I work out this recipe of yours?”

Harry, whose eyes were firmly closed again grumbled, hugging Louis tighter.

“Alright,” Louis giggled. “But keep your eyes closed, love. I’ve got no idea what I’m doing.”

“I know.” Harry said into the nape of Louis’ neck. “Wake me up when the kitchen’s burning.”

more of my writing

#asks #greenblueish #thank you for the prompt!!!#this is unbeta'd #if you see any mistakes lmk #my writing #ficlet #larry #larry stylinson #drabbles

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raccoontho · 4 months

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hermit fanon swap- arctic fox tango? :0

It came with the territory. Which makes sense, really. But Tango is as Tangos are, and, well, he’s not very observant, let’s put it like that.

A tail fluffy enough to rival Etho’s swishes underneath his Dungeon Master robes. His hair now white as snow, little ears perking up from between his locks.

Claws grip the ice when he runs, never cold. He knows exactly where all the ravagers are just by listening. Or sniffing.

Tango wonders what’ll happen when he eventually leaves the chilly underground. Will he revert back to his usual, or will his fur turn dark instead?

#thank you for the prompt!!!#Tango #Writing #Drabble #Hermit Fanon Swap

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trixree · 2 years

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Also 35 kissing bruises/scars with codywan??? Gotta get som obi angst up in this bitch

Touching prompts #35: kissing bruises/scars

Their General resembles a Vod.

He came to them already having known war. He came to them already understanding the importance of orders, of duty. He came to them with hair like fire, a solider's voice, and a surly vod'ika tripping at his heels.

He came to them with scars. Their General has burn scars, blaster scars, and silvery ones around his neck in a ring - like something painful used to rest there. He came with old wounds speckled atop his hands, his arms, the soles of his feet. He resembles them, in this way. Obi-Wan is decorated with battle.

Cody asks after each mark, but only one per evening. He wants to spend his lifetime putting names and places to those marks, mapping them with his fingers, eyes and lips.

"This one?" he murmurs, having decided. He skirts the long-faded ring around Obi-Wan's throat - paler than the rest of his skin and oddly textured, when one knows to look.

Obi-Wan jerks slightly at the touch, gentle though Cody is. He shoots him an apologetic look for the flinch and leans heavier onto Cody's shoulder.

"Did I ever tell you about Bandomeer, my love?"

"No," Cody replies. He skirts his lips feather-light across the scar. "Tell me."

And in this way, too, Obi-Wan resembles a vod: the sharing of stories in the dark.

#trixree writes #thank you for the prompt!!!#touching prompts #sorry for the delay with the rest of these :3 #about 3 more!#codywan

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sun-marie · 4 months

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For your consideration: Fire Emblem Frederick & F!Robin reading together?

Ahhh it's been so long since I've drawn Awakening!! My sister was a huge Frederick x Robin truther so it was nice to draw them again <3

Send me 2+ characters and/or ships and a prompt for a quick messy sketch

#thank you for the prompt!!!#fire emblem awakening #frederick x robin #ask #anon #my art #sun-marie art #fan art #digital art #sketch

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witch-and-her-witcher · 11 months

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Uh oh, these are good prompts.

a kiss to end sexual tension - Gascon & Reynard 😈

Nsfw-ish!

---

The watchtower was as structurally sound as it was spacious. If Meve could see her two advisors now, she'd be spitting mad at their stupidity. One strong gust of wind and they'd both go toppling to their deaths.

Well, Gascon's stupidity.

"I told you I was going to handle it - "

"Was it you or I that damn near missed Blackclad scouts last month? Claim it was th' sun in your eyes all you want, but I say it's old age - "

He stopped wedging and scooting and rubbing his backside to get into place in front of the uncommonly armor free general - Gascon had reasoned the lack of space wouldn't be a bother since Reynard could simply see over his head anyhow if they stood stacked up. But now that he felt an unmistakable reaction to his forceful positioning pressed into his lower back.

"Reynard ... Is that your sword hilt or ...?"

"Damnit, man, I told you t' stay below!" The words were hissed down at him, hot breath tickling the back of his neck and sending sparks straight below his belt.

Gascon swallowed. As much as he'd teased the fellow Rivian, he hadn't actually suspected ... Gods, but that would be too good to be true, wouldn't it? Reynard knew where he stood on partners - any and all, if you please - but he'd never so much as hinted at interest before. No, this was just anatomy and friction.

"Fuck, okay, 'm sorry! But if I try t' get down I'm just going to make it worse - "

Panic was constricting his chest. They'd been working so well together, this was really going to screw it all up and the ground Gascon had gained for himself and the Strays would be lost. It would be back to standing watch, having to shove his way into important meetings -

A firm hand slid up his side and grasped his jaw just tightly enough to tilt his head back with the pressure. Reynard pressed his mouth into Gascon's. The kiss melted away the tension, although it left the brigand breathless for other reasons once his heart rate slowed and Reynard pulled away.

"Good? I didn't know what else to do. I don't think I've seen you panic before."

"Is that how you calm down all of your soldiers?"

"Of course not. That would be highly unprofessional."

Gascon contemplated the implications of that as they swept the expansive landscape with their looking glasses - as well as how the still standing watchtower surely had held strong this long, it could withstand another test of its structural fortitude, right?

Or at least when Meve cursed them for dying in the collapse, she'd have a good show when digging up their bodies.

#ask meme #okay this was reaaaaally entertaining to write #thank you for the prompt!!!#idk if this is what you wanted buuuut XD #reynard x gascon #Thronebreaker #witcher fan fic #my writing

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loopyhoopywrites · 11 months

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pirate or small town business AU?

Okay but Trickster would make the best pirate???

Fair warning; this is completely unedited and contains at least one far-too-long sentence.

"Scoundrels, scallywags, and seafolk," announced the captain with a grin that could have been called teasing if it weren't for the dangerous glint in his uncovered eye, "I believe our captive here is proposing a duel."

"No- I-" was, unfortunately, the only protest Llanedd managed before being unceremoniously drowned out by a cacophonous medley of cheers, jeers, and one particularly ear-piercing wolf whistle that they really hoped wasn't aimed at them. A strong, sun-browned arm yanked them to their feet, a curved cutlass that had clearly seen better days was pushed into their hand, and suddenly Llanedd was stood in the middle of the deck, facing down the most feared pirate in all the seven seas.

Captain Devilish gave a sweeping bow, and attacked.

By some miracle, Llanedd not only managed to raise their cutlass just in time to prevent their face from being sliced in two, but also manage to remain standing as the clash of steel reverberated through their body. The captain's face, familiar from it's portrayal on wanted posters up and down the coast, was closer than it had ever been, close enough that Llanedd could see the small scar bisecting one arched eyebrow, could smell the unexpected mint on his breath, could see the flecks of brown in his emerald iris as he... winked?

"Trust me," Trickster breathed.

The next few minutes were a blur of steel glinting in the last remnants of sunlight as Trickster deftly drove Llanedd backwards, the clash of cutlasses -one quick and graceful, the other slow, awkward, and holding it's own purely by some fluke of luck- ringing across the deck as the gathered crew continued to cheer for Llanedd's dismemberment. Llanedd would have been concerned by how bloodthirsty they all seemed to be, given that they hadn't actually done anything to warrant dismemberment —hadn't had the chance, since all they'd done since being kidnapped and used as a bargaining chip to ensure the captain and his crew left the dock unpursued was sit in an admittedly rather clean cell and wait to be pushed down a plank or tied to an anchor or whatever it was villainous pirates did to no-longer needed hostages whilst trying not to have a panic attack— except they were somewhat preoccupied trying not to trip over the frankly alarming amount of rope left lying around whilst making sure their cutlass was in the right place to prevent the captain's cutlass from giving the crowd exactly what they were angling for. Although...

See, the thing was, the part of Llanedd's brain that wasn't busy acting on pure instinct to block the constant barrage of slashes or silently screaming in terror couldn't help but think that it was all a bit too easy. Yes, the captain was clearly winning, pushing Llanedd closer and closer where the wooden deck turned into a rather lengthy fall, and yes Llanedd was only just managing to raise their cutlass in time to block, but Llanedd was under no illusions regarding the skill of both themself and their opponent, and the truth was that Llanedd shouldn't have been able to block at all. The pirate captain was relentless, yes, but in the gaps where Llanedd faltered, where they stumbled or hesitated or were just that vital half-second too slow, instead of delivering the final blow —and Llanedd had no doubt that they could— the captain would grab a loose piece of rigging and swing dramatically into his next blow, or would throw his blade into the air and watch it twirl before deftly catching it, or would let his long leather coat swirl dramatically as he performed some fancy footwork, each time giving Llanedd a chance to recover. The captain wasn't fighting, he was performing, and Llanedd didn't know why.

Trust me.

The words echoed in Llanedd's mind. It was only moments ago that they'd dismissed them as a farce; no one in their right mind would trust a pirate, and especially not this one. Now however, as Llanedd's sword- and foot-work finally failed them and they were sent tumbling over the side, Trickster's face —awash in the orange of the dying sunlight and once again inexplicably winking— their final sight before the all-compassing darkness of the sea, well.

It seemed they didn't really have a choice.

#teq #teq au #thank you for the prompt!!!#small town business is also an excellent prompt that i may revist #but pirate trickster was perfect

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