I don't understand why I keep posting except that I do.

[evocates]

I haven't written any fic for quite some time. The most recent as for sons_of_gondor, and that's all I'm going to say about that. ANYWAY.

GIVE ME PROMPTS and I will write you something. In the post. In the comments. I don't even know how many words it would be, but just give me prompts because I need to write something non-academic before I go completely mad.

Comments

[evocates]

holy fuck I took your first, funny prompt and it turned out to be this. Warnings for VERY, VERY DEPRESSING. I'm not spoiling the rest because it would ruin the whole thing.

***

"He just doesn't know how to shut up, you know what I mean? It's like, mate, I know you love poetry, I know you love having the chance to show that you love poetry on TV to people who think you're a Northern Neanderthal - which you aren't, because you're a Northern bastard - but do you have to quote Keats to me all day?"

*

"Darkling I listen," Sean's voice caressed Orlando's skin, skittering against the top of his spine, then stroking downwards. Orlando tipped his head back, exhaling a soft breath even as his brows creased in irritation. Again?

"Old man, if you're going to quote Keats at me again, can't you choose another poem? Or even another stanza? Seriously, I'm getting sick of this one."

Sean only chuckled. His hand was cold against Orlando's back, but Orlando's body temperature had always been higher than most. Sean had told him once that he was a living hot water bottle, and ruined the sweet sentiment by telling him that he could sell himself as that, if the acting gig didn't work out. Orlando had roared, leaping upon him and showing just how good at heating skin up he was.

"And, for many a time," Sean continued, his breath against Orlando's ear. His hair was short for the mohawk again, a call back to ten years ago. But ten years ago he didn't have Sean; didn't have an old man complaining to him that such short-cropped hair was difficult to grip on his arthritic fingers. "I have been half in love with easeful Death."

"Why don't you try being one-and-a-half in love with me instead?"

*

"He'd just go on and on. The same poem, the same damn stanza every single time. I don't mind; fuck, his voice is hella sexy, everyone knows that. I just wish that he'd say something else. Teasing him about being a sod gets really, really old after the fifth or so time."

*

"Now more than ever," Sean's fingers danced on his skin, right below the waistband of his pants. Orlando, impatient, pulled his jeans down, exposing himself. Sean laughed in his ear again, a cold waft of air, but his recitation didn't cease. "Seems it rich to die,

"To cease upon midnight with no pain," Orlando whispered, the words familiar to him now. His voice melded with Sean's, turning eerie in the room as it bounced off the white, white walls. He didn't mind; not when he could feel Sean's lips against the back of his neck. Not when Sean's body was plastered against his, the broad chest against his back, its very weight chasing away the small, nagging pain at the base of his spine. If Orlando was Sean's hot water bottle, then Sean was Orlando's all-natural painkiller.

There was never any pain when Sean was here.

(He knew that wasn't true; knew that the two of them fought and argued and more often than not things had nearly ended with screaming and slammed doors. But he also knew that Sean always came back, or always took him back when he went to him crawling with tail between his legs. Orlando wasn't much of a believer of forever - he had defied expectations and expectations had defied him too many times for that - but Sean... Sean, he could believe was forever.

He was forever.)

*