#♆ (drabble)

[fuchsiafin]

(ooc: tag dump.)

[bobbedazzled]

Rafayel Drabble: His insatiable need to be touched by you.

He is a man of great dignity. Haughty, unimpressed, and utterly disinterested in those who approach him without purpose. He carries himself with a regal air, a stubborn artist that preferred his solitude. Yet when it comes to you, all his carefully maintained walls crumble.

You, after all, are his greatest indulgence.

You reward him with your affection. He’s flushed at the feel of your fingertips raking up his neck and hair. His body ignites, heat rolling off him in waves as he presses himself closer, nestling instinctively into his home—your embrace. You card your fingers through his hair, tugging absentmindedly, and it isn’t until his scalp dampens with sweat that you realize just how deeply he’s sunk into the moment.

His face transitioned from a soft blush to a rich, prominent red burning through his face, his breath hot against your collarbone. You push him off, alarm flashing through you.

♆ “You’re feverish?! Do you need a bath?”

It takes great effort to create even a sliver of distance between you. His chest rises and falls in a shallow rhythm, protesting the sudden loss of contact. He grumbles, almost petulant, and before you can blink, he’s tugging you back in, his grip firm yet pleading.

♆ “I’m fine. Just let me stay like this.” His voice is a throaty murmur against your skin, his arms locked around you, opposing your escape. He is at his most docile like this, when he’s allowed to leech your warmth, your presence, your touch. You’d call him a barnacle if it didn’t offend him.

Distance turns him irritable. When you’re away, he becomes impossible—mouthy and temperamental, lashing out in petty frustrations as if doing so will somehow close the gap. He’s restless without you, unable to compose himself, and when your phone calls start to wind down, he scrambles for any excuse to prolong them. The moment he senses your thumb hovering over the end button, his tone spikes, a desperate edge creeping into his words.

The easiest way to rile him up is to multitask during a video call. The instant your screen shifts, casting an unfamiliar hue across your face, he falls silent. A storm brews behind his eyes.

♆ “Why is your screen green? I’m not in a field.”

♆ “Oh, someone sent me a quick video—”

♆ “Is it for work?” His voice sharpens, cutting through your explanation. “I’m still talking to you. I haven’t seen you in ages, and now I can’t even keep your attention?”

You stifle a sigh, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. Any visible irritation will only stoke the fire, and he’d make you pay for it in his own way. The silent treatment is ineffective when you’re too busy to give him something to ignore, and when you travel, the only moments you can steal together are exchanging goodnights through a screen.

But once you return, he wastes no time in reclaiming you. The world outside ceases to exist the moment he pulls you in, locking the door behind you, shutting out everything and everyone that isn’t you. Your fingers sink into the exposed flesh of his back, desperate to widen the space between your bodies. He cages you under his frame on the cold, stained floor of his studio.

Sprawled around the room are unfinished paintings, his dissatisfaction prevalent in the harsh brush strokes. The slow deterioration of his inspiration drove him mad in his muse’s absence, and your unwillingness to acknowledge him exhausted his patience. He fought with his clothes as he ate at your flesh, biting and scraping his teeth over your chest and neck. Your bodies overheat when he closes the gap, huffing and whining against your ear as he throbs against your clothed warmth.

♆ “Please baby, I need you—I need this.”

His hold is suffocating, the shallow rise and fall of his chest pressing against yours. You jolt when a hand hikes up your dress, exposing your ass to the cold tile. A groan escapes his lips as he fights the urge to take you himself.

♆ “Take it off, hurry.”

[mangocurist]

pvp wemmbu traitor theory has overtaken me. Help. take this pvpciv mutinyduo drabble i did because ive been thinking about them literally all morning

⋆༺𓆩🗡𓆪༻⋆༺𓆩♆𓆪༻⋆༺𓆩🗡𓆪༻⋆༺𓆩♆𓆪༻⋆༺𓆩🗡𓆪༻⋆༺𓆩♆𓆪༻⋆༺𓆩🗡𓆪༻⋆

“You know, if I’m being honest… I really didn't expect to see you here. A part of me thought you’d be dead by now.”

“Is that really the first thing you have to say to me in so many years?” Wemmbu shot back with an air of jovial teasing in his voice, the same kind he used around Evbo and the other diamond swords. It felt wrong this time, though, facing one of the ghosts of his past as a ‘defender’ of a nation he’d tried to help wipe out.

Zam just smiled, flipping a thin braid over her shoulder as he adjusted the trident strapped to his back. If it had been anyone else— if she hadn’t been Zam and if he hadn’t been Wemmbu, if Julie or Minute or Ferre or, gods be damned, Evbo— that smile would have certainly spelt bloodshed. Even now, he wasn’t sure whether or not she was about to drive the trident into his illusory self’s chest and flounce away as Zam had probably done with Julie and Ferre.

“Well, diamond sword Wemmbu, I don’t think I should have anything further to say to you,” Zam commented airily, surveying the walls of the Gold Sword level surrounding the both of them. “Unless you’re alone right now?”

“Why else would I have talked to you at all, man?” Wemmbu grumbled, rolling his eyes when she just laughed. “Hurry up and drop down or the others will start getting suspicious.”

“I don’t think it’s much of a reach to say that you decided to fight me for fun and not kill me. I mean, you are a hologram right now. Right?” Zam tilted his head, a sharper grin than before spreading across his face as she surveyed Wemmbu casually from head to toe. “I mean, it’s not like you haven’t lied to them before. That’s, like… your whole thing. Being untrustworthy, I mean.”

Not to Evbo, Wemmbu wanted to tell her, but he bit it back, partly in an attempt to convince himself that he was doing a good job of being an infiltrator and also because it felt mean to admit it out loud to himself. Not that he wasn’t proud of being able to be trusted, but— seriously. Evbo was a kid. And Zam was just standing in front of him, looking just as proud and angry as he had the day that he and Wemmbu had been exiled, a mirror image of their younger, madder selves.

He didn’t know how he felt about it. Looking similar to Zam. It left a familiar bitter taste in his mouth, and he shook away those thoughts before turning away from his… current ally. “I thought you said you trusted me to get you through it this time?”

“Well, sure, but I did most of the work,” Zam replied, and, well. She… had. The video journal of Parrot pinned up against a wall, a trident held to his neck as Zam twined Parrot’s bow string and arrow fletch around the man’s own wings flashed in Wemmbu’s mind, and he chuckled nervously. 

Wemmbu wondered if the trident in his inventory would ever be turned against him in the exact same way. If Zam would ever take the extension of his own self and skewer Wemmbu through with it.

“Come down,” Wemmbu said in lieu of a proper response, sighing when Zam stuck her tongue out at him. “Your Highness.”

“Asshole,” Zam punched his hologram in the arm, even though he had to know Wemmbu couldn’t feel it. “Fine, then. I’m coming down now. Tell Evbo to wait for me so I can do my villain speech. And go get in position or whatever, I don’t want you getting speared on Minutetech’s sword, of all people.”

“Fine,” Wemmbu parroted back, laughing when Zam narrowed her eyes and thrust his trident into Wemmbu’s hologram, effectively severing his connection to the Gold Sword level. 

He sobered quickly though, climbing off his perch and making his way back to the dropper on the Diamond Sword level to rejoin the other Diamond Swords, making up some random excuse for why he’d taken so long with ‘interrogating’ Prince Zam. Not that Minute was around to pick through his argument properly, anyway. The most scrutiny he got was from Julie, who just frowned a little. 

Evbo, though, still clung to his side like glue, and Wemmbu felt a little sick again, knowing just how much the boy trusted him.

And when Zam finally made his way down to the Diamond Swords, Wemmbu ignored the sharp glint of knowing malice in the Prince’s eye.

Maybe if he pretended it didn’t exist for a little longer, he wouldn’t have to come to terms with the reality of his situation.

[fatallyfalling]

Darling ~ ♆

“ C’mere Darling, “

{{ Finnick Odair x Reader }}

warnings: pure fluff, little bit of ptsd if ya squint, reader is gender neutral but has rlly short hair

{{ prompt }} the night is too hard to bear alone, so you seek out the one person who can make everything feel safe again

{{ a/n }} because i’m a liar and can’t post consistent updates for Bitter Water here is a drabble because i’m sad and dysphoria is kicking my ass <3 this is 100% self indulgent i’m so sorry, i also didn’t run this through my normal editing software so please be nice aaaaaaaaaaa

You didn’t like sleeping alone, in fact you despised it.

The bed felt too big and too cold. The dark shadows in the corners near your wardrobe were too ominous to look at for long periods of time as well. You barely wanted to close your eyes, fearing the vivid night terrors that lurked in the trenches of your memories after the sun had set. You tried to comfort and self soothe by keeping a small string of warm lights curled around your headboard but it wasn’t enough to keep the poltergeists in your head away tonight.

With a shaky sigh you pulled yourself from the soft bedding and tugged on a familiar too-big ivory, cable knit sweater that smelled of sea salt with a faded almonds and honey aroma. Pausing to deeply inhale the comforting scent for a moment, the tightness in your chest uncoiled itself a smidge. Blinking away the exhaustion in your eyes, you picked up the comfort item you couldn’t bear to sleep without, threadbare seams from years of love and all, and hugged the plush close before padding out of your bedroom and downstairs towards your front door.

The dusty blue walls and white baseboards had always been too ornate for your liking, and the house you’d been gifted in the Victors Village was too creaky and empty to be alone in all the time. Without caring to slip on a pair of shoes, you left the large empty house and crept across the quiet street towards a house that felt more familiar and safe. It didn’t matter that all of the houses more or less looked the same, what mattered was what lay inside this one, that made it different. The lights weren’t on but you administered a hesitant knock, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth while an anxious crease formed between your brows.

No answer.

You waited a beat before trying again, knocking a bit firmer. The crisp air was chilly, sending a shiver up your spine despite the thick sweater and having wrapped the too-long sleeves over your knuckles to mimic mittens. Your overactive mind started to wonder if you should bother him at this hour, it was indeed very late and he very well could be asleep. Holding the plush in your hands a bit closer, you felt the small flicker of hope in your chest go out after no inference of an answer appeared in the dark windows of the home. Maybe you should go back to your house, even if the idea of doing so churned your insides. Releasing a defeated sigh through your nose, you had turned and started back down the steps of the wooden porch when a small click sounded behind and an all too familiar voice rasped your name.

“What’s wrong…?”

Your head whirls, meeting groggy sea-green irises with eyelids dragged down by sleep. The male’s hair was tousled more than usual, clear evidence he’d been dozing off before your interruption. “I-I’m sorry, I just- my house was too uhm… a-and-“ your stumbling sentences trail off as your cheeks flush, ears burning red as your gaze falls to your socks.

“C’mere Darling,”

The sleepy drawl in the victor’s voice was enough to shut your mouth and set your legs moving to melt into his warm embrace. “mm sorry Finn,” you murmur into his chest as strong arms wrap around your shoulders and waist. A comforting weight rests on your head from Finnick’s chin and the vibrations of his voice are felt against your cheek on his shoulder. “Don’t apologize, it’s okay. Let’s get inside,”

You simply nod, allowing him to lead you in, with your fingers gently interlaced. The calluses on his hands from seafaring and training with his trident were rough, but you didn’t mind. Finnick was always gentle in his touches, careful not to startle or press too harshly. There were few people you allowed to touch you after the traumatic events of your past, and combined with Finnick’s own touch aversions the two of you found peace in the gentleness of each other’s company.

You’re led upstairs into Finnick’s bedroom, his hand never leaving yours while guiding you over to the bed. The two of you comfortably settled beneath the covers as he pulled you close, your head resting on his chest listening to the steady cadence of his heartbeat, while soft featherlight touches drew lazy circles on the bare plush of your thigh hooked over his hip with calloused fingertips. Finnick’s other arm lay under your head, fingers traveling over the buzzed scruff at the nape of your neck and threading through the longer, soft and fluffy mess atop your head. He didn’t mind your shorter hair, rather enjoying playfully ruffling it every chance got and the way you melted into the touch when he threaded his fingers through it.

A content hum emits from your chest as the two of you tangle together in a pleasant embrace. “Home too scary again?” Finnick whispers into your hair. The dim lighting in the room from his bedside lamp gave everything a soft, golden glow that invited comfort and stability to your aching chest. “Yea…” you meekly respond, meeting those sea-green eyes and only finding compassion mixing with hints of worry. A small smile crosses the victor’s lips, dimples pressing into tanned cheeks, as he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead. “s’okay Darling, I’ve got you, you’re safe here.”

You can’t help melting further into the male’s touch. Another content hum leaving your lips as you press ever closer to his chest. The warmth all but lulls you into a gentle sleep, Finnick’s ministrations through your hair adding to the welcome comfort. “m’ love you,” You murmur, words smothered by sleep and your cheek pressing to the male’s tanned chest. You felt safe again, perfectly content and relaxed in the victor’s arms, his almonds and honey aroma soaking into your senses in a pleasant warmth that had you nuzzling closer to his chest.

“I love you more Darling ~”

Finnick’s voice rumbles against your cheek through his chest, and he gives a gentle, reassuring squeeze to your thigh before the two of you settle into a comforting slumber.

It felt good to be home with him, to be safe, and cared for, and loved.

“m’ love you most,”

{{ tags }}

[seaprofound]

drabble no. 2

Hymn to Poseida Basileia.

              Sing, Nereides, of Poseida, star-eyed mother of the visionary Atlanteans.               Mistress of the ocean, you with an enchanting smile               bedight upon your lovely face —               You who beguile unwitting sailors and merchants with your honeyed song —               You for whom the feral monsters of the deep play               in your path, yearning for your affection —               You for whom the shimmering waves ripple as you pirouette,               twirl, and leap upon your watery stage —                You who shape islands and breathe life into newborn creatures —               O winsome queen of the sea, you who care for your creations               like how a mother would her child, I beseech you:                   Be tender of heart and temperate in judgment as you watch over                   your faithful patrons and may you grant those who voyage in ships                   safe passage through your briny domain.

[gukptune]

Gukptune’s Masterlist

© gukptune - all rights reserved. I don’t permit reposting, or translation of my work on any platform. 

Most of my work consists of heavy depictions of sex, violence and gore. Please read at your own discretion. If you’re under 18 please consider that my writing is very vulgar and is fiction, and hopefully you understand what you’re reading before you enter.

last updated: 14 jul

key: ✎ ongoing | ✓ completed 

♆ CULT SERIES

     index | altar boy, dear, father, ...

♆ GOOD BOYS AND BAD GIRLS SERIES

     index |  softy, ...

ARCHANGEL ft. jimin, jungkook

— angel au, angel hunter!au  | smut, angst

       ♆  index| part 1 ✎

IF ONLY ft. jimin, jungkook, taehyung

— crush au, love triangle au | smut, fluff, angst

      ♆  read here

SOFTY

— good boy au | smut, fluff

       ♆  read here

TEXT MEAN

— boyfriend au | fluff

       ♆  read here

BLOOD RANK

— vampire au, school au | smut

       ♆  index |  part 1 , part 2 ✓

ERADICATE

— purge au | smut, angst

       ♆  read here

DEAR, FATHER

— priest au, cult au | smut, angst

       ♆  read here

USER: 95MOCHIBUNS

— cam boy au | smut, fluff

       ♆  index |  part 1 , part 2 ✎

I NEVER ASKED

— school au, unrequited love au | smut, angst

       ♆  read here

SCREAM

— drabble

       ♆  read here

ALTAR BOY

— altar boy au, cult au | smut, angst

       ♆  read here

RESOLUTION

— samurai au, pirate au | smut, fluff, angst

       ♆  index |  part 1 , part 2 ✎

ECCENTRIC

— uprising au, cyberpunk au | smut, fluff at the end

       ♆  read here

BABY BOY

— sub au, slice of life au | smut, fluff, angst

       ♆  index |  part 1 ✎

ONE LAST BREATH

— tribute/career au, hunger games au | smut, fluff, angst

       ♆  index |  phase one ✎

CAUGHT IN A WEB

— spider-man!jungkook, blackcat!reader | smut, fluff, angst

       ♆  read here

[fatallyfalling]

Masterlist ~ ☕︎

{{ started }} 12 / 03 / 2023

{{ updated }} 12 / 2 / 2024

{{ works }} sixteen { 16 }

The Hunger Games ~

{{ Finnick Odair ♆ }}

"Sea-Green~" - { x reader imagine }

"Secrets & Sugarcubes~" - { x reader imagine }

"Headcanon" - { context for Finnick's behavior in S&S }

“Little Talks~” - { x reader imagine }

"Bitter Water~" - { x reader series } {series masterlist}

“Darling~” - { x reader drabble }

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{{ Peeta Mellark 𖤓 }}

"Strawberry Wine~" { headcanons }

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Supernatural ~

{{ Dean Winchester ↟ }}

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Peaky Blinders

{{ Thomas Shelby ♞ }}

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{{ taglist }}

[bobbedazzled]

── HIHII

᭡⚟ here you will find links to my writing. there are many fics in queue or unfinished, tag lists open. please be respectful when requesting and proceeding through the masterlist.

last updated • 20052025

᭡⚟ love leads: 𓅆 • ⟢ • ❅ • ♆ • ⥀

᭡⚟ coming soon: ᝰ.ᐟ

!|! fluff ฅ !|! smut 𑄝 !|! steamy ꫂ ၴႅၴ !|! angst ➴ !|!

── DRABBLES

⏦ﾟ- First Argument • 𓅆 ฅ

⏦ﾟ- First Kiss • ⥀ ꫂ ၴႅၴ

⏦ﾟ- His Need To Touch You • ♆ ꫂ ၴႅၴ

—᭡⚟ untitled rambling

⏦ﾟ- Cuffed • ⥀ 𑄝

⏦ﾟ- Needed Me • ⟢ 𑄝

⏦ﾟ- Voyeur • 𑄝 ᝰ.ᐟ

── PROMPTS (includes all Lls)

⏦ﾟ- LADS & Their College Majors • ฅ

Office Hours • 𓅆 ฅ

M y Study Guide • ❅ 𑄝

7 Min In Heaven • ⥀ ꫂ ၴႅၴ

── INDIVIDUAL STORIES

rafayel:

⏦ ﾟ- Tidal • 𑄝

⏦ ﾟ- Head & Tails • 𑄝 ᝰ.ᐟ

caleb:

⏦ ﾟ- Rock The Boat • 𑄝

sylus:

⏦ ﾟ- Do Not Disturb • ꫂ ၴႅၴ

xavier:

⏦ﾟ- Jjirit-Jjirit • 𑄝

⏦ﾟ- Polaris • ➴

zayne::

⏦ ﾟ- Factory Reset • 𑄝 ᝰ.ᐟ

⏦ ﾟ- Snowed In • 𑄝 ᝰ.ᐟ

∘ ∘ ∘

ⓘ this is my only writing account @bobbedazzled . my main can be found @/bobbedazzleb . translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted.

last updated • 20052025

[seaprofound]

Helen’s Decision / Drabble #1

「 ♆ 」—

    Poseida did not notice the boy at first — and how could she have when the room was thronged with kings among men and with each suitor for Helen being more swaggering, more peacockish than the next? The boy was small—much smaller than the others, much smaller than all the men—a boy in the most literal sense of the word. A child. She knew that mortals often married young—but how old was this boy? Seven? Eight? Nine? From the shadows, her eyes drifted over from the boy’s scrawny limbs to the bull-like form of the short man standing next to him. His father no doubt, or some other male guardian. Perhaps the boy is merely here to learn the art of courtship—?

    Tyndareus welcomed the boy’s father—Menoetius, a name that cuts, a name that slashes. The name of a warrior king. As Tyndareus engaged Menoetius in conversation, Poseida set her sights on the shock of red hair that crowned the head of her Pelops’s grandson, Menelaus. She smiled, hoping that the descendant of her former lover would win the hand of the lovely Helen.

    The boy spoke at last.

    Patroclus he called himself.

    Glory of the father Poseida realized, giving the young Patroclus a sad, private smile.

    The bowl that young Patroclus presented to Tyndareus was artfully crafted, more golden than Apollo, himself, and painted familiar figures in familiar scenes from one of the many tales mortals tell one another about her kin. She recognized Danaë and remembered her screams, remembered her wooden chest rocking in the murky waters, remembered her clutching her newborn son, Perseus, and praying—praying to her lover, Zeus, praying to all the gods living beneath the depths, praying to any gods who would answer her pleas. She answered her call, calming the sea. As she noted the stiffness in young Patroclus’s walk, she wondered if she should answer his call as well.

    Poseida’s thoughts returned to the scores upon scores of suitors. The faces and bodies had long since blended together—apart from a few stand-outs. One such stand-out she recalled—with traces of bitterness at the man’s greater height—was the towering son of Telamon, Ajax. When Poseida first saw him, she couldn’t help but ponder the possibility of Gaea having secretly laid with Telamon to birth another giant son. Wouldn’t put it past her she thought wryly.

    Another stand-out was the son of Laertes, Odysseus—a fox of a man if she ever saw one. If she had ever had any doubt that Odysseus was the spawn of Hermes’s grandson, those doubts dissipated the moment the scarred, sardonic-smiling man opened his mouth. Remain silent she reminded herself. Don’t snort, don’t laugh, don’t even crack a grin. She painfully attempted to school her features. Odysseus made it all the more challenging the more he spoke. I like him she decided.

    Helen’s decision came.

    Poseida tensed up.

    Menelaus she said.

    Menelaus. She echoed the name under her breath over and over, a broad grin overtaking her normally sullen features. If she were among them, she would have rushed over to personally congratulate Menelaus, herself.

    Remembering the boy, she scanned the crowd to gauge young Patroclus’s reaction to the news. Was he stunned? Relieved? Upset? Menoetius glowered and yanked his poor son off the bench. Poseida frowned deeply, disappearing to follow them, to catch the boy alone. They were intent on leaving that very night—that much was obvious—but fortunately stayed long enough for one last dinner with the rest of the suitors.

    Poseida caught young Patroclus as the boy was finishing off the food on his plate. Pulling down the hood of her plain cloak, she presented him with a miniature ice sculpture of a horse.

    She smiled.

    ❝  You looked like you could use a friend,  ❞ was her simple explanation.