#ambiguous prompts
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eddysocs · 1 year ago
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Ambiguous Dialogue Prompts
This just means these prompts can be used in angsty, fluffy and/or smutty context and don’t just fit one category. You may mix and match these prompts with ones on the same or different prompt lists you find on my blog when making requests. Context for the prompt(s) is always welcomed and encouraged, but not required.
🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡
"Let's kiss and see where it takes us."
"I hate us sometimes."
"Why are you wearing my skirt?"
"It's impossible to get rid of me."
"Sometimes, I don't know why I put up with you."
"Please tell me this is not why you woke me up."
"High heels do look good on you."
"I prefer not to be disturbed."
"Where did you get the flowers from?"
"You're so easily distracted."
"You can't handle my beauty."
"This fits perfectly."
"Stay there. I'm on my way."
"You're a legend, man!"
"Not our brightest idea."
"Do I need to fucking spell it out for you?"
"Take that stupid thing off so I can see you."
"Have you ever shot a gun before?" "Well, I can show you how."
"You're so beautiful. and I wish vou'd see that."
"There will be better days, and I will be here for all of them."
"I don't like seeing you in pain."
"I'm not just doing it for you. It's much more fun for me if you're not in pain."
"Scared, darling? I don't bite, I promise"
"However many years we have left, I want to spend them all with you."
"The reality is even better than my dreams."
"You're so tense, do you want me to help you relax?"
"Those legs of yours look like they go on forever."
"Is that a blush I see?"
"Just breathe, sweetheart."
"Still hard at work?"
"I'd love to see how you get out of this one."
"I can see how much you want to kiss me."
"You flirt in the most awkward situations." "You know you love it."
"You know I love a challenge."
"Your heart is beating too fast to be close to someone you don't care about."
"I don't wanna hurt you, baby." "You won’t. You can’t. I trust you."
"I wish you would just let me have you..."
"You could rip my heart from my chest, and I'd still adore you."
"All I want is you. All I've ever wanted was you."
"I hope you understand how far I'm willing to go for you, how many rules I'm willing to break for you."
"I love getting to know you like this."
"I want you in all the ways you'll let me have you."
"You're really messing with my head here."
"Look in the mirror and just try and tell me you don’t see how gorgeous you are. You’re so beautiful and I wish you saw that."
"You do know I have a first name?"
"Could you be any more of a condescending ass?"
"Do you really regard this touching of the lips as pleasurable?"
"Am I behaving incorrectly?"
"This actually makes sense to you?"
"Is your phone broken? You couldn't text me this?"
"Stay where you are. I got it."
"You're being very needy today with your touches."
"I’ll take any excuse just to be close to you."
"I feel like you're obsessed with touching me."
"A date? You haven't been on a date in ages. Why start again now?"
"I want to be more than just a duty to you."
"A naive little thing, aren't you?"
"What do we have here?"
"Will you help me out of this?"
"Sorry for staring. I just can't stop looking at you."
"C'mere, sweetheart."
"I can’t stand you." "Then sit."
"Quite the confession, I must say."
"Alright, you lost. Pay up, love."
"Any excuse to get me to undress, huh?"
"I’m in love with you, you idiot!"
"People will talk."
"Of course I came to save you."
"When will you learn to knock?"
"Kisses don’t fix everything."
"I see you still have my (clothing item)."
"Have you ever thought of starting a family?"
"Don’t tell me you didn’t come up with a plan B."
"Breaking and entering, how romantic."
"I’m begging you two to get a room."
"Face it, (pet name), you need me."
"Don’t look so smug. It was one kiss."
"Make me, pretty boy."
"We should probably say goodnight."
"Stop using your height against me."
"I think he/she likes the sound of your voice."
"I swear to god if you ever do that again, I’m never going to kiss you again." "Ever?"
"That's my baby in there!"
"Your heart is beating so fast right now."
"Come on, you know we’d have beautiful children."
“Can you ever forgive me?” “I forgave you the second you walked through the door.”
"You’re just different. In a good way."
"There are rumors about us." "I know. I spread them."
“I like it when you tell me what to do.”
"Ah, so you aren’t heartless after all."
"You treat all your ladies like this?"
"Well, how do I look?"
"You don’t think I know that you’re only here because he/she sent you?"
"You okay?" "Couldn’t be better. Just a little hot— is anyone else hot?”
"What do I have to do to motivate you?"
"Please, please, tell me you’re not trying to play matchmaker again."
"You’ve been wearing the same clothes for a week. Come on, let’s get you changed."
“I can’t believe you made me tear up over you, you asshole.”
"Could we try?"
"That’s my girl/boy."
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charlietheepicwriter7 · 1 year ago
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The Joker was apprehended, sitting on the ground as Batman guarded him, but the kid--"Bruce Wayne's newest ward, how tragic! Hehehe!"--was nowhere to be found. Nightwing and Red Hood desperate searched the warehouse until a shuffling noise grabbed their attention.
A kid, black haired just like the kid in the Joker's broadcast, crawling out of a pile of boxes. "Is it over?" the boy asked quietly.
Nightwing guided him to the only exit, unfortunately walking past the boy's own kidnapper. "Yeah, kid. It's over. Come on-"
Like a shot, the boy rushed the Joker and kicked him right in the balls.
The Joker wheezed like a dying squeaky toy. Red Hood froze. Nightwing immediately snatched the boy up by the armpits, but all that did was give the boy the height to attack again, punting Joker in the jaw. The clown went down and cracked his head on the floor. He did not get back up.
There was a moment of silence before Red Hood roared with laughter, his helmet distorting the sound.
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stars-obsession-pit · 7 months ago
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Fridged (but only half successfully)
Danny awoke in a cramped, pitch-dark box with the taste of blood in his mouth. It took his brain a few moments to boot up, but then he jerked forward in a panic.
And promptly collapsed unceremoniously to the ground as a side of the box swung open.
A fridge. He had woken up in a fridge.
What hell happened to him last night?
Pushing himself around to sit upright, he grimaced at the sensation of wet fabric clinging to his skin. Glancing downwards at his clothes, he froze. The crimson stains covering the entire front of his body were impossible to misidentify. He was soaked in blood.
Fuck, this wasn’t gonna be something he could just ignore, was it. He let his head thunk back against the fridge, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath as he cast his mind backwards.
The last thing he remembered was flopping into bed in his shitty Gotham apartment after finishing a voice call with his significant other. An apartment he was definitely no longer in. So what the hell had happened to get him here?
Suddenly, his introspection was interrupted by a figure crashing in through the window. One of the bats, who then completely froze up upon taking in Danny’s slumped form.
A horrified whisper left their lips. “Danny…?”
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akemi2003 · 3 months ago
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Fic prompt #6
Dpxdc
Danny Phantom was slowly come to realizes that he became practically invincible
When he first became a ghost, he had no control over his powers, he didn’t understand them and made a lot an error, some terribly embarrassing.
But the more ghosts he fought the more simple it became.
Even then there were the ghosts tech of his parents, the blood blossoms and other things that could easily be used against him.
Three years after his death, he realized that it wasn’t the case anymore.
He had full control of his powers, he learned way to neutralize every sort of weapons that his parents, the GIW or even Vlad could create, and after a lot of study about magic and occult even the blood blossoms weren’t a problem anymore.
Plus the title of ghost king, that grant him political protection (ghost law were no joke), he couldn’t think of anything with the powers to hurt him.
Not that he wanted to be ended, or use his powers or position for evil, but still it wasn’t something to take lightly.
Nowadays Amity Park was peaceful, his parents and the GIW weren’t capable of doing him any more harm, and he had make peace with mostly of his rougue, so to said that he was surprised when the justice league arrived at his haunt was an understatement.
They also seem to think he was a villain that kept the town hidden to the world (it was the GIW’s fault)
They wanted to exorcise him
Which was absolutely ridiculous, he couldn’t literally be exorcised because he was half alive .
He tried many time explaining that they were being exploited and manipulated by the real villains (nowadays there wasn’t anyone that believed that ghosts were all evil)
There are been a lot of people who tried explaining that too, but that just add brainwashing the city to his crime
He was at his wits end with them, he literally could kill them with a single shot of ectoblast , but he wasn’t an assassin.
Truth to be told he was starting to think that become one wasn’t a bad thing.
In a month of their bullshit, the city was starting to take a toll . He never even attacked them, he just dodged and take the civilians out of the way.
They couldn’t hurt him, but there was always the possibility that they come to realize that he doesn’t wanted any harm on the citizens, and use them as hostages, the only reason the GIW haven’t done that was because they truly thought he couldn’t careless if they died (even if the proves say otherwise).
He tried searching for magical solutions because all the human one failed
He could make them his slave
In this way they would have to leave him alone, he didn’t even need to make anything ominous.
He would just convince their mind that the city was safe and to never disturb him again!!
It was perfect!!!
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steddieas-shegoes · 1 year ago
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The shampoo in the shower is wrong.
So is the conditioner.
And the body wash.
None of it is familiar, none of it feels like home, none of it feels like Eddie.
And why would it? Eddie’s not here, he’s with the band recording another album, far away from Hawkins and Steve.
They agreed to this, they both did. Eddie said he couldn’t wait for Steve, Steve didn’t want him to have to. Steve couldn’t leave the kids, Eddie didn’t want him to.
But that left them here, in this weird limbo where neither of them could acknowledge that they’d “broken up” and Steve was left staring at a body wash that wasn’t theirs.
It was stupid, really. Eddie always had his own body wash anyway.
But it was always right next to Steve’s. And sometimes they accidentally used each others’ when they were too tired to pay attention to the bottle they grabbed. And sometimes they’d run out of one and forget to pick up a new one at the store, so they’d smell like each other for a few days, weeks even.
And somehow Steve was expected to just use his own body wash, with no other bottle sitting on the shelf as an option.
Because Eddie wasn’t an option right now.
Or maybe ever if things kept going well for him and the guys.
Six months is a long time to not have Eddie as a comfort, as a safe place to rest, as a home.
But six months wasn’t that long when he thought about forever like this. Forever without Eddie.
Something he couldn’t have imagined the moment Eddie held a broken bottle to his neck.
He got out of the shower without washing his hair or his body; He could do it tomorrow.
He could be braver tomorrow.
He could survive another day without Eddie. Tomorrow.
Or maybe tomorrow he could finally be the one to break. He could call him and ask how things are. He could offer to come to a show. He could tell him that he loves him and he wants to follow him anywhere he goes.
But tomorrow wasn’t today and today, Steve had to accept his decision, their decision.
So today, Steve curled up in his bed, and he thought about what Eddie would sound like over the phone when he was brave. Tomorrow.
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just-a-few-prompts · 3 months ago
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“I thought you had a strict moral code.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call it that. I’d say it’s more of a… a moral rubber band. Sometimes, it’s a bit of a stretch.”
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raayllum · 6 months ago
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Did Soren coach Lujanne on what to say. How to sound, how to speak, how to move. A boy's memories of his mother 15 years removed. Take the bits of Viren's apology that no one knows happen, the bits that stuck with him despite himself, things he remembers Claudia saying over the years, and said, "Do this." Did they consider using butterflies, but someone (Terry? Soren? other?) say that if Claudia did choose to embrace this fake version of her mother, it needed to feel solid. It needed to feel real. So they put a real person under the illusion. They put real people (Soren, and potentially his wish fulfilment, and his father, and his belief in what Claudia would want to hear as wish fulfilment, the ghost of his sister who's still carrying on dad's legacy rather than their own) underneath.
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finemeal · 1 year ago
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DP x DC Prompt #5
Inspired by this Tumblr post:
Danny was getting used to his new role in the Wayne family, especially as another meta in Gotham (if being dead counted, that is). It was taking even more adjustment to be a part of the Justice League.
It’s why he was a lil surprised when, before his First Official JL Meeting ™️ some of the heroes decided to pass time with a game. Fuck, Marry, Kill. He didn’t know how to answer when his partner’s civilian identity was brought up as one of the options
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lanternlightss · 4 months ago
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dewdrop leaves
> this was written for day 3: immortality/corruption! and of course i could not pass up the opportunity to write a corrupted venti, and bard’s reaction to it <3
Though Venti does not necessarily feel the sensations such as “warmth” or “cold,” the sheer thickness of Dragonspine’s chill tries its hardest to threaten that motion. It clings to him, weaving around and through the fabrics of his clothing, wrapping his limbs. Frost dapples at the tip of his nose, extending to his cheeks. It coats his clothing, too, the material starting to crinkle, turn firmer, and rigid.
(During his flight to here, his hat had been tossed off, and his cape’s bow had been torn unevenly….. how he quite liked those….)
When he lands, sprawled out onto all fours, sinking into the snow and feeling how it gives in, the beginnings of ice fall from him in clumps, sloughing. He extends his wings, fluttering them, and watches as even more are flicked off from the action.
Going to stand, a sharp pain pulls at his chest, seeming to bounce off of the space where a rib-cage would be, before it spreads throughout the rest of him, pinpricks of blazing flares. He doubles over from it, his forehead and bangs pressing into sparkly white (his braids choosing to sprawl across them instead.)
Making the decision to fully lay his upper half onto the snow, and partly burrow there, wings folding to slide more onto his form, it—for a moment, upon the first touch—feels almost soothing. Rubs at the itchiness lying beneath this imitation flesh, one that strikes and tears and shrieks at him every passing minute that goes by. Each louder, more vicious, than the last.
Venti grimaces.
With a tremble, he pushes himself up, crawling forward to fresher snow—areas where he did not mess with. Raises his hand, watching as the deep blue (nearly a shade close to the night sky, dotted with small magentas) covering his fingers and palm reaches up, up, up, a little past his wrist, in splotches. Racing alongside the blue, is deep, fracturing golden lines and cracks, painted across in random strokes. He flexes his hand, wincing, and noting he has his talons, as well.
(There is a prickle on his back, too, where feathers begin to sprout, beneath the pair of wings he already has out.)
He huffs a breath and continues to stand, shaking off the snow when completely upright. Crouches slightly, one foot forward, stancing for a flight into the sky once more—for as much as he would like to, Venti cannot stay here, it is too close to Mondstadt still, and there is a concerning pressure building within him, one that he fears may blast away everything here.
Wings flap, he leans. Snow then scatters and sprays in various directions, from his take-off.
The corruption worsens as his journey continues—that accursed statue, but its situation was becoming harrowing—sending shocks so severe that it has his wings beating harshly to keep himself righted. Even more terribly is when the ruins of Old Mondstadt come into view, and the extra wings find this the perfect time to sprout in full, snapping out, and colliding against the ones above them.
That has him stumbling into one of the many strong currents dotted around; where he allows them to spin him in a lift, and he dips towards the ground when they let go, upon where he forces his wings to untangle, opening and catching wind. He twists, pivoting, aiming towards the ground, his surroundings a blur—and lands onto a patch in a cloud of dust. Once it has cleared, he remains in his position, sitting on his knees, hands pressed to the sides of them as he leans slightly forward.
(Belatedly, he realizes he has lost his cape, and shoes.)
Venti heaves. The pressure from before is unbearable now. The blue-gold has creeped up his arm, the splotches trailing off in fading dots when it reaches where his archon form’s gloves would end, and he presumes it is the same for his legs—though, he can feel a weight at the back of his head, half-formed, in what could only be a halo. Go and break him down to his more divine forms, why don’t they!!
Bubbling. Too much of it, his grasp on everything fraying, thinning, even as he scrambles in an attempt to keep it locked shut, fingers twisting and flailing—the threads of wind, patches of time, the weather, it slips, becoming fuzzy. A gratitude undercuts it, a vague thankfulness that the ruins have sunken enough to fit the wrath of a thrashing God, a vague thankfulness that Dvalin had been sent away beforehand, before it is overrun by the thoughts—what if this is not enough? Will they fall, to his hands, just as the tyrant had done to them? Will he lose what he has fought to protect, what he has set everything to prevail for?
He cannot lose anyone again—
His imitation heart splinters and spills, the corruption truly sinking in. His vision blurs around the edges, flashes of gold tracing them, his breaths coming out labored..
(He knew, when Dvalin had been corrupted by the Abyss, that he was hurting—if it was to this extent, he wishes he could have soothed away everything.)
Around him, the wind races, becoming erratic, kicking at any surface it can find, zipping across in uneven lines. He leans further, wings curling, and the distant sounds of this place are doused, muffled, becoming white noise—a consistent ringing, overlapping
Underneath his hands and legs, the ground shrivels. The wind grows harsher, rocks being scraped across, propelling into the air and torn asunder, the glowing crystals diminishing to mere crumbles of rock. Both the dirt and grass are dragged from the ground, plucked and ripped. The intensity continues to ramp, the noises becoming overwhelming, ringing in his ears pitching, finding that his hands have raised to grip at hair, that his wings seem to wrap around him completely as he—
As rapidly as it had seemed to start, it feels as though something grabs hold of him and yanks to a halt. Venti gasps, cut hair strands falling around him.
The winds stutter, and the ringing fades. He jerks up, hands still embedded into his hair, and finds that… the place he landed in was not so deserted. Their tree stands, swaying, waving hello.
And, that everything had truly come to a messy standstill; threads of teals dipped in a bleeding mixture of a blue-gold suspended in a whirling vortex, a few parts of the wreckage they had caused gently floating besides in its grasps. The threads are not all the same, some of them cutting in dotted lines as they zoom, some of them having their lines wavering to point it threatens dispersing, some of them are thoroughly solid, some of them are splitting into branches, teal twisting and curling, and—
And—
And…
Blue eyes blink, fluttering as if just awoken.
He rubs a hand at the right one, brows furrowing at his surroundings the more aware he becomes of them. Pure raven-black braids sway, as he swivels his head, and Venti notes with a whirlwind in his mind, that the locks have stray strands flicking out from not only the braids, but the bangs, and hair that frames the face. Windswept. The clothes, as well, are missing the tear in the bottoms of the shorts, the tops of his boots, and his right sleeve. If he were to turn, there would certainly be holes in his cloak, too.
But—if he does not have those, then how is he…?
A gale is thrown into the cliff, repeatedly, tearing apart the ground, as they respond to Venti’s dread.
His eyes widen, then narrow.
No, no, no, no, no. Stop looking at him like that.
Venti hunches into himself, talons clenching and shredding more strands of hair. The gale intensifies, lashing behind him, carving out chunks and causing the ground to rumble in its fury. He bares his teeth—wanting to shriek, to grab at his head and!!!!
Stop looking at him like that!
(Why wouldn't he?
A wind out of control? A wind that slices, destruction in every path? Why would he not back away from it?)
He tilts his head, starting to stand, and his expression shifts at Venti flinching away from his approach, the wind whipping to a higher degree with the flinch. He goes to take a step forward, the grass he steps upon having a simmering, bubbling line of a thread hovering there—and there is a quiet screeching as the threads are forced away, unraveling in spools and flinging out towards the cliffs; it has him jolting away from it, one step taken back, boots hitting the ground and kicking up dust.
His gaze snaps up to Venti’s.
(He has a fleeting thought, a moment where the minuscule inch of himself that the corruption has not touched speaks; that he should fix everything, that this mess has gotten severely out of hand, to fly off deeper into the ruins before he does something truly regretful.
But it is just that—fleeting.
Because at the attempt to follow through with the ideas laid out, the corruption rushes to overtake that last final inch, smothering and snuffing it out without regard. It halts Venti’s hands when he tries to wave them, refusing to let them budge the Bard in front of him, dark blue and gold chaining them to remain where they currently are. You do not truly want that, do you? It whispers, false care and comfort in its voice. You wish for him to stay, so here he will stay.)
That gaze of his shifts once more, briefly scrutinizing, then the ever so slightest of widened eyes, before reaching a blankness. It seems that something has clicked. He tries again, purposefully angling his path to the swirling threads, and Venti grits his teeth as he moves them away, hooking a finger round them and pulling, so that no interactions happen between them and him.
(And, how during this, he sees—for a moment—a glimmer of something magenta across his form.)
And blast it all—
Venti raises himself and situates his legs into a crouch, his wings flaring unraveling from around his form. And bounds.
He crosses the distance between the two of them in seconds. Nose mere centimeters away from his, Venti grits his teeth, watches as the other blinks owlishly at him, as if not expecting to be approached so suddenly, especially not like this, Venti poised in a manner similar to that of a cat pouncing still.
“Keep off from those,” he nearly growls, “Can you not see that they—”
Hands shoot out, to place themselves on his cheeks. Venti falters, words dying in his throat.
“What has happened to you?” He murmurs, gently tipping Venti’s head up, to the side, checking the dark-blue that has climbed up to his face, “Your teal… where has it gone? Have you always had gold?”
He swallows. A twitch goes throughout him, one that does not go unnoticed by him.
And, oh. That was what had clicked.
The words build, his tongue bubbling, bitterness and sweetness coating it. A name he has not said for centuries, a name he has kept clutched close to him, hidden in the palms of his hands, in the place where a heart would be beat.
Venti’s mouth opens, and croaks: “Cecil….?”
He pauses, meeting Venti’s eyes.
“Hello, little bird,” Cecil replies, softness in every feature of his. “Ah—I suppose you would be an angel now, hm? How much you have grown…”
The softness does not last long, his brows knitting as he thinks, a frown replacing that wondrous smile of his. His fingers trace the edges of the colors, outlining them, almost, a silent fury and puzzlement to the actions. “But, my friend—why are these… like veins? Why do you hurt? Did someone else do this to you?”
(I will hurt you, I will hurt you, you need to get away from me—)
“No one. This is my own doing, you see,” he says, offering a reassuring look, “I am not hurting at all.”
And—that is true, if partly. There is no stabbing prodding at him any more, attempting to wrench him towards the ground so he stays there. It aches most certainly, however, the wind underneath his skin thrumming as it races incessantly.
Cecil’s brows scrunch.
He steps forward to pull Venti closer, his right hand falling down to his waist, tracing a tear in his clothing, and… ah. Ah. He revokes everything he had said about snow and their so-called “soothing effects” beforehand, this is so much better than it, he curses them and nearly purrs at the feeling of his friend being a breath away from him, his touch curling into his bare skin so softly, lovingly.
Venti chases it.
All but lunging into him, Venti dives his head into Cecil’s chest, careful of the halo behind his hair—do not want to slam it against him. The rest of his body follows suit, his arms encircling around Cecil’s torso (with his hands carefully closed, knuckles pressing into the fabric of the green vest), knocking their legs together so that he can hook it around one of his dear’s, and his wings complete it all by flaring out to then snake around and envelop them both. Feathers brushing against skin and cloth with every other breath.
(The wind has gone still.)
“Oh,” Cecil gasps, startling at something, “you have six wings? I only saw four… have your limbs been multiplied, too??”
Does he? Venti thinks dazedly. It must have happened when the pain was ramping up, he could not distinguish it under all the other sensations attacking him. He had wondered how far the transformation would go—his most divine form has much more than four wings and a halo.
He does not give Cecil a response. Choosing to nuzzle into his clavicle instead, head going even fuzzier, thoughts narrowing to Safe safe safe, stay stay stay, love love love, here here here.
And—what an idea.
Cecil’s chest expands, as he inhales, exhales. It takes a moment, but he begins to reciprocate, an arm going around Venti’s back, between the middle wings and bottom ones. The other arm lifts to the space above Venti’s shoulders, near his nape, pulling him further into himself. He rubs at those places, in small, circle-like motions, and it has the God wholly melting in his arms.
“Is this alright?” He asks, “Is this helping?”
“Mmmmmhmmmm…..”
Gradually, the threads dissipate, dropping closer to the ground, and having the wreckages they carry collapse against the water around the tree, the dirt and rocks. Twist higher into the air at the end, then wobbling, and falling apart. He watches it all, a steady thrumming sounding in the air the longer he holds onto Venti. For one of them, he tests, to see; what would happen if he nuzzled into Venti’s cheek, patting at his back? The answer: it causes the threads to speed up, swooshing so swiftly, that he hardly has time to blink before the teal is fading.
Eyes wandering, they slide to—
Ah! Cannot have that, can we? Venti blocks his view with his right most top wing, fluttering the appendage to truly catch his attention, making his dear jolt in surprise. See, if Cecil is to stay by Venti’s side, then it should be away from here—the safest spot is the Tower, but he would not like that very much. Perhaps they should cross to the Dandelion Sea?
“Venti?”
“Hmm..?”
Cecil raises his hand up, to tap to the back of his head, his knuckles briefly brushing against the halo. He lets it stay there, for long enough that he can weave strands of hair around his fingers, to light tug at them—a non-serious scolding, for the blocking he did. They drop to rubbing circles on his nape after. “How are you feeling?”
Right, right—conversation happening.
He shuffles backwards, only a few inches, so that his dear is not forced to let go of his grasps—skin still tingling and fizzing with that loveliness. Tilts his head, then, to where Cecil gazes at him, a quiet concern and pure curiosity to his eyes, now.
Another wave of winds zip by them, these ones far lighter, livelier, and peppy than the others from earlier were—however, still the same mix of colors, if slightly more solid, slightly lukewarm in temperature. They swirl around them, teasing at hair and cloth, dancing in chiming sweeps and dives; that of which distracts Cecil for a moment, his hair blowing into his face, a muffled sound of a “wuh” escaping from him when it has strays loosing from the braids he wears. He shakes his head to rid of them, glaring halfheartedly.
A beaming grin tugs at him, at the sight. One that lifts the bottoms of his into soft crescents, slowly revealing how his teeth have grown sharper canines. His pupil—still a lovely teal, though, now captured around blue-gold—shines, constricting to a thin slit, as a glittering gleam dances across his gaze. He hums, unclenching his hands from fists to press the palms of them more firmly into Cecil, scraping the talons across his vest.
“Much better,” he says, a lilting, distorted pitch to it. Extends his right’s hand index finger, while he talks, to prod at his back—tracing a symbol there, one that causes Cecil to minutely shiver from it, unexpecting the action. “Thank you.”
And perhaps it is that, that has Cecil truly understand what has happened; that Venti is really not so much hurt as he is a far, far worse thing, that there is something gripping at him. Or perhaps it is the way he looks upon him, as though he were the sun, a gleeful, thrilled and eager gleam to his gaze. Or perhaps it is the way his wings gradually tighten around his form, not constricting him, yet he suddenly feels the reason they continue to be folded (and twitching, fluttering, so often) is not that Venti just wishes to hold him with everything he has.
Whichever it is, whether it be a combination of all of them, it has him widening his eyes, a near whisper of “Oh,” trailing into the winds. Winds that take the words greedily into their hands, rolling them over—winds that tell him murmurs, almost frantically, a gentle urging in the way the threads crowd further around them both, hushed jingling of bells accompanying it: stay, stay, stay, stay?
Oh.
#genshin impact#venti#nameless bard#bardven#bardvenweek2025#YAHOOOO okay tag talking time#this will go on ao3 too im gonna add a link in a reblog bc i dont think? tumblr likes when you put links in posts and i dont want to risk i#tried not to cross over into the time travel prompt so i thought it would be fun if bard was more of an illusion/manifestation of sorts#>> its really fun to toy with the corruption bc. feel like. the beginnings of ventis would be rough for both sides 😭#they’re constantly pushing the other out of the seat#so the corruption is just like frantically flipping through a book like uhhh okay you seem to like this guy a lot . here you go#(throws a vaguely shaped bard in his direction)#BUT it would be fun if it was the real one so . i tried to keep it ambiguous a bit#anyways that’s the reason why bard isn’t reacting a lot to the sky. mostly bc he has a lot of other things to deal w first ZDBDJ#and tbh venti keeps trying to keep bard from being upset 😭😭 like oops !! too many negative connotations with that rn …. lets go !!!!!#going off of dvalin it seems the corruption makes u…. feel ur emotions a lot more intensely ??? and . well .#given that venti is the king of Not Talking About Himself his are kinda going rapid fire#before kinda settling on overbearing protection. he is Scared. and this is an oddness he’s walking into#like !!! bard is free !!! despite the ending venti won’t be trapping him or caging him. but his presence is going to be very … well know#THE CORRUPTION IS FIGHTING FOR ITS LIFE. ALSO 😭😭#BARD GUY . KEEP HIM PREOCCUPIED !!! and preferably causing damage. make him sad again thanks#A WIN FOR MEEEE <- the corruption is Unaware#lantern’s writing corner#if there are any mistakes from this one to the ao3 version it’s because tumblr hates me
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jochiemgrace · 29 days ago
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this is so specific but what about 60 from that fluff prompt list for emrook 👀 maybe the rest of the team doesn’t know they’re together yet and that’s how they find out 🙂‍↕️
Fluff prompt list | "60. a hello/good-bye kiss that is given without thinking - where neither person thinks twice about it"
Ummmm yes! Upping the group size to four because I can. lol. I hope this is along what you had in mind.
· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·
Emmrich ran down all the protections and runes he'd handed out. Asking Harding how much she knew about the location they were headed; Bellara about the elven artifacts she'd brought back and refurbished.
Rook strides into the mystical space. Stepping past the others, they hand the report they'd just finished for Emmrich and Neve to go over. Papers exchange hands, Emmrich's eyes already taking in the scrawling script, his free hand settles on Rook's waist as they give Harding, Bellara, and Lucanis a slight shift in plans, but nothing that set their path off its target.
"Be safe, darling," comes so gently from Emmrich's studied mouth, stepping into Rook, his forest eyes memorizing every aspect of the hero.
"No promises." Rook chuckles, their lips meeting his in a chaste, yet no less passionate kiss.
Emmrich's gaze follows Rook through the Vi'Revas, going back to the parchment within his hands the moment they disappear. He does not see the gaping jaws of Bellara or Harding, nor does he hear the annoyed grunt of Lucanis as he pushes the women through the eluvian.
He does, however, catch the last few words from Spite, wondering what the necromancer did to Rook, and why they both smelled of soil after a welcome thunder storm?
The same storms Rook had told Emmrich reminded them of safety.
Of home.
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stars-obsession-pit · 1 year ago
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Jason blinked in surprise at the image that had been added to their groupchat. He recognized that face. In fact, you could say he knew it very intimately now.
After debating for a moment, he sent a reply. “I think I may have found ‘em”
“Do you still have a visual?”
Jason’s gaze flicked to the figure. Still asleep in bed next to him.
“…yes”
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aceship-sconesterprise · 1 month ago
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Day 30 for @may-lancholy
Fandom: Mission: Impossible
Prompt: "This isn't real."
Warnings: Major Character Injury, Major Character Death, Ambiguous/Open Ending
~
Benji's eyes widened in shock as he opened the door to the room and stared at a huge screen. It couldn't be. It just couldn't.
"Ethan," he breathed in disbelief, before he shook his head.
There he was. The love of his life. His lifeless body sitting in a chair. The marks on his body showed that he'd been tortured for what must have been hours.
"This isn't real. It's..."
The blond agent didn't get to finish. His voice broke, turning into sobbing.
Ethan couldn't be dead. It was impossible! For Ethan Hunt never failed a mission. Or... did he?
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xoxogeorgiegirl · 2 months ago
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45 for franky/alex :))
45 - realisation of feelings at the worst possible moment | just a little taste of wasting time on ao3 | 1.9k
Franky is the first to check her phone and see the message from Valentina in the group chat to say that Alex will be staying in their hotel suite tonight, and could they please try and make her feel welcome. It’s oddly cheerful in tone, but then Vale usually is while they’re on these holidays, too relaxed to even bother lying to them properly. She’s about to say something, words eager to trip off of her tongue, and then decides to wait for Pecco to disentangle her arm from around Bez's shoulder and check her phone. There's a general outcry about it; expressions ranging from Bez's scrunched up, baffled face to Pecco's mildly disgusted frown. Franky stays silent, tapping her fingers against her phone under the coffee table while they chat, and ignoring the way that Luca, beside her, is trying to squint at the message she's sending. "I'm going to kill her," says Pecco darkly, not at all scary. She will, Franky thinks, be refusing to use the groupchat with Valentina in it for the next few days, defaulting to the Academy chat that they're still pointlessly denying the existence of to Vale. "Marc is making how much off that Ducati contract, and neither of them will pay for another hotel room?" She shudders and falls silent. Luca switches her attention to her, eyes turning teasing, and Franky is grateful for the reprieve as she clicks at the spot where the send button should be and considers whether it’s too risky to turn her phone brightness up.
Sorry, change of plans, Alex has texted her. It’s from before Valentina said anything, and abruptly Franky wonders whether she was going to cancel and if Marc had said anything. She looks up to see Luca’s eyes on her again, thoughtful, and turns her phone off, dropping it face down on the table with a click.
“Yes, well. We should go soon. Don’t want to keep her waiting,” Pecco says suddenly, and doesn’t move. Across the table, Cele casts an uncertain glance at her, halfway to standing up before she seems to register that she’s not ready to leave yet. Bez tugs Cele towards her, pulling her arm across with a laugh. The conversation washes over Franky, suddenly, inexplicably nervous, until Luca stands up decisively, pulling the keys to the rental car out of her pocket. When Pecco opens the door to the hotel room, Alex is sitting on the couch, knees together and arms folded, a duffel bag with clothes haphazardly sticking out of it still slung over her shoulder. She looks up when they enter, smiling at Franky, albeit somewhat tensely.
“Alex,” Pecco greets with a nod. For a moment Franky thinks she’s going to hold out her hand for Alex to shake. “I hope we didn’t leave you alone too long?”
“I’ve been surviving,” says Alex, and shrugs, skittish.
Pecco nods at her again. “Vale’s stuff is still in her room,” she says, “so-”
“That’s fine,” Alex interrupts. “The couch is fine.”
Luca laughs, and ignores Franky’s warning glare. “You can share with Franky,” she offers. “She’s got a double bed, you’ll be more comfortable than on the couch.”
“Right,” Alex says, and glances at Franky. She smiles again. “Mind showing me around, then?”
When they wander out of the room together, her hand drifts towards Franky’s arm. Behind them, someone snickers.
"Of course I've thought about just getting my own room," Alex says grumpily, as soon as the bedroom door swings closed behind them. "Marc's still trying to pretend like she's not planning these holidays so she can run into Valentina halfway through, and that involves playing happy families with hotel rooms." "Then book another one to use after Valentina inevitably steals your side of the room?" Franky asks innocently. She pulls Alex onto the bed behind her and they settle into place, heads bent close together to the centreline of the mattress like they’re sharing secrets at a slumber party. "Please, she ambushed me," Alex squawks, indignantly pushing up onto her elbows. "Escorted me here, even. One hundred percent chance Marc asked her about-" She cuts off, and Franky blinks up at her. Alex is blush prone at the best of times and it's showing now, a flush spreading up over her cheekbones while she avoids looking at anything in particular; it's a nearly impossible task given that over the course of her movement she’s ended up leaning nearly directly over Franky, but she’s giving it her best shot, eyes wide and lips curving up. "Alex," Pecco calls, poking her head into the room. Franky tries her best not to audibly groan. "Sorry, we're figuring out dinner, and we don't know what you'd like." "Anything," Alex says, a little wildly. She hasn't even twisted her head to look at the doorway where Pecco has been hovering, checking in on them while she switches between her usual dislike of Alex and what she feels is her duty, blatant neutrality followed by guilty fussiness; Valentina, Franky thinks, has a lot to answer for. There's a third aspect to it tonight, because Luca likes to think she's good at reading people, and now everyone else thinks they know something about Franky and Alex. To be fair to her, Franky isn't sure Luca's been wrong yet. She's trying very hard not to think about it, at least not while Alex is lying on the bed next to her, warm and still halfway to laughing. "Oh, alright," Pecco is saying, slipping out of hostess mode and back into relieved neutrality. Franky blames Valentina and by extension Marc, somewhat, for making this into a big deal and also for ruining her plans for the evening. “What type of pizza do you want?”
“Ham and cheese, please. With pineapple,” says Alex, without hesitating or smiling.
“So. A Hawaiian?” Pecco asks, tentatively. Alex shakes her head sombrely and Pecco frowns, nods, and promptly shuts the door.
It’s hard not to grin, at the obvious bait and at the way  lets herself fall back down on the bed again to laugh as soon as the door clicks shut. The sun is beginning to go down now, the last dregs of light filtering in through the open window along with the warm air. When she twists to lie on her back, hands pressing over her stomach and legs stretched out long in the jeans, Alex’s hair is pulling out of its ponytail, longer strands falling down to frame her face. She twists them back, exaggeratedly aggressive, and Franky laughs.
“Up,” Franky says, grabbing her hand and pulling her backwards, towards her, letting her twist halfway onto Franky’s lap. Gently, she uncurls the twisted hair tie and combs her fingers through Alex’s hair through, gentle, and begins to braid it.
“You’re better at this than Marc,” says Alex, too restless even when she’s trying to keep still, and Franky has to let her hands go with the movement to avoid yanking at the strands. “She’s, eh. Impatient.”
“Like you,” mutters Franky, affectionate, and even though she can’t see Alex’s face she can feel the grin in the lift of her shoulders and the arch of her neck, loose and easy. “Easier than curly hair, anyway. Tangles less than I’m used to, as long as you stay still.”
“Why I love you, of course. Easier for you to do my hair than to learn myself, eh,” Alex says halfway through laughing, light and absent-minded, and maybe it would have been fine if both of them didn’t go tense at the words, Alex’s voice cutting out. As it is, she pulls back, her half-done braid slipping out of Franky’s suddenly numb hands as she climbs off the bed, movement awkward across the tangled quilt.
“I should go,” she says, and doesn’t look back in time to see Franky open her mouth. She closes it again uselessly as her body continues to catch up faster than her thoughts, pushing up off the bed and moving towards Alex, too slowly.
“You can’t go,” she says. The worlds fall, too blunt, and she wishes Alex would look at her if only to see the way that she’s wincing. “Marc has the room-”
“I’ll find a place,” Alex mutters stiffly, hand twisting on the doorknob and finally, decisively, pulling the door open.
Instead of disappearing down the hallway, though, she takes a step back, and Franky cranes her neck to see past.
“Oh, good, you’re ready,” Pecco says, too brightly, hand still tentatively raised to knock. “Pizza’s been delivered.”
Neither of them react, and she frowns, adds, “We thought we’d eat outside. Luca dragged the table onto the balcony, since – it’s such a nice night.”
Finally, Alex brushes past her, denim of her jeans swishing ridiculously loudly in the sudden silence that follows her to the balcony. When Pecco raises an eyebrow, Franky can only shrug, swallow the acrid taste lingering at the back of her throat, and mutely follow.
Franky sits down next to Luca, and Alex drags her own chair to the very opposite side of the bench. Beside her, Bez startles and shuffles her chair a little closer to Cele; they were already, Franky realises, sitting so close that the gap to Alex now seems comical, a scene from one of the old, long-table press conferences that you could look at and tell immediately who everyone’s friends were. Alex, with her hair loose and slowly tumbling out of its braid, suddenly seems very vulnerable, like on one of the rare nights she falls asleep before Franky.
Alex’s detachment seems to stymie the conversation somewhat, and Franky wonders belatedly whether Pecco was relying on her to keep the presence of a relative unknown from being awkward.
“How did you find the beach, Celin,” she offers dutifully, and Cele looks up from where she’s been fixing her gaze on the untouched slice of pizza in front of her.
“Ah, it was… fine,” Cele says finally. “Good. Hot.” She glances to her left, reddens slightly, and looks away again; Franky frowns, realises that the general oddness is directed at Bez, not Alex, and loses interest.
“Alex,” she says abruptly, too loudly. Someone that she didn’t realise was speaking has stopped mid-sentence, “Can we talk?” “I wouldn’t want to interrupt dinner,” says Alex, and glances at Pecco, as though expecting her to agree. She doesn’t react, though, and so Franky pushes her chair back and heads inside, looking back over her shoulder for Alex to reluctantly follow. She leaves the balcony door open, sounds of conversation filtering through until Franky doubles back and closes it. Bez is peering back at them through the gap in the glass, and she pointedly avoids meeting her eye.
“I’m sorry,” Alex says, not sounding particularly sincere. She’s staring at the wall, arms folded. “If I’ve made things weird, then we can go on a break, although I refuse to sleep on the couch-”
“Alex, just because Marc and Vale are, eh, complicated-” Franky says, interrupting, and hoping that Valentina will forgive her. “It doesn’t mean that we have to be. And, hey. Maybe I love you even though you’re trying to make my friends believe that your pizza order is anything different to Hawaiian.”
“I swear it’s an entirely different type of pizza,” she says, mock offended, but she’s laughing now, relaxing and allowing herself to be pulled into a hug.
The balcony door pulls open behind them. Bez looks at them, wide-eyed and tugging Cele by the hand, and guiltily says, “Don’t mind me.”
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shatteredsundew · 4 months ago
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Remember how i said i had writers block like four hours ago? Yeah, i take that back juuuussssttttt enough to post this little concept/oneshot :3 (also i totally pulled this entire thing straight out my ass so if it sucks i am not sorry lol)
i’m a sucker for sickfics, and not just the fluffy, warm ones with cuddles. I love to see the slow decent into sickness, and watch it go unnoticed—or better yet, brushed off—until the whumpee is unable to stand without support, but still tries to find their caretaker.
Whumpee can barely stand. Between the aches in every single joint and cranny of their frame, and the chills that wrack their body like someone had put ice directly against their spine, it’s impossible to move.
At first it hadn’t been so bad. Some sniffles, a minor headache, some coughing here and there. But now… now they felt like death. Like the Grim Reaper had personally hijacked their body for the bit, and he was going to mind control them into the afterlife.
Honestly, with how out-of-body and exhausted Whumpee felt, they wouldn’t be surprised if that was really happening.
It was a pain to climb out of bed, their knees nearly giving out under them as they try to find purchase against their bedside table. Its surface is covered in various empty cups and a few untouched snacks they’d snuck from the kitchen over the last few days, but they attempt to lean anyways.
Eventually, they manage to steady themselves well enough to take a few steps out of their room. The soft carpet of their bedroom suddenly turning to icy hardwood floors makes them wince, shocks of aching pains running up their feet as if the floor itself was made of infinitesimally small thumbtacks.
They slump against the wall of the hall, eyes darting down the small hallway at the next obstacle: the stairs.
A small, shuttering sigh escapes Whumpee, though it sounded closer to a whine than anything. Slugishly, they make their way to the stairs, glaring down the hardwood steps. A small part of them doesn’t want to trust their own quivering knees to carry them down the steps.
However, it wasn’t like they had many options. Whumpee has to go downstairs to find something to eat (preferably something that wouldn’t make them nearly vomit), and maybe find someone to complain to. Maybe, if they were annoying enough today, someone would finally listen and take them seriously.
Hesitantly, they take a step down the stairs, gripping the railing with a weak attempt at a death grip. For a moment, it almost feels fine. Their legs are… surprisingly supportive, which feels weird to consider. Legs were supposed to be supportive, aren’t they?
One step turns into two, then three, then four. Yet, five never comes. Instead, a knee buckles the moment it touches the step, the other leg clearly not getting the memo to stay upright either.
Suddenly, Whumpee is at the bottom of the stairs, and a concerned voice rings out from a room over.
“Whumpee? Are you okay? Did you fall?”
For a moment, it takes their brain a moment to catch up. They’re uncomfortably half-sprawled across the bottom two steps and the wood floors below them, but they can’t manage to push themselves upright again. In fact, every movement is suddenly so difficult, and even more painful.
Whumpee manages to turn their head enough to see Caretaker approaching from a nearby room, their face tensing with even more worry as they help Whumpee sit up.
“What happened? You—“ Caretaker pauses, their brow furrowing slightly at the sight of Whumpee.
Whumpee looks far too pale, not to mention the dark circles under their eyes that look borderline purple. Their eyes are a hazy and unfocused, and if it weren’t for the heat radiating off of their skin like an open oven, Caretaker would’ve assumed Whumpee had hit their head.
“Jesus Christ, you look like shit,” Caretaker comments, already pulling Whumpee to their feet.
“…Feel like it too,” Whumpee barely manages to mutter, trying to ignore the chills that’d resumed shaking their body into bits. Caretaker can only wince at the feeling of Whumpee trembling in their grip. They adjust their support on Whumpee, carefully leading them back up the stairs.
“How about this: we get you back to bed, I check your temperature, and we get you some Ibuprofen and a few crackers. Sound good?”
Whumpee only nods, eyes already beginning to droop shut as they lean into Caretaker’s grip.
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strugglingbutstillfighting · 3 months ago
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🫂 with Sonic and Tails?
the emojis literally were just a black box on my phone so knowing what the actual prompt was had to wait until i used my laptop fsdkal also i couldnt start this for the life of me but wanted to do it bc it's already been days so my platonic partner gave me a starting sentence which helped
"You told me this wouldn't happen again."
Sonic made a face at his past reassuring words being used accusingly by his own brother.
"I knoww..." He dragged out the word a little, trying to come up with something justifiable. "But I'm fine, see!"
He spread his hands as if to prove the point by demonstrating the lack of mortal injury. Unfortunately, the few scrapes and bruises he had picked up didn't help the claim. Plus, Tails didn't even bother to look around from the kitchen counter.
Only the more than necessary aggressive sounds of chopping filled the short silence as Sonic dropped his arms back to his sides.
Faced with his brother's silence back and tails twitching in agitation, Sonic sighed quietly and padded forward.
"Tails, you know I don't leave you out of things on purpose," he started, "it's just--"
"What if you'd been badly hurt?" Tails finally spun around to almost shout, and Sonic took a physical step back at the tears in his eyes, stunned.
"I..."
Tails sniffed. "Never mind," he muttered, starting to turn his back again, but Sonic quickly stepped forward and put one hand on a fluffy shoulder.
"Hey."
He waited a moment, but Tails refused to look at him, keeping his face turned away although he didn't move to shift out of the light hold keeping him in place.
The tomatoes that had been victim of the forceful chopping leaked watery red on the light surface of the counter as Tails watched. He sniffed again.
"I made these devices so we could always know where someone is if needed." His voice was quiet, more matching the tone that he'd had when they'd first met than the competent genius in front of Sonic.
Sonic added nothing to his reply this time. "I know."
"It just... It's important to me. To know where you are, if you're hurt. If anyone is in danger." Tails bit his lip. "I know none of you really get it, but..."
"Hey." This time the call was firmer, and Tails finally turned his head to face his big brother. Sonic's eyes were focused but gentle. "It doesn't matter if we get it or not. If it's important to you, then it's is important. You know I'm not great with all this tech stuff, or proper words."
He gave a small grin and wink, prompted Tails to sniff again to hide a huff of amusement.
"But, I am sorry. Your big brain will have to forgive your big bro's small mind," he fluffed the fur atop Tails' head, relieved to hear a snort of laughter instead of another sniff.
Tails rubbed his nose and nodded, but his eyes were still downcast. "It's just... if something goes wrong. If something happens... I won't know where to find you. And it might be too late if I do. Or I never will and-"
"Hey, I'm okay. And so are you. I'll do my best to remember, okay?" Sonic used his other hand to gently nudge Tails' chin up, making sure the younger saw the honesty in his older brother's genuine expression.
The watery-ness had mostly disappeared, and Tails nodded again, but Sonic abruptly pulled him closer, leaning to put his head on his shoulder, wrapping his arms around the fluffy back as tails flicked in surprise.
There was only a moment before the hug was returned, Sonic's body squeezed surprisingly tightly by smaller arms.
Half-chopped tomatoes and onions watched impassively from in front of a frying pan on the counter Sonic could now see. Tails had been making chilli dogs in the absence of his brother, prepared for his return despite fear.
"Sonic?"
He allowed himself another quick squeeze and breath, then pulled back, keeping hands on the fox's shoulders briefly, offering a grin at the slightly concerned expression.
"Looks like you're makin' a lil something for lunch, buddy. Want some help?"
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grimalkinmessor · 9 months ago
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reimob, fluff, and feathers 🩷🩷
WING FIC TIME!!!!!! (⁠ノ⁠◕⁠ヮ⁠◕⁠)⁠ノ⁠*⁠.⁠✧
Reimob/Fluff/Feathers
———
"Sit still, Mob."
Shigeo stilled in his squirming, chastised but not embarrassed—not anymore. The way his wings fluttered around his shishou's fingers had once made him red in the face, mortified by the obvious pleasure he took from Reigen's fingers sifting through his feathers.
Now, they'd both been at this too long to feel ashamed about it.
Reigen huffed when Shigeo's wings shivered again, stopping his preening to swat Shigeo upside the head. "Still, I said! You keep jostling everything back out of place."
He sat behind Shigeo on the back of the couch, shoes off so his socked feet could rest on the seat cushion, bracketing Shigeo's hips. Reigen's deft hands carded through inky feathers and plucked and straightened and smoothed down anything out of place, occasionally dropping a few feathers in the small pile on the arm of the couch. Shigeo was getting big enough that soon the couch wouldn't be a good place for this, the tips of his primaries brushing against the edges of the seat even without being fully extended.
He wondered if Reigen would stop preening him, then. He hoped he wouldn't.
Reigen had been preening him for years at this point—ever since he was twelve, his newly grown feathers replacing old baby fuzz and making him so uncomfortable he couldn't keep it hidden. His parents preened him, of course; it was typically a family activity, shining up someone's wings before they left the house. Like helping a child brush their hair until they could do it themselves, and even then still sometimes after, just to keep close. To bond.
But by the time Shigeo had first stepped timidly into Reigen's office, his parents had all but ceased to preen his wings. His mother'd had to take double shifts at work to cover Ritsu's hospital bills, while his father had been playing diplomat to the angry parents of the other, older boys Shigeo had cracked against the pavement. Neither of them had time to do more than a few cursory cards over Shigeo's wings before ushering him out the door to school.
And Ritsu...
Ritsu had been another matter entirely.
Almost a year had passed like that, until the fullness of Shigeo's wings and they're subsequent twitchiness had caught his shishou's attention. When Reigen had offered, Shigeo hadn't had the will nor the want to say no.
Reigen's hands always felt like heaven in his feathers, quick but not painful, firm but not rough, gentle but not ticklish. He shines up the back of Shigeo's wings with an exactness that no one else could match.
"Shishou is too good with his hands," Shigeo said in faux-complaint, eyes closing.
A beat, blink-and-you'll-miss-it pause. Then Reigen was humming in amusement, seemingly unphased by the comment. "Get one of your little school friends to help you, then."
Shigeo frowned, almost a pout. "...My friends are too bad with their hands."
Reigen barked out a laugh, his hands resuming their work once more. "What's that supposed to mean, huh? Kids are supposed to be bad at this, you know. Practicing on each other is how you learn."
"I'm not saying they have to be great at it," Shigeo grumbled, slitting his eyes open to peer at the floor. "But I don't really want to be their test dummy either."
"It's good experience, Mob," Reigen dismissed, scraping his fingers down the seam of Shigeo's wing where it met the skin of his back, sending shivers racing up his spine. His wings gave another flutter, and Reigen huffed. "Still."
Shigeo obeyed, forcibly quieting his overexcited wings and bringing that old conversation to an end. Anything to keep Reigen's hands on him.
He closed his eyes again. "I like it when you do it."
Reigen didn't pause this time, but he also didn't respond to Shigeo's admission either.
Shigeo felt a bit miffed. Not wanting to let Reigen worm his way out of it, he asked, "Do you like it, Reigen-shishou?"
"...Yes," Reigen said after a moment. "I like preening you, Mob."
Head tipping back, Shigeo said, "I meant when I preen you, Shishou. Do you like it when I preen you?"
Reigen stared at him, eyes widened—deer in the headlights.
His own wings were tucked against his back, closed, as they usually were in public, the ends of them hooked down behind the back of the couch where Shigeo couldn't see. He knew that Reigen wasn't ashamed of his wings—they were beautiful, a lovely shade of tawny that almost looked gold in the right light—but Reigen also had very little people in his life that he was close to. Reigen was used to hiding his wings away because, for a long time, he'd had no one to help him preen them, so they always looked a bit messy, no matter how much he tried to do it himself.
Shigeo had asked to reciprocate after their first encounter with Claw, when Reigen had instinctively flashed open his wings to shield them both.
"When things go South, it's okay to run away!"
Moonlight haloed behind him, his expression open and earnest, his wings spread open and curled around them...
That had been the first time that he'd ever thought, 'Oh. Shishou is beautiful.'
The first, but certainly not the last. He was beautiful now, caught off-guard and striped with evening sun coming in from the blinds. He might even be remembering the first time that Shigeo had preened him, after that very same encounter. Sat in the office, Hanazawa gone home, Ritsu asleep on the couch as Reigen called their parents to let them know where they were, coming up with another another another lie to keep them from worrying. Shigeo had seen how out of sorts he'd been, his wings twitching, and had remembered how ruffled his feathers had looked. And, feeling grateful and guilty all at once, Shigeo had asked to preen him.
Reigen had frozen, hemmed and hawed and hesitated, but he'd ultimately given in, dragging Shigeo's desk chair around so he could sit on it backwards, allowing a smaller Mob to put inexperienced fingers to his wings. Straightening, plucking, brushing; feeling Reigen reluctantly shiver and croon beneath his touch and not yet knowing what the warm, hot feeling in his gut meant.
"Yes, Mob," Reigen said now, forcibly nonchalant. "I appreciate you helping me with it. Now, for the last time, be still would you?"
Shigeo obeyed, though he wasn't quite yet appeased. He let Reigen finish him up, then turned, wings still flared, and pushed up into Reigen's space. His gaze was focused, bright.
Insistent.
"Your turn, Shishou."
"Alright—alright, you pushy brat, give me a second to get situated!" Reigen barked, shoving at Shigeo's face in annoyance when his black wings crowded around him, hemming him in and herding him down.
Huffing, Reigen slid down onto the couch itself and sat crisscross, while Shigeo settled into Reigen's place on the back of the couch. He wasn't quite as tall as Reigen, not yet, but that just gave him a better vantage point to see what needed to be fixed. Shigeo buried his fingers in his shishou's pretty feathers, taking time to brush them through slowly. And, like always, Reigen relaxed instantly at his touch, his wings falling open wider, flexing.
A few feathers were loose, pulled out from between the others in Shigeo's hands, but unlike Reigen, he didn't pile them up to be disposed of later. Shigeo set every feather carefully beside him in a line a little disappointed that there weren't more. He supposed being a fully matured adult meant your wings shed less.
Reigen's wings weren't technically bigger than Shigeo's, not in height at least, but they were thicker. Longer. Sturdy, strong—capable of getting him places and getting him there fast.
Shigeo's wings resembled cormorants; fishing birds. Water birds. Built for diving, strength, weathering storms... Not for speed.
If Reigen ever decided to fly off without him, Shigeo wasn't sure he could catch him.
But he hadn't.
Many birds were sedentary. Many birds mated for life.
Shigeo hoped that, in that, he and Reigen were the same.
When he was finished, Reigen's wings gleamed like fools gold, straight and sleek. Shigeo felt pleased with himself, even more so when Reigen visibly had to wake himself up, lulled into a sleepy sort of contentment by Shigeo's ministrations. As he moved about the office, his wings fluttered and fluffed ever so slightly, as they always did when he was freshly preened and immensely pleased about it.
Hiding his smile by ducking his head, Shigeo tucked the few stray feathers he'd collected into his pocket. Then, as Reigen began to corral them both out the door for dinner, Shigeo slipped one of his own sleek primaries onto Reigen's desk. Center fold, unmistakable.
Reigen would find it in the morning. Shigeo hoped that he would tuck it away with the others Reigen pretended he didn't save in his desk drawer.
Then, when the time came, Shigeo hoped he'd wear them, as Shigeo wanted to wear his.
A symbol to the world that they belonged to each other.
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