#((Open for starters/drabbles

[konigisking]

As was the case with most things pertaining to societal expectation, König had been pushed by either his therapist or Horangi to download a dating app - rejection therapy, low-stakes interactions, still faceless. 'Dating' app was a flawed description. More like a butcher shop, selecting a good cut of meat. Even the bright color of the icon was setting him on edge. Each notification a thorn in his side, a bitter reminder of what the otherwise skilled soldier was lacking. Swipe after swipe proved fruitless and until he'd been on the verge of deleting the app in a bout of frustration (thumbs too big for his phone and why the fuck was he wasting time on this when he had a million other things to be doing). It's a match! The notification lingered for too long, König's heart racing as he read the sentence over and over. Pathetic how he could handle gunfire millimeters from his head with little to no adverse reaction but the idea of having a human interaction activated his fight or flight. [König: I heard some bad weather is coming ] The message sent before he could convince himself to delete it or think of anything better (his therapist did say that the weather was a completely normal conversation starter - maybe not in regards to a dating app, but she did say that once).

[ask-kei-machi]

(Spent majority of the day crying and going through a spiral of horrible thoughts)

(Currently not emotionally sound) (Also dehydrated)

I require someone to cuddle me while I sleep, and my plushies are not doing it for me anymore. I need a living being next to me.

(Currently cold as well)

[cursedfortune]

Some would say she's prettiest under the moonlight, standing in the clearing outside her cabin. Others would say it's right at sunrise, hair tousled from sleep and a cup of tea held between both her hands. Bold ones would say she's prettiest with red streaks across her skin, either for the view of her or for the chance to gently wipe the blood from her skin. It has even been said that she is the prettiest when she stands in the calm river nearby her home, amidst the reflecting light - ethereal, like a nymph meant to lure a lost soul to be drowned.

Mortem would argue that she feels prettiest in an empty ballroom just after a banquet. It doesn't matter if she attended it or slipped in afterwards. The large and empty space tilts back her head, watching the crystal chandeliers glimmer above in the moonlight that seeps in through the windows. The chandeliers of this era differ but they are similar all the same to the part of her markings that outline the main body of her tattoo. But that's a thing that stays tucked away just beneath the hem of her dress for now.

She can hear the music that played here. Or played elsewhere in the world, once upon a time. She can remember the steps once taken as a girl, then again as a woman - the feel of her mother's hands guiding her. They aren't here now, but she remembers the steps taken. Someone should be there, should be with her, no one alive knows this dance anymore. No one is here to dance with her.

Mortem slows to a halt, gaze distant as she focuses on everything and nothing all at once. The opportunity to stand in a quiet room like this is one she basks in, for many fond memories exist in places like this. It's the only place she can breathe in the past and not feel as though she's being dragged beneath the current. The faces that died, those that called her a traitor-- in this space, they are laughing and happy. Untouched by the harrowing wars they experienced, by the hard choices they had to make and the things she had to do.

In this space, she was just a witch among many others - with non-witch friends and comrades. A witch with a mother.

Neatly, her hands clasp behind her back as she lets out a pleasant little sigh. She'll spend her time here this night, until she is needed elsewhere. Surely if no one knows, no one can mind.

[hellizens]

Alastor sure does hate it when he can't sleep.

Here he stands, on the hotel's balcony, leaning his elbows against its railing. One hand is folded inward, its back barely brushing under his chin; the other pinches a clove cigarette between its fingers, the sweet-smelling smoke drifting into the night air.

Pentagram City lies beneath him, its multitude of florescent lights brightening the blackness of the very early morning. His gaze darts between the various signs in the distance, never staying focused on any one in particular, hoping that maybe there'll be something out there that might cure this air of malaise that sometimes surrounds him in the dead of night.

He hates it when he can't sleep. No one else is awake to talk to, at least to his knowledge. None of the books on his room's shelves caught his eye when he scanned their spines. He won't play music on his gramophone for fear of waking the other residents up and breaking his own sense of etiquette.

Funny. He'd have no qualms with driving an ice pick through someone's temple if they so much as looked at him wrong, but playing music too loudly? That's where he draws the line.

A drag is taken from the stick, its embers glowing brightly for a brief moment. The smoke is carefully exhaled in the form of a ring. It amuses him, if only for a moment, before he finds himself sighing softly in boredom all over again.

He won't play his shellacs, but he will sing quietly, softly, unobtrusively, as he continues gazing skyward and watches the smoke from his cigarette curl and vanish in the chilly autumn air:

"Just like a melody that lingers on, You seem to haunt me night and day. I never realized till you had gone, How much I cared about you. I can't live without you. All alone, I'm so all alone. There is no one else but you. All alone, by the telephone, And I wonder when you will call again. I'm all alone ev'ry evening. All alone, feeling blue, Wondering where you are, and how you are, And if you are all alone too."

[cup-bearer-ofthe-gods]

Open Starter:

Ganymede was sitting on the shore of the camp half bloods lake, just enjoying the sunlight and the serenity of it all. Olympus was quite busy these days with the impending rise of Kronos, leaving very little free time for the immortal cup-bearer. Ganymede had never visited camp before, so you don’t entirely recognize him at first.

[asktowa]

Towa has never had a great relationship with food. He didn’t hate it, he just…didn’t need it. Even so, he still knew the basics of cooking – it’s a skill everyone should have, after all. Except, it wasn’t a skill, not for him anyway. Normally Towa wouldn’t think twice about this kind of thing, but after last night, he started to wonder if he should worry about his abilities (or lack thereof) in the kitchen. 

You see, that night it was his turn to cook (something new that they were trying out in the Jabberwock dorm), and he decided to make the one thing he really knew how to cook: Porridge. No it wasn’t a filling meal for dinner, but again, Towa doesn’t need food. Plus, he figured if the other two were really hungry, they’d just suck it up and eat it. So when Ren outright refused to touch his meal, and Haru pretended to like it even though he’d spit it out into a napkin when he thought Towa wasn’t looking, he knew he had to make a change. He hardly ever felt shame, but last night was particularly humbling for Towa. 

And so that’s how he ended up in his current spot – sitting on the kitchen counters of the Mystery Diner and kicking his feet idly as he watched the chef anomaly attempt to make something that vaguely resembled food. Personally, Towa thought he was doing a great job, but again, what does he know about food or cooking? He only ever ate plants and flowers for God’s sake. The poor anomaly looked absolutely terrified though, constantly looking over its shoulder as if it were waiting for Towa to strike at any moment. He just had that effect on most anomalies, it seemed. But the chef would have to put up with Towa’s antics, because he wasn’t going to leave until he learned how to properly cook a meal.

[kylo-wrecked]

it's a long open starter, but it checks out://

muse: modern!ben, after a breakup, before the car crash setting: thailand/somewhere in the tropics plot: not white lotus idk

After myriad clouds the sun ripens the sky like a blueberry. In daylight, the space and time surrounding Ben swells with potential. He doesn’t mind that his hair gives away the early hour. The sea is a shining pearl down there at the hill’s bottom. Listen closely, hear the coucals. He should smile.

But the trees. 

The stands of trees are the end of a movie. All green, red, brown, and goodbye. It feels wrong. Tropical, autumnal, and wrong. Like realizing your girlfriend’s eyes are really green, that you’re leaving tomorrow. Things don’t last. Ben has said such goodbyes before. 

While about 2/3rds of resort guests doze in cliffside chalets, Ben shuffles along a lantern-lined road so steep he may as well roll down, smothered in sunscreen, bed-head neatly tucked under a meshy sports cap, a foldable Guggenheim bag packed fat and swinging from what is a convincing tree trunk. Untended mosquito bites boiling under a tanned bicep. Coconut trees and tropical evergreens through Ray Ban filters. 

Yeah, he’s said his goodbyes: bye's in the trees, across the sea, nine thousand miles away. It’s in the Calabasas flat he still hasn’t sold. 

A fluffy-headed bulbul mews from this copse lining his descent. If he blurs his eyes, he can conjure her camouflaged under the trinity of palms strategically planted to create the Instagram-worthy shot of a pristine beach through a keyhole; camouflaged if not for her wide-brimmed sun hat, kaleidoscopic paisley, her long golden legs shining with oil.  

He’d said good-bye to all that already. 

It’s eight o’clock. Only the sea awaits. 

Fifty or so unclaimed navy lounging chairs and canvas parasols. Considering the singular chair at the cantina’s edge, Ben becomes a Bernini, fascinating, albeit not handsome, from all angles, peculiarly stiff, appraisable: single. Miserable (?) Likely never-nude. Going to be drunk and shirtless by no later than ten thirty this morning. An LBH from the POV of seasoned, well-to-do nomads and aunties. From the POV of girls trip troupes: looking for a lay, not to be trusted.

This is why Ben arrives before people. When he moves again, striding past rows of empty hammocks, anyone who might be looking would instantly understand that he actually wanted to be alone… and drunk by ten thirty. At least pleasantly buzzed and sleepy. Conked out while the sun changed position, and his honed quads became lobsters, like, you know. An idiot. 

Ben throws his Guggenheim on the sand, revealing his enormous canteen, extra towels, sunscreen, more sunscreen, lumbers into forced lounging, gently lowering himself onto his broad white hemp back, and into that goodnight. A paperback he isn’t going to read rests, almost comically, between his pectorals. The first drink arrives at nine-thirty, and he floats. Gets caught up in a speed boat shattering the Andaman Sea. Caught up in watching the boat shrink like a disappearing arrow. Too caught up to notice the person a few diagonal spaces away from him from placing the king in check. Too caught up to see them start to make their way down the shore. 

He most certainly doesn’t spot their nearing shadow; he doesn’t give an iota of attention to the sound and heat of another body. 

It’s cliche. Elbow meets shadow, drink spills (a drink that resembles a cold orange espresso and is most certainly not that). One unsalvaged soul squints through Ray Bans at the victim, who steps back, liquored rubies rolling down their thigh, muddying the sand between their toes, glaring or trying to avoid eye contact. 

They make eye contact. It’s cliche. 

“Sorry.” Cliche. Cliche. Stupid. Stupid “espresso”-colored voice, most of whose contents survive. Stupid knit brow that shows he might care.  “Sorry. Is that dry-clean only?” 

Pool and deck wear. You’d be surprised. 

“Please don’t take my lunch money,” says Ben, a man whose book has melted in the space of tit #1 and tit #2, between an inside joke that can’t be drunk away. 

He sits forward, damp shirt rectangle clinging to sternum, cap falling into red trunks. Lifeguard material under the fabric. 

“Compromise?” Ben suggests when the stranger snorts or continues looking daggers. He’s kind of still watching the boat; he can just make it out. “Since I spilled my first sip on you, you can help yourself to the rest, and I get to sit with my regrets.”

It’s true, his lips never touched the brim of drink #3. Those are currently pressed into a line that cannot contain their pouty-ness.  

Stupid. 

Yes, have this “orange" negroni as penance from this possible bro on a tight itinerary or a likely sun-shy weirdo who might just be trying to figure out what kind of person this is, if he knows them like he knows the trees.

[tinysassballyugi]

It was a relatively peaceful day, Yugi resting quietly under the shade of a large tree in the park and working on one of his newest knitting projects. He was perfectly content just to stay right where he was, occasionally looking up to people watch or stretch a little, but otherwise just relaxing and doing his own thing. Or at least he was...Until the arrival of two familiar faces began to stalk his way.

Unfortunately for Yugi, he took notice of their presence too late. By the time he looked up to see who was standing over him, one of the men was already reaching for him, hooking a few fingers under the choker he was wearing and rather roughly yanking the young man to his feet. The sudden pressure against his neck caused him to give a strangled cough, though because the pressure was almost instantly released, he didn't have any trouble breathing afterwards.

"Well, if it isn't our old friend, little Yugi~." One of the men purred out, smirking as he kept two fingers hooked under Yugi's choker, albeit holding onto him very lightly as not to harm him.

The second man that was with him grabbed hold of Yugi's chin, tilting his head up to get a better look at him, a low chuckle leaving him. "Aww, what's the matter? Nothing to say?" He jeered, both men laughing as Yugi pulled backwards against the hold they had, though they didn't let him go.

Their laughter, the hold they had him in, it was enough to trigger those vivid memories. The agonizing pain of having his jaw wrenched open, the wire they used slicing into his tongue as he felt them jamming some sort of metal down his throat, the feeling of his mouth and airways filling with his own blood as his vocal cords were ripped apart.

He hadn't been able to scream for help then...And he couldn't now. Had they returned to finish what they had started? Or were they admiring their handywork that had silenced him forever? Yugi didn't know what their intentions were, yet all he could do was stand there and cower, his entire body violently trembling under the weight of those laughing men that had taken his voice, as well as his ability to breathe properly.

The first man raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Well that's quite the improvement. I like you so much better when you're silent...I think we both did the world a favor, now nobody has to listen to your constant yapping." The man spoke to Yugi in a taunting tone of voice, mocking the clear terror upon his face. And yet, within a few split seconds, the men suddenly released their hold on him and turned to saunter casually away, having succeeded in their mission to apparently keep Yugi in check and make sure they had truly silenced him forever.

All of a sudden, he couldn't breathe, the panic that had settled into his veins sent his body into a desperate fight or flight mode. But he couldn't run, if he ran, they would catch him. If he tried to fight, he would be killed, or perhaps worse.

Tears streamed their way down his face as he tried desperately to regain enough air, yet his breaths were rapid and too shallow to allow him to take in enough oxygen. His legs buckled and he sank to the ground, body wracked in violent shivers as he wheezed and coughed, trying to stop hyperventilating, but to no avail.

All he could do was remain there, and desperately hope and pray that someone he knew or trusted would happen to be nearby...Unless he ended up passing out from the hyperventilation and sheer panic first.

[sanguine-salvation]

Ow.

Well, 'ow' was perhaps an understatement, but that about the only word they could think of in this much pain. They were not the most... graceful flyer yet, and they would not be for a while yet if this kept up. A throb ran through the bone of their left wing, and no amount of biting their cheek, or clenching their fists, or digging their claws into their tail to distract them could take all the edge off that.

Fine, if their body was going to be stubborn, so would they. They unfurled themself from the too-tight donut curl they'd forced themself into alleyway, taking a sharp bracing breath before reaching their hand up and taking the bulk of meat, bone, and feather into their hand, trying to feel for a break.

This. Was. A bad idea.

"Hrnghh!!!" The noise echoed off the alleyway, and they just barely managed to shove their other arm against their mouth to stifle it. But they knew that had been loud. Ow. Ow. Ow. Well, that was unpleasant. With a sharp suck of air through their teeth, they peeled their arm from their mouth and groaned into their shoulder instead. "Isten bassza meg..."

If only they had something to wrap it up in, sling it up somehow. But no, they didn't even have any clothes to rip up seeing as most clothes did not fit wing and a tail. So they just lashed their tail at the ground and hissed. Yes, at their own wing, it's not like there was anything else to hiss at! Ugh, they were the one to do it! It was just curiosity, and their stupid brain could not figure out how to make them do anything but fold and unfold!

How appropriate that Viktor Zsasz have just the luck to be... cursed or something, shuffled into this baffling fucking fate of monstrous hunger, an inhuman body, heightened senses that made the world unbearably intense. To become this and not even have the luck to have the instruction manual built in.

But it didn't... feel broken. Just sore. Very, very sore. Maybe they'd just... climb up somewhere high, sheltered, curl up like a donut again, and and try to sleep through it...

Open Starter (mutuals)

[spidersins]

me realising angels death day is tomorrow and this piece is gonna have to be a damn drabble instead of an open because i'm COOKING plz forgive me in advance

[ask-kei-machi]

Respectfully, if anyone ever decides to play the second half of this soundtrack (from Seabound all the way to She is Here.)

I love you, and you will get a kiss from me. And maybe a keychain I have collected in my miscellaneous items drawer.

[heterochromatica]

Problem solving is not his strongest suit or at least that's what he thinks of himself most of the time. Even as a pro-hero. Thankfully when emergencíes arise Shoto is equipped with admittedly incredible reflexes and reliable gut-feelings on how to deal with it.

With a swoop of his arm and a stomp on the ground the road ahead of him turns into a solid crystalline surface and the temperature around them drops several degrees, his icy breath forming small puffs of frozen air as he closes in on them. This was the chance he had been waiting for. Chasing a car until they took a turn where he could finally get ahead and block their path. Frozen spikes, crawling up the skyscrapers, covering up the road, blocking the gaps between the buildings, creeping over the paths, the streetlamps, the sidewalks.

He's learned to control his quirk well enough to avoid any human beings in it's path when applying it to such a large area, but that did cost him a lot of energy. Well, up and downsides.

Now that the villains way of escape is blocked, they will have to either face him together or scatter and try to run for the hills, first and foremost they will have to exist their car and as if on cue, they do. The doors fly open and people pile out. Their vehicle is uselessly stuck in ice now.

They are many and he's alone but he's handled less fortunate situations. He's not a teenager anymore, he knows how to fight at a disadvantage for as long as necessary. He's already called for back-up too, but he doesn't know how long it's gonna take for anyone to reach him in this urban canyon with people panicking in a stormy ocean of screaming faces, crying and yelling. Shoto has to take it all in, consider it carefully, trying to think ahead. The thing he's most worried about, is people getting caught in the crossfire, he will have to avoid that at all costs.

[damnedrainbows]

Unravelling - Open Starter

There are some days where he doesn't feel like he'll ever be good enough, a product of years of belittlement and constant invalidation. Some days where he wonders if he's misread the kindness he has now. Has it perhaps been pity? Did they think highly of him at all? Were these relationships derived from a lie, or was that just paranoia?

Lucifer is grateful by the day for every companion he's made when he finally managed to climb the rockface of his depressive hole, but it doesn't stop these thoughts. It doesn't stop the ruminating over things he's likely perceiving wrong.

''Have to cancel our drink night, can we reschedule?" "I'm just tired right now.' 'It's not your fault.' " 'Nobody's mad at you.' 'No one thinks you're stupid.' 'You're not a burden.'

Everyone thinks you're stupid and a burden and everyone is mad at you.

The angels in heaven hiss in every one of his friend's compliments. He hears angelic scorn in every word of their praise, and Lucifer wants to know...when will it be enough?

When will he be able to believe every word of love, and that every justification for his friends changing their plans, doesn't mean they don't want to see him?

He feels like by now...it should have changed. Heaven is a distant memory, why can't he ever believe he is safe with these people?

Not everyone is like his Father. Not everyone is like his siblings.

But when will he be able to believe a single word of affirmation?

It's an unbearable day for the king, whose on the verge of collapsing under the weight of his own anguish, his body falling slack in his cotton swing as sobs of grief and frustration leave him, barely able to muffle each hysteric and intake of breath into the fabric. It surely carries down the hall...

[bothsidesofaquestion]

drabble | can turn into a thread | open for mutuals

It comes at night.

Heavy, cold, dark. The most pitch black.

It sits on his chest, suffocating him and, as he struggles to breathe he realizes he can’t move and as much as he attempts to open his eyes, nothing happens.

A inhuman shriek. He hears it loud within himself and, as he realizes it comes from within his brain his jaw locks, his neck tightens…

Heart beat, heart beat.

thump, thump, thump, in his eardrums…

Cold arms, wrapping around his body… Tightening…

Then.

Release!

He gasps for air, oh sweet sweet air! Sitting up in a quick jerk he coughs, inhales, eyes popping out…

He looks around in the dark. Nothing but the soft sounds of the night; he already knows the answer of this horrible condition of his but, as he places a hand on his chest he can’t help but wonder if it’s something else, more sinister…

Because it feels evil.

So, if this is only his body playing with his own self then… Why such evil feels so real?

He will never understand.

[asktowa]

The first thing that Towa noticed when he turned back into his regular self, was that he, disappointingly, no longer had cute little paws. The second thing he noticed was that he was naked. It was a good thing he was in his room when it happened, because he did not want to get in trouble for something stupid like ‘public indecency’ or whatever.

He had just finished putting on his uniform, though, when a wave of nausea hit him like a truck. He barely made it to the bathroom before the contents of his stomach rather violently spilled out of him. Chunks of meat and blood poured out of him in continuous waves, leaving his throat and jaw aching. Towa’s vision blurred with hot tears and his whole body was shaking, but he couldn’t stop. It hurt so, so bad, but he just couldn’t stop.

He should have known this would happen. For a whole month, he ate nothing but meat, and now it came back to bite him in the ass. Sure, as a ghoul, something as simple as meat shouldn’t make him this sick; But eating raw anomalous flesh results in gross anomalous reactions. And now, his body was trying to purge itself of all that disgusting meat.

God, this sucked. He could only imagine what the weather outside looked like right now. He’d have to apologize to Haru for that later. But for now, he was busy making fast friends with the toilet bowl and bathroom floor. Looks like he was going to be out for a while. Ugh.

[mudblccd]

𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐘 , 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 ⎯⎯⎯⎯ knees turned raw , the tuffet doing nothing to protect fragile bones ; the moment they hit against the kneeler as if dead weight , peyton felt the way knees groaned and protested , BUT WHAT IS BELIEF IF NOT PAIN ? does her aching body , aching heart ; override the pain that Christ felt upon the cross , eyes wide with horror ; crying out not for his higher father , but the one that raised him , the one that held him after a nightmare , that cheered when his first steps were taken , that taught him carpentry ? peyton will endure , for Him , for the need of the heavens to have mercy upon her human form and allow the pain to somehow bleed out impurity .

peyton isn't sure how long she's been here , attempting to find comfort on holy grounds ; but the stained glass windows , painted a kaleidoscope of colours dimmed from the night sky was a companion she'd grown to find a hint of comfort in ; the familiar patter of rain beating against the ancient building . BRITISH WEATHER , NOTHING NEW ; YET FITTING .

peyton chooses to believe that the weather is from God himself , crying with her , with all of them ; I KNOW , MY CHILD , BUT FREE WILL IS A FUNNY THING , ISN'T IT ? it certainly is , she cant bring herself to blame her father for the fault of man ; in truth , it makes her more angry at the snake than anything else , to take advantage of new life , life that never knew what a lie was ; a life that what inherently curious . THE WORLD AS IS BECAUSE OF A SNAKE , how strange that it's her mascot , a beacon of strength . she supposes not one bad creature dooms them all , there's a slytherin discussion in there , peyton realises as the silence continues around her ; the creaking of the church a comfort .

peyton never wants to leave , ever , perhaps the war doesn't need her . . . maybe she could feel the faint cold of the wind seeping through the cracks of the walls , the eyes of God upon her stronger than ever . she feels close to Him here , TO HER MUM . . . she misses her , she misses her so much and it was only a matter of time before her mind drifted back to the one family member she had , tears welled up behind closed lids , beads clutched harder ; leaving indents in palm of hands . . . THIS ISN'T FAIR , nothing is fair .

𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 : 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑆𝐸𝐶𝑂𝑁𝐷 𝑊𝐼𝑍𝐴𝑅𝐷𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑊𝐴𝑅 * MAIN TIMELINE .