#drabbles: implications

[bellamyarcade]

C/W: collection of drabbles, lots of implied smut/mild(?) sexual content, innuendo, fluff, and little else. Please see warnings at the top of each post.

NOTES: Haven’t written in a while and writing full-on smut is still rather intimidating so I’ll start by dipping my toe in first, just to test the waters.

Also, I only write for Marvel characters so far. If you wanna suggest a character for this drabble collection, send me an ask ☺️

IMPLICATIONS — various pairings

ACHE — Steve Rogers x fem!Reader BURN — Matt Murdock x fem!Reader CRAVE DROWN — Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader EXPLORE FRENZY GASP — Pietro Maximoff x fem!Reader HUNGER — Loki x fem!Reader INSATIABLE JOLT — Thor x fem!Reader KISS — Natasha Romanoff x fem!Reader LUSH — Tony Stark x fem!Reader MERCY — Sergei Kravinoff x fem!Reader NEED — Yelena Belova x fem!Reader OBSESS PLAY — Johnny Storm x fem!Reader QUIVER RAVISH — Joaquín Torres x fem!Reader STARVED TANGLED — Sam Wilson x fem!Reader UNDONE — Bob Reynolds x fem!Reader VELVET WICKED — Wanda Maximoff x fem!Reader YANK ZEALOUS

[ebodebo]

getting high with your brother’s best friend!

"Really shouldn’t let you take a hit, Sweetheart," Jason muses, taking a drag from his blunt as you both sit side by side on your roof.

Your brother had stepped out for a bit, likely to take care of things with his new girlfriend, leaving you alone at home with Jason.

Since your brother had been friends with him for a long time, he felt at ease leaving you two alone together.

Your brother was completely oblivious to your secret crush on his close friend.

After about thirty minutes of Jason clutching the blunt he had prepared for himself and your brother, he quietly made his way up to your roof to indulge.

You followed closely behind, eager to join him.

“Come on, Jason,” you nudge, your eyelashes fluttering. “Don’t go all gentlemanly on me now.”

He lets out a soft chuckle, a cloud of smoke swirling around him as he does so.

Your eyes wander to observe him further.

God, he was so fucking hot.

He had the most beautiful eyes you had ever seen, a warm smile that lit up the room, and not to mention his arms.

Fuck his arms.

You swallow hard as you notice his bicep flexing under his short sleeve while he raises the blunt to his lips.

"Have you ever even smoked before?" He asks, tilting his head to the side in curiosity.

You quickly shift your gaze back to his, hoping he didn’t catch you shamelessly checking him out.

“Like once,” you say almost too quickly.

He raises an eyebrow and smirks.

“Here,” he says, holding the blunt between his fingers for you to take. “Just don’t take too big of a hit.”

You nod and carefully grab the blunt, placing it between your lips. As you take a deep inhale, you end up coughing hard, tears beginning to form in your eyes.

"You alright?" Jason asks earnestly, taking the blunt from your trembling hands with one hand while his other gently rubs your back to ease your coughs.

You nod your head vigorously as the coughing dies down, making an effort to ignore the way Jason’s hand seems to brush against your bare back, even through your shirt.

“No more for you,” he teased, a smile dancing on his lips.

You let out one last cough. “Will I even feel it?”

“Yeah,” he replies, taking another drag from the blunt that now rests between his lips.

“You’ll feel it.”

That was about ten hits ago.

While most of them were Jason's, you still managed to snag a few for yourself.

Your brother sent a text saying that he had to handle an emergency—most likely something related to his overly attached girlfriend—and that he would return as soon as he could.

You and Jason were sprawled out on the roof, the blunt long gone and nothing but silence hanging in the air.

Your body felt weighed down, as if you could simply plunge through the metal roof and drop into the room below.

Meanwhile, your head spun mercilessly, even when you weren’t moving an inch.

“How’s Cock?” Jason's voice broke the silence.

You turn your head to his direction, your cheek pressed against the chilly shingles of the roof.

“Jason,” you respond, a touch of frustration in your voice, but a hint of humor plays on your lips. “You know his name is Brock.”

“Sure, Brock, whatever you say,” he replies, playfully rolling his eyes. “How's he doing?”

You chuckled softly. “To be honest, I’m surprised that you even care about his well-being.”

“I don’t. Just trying to make conversation,” he replies with a shrug, his tone dry.

You shift your gaze to the stars sparkling overhead. “I can’t say how he’s doing,” you say slowly. “We broke things off like two weeks ago.”

Jason looks at you in disbelief. “No shit?”

You glimpse at his confused expression before turning entirely on your side to face him. “Yeah,” you exhale. “I found him kissing another girl in his dorm.”

Jason thinks for a moment. “Want me to kick his ass for you?” He asks, his sincerity evident in the tone of his voice.

You grin. “Nah. He’ll get his karma.”

“I still don’t see what you saw in him,” Jason remarked after a moment, tilting his head to gaze at the sky.

"Honestly, me neither," you chuckle, closing your eyes as your laughter drifts on, lingering for quite a while.

Jason lets out a chuckle in response to your extended laughter.

You double over, still gasping with laughter. “You know he was jealous of you?”

Jason playfully rolls his eyes, a broad smile still lighting up his face from your contagious laughter.

“Yeah, right,” he responds with a teasing tone.

"He really was," you affirm, the laughter finally subsiding as your hand softly lands on his forearm.

You’re so high that you can’t even feel your touch on him or even recognize the effect you have on him.

"He always used to say that I had a crush on you," you reply.

“Did he now?” he inquires, doing his best to ignore the way your hand lightly brushes against his forearm.

“Oh my God, yes!” you exclaim, your fingers gliding gently over his skin.

Jason ponders a moment, swallowing hard before he speaks.

"Well...did you?" he asks, a hint of hesitation in his voice.

Your gaze shifts to his, a look of confusion on your face. “Did I what?”

“Christ. You’re so high,” he says with a grin.

"How is it that I’m higher than you when you’ve taken more hits?" You inquire, puzzled.

“You’re just not used to it,” he responds, his voice wavering a bit as your fingertips glide along his arm.

“Made a habit of smoking, have you?” you tease, narrowing your eyes playfully.

“Something like that, I guess,” he says with a grin.

“What were you asking me earlier?” You glance up at him, your eyes feeling a bit heavy.

Jason’s gaze meets yours. “Oh, um—nothing.”

Your fingers trail down to his, playing with them.

“Tell me,” you whisper softly.

“I—I can’t remember,” he stammers.

“Shut up! Yes, you do,” you say, a wide grin stretching across your face. “Just tell me,” you press again.

Jason’s eyes drift to your lips for a second before coming back to your bright eyes on him.

“I just—did you ever, you know, have a crush on me?” Jason asks, clearly feeling a bit awkward.

You chuckled softly, causing Jason to shift noticeably in discomfort.

Your focus shifts back to him, and his discomfort is evident. "Sorry. I just thought it was so obvious," you say, your fingers still gently toying with his.

“I had no idea,” he says, letting out a quiet sigh of relief inside.

“Really?” You inquire, casually leaning in closer to him without even realizing it.

“Yeah. Had no idea,” he exhales. “Wait, why?”

Your face breaks into a playful grin. “What do you mean ‘why’ you’re ridiculously hot?” You exclaim, a hint of laughter in your voice.

“Am I now?” He murmurs, his gaze fixated on your lips.

“Mhm. And you’ve got a nice smile,” you say, unaware that you’ve slipped into the present tense, completely oblivious to his gaze fixated on your lips.

"Yeah?" He prodes, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips.

“And pretty eyes,” you tack on, fingers coming up to drag up his arms.

“Mhm,” he murmurs, his eyelids drooping lazily to halfway cover his eyes at your gentle touch.

Your gaze trails your fingers as they glide up his arms, pausing at his bicep. "And big arms."

Jason leans in before you can say another word, and his lips softly meet yours.

A soft gasp escapes your lips as your hand caresses his cheek, deepening the kiss.

His hand gently rests on your waist as your lips move in perfect sync, but you pull back slightly.

“Your lips are so soft,” you whisper against his, a smile playing on your face. “Knew they would be.”

Jason can’t shake the stupid smile that spreads across his face before he leans in and presses his lips gently against yours.

You and Jason linger in your kiss for a bit longer until he spots familiar headlights making their way down the road toward your house.

Jason pulls back abruptly, swearing under his breath. “Shit,” he mutters, rubbing his hand across his face. “Fuck.”

“Wha—what?” You ask in surprise.

“Roy’s gonna kill me,” Jason mutters.

That has you flicking your attention to the street seeing the same headlights Jason saw.

It was your brother driving up.

And you and Jason were up on the roof.

Alone.

Kissing.

“Oh no,” you groan, sitting up too abruptly before easing yourself back down again.

“You okay?” Jason asks, his tone filled with concern as he slowly rises to his feet.

“He—he can’t find out,” you say franticallly.

Jason leans in slightly, his hand brushing gently against your cheek. “Hey—hey. It’s alright. He won’t, I promise,” he assures.

"Come on, I’ll help you through the window," he says, gently lifting you up and guiding you as you slip through the opening.

“Jason,” you say, as he helps you settle down onto your bed.

“Yeah?” He asks, his gaze fixed intently on yours.

“Are we, like, dating now?” Your tone is earnest as you lay entirely on your bed.

He chuckles softly, his breath catching for a moment. "You're too high to be making those kinds of decisions, Sweetheart."

“You're high too, Jason,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I really like you.”

“We’ll talk when we’re both sober. Okay?” He suggests gently. “I’ll swing by to check on you later, alright?” He adds reassuringly, planting a soft kiss on your head.

You give a reluctant nod before he quietly slips out of your room. With your eyes closed, you eventually drift off to sleep.

Jason held true to his promise and quietly slipped away to check on you, even laying a soft blanket over you.

Perhaps he lingered for a moment to share his feelings, but you would have no way of knowing since you were sound asleep.

Or were you?

divider by @bernardsbendystraws

[katescorner]

thinking about the shiratorizawa volleyball team and how when they grow older, they realize what coach washijo did during practices wasn't normal.

"if this were a practice match, i'd get a slap across the face."

give me goshiki who burns out by the time he reaches his third year. he's exhausted; the feeling has settled into his bones, and volleyball doesn't strike the same sort of spark in him anymore.

give me shirabu who only grows harder on himself until people have to physically restrain him from reacting to his mistakes. it takes years of unlearning to undo the harshness he's learned.

give me ushijima who bears the weight of the entire team because if he does well enough, the others should be spared. no one understands why he's so motivated when he's already one of the best, but it's something he shoulders quietly.

give me tendou who sings and makes unfunny jokes because it's the only way he knows how to break the tension. he doesn't pursue a career after high school because all his memories of a sport he used to love are tainted by his time at shiratorizawa.

give me semi who's somewhat relieved when his position of regular setter is given away but the guilt of having shirabu taking his place eats at him. so he learns to be a pinch setter and drowns himself in music during practice to quell the conflict he feels.

[evilhasnever]

It is proof of his torturous but steady ascent in the Wen ranks that Meng Yao is allowed time with the prisoner. Even more so that he gets to visit alone, dismissing the guards with a tip of his chin.

The moment they are alone, the chained dragon uncoils, abandoning any pretense of sleep. Lan Xichen opens his maw and his long tongue unrolls like a silk carpet, producing a shining beacon of light on its tip. “Please,” he speaks urgently, without moving his mouth, “I need A-Yao to swallow this.”

From its glow, the light had seemed as big as a lantern, but upon receiving it in his palm Meng Yao sees it is a pearl no bigger than a common oyster prize.

He suspects this is exactly what he has been sent to torture out of him. The urge to drop it wars with the desire to bask in this undeserved, unfathomable trust.

Lan Xichen likely senses his hesitation. “A-Yao won't be in danger from my favor,” he whispers, “It cannot be taken from you by force.”

Meng Yao knows that Wen Ruohan would have him cut open from sternum to navel, like cattle to the roast, if he knew he had swallowed Lan Xichen’s pearl. He will simply have to lie better than usual, won’t he?

The moment he places the pearl on his tongue, it melts like a raindrop down his throat, tingling chill spreading across his body and into his limbs. When it reaches his belly, the bird-flap of his golden core turns into a feverish buzz, warmth setting in his deepest crevices as if the cold had been only a prelude.

“How will I return this to Zewu-Jun?” he whispers, breathless with the experience of it. He thinks of a lizard tongue as long as a waist sash, of the human tongue Lan Xichen used to speak softy with.

The dragon squints in what, perhaps, is as close as he can get to a smile with such a fearsome maw. “When the war ends,” he says, sounding slightly breathless as well, “there will be time.”

[imtrashraccoon]

If it's ok can you do a don't imagine with Dr Baggs from the megalosomnia au :3

Oh. Why yes, I would love to write for our favourite doctor! :3

Don't imagine falling, whether by accident or not, into the Underground. How you're badly injured from the fall and are soon captured. How you don't know what's going on but are helpless to resist.

Don't imagine drifting in and out of consciousness for several days, although you aren't sure how much time really passed. How you remember seeing glimpses of a white lab coat, the strong scent of disinfectant, and the sound of distant machines. How afraid you are when you finally do wake up in a strange room that's reminiscent of a cell.

Don't imagine how your heart skips a beat when you hear footsteps approaching and the door opens. How you're more than a little terrified when you see the skeleton in a lab coat that would make any mad scientist jealous. How he raises a bonebrow but gives you a moment to calm down before approaching you.

Don't imagine how he introduces himself and how personable he comes across. How he explains in plain terms the extent of your injuries and that you're now trapped in the Underground with his people. How he's quick to reassure you that you're recovering nicely and that he'll do his best to make sure you make a full recovery.

Don't imagine how you decide to be brave and trust him. How he seems to be telling the truth and you can't exactly leave anyways. How you soon start to notice that something is...off. How tight-lipped Dr. Baggs is about the lab and much of the Underground. How you can hear strange noises from outside your room and how he ignores you whenever you ask about them.

Don't imagine insisting that he tell you the truth about what's going on. How you all but break down and express that you just want to go home. How you're confused and constantly anxious no matter his efforts to make you as comfortable as possible.

Don't imagine the pained look he gives you. How he seems conflicted at first. How he agrees with you that this isn't right and apologizes for not being forthright. How you're surprised that he's not putting up a fight about this.

Don't imagine how he hesitates for a moment before smiling at you. How he moves closer and places a hand on your shoulder. How you open your mouth to ask what he's doing but never get that far. How his magenta eyelight suddenly expands into a swirling vortex. How you feel an unsettling calmness blanket your mind.

Don't imagine how he gently pulls you into a hug. How his voice seems to echo in your head as he reassures you that everything will be alright. Definitely don't imagine him stroking your shoulders absentmindedly. How he promises that he's got everything under control. How you feel like you shouldn't believe him but can't remember why. How you soon give in to him and the blissful ignorance that he offers. How you barely spare a thought as to why you were afraid in the first place.

First, Previous, & Next Request

[xxlady-lunaxx]

A bit more of a fluffy ask than anything

Sanegiyuu discussing wedding stuff, and Sanemi goes "I think you should give me your last name" bcs he hates his last name despite the respect that came with it.

i say yes

Typically, for opposite sex relationships, the husband’s last name is taken. But, whilst discussing their futures, Sanemi points out that both of them are men. Giyuu’s quick to add that they could technically both keep their own last names, but Sanemi intervenes, poking Giyuu’s cheek to quiet him.

“I think you should give me your last name,” he says, resting his elbow on the table and leaning his head on his hand.

Tengen, who was visiting for the main purpose to be an annoyance, pipes up. “So you’re admitting that Tomioka’s the man, between the two of you?” He smirks. Sanemi throws the nearest thing close to him—an empty tea cup. Tengen, the fucking bastard, dodged it easily.

Ignoring their unnecessary banter, Giyuu hums. “You don’t like your last name? I thought you’d keep it…” He trails off, unsure how he was going to finish his sentence.

“Thought you might like the idea of me not being able to call you by your last name anymore,” Sanemi teases, rolling his eyes. Occasionally, when he was annoyed (or just for fun), he’d refer to Giyuu as ‘Tomioka,’ how he’d done in the past. Giyuu was never quite happy about it.

“That’s not-” Giyuu pauses. “Oh. It’s more than that, Sanemi. It’s just, like, Genya- And… I dunno. There’s a lot more to your name.”

Sanemi grows quiet for a moment. Tengen has the mind to not say anything.

“There is a lot,” Sanemi agrees. His tone is distant, and it’s clear his thoughts are elsewhere.

A flicker of understanding passes Tengen and he adds, “well, Tomioka, you could easily have a lot to your name if you let this guy take it as his own, too.”

Giyuu nods slowly, feeling that there was something more to why Tengen was the one who butted in. But he doesn’t question it, instead scooting closer to Sanemi. “So you’d be Tomioka, too?”

Sanemi flashes him a grin. “Sanemi Tomioka, right?” he confirms. “Fuck, I wouldn’t have thought I’d take the same name as the one I used to curse at.”

“Like, to my face, or alone in your room?” Giyuu pesters.

“Both,” Sanemi concedes.

“He was so damn in love,” Tengen grins. “Even when he thought he hated you, he was actually just fighting off the feelings.”

Sanemi shoots him a look. “I’ll just say that my hatred for you runs quite steadily, Uzui.”

“Okay, so, we’re settling on mine?” Giyuu asks, interrupting their arguing.

“Definitely,” Sanemi agrees. “Wouldn’t mind ditching ‘Shinazugawa’. I’ve had it for long enough.”

“Are you just marrying me so you can change your last name?” Giyuu deadpans.

Sanemi snorts. “Oh, yeah, my entire purpose of our relationship was to take your last name. I’ve never cared a moment about you, I just thought ‘Tomioka’ would be a nice replacement,” he huffs, affectionately nudging Giyuu’s shoulder with his own.

“You could say goodbye to me, too, if that was true,” Giyuu says flatly, though a smile plays on his face.

“I just realized how hard it’ll be to get used to this,” Tengen grumbles. “Alright, Shinazugawa, you’ll just be Tomioka. And Tomioka, you can be the pretty Tomioka. Or something. The original, better Tomioka.”

“You are so good at playing favoritism, there is no way you don’t have a favorite wife,” Sanemi grits out.

“I just like Tomioka better than you,” Tengen says, raising his hands in surrender. “Don’t get so bitter about being a boring person. Can’t believe Tomioka’s actually agreeing to marry you.”

Giyuu smiles. “He has his pros and cons.”

“Wouldn’t take a genius to know which column has more,” Tengen mutters. Sanemi stands.

“You little shit—”

[godsfavoritescientist]

Drabble request: post-canon "happy" ending for Bill & Ford, but find some way to imply that something super fucked up is going on just beneath the surface. Mind control, dream bubble fantasy, idk, dealer's choice, just something messed up.

Fragments of what was once Earth drift through the empty vacuum of space. They sit together on a summoned-up couch, watching it all float by. Ford fidgets with his brand new eye-shaped gold cufflinks. His ornately-embroidered sleeves are drenched in blood.

The henchmaniacs are busy elsewhere, expanding their reign of benevolent terror to the outer reaches of the galaxy. This mostly entails eating space rocks and crashing planets into eachother. For the first time since Ford accepted Bill’s offer, they’ve had time to really sit down and chat.

Bill throws an arm over Ford’s shoulder. “Lemme tell you something, Sixer. It doesn’t really matter how necessary it was–and believe me, it was necessary! What matters more is that it was the most fun you’ll ever have! Now that you’re immortal, I won’t sugarcoat it: Earth’s entire existence is a blip in the grand scheme of things. It was like a really dry log: destined to be burned!” He pats Ford on the back. “So don’t let me catch you moping about it.”

“I’m not moping,” Ford bristles, leaning away from Bill’s touch. “I’m contemplating.”

“Hah! Contemplating! You hear this guy?” Bill asks an imaginary audience, gesturing at Ford with his thumb. “Well contemplate this: we’ve got ultimate power over the entire multiverse. You might as well be a god. You can spend an eternity studying everything that ever was and ever will be. This is a sweet deal no matter how you spin it!”

Ford makes a noncommital sound. “That very well may be true, and I am grateful to you, but… human emotion is not so easy to logic away, I’m afraid. I want to move on as easily as you did, but…” he shrugs helplessly. “It’s just hard to believe it’s gone.”

Bill pats him on the back. “A little bit of shock is normal! Took me a few weeks to work through. Of course, I was brand new to the third dimension too, so it shouldn’t take quite that long for you. But humans are more emotional than shapes, so I’ll be patient! Don’t say I never did anything for ‘ya.”

Ford doesn’t meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Now! You know what helps me when I’m like this? A good distraction! There’s bound to be dozens of my enemies tracking us down right now–it’s not exactly hard to miss a whole planet blowing up. So we’d better get a head start on things, attack first before any of them can put us on the defensiv-” Bill squints at something approaching from the distance. “Hey, what’s that?”

Ford looks up sharply. It takes a few seconds to spot it, but as it gets closer, it’s unmistakable: a steely-gray entirely flat object, no more than two feet wide and long, flying towards them.

Once it’s right between them, it slows to a stop. From above, it’s clearly shaped like a 2D spacecraft, except that all four walls are enclosed, not just the perimeter.

A stick-thin door opens up, and out floats a dozen multicolored geometric shapes, all with skin covering their bodies from above and below, not just around their perimeter.

For the first time in eons, Bill is too stunned to speak a single word.

The leader of the group, a irregularly-shaped silver isoceles triangle, speaks first. “It’s you! It’s really you! We were starting to think you died in the aftermath of our dimension’s death. But the energy signals we’ve been following over the past week… we knew it couldn’t be anyone else.”

Bill’s voice is very quiet, and much less echoey than usual, as he says, “I thought you all died. I made sure you all died.”

The little silver triangle laughs. “Nope! The cleverest of us were able to escape. Your destruction only took the lives of those unwilling to change, unwilling to adapt to the higher dimensions. And the lives we’ve led since then have been so much better than anything our homeworld could have ever offered to us. We owe you a great deal.”

As he listens to this, Bill glows brighter and brighter and brighter, until he’s glowing the brightest that he’s ever been. “I knew it! I knew the worthy ones would live, I knew there was a way out for ones like you!”

He turns to Ford with a brilliant gleam in his eye. “Ford, these are survivors from my home dimension! Do you know how long it’s been? At least a trillion years! These guys are persistent. More than worthy of joining the gang, right Ford?”

Ford looks just as overjoyed as Bill. “Absolutely—but this is incredible! Liberating my dimension didn’t just give me an eternity at your side, but it’s also allowed these shapes to finally find you!” He shakes his head in wonder. “This whole time, you were right, Bill. You were right about everything. If our first act as joint-rulers of the multiverse can accomplish something of this scope, then there’s nothing we can’t accomplish together.”

Bill embraces Ford in a hug that sends them both twirling through outerspace. “Isn’t it exhilirating? Being free from all those stupid little ties to a planet that’ll be dead and gone in the blink of an eye?”

Ford nods wholeheartedly. “There’s a whole multiverse out there for the taking. You’ve finally made me see that.”

He lets go of Bill, and looks back at the handful of shapes floating nearby. “You must have so many questions. I know I do. But I’ll let you catch up with Bill, first.”

Bill zooms back to face the shapes. “Boy do I ever!!! How long do you guys live now that you’ve adapted yourselves to a three-dimensional world, because we’re gonna be here for a while.”

The group settles in for a very long chat, exchanging stories and ideas and many cups of tea. And way off in the distance, far out of Bill’s line of sight, his little world’s edge glimmers with the iridescence of a soap bubble.

[silvercap]

if you’re taking prompt requests 👀 leon and either shaky from starvation or staggering from exhaustion? dealer’s choice hehe

Sure ☺️ (Prompts)

He's almost to the Evac point when his knees give out, spilling Leon limply across the dirt as a strangled, pathetic noise squeaks out from his throat and his gun falls somewhere at his side. His legs tremble and cramp from days of running and crouching, muscles spent and pushed even further past their limits by the limping, staggering steps he's been forced to rely on for the past several hours. His injured ankle screams at him in the absence of stimulation, a ragged seed of pain blossoming into something excruciating now that Leon isn't pushing through it to make himself move. He groans, a pitiful sound. So this is what's become of the great Leon S. Kennedy---sprawled in the dirt half a mile from the rendezvous point, and too weak to even pull himself upright again.

There's blood still soaking his chest and thigh where BOW claws and shrapnel, respectively, had dug into the soft, unprotected flesh with violent force. Leon coughs, feeling the pang of smaller wounds across his body that only seem amplified by the hollowness in his gut, days without food or supplies only making the sluggish exhaustion more insistent to drag him down to the dirt and never let him go. He'd lost his pack on the very first day. Typical. He'd make a joke if laughing didn't feel impossible.

Something buzzes in his ear, short and sharp, and Leon stifles a whine.

"Come in, Kennedy," an unfamiliar voice says, the man he knows is meant to pick him up. They've never met before today, but Hunnigan had sent him once Leon finally got his comms working again, so Leon's pretty sure he'd be able to trust the man. He makes a sound halfway between an angry cry and a sob. He'll never make it to the evacuation point to see if it's true. "Kennedy, we are landing now, do you copy? We don't see you anywhere; over."

Trembling fingers trip clumsily up to his ear, the little button clicking as Leon lets his eyes fall closed. The cool dirt is nice on his cheek. " 's 'cause I'm not there," he slurs with an empty laugh, dampness forming under his eyelids. "Promise I tried. I really did."

There's a brief silence.

"Kennedy, what's your status? I don't understand; over."

Leon laughs, the sound closer to whimpering. Maybe he did have the energy after all. "I'm not gonna make it. Jus' go home, see your family," he rasps, hating the dullness of his own voice. He always knew he'd go out this way. It shouldn't be as much of a shock as it is, but he can't help but admit how frustratingly close he'd been to surviving another impossible mission. At least he made a good run of it.

"Kennedy, what's your status?" the voice repeats. "Are you in need of medical assistance?"

"Yes. No." Leon sighs. "I don't know. Why do you care?"

The DSO never supports him on missions, he knows that. It's cruel of them to pretend that they would, dangling medical intervention in front of him like a carrot on a stick.

"Where are you?"

"Half a mile out." Leon swallows. "I won't make it."

There's more buzzing, a voice in his ear, but Leon doesn't pay it any mind. He lets his hand slump to the ground, fingers curling weakly in the dirt. Maybe if he...

He pulls himself forward by his nails, then again, and again. It hurts. Everything hurts, but he can't... he won't just die here alone. The thought puts a lump in his throat and he sobs explosively, dragging himself forward inch by inch. He knows he won't make it; it's stupid to try.

He keeps moving.

Time blurs, blood mixing with dirt where his broken fingernails claw at rocky ground, until a sudden shadow falls over him. Leon whimpers on a particularly rough patch, and two sets of hands slide under his body, lifting him upright. The world swims, and Leon blinks. The face of a young woman hovers over him, her strong body hauling him upright despite the fact that his legs are too weak to support his weight.

"We've got you, Agent Kennedy," she says softly. "We're going to get you out of here, okay?"

Another person pushes into his right side, careful of the wounds over his chest as they take the rest of his weight in strong arms. Leon doesn't understand. "I don't understand."

"Hunnigan sent us. We're getting you out of here, okay? Damn standard procedure---we know how much you've done for all of us."

"Let's get you some help," the other person says, voice husky. Leon doesn't recognize it either, tired brain still confused by their support. He didn't know he'd done anything for anyone at all. "Just a little bit farther, man."

Leon laughs deliriously, unable to do anything else.

[shyrose57]

I was INSPIRED by this gorgeous piece of drowned Pearl fan art by @dailypearldoodles.

--------------

If there was one thing anyone could tell you about Kestrel Scar Goodtimes, it was that he was a liar. And a very good one at that.

The second thing was that, like any doomed man, he had ghosts snapping at his heels, and the seas were not his friend.

(There are five rules for anything to do with the things beneath Scar’s boat)

The water is dark where his ship lays docked, shadows rolling beneath the waves that follow it wherever it sails. 

Captain Sausage comments on it, only once. But the shrieking laughter that erupts from the dark mass follows him into his nightmares for days after, and he learns to avert his eyes, lest he dream of something like screaming again.

(The first rule you need to know is that if you speak of them, then they’ll visit)

Whatever haunts him sends his boat rocking at every move, lurching wildly to both sides. They cannot overturn it. Not yet. They’re young still, in death. His days are counting down, but for now, he simply learns to work with it, and politely smiles when others decline to come aboard, eyeing the things below.

(The second rule is that they’re only here to haunt one man, but if you get in the way, they’ll happily take you overboard too)

Scott Denholm dips his feet into the sea, decidely drunk. A hand settles against his leg, light and curious. It feels like a hello. A pair of eyes in the water, shining blue, blink up at him in greeting. There’s a name on the tip of his tongue, as he dips his fingers into the waves to clasp someone else’s. It feels like running into an old friend. 

And then he’s hauled back into someone’s chest, looking up at a pale face as Martyn shouts at him. The thing in the water is gone, and Scar’s ship sways beside them, waiting for the realization to cut through the alcohol’s pleasant fuzz.

(The third is that they remember things you don’t, and are all the more bitter for it. Sometimes though, it means they’ll play favorites)

Oli tries to sing to them sometimes, usually in boredom than any real desire to soothe the things in the water. Most days they seem to delight in it, muffled calls rising up to join his half-strung shanties, distracted from rocking Scar’s ship as much as usual. 

Some days though, it seems to do nothing but grate on their ears and nerves, if they possess them in any sense, and instead shrieking loud enough to make ears bleed while they turn their violent attention towards whoever’s ship he’s on, be it his own or others.

(The fourth rule is that while they can be appeased, they can just as easily be angered, often in the same method. Dead things do not care for predictability)

There are good days and bad days, for Scar Goodtimes’ trips at sea. The good ones are more usual lately, plently of things in his new area distracting his phantoms and drawing them from their usual destructive habits. Of course, then comes the days they make up for it tenfold.

Those days, even the ocean bends to their wrath. The sky darkens and pours, as it did so many years ago when they toppled overboard with gaping wounds that bled the water red. The thunder screams in tandem with a past long gone and hidden, behind deceptive smiles and tongues lost to landfolk’s ears. 

The tide pushes with them, putting it’s strength behind their clawing hands to try and bring the ship beneath the waves where it has belonged since the moment he put them all down there. The scent of blood in the water brings all sorts of deadly things about, waiting for the stronger predators to reach their prey, hoping for the scraps their messy kill will surely leave behind.

Those days, Scar docks his ship wherever he can, and makes his way towards whoever he can. Sausage is easiest, an arm tossed over his shoulder and a look directed at the water has it writhing in anger even as his captain guides him away.

Martyn too, works, though not quite to the same extent. He’s of similar nature to Scar, after all. He looks out for himself before anyone else.

If he’s feeling particularly bold(or as some might put, cruel), he invites his two favorite Herons out to talk about interesting new discoveries by the ship. Scott and Cleo always keep one wary eye on him, which works just fine, because it means they don’t look too hard at the sudden, furious stillness of the water, or the hand settled where he keeps his blade in a familiar threat-to his ghosts, of course. The two Herons would just be the unfortunate collateral his warning requires.

Scar is a dead man walking. He’s not too concerned-he’s very good at stretching both the truth, and his time.

(The fifth rule is that they are going to win, in this battle of patience. That no matter what he does, they’ll still be there, waiting for any slip.

But they can be held back. If you’re clever, and you know what to look for.

If you know what to hold over their heads)

[diabotsis]

Ghetsis is strong.

It's subtle-- rather he is subtle, much like his malice had been in the era before Plasma's first downfall.

It hides itself well. Purposeful movements hidden under robes and dark fabrics, allowing others to take care of physical matters for him... Never let them know what you have up your sleeve.

That strength showed itself once during the rise of Neo-Plasma. A massive machine put together by fine engineers for a project Colress was heading. In the end, while impressive by anyone else's standards, it hadn't been up to Ghetsis'.

So for that, it had to pay.

(Like anything else that did not meet Ghetsis' standards, although no one quite knew the extent of that, yet.)

He'd heeded his summons for the demonstration aloof as ever, perhaps trying to come across vaguely agreeable for the team that worked so hard for him.

The engineers prattled on about this and that. Colress mentioned something about that or this.

When the machine was finally turned on, oppressive waves were emitted from it. It unsettled the body on such a large scale as it was. Within seconds, a table of Pokeballs (some empty and some not) whistled and creaked, before popping open with such force that their hinges broke and the clips that held them closed cracked off.

The energy from within, more noticeable in the Pokeballs that had been inhabited, crackled outward in short violent flashes before finally dissipating.

Ghetsis had been pleased. Because of that, the team working on the machine were allowed to be pleased, as well.

The machine was turned off and the test was repeated with a new selection of Pokeballs of all types. The terrible unsettling thrum of the machine returned and this time, it took longer for its power to wield any results.

The popping of the Pokeballs came at a slower rate, less violent. No big deal, right?

Ghetsis found himself watching the remaining, unaffected capsules with growing anticipation-- and rising annoyance.

Colress was prepared to cut his losses after 30 seconds, but Ghetsis barked at him to continue. The terrible oppressive thrum remained.

The team that worked on the machine were clearly growing antsy with it, some rubbing their heads during the onset of a terrible headache.

A few more of the Pokeballs popped open weakly and then all that remained were two Ultra Balls.

Ghetsis had had enough. With a suddenness that startled the others in the room (who'd never seen Ghetsis' rage personally, but perhaps had intuition enough to understand that it was a frightening thing) he approached the table with the Pokeballs and grabbed one of the remaining things. In his grasp, the seam between the top and bottom halves splintered and the thing finally broke apart. He dropped it back down heavily. The final Pokeball, he picked up and chose not to crush. Instead, after a weighty few seconds, he spun around and whipped the thing into the reinforced wall by the door. It was close enough to the gaggle of engineers that it startled them, but the sudden ferocity over such a seemingly-mundane issue could've done that either way.

The Ultra Ball hit the wall and exploded. There'd been a Purrloin in there, once.

These things were meant to be thrown, abused over years of use. Carefully designed to be one of the ultimate Pokemon-capturing devices.

And it'd burst into sparks and parts in an instant.

Ghetsis didn't leave any time to bask in that implication before he was marching right for that damned machine and, with a starkly-flat expression, yanking the plugs and wires right out of it to finally shut it down. Some wires had weaker connections than others to the base structure. He tore the weak ones out as mercilessly as when he finally got his hand on one of the larger connecting cables, fastened to the machine with a drilled-on plate. When he grabbed that one and yanked, he snarled, and the rubber-coated collection of wires snapped right off their connection point.

The cable hit the ground with a thud. The bolt-fastened plug in the machine was now grotesquely marred, copper wiring sticking out unevenly and uselessly.

"Don't let me be disappointed again."

He'd said, somehow just as loud as the following silence.

Then he left.

[crow-cello]

(I'm sorry I'm spamming your inbox with so much Lucibel but I have too many ideas for them 😔🙏)

AU where Lucifer is in need of a new queen to rule with him in Hell, and threatens Heaven with a sinner uprising if they don't let him choose a proper consort to marry off

They offer almost every angel in heaven, man and woman, but nobody can satisfy Lucifer— until he meets with Abel by chance.

"I want... him."

"You want Abel? You sick freak, don't bring my son into this-!"

"If you want your precious heavenly gates to stay intact, then you shall let me choose him as my consort."

"... If you're playing with me, then-"

"Adam, I may have told some untruthful things in my past, but I am no liar here."

"... Adam, please. For the sake of Heaven."

"... Okay, fuck. You better take good care of him or else I'm coming down there and chopping your wings off myself, fucker."

"A deal is a deal then! Guess I found my new queen."

OMG NOO you never have to apologize for your ideas! I want to hear every single Lucibel thread they're so banger!!!! Keep them coming whenever you like!🥺

Already treated like such a princess at Heaven, Abel comes out looking like a whole queen by the time they're done dressing him up for Lucifer. As bare skin is a virtue in that paradise, Abel's attire does more than just hint his figure, and Lucifer is in for more than a treat. Before him is a bedazzled queen, all his for the taking.

It's hard not to take Abel's own virtue right then and there.

For the sake of his domain and Heaven coming to terms, Lucifer keep his composure until he has brought his queen to his kingdom.

Adam has given Abel away—into something akin to marriage he hopes—there's no winning against Lucifer when he knows just how good he is at making even the purest become sinful.

Abel's first day in Hell is what one could imagine. A watchful from the King of Hell, eyes that undressed what little he had on.

"My king, I could only hope to please you in any way possible."

Abel's already so dutiful, so submissive, wanting desperately to keep the peace between both realms. With a bosom so big to contain his even bigger heart. That explains why he's shaped like love ♡

"You don't have to worry about that. You're my queen now, it falls on me of course to make sure you're well cared for ~"

It's heavenly for Abel to know he was in good hands, if not, even better ones for what Lucifer had in store that night.

[good-beanswrites]

I skewed too far from the original request, (so you'll be getting another one with Es and this prompt soon) but for now have this 😂 It's based on that one sprinkler minigram, and uses @iris-drawing-stuff 's raincoat ideas for the other prisoners :3

When Es was told their duties would include watching over ten prisoners, they had expected escape attempts, lies and trickery, fights, or breakdowns. The reality was much worse. They had to keep ten morons out of mundane trouble. And the job was nonstop.

Today’s problem was a bit more intense than the usual stubbed toes and squabbles. Es had been surprised by the culprit behind the day’s stupidity -- after all, Shidou was usually the one stopping the others from causing mischief.

Though he would never admit to anything, Es was able to put the pieces together themself: Amane makes an offhand comment about missing the seasons. Someone with good handwriting anonymously requests a child’s raincoat and galoshes. (Unrelated, there was an issue with the request, and a dozen animal-themed raincoats had been delivered to the prison.) Then, burn marks appear around the sprinklers in Shidou’s cell, just the size of his little lighter. It wasn’t hard to see that he was the one that set off the major malfunction which was currently soaking every inch of the prison in sheets of freezing water.

At least they had extra raincoats. 

Es made their way to the panopticon, toolkit in hand. They had swapped their cape out for one of the raincoats. They’d turned it inside out in an attempt to hide the animal features. It made them feel more mature, which was necessary seeing as they had no experience with fixing sprinklers. As it turned out, neither did the prisoners. 

Two chairs had been precariously stacked within Shidou’s cell. Kotoko, wrapped in a wolf raincoat, stood on her toes at the top. She twisted the valve this way and that. Standing directly underneath, she avoided the brunt of the downpour. Kazui and Shidou stood at the base, one squeezed into a fox coat, the other, a shark. They both crossed their arms, offering Kotoko all of their observations and tips and suggestions. She ignored everything. It didn’t deter them from ‘helping.’

“Comin’ in hot!”

A black cat-clad Yuno hurried around the corner with a shout. Es stepped out of her way. She carried an armful of towels to stop up some of the deepening puddles. Mikoto flew by in the opposite direction to do the same. His dog ears flopped as he ran. Amane stood near the guard’s tower, entirely enveloped in her frog raincoat. She stood in perfect, calm silence, as if she were above all this nonsense. Es couldn’t agree more. Next to her, Muu openly sobbed within her calico cat coat.

No one seemed to notice as Es cleared their throat. “That’s enough,” they tried, “I can handle it from here.”

Kotoko didn’t even glance their way. “Let me just try one more thing. I’ve almost got it.”

“I’m telling you, it just needs a little twist,” Kazui urged her.

Es was bumped aside as Fuuta dragged another set of chairs into the cell. His raised voice was undermined by the mouse raincoat pulled over his head. “I told you, you’re doing it all wrong! Lemme at it.”

“I’m serious. As warden, I --”

Their protests were drowned out by Mahiru’s voice from behind. They turned to find two bunny raincoats bouncing along. 

“This way, Haruka ~!” With much enthusiasm and grand hand gestures, Mahiru directed him to set down some industrial sized buckets at regular intervals. “Perfect…” They quickly began to fill.

Shidou pointed. “Right there, can you move that piece?”

“I already told you,” Kotoko grit her teeth. “I don’t need to touch that.” She wobbled atop the chair.

Fuuta had climbed onto his own stack. “You guys aren’t fucking listening.” He reached out, but Kotoko swatted his hands away. “Hey!” It was his turn to teeter.

“Yuno, I need more towels, stat!” At Mikoto’s urgent call, Yuno came sprinting past. 

Es opened their mouth to stop her, but it was too late. Her foot slid through a puddle. With a cry, she was thrown flat on her face. 

Mahiru gasped. Trying to run to her aid, one of her uniform straps hooked on a bucket near Muu and Amane’s feet. She yanked it forward.

The splash rose up and soaked their uncovered legs. Muu sobbed harder. 

Haruka, of course, wanted to help. He immediately ran into another bucket, sending him stumbling and splashing to the ground.

“Oi, Yuno! I said I needed another towel!”

Kazui made another comment on the sprinkler. Fuuta leaned in real close to get a better look. With a huff, Kotoko tugged on the valve. It jammed around so that the wide spray converged into a single, high-pressure stream. 

The jet aimed directly at Fuuta’s face. 

His sputtering cursing followed him the long way to the ground. Shidou and Kazui leapt to catch him as he fell. Both miraculously forgot that their shoes rested in several inches of water, because their arms flailed wildly for each other and the fallen chairs as they slipped.

Es’ frown twitched.

“Idiots. They’re all idiots.”

[themarginalthinker]

Bittersweet

The months before the divorce were hard.

-

"-and if you think I'm going to take this-"

"-No, you're gonna run away, just like you always do!"

"At least then I won't have to sit here and watch and pretend that you're not doing exactly what you're doing with that woman-!"

The house never feels so small as when the screaming inside of it reaches its maximum volume. The sound of it echoes and bounces through the kitchen, up the stairs, and through the hallway. The hardwood floor makes for great acoustics, letting Sam know exactly the moment someone - he knows who - throws something glass on the floor. It's the only thing he can hear, the noise replaying for long seconds in his head.

At least, he tells himself, it's just a plate or a cup. Not someone's hand against their body.

Sam stares outside at the slowly sinking sun. He sits at his desk, the red-gold rays providing enough light he doesn't need to turn on his lamp yet. Under his hands, the pencil clutched limply in his fingers, his math homework sits, half-done.

If you have two parents, and one decides to get caught with someone else, how soon will all hell break loose.

It would be kinda funny, if it were happening in another house. To another person, another family. In a TV show or movie or book. Sam's hands shake as he lifts them from the desk, palms clammy. He tries to take a breath - and jolts when there's the deep, rattling slamming of a door, the garage door. An engine stars with the same kind of screaming as was happening with human voices, and soon, it's silent.

Sam doesn't know if he likes that any better.

Foot steps up the stairs, and Sam turns quickly to his door. It's closed, and he waits. But they move past, towards the end of the hall. The master bedroom.

That door slams too.

Through the wall by his own bed, Sam can hear his mother's voice gasp and heave. Sobs, muffled through layers of wood and drywall. Sam turns back around to his desk. The light was getting redder as the sun moved, imperceptibly, soon to be below the distant craggy mountains past the city limits. Sam kept his eyes on them as the noises quieted to nothing.

Then, a knock at his door.

Michael doesn't wait for Sam to answer. He sticks his head in.

"Hey."

Sam tries to keep his voice steady. "Hey," he answers.

Michael glances to the side, towards their parents room. Then back to Sam.

"You wanna take a ride? You've been working on that since you got home."

He nods to the papers on Sam's desk. Half done. Interrupted. Equations that read like number salad in his head, repeating the same instructions over and over, notes from class that sound like Charlie Brown adult gibberish when other words were so much more clear and ringing in his head.

Sam nods. "Okay."

He grabs his shoes, a colorful overshirt to slip over his plain tee. Michael's got his bike keys in hand, and with a scribbled note left on the counter, they're off.

The warm air of the coming summer whips wonderfully past them as they zip through the streets of the suburbs and into town. Whistling and light. The noise of Mike's motorbike filling the silence between the two of them until its not silence, and simply quiet company. It's roaring when Michael pushes it past what really is the legal speed limit, and when idling at a light, it purrs a constant hum of contented, but prepared energy. Sam likes the sound.

"Don't tell Mom," Michael says, pulling up to an open-air shop with a good crowd of people milling around, sitting at tables and on the curb. "She'd kill me for this."

Sam smiles. "Get a hot dog to go with it, then. That's a balanced dinner."

"Good thing we're young," Michael laughs.

-

Sam orders double-chocolate. Michael gets strawberry with cheesecake bits, and hot dogs for them both. They sit at a table, and watch the sun go down.

[the-last-quest]

Nine’s tails were a part of him, mechanical or no.

He had had them for so long that they were almost no different than his biological tails.

They reacted to his thoughts without him actually having to think about it, responding to his emotions without any specific prompting.

So when it was finally him and Sonic, when he finally let himself feel all the hurt and pain that the other had caused him, his tails reacted before he even noticed.

He could say they were damaged during the fight and he couldn’t control them.

Or he could say that it was the prism energy that made them malfunction.

But he knew that wasn’t the case.

It was his feelings that made them lash out.

It was his fault.

He didn’t want this though.

He never wanted this.

[sorrowfulsidekick]

                   ‘  If  you  knew  you  hated  it,  why’d  you  get  it  ?!  ‘

                      A  cool  breeze  passes,  much  welcomed  through  the  humid,  crowded  boardwalk.  It  whisks  overgrown  bangs  hiding  a  child's  face;  for  a  moment  his  solemn  visage  was  laid  bare,  downcast,  laser  focus  to  the  cup  he  held.  As  if  staring  long  enough  could  change  the  flavor  of  its  content.

                      ‘  I  don’t  know.  .  .  I  thought  I’d  like  it  this  time.  ‘

                      A  coldness  rests  on  his  tongue,  expression  crumpling  to  the  sweet  menthol  against  his  palette.  To  his  utter  dismay  the  ice  cream  remained  unchanged. 

                           Still  mint.  Still  gross.

                      Tiny  body  leans  defeated  against  the  fence  of  the  promenade’s  edge,  ocean  spray  at  his  back.  Though  his  brazen  partner  continued  a  short  ways  ahead,  their  earlier  exchanging  of  words  haunt  him.  Why  did  he  order  mint  of  all  things?  Better  yet,  why  did  he  continue  to  crave  it? 

Candy,  ice  cream,  garnishing? 

                      With  each  bite  he  comes  close  to  gagging  but  it  was  the  moments  between  that  he  couldn’t  quite  articulate.  The  spoon  would  reach  for  another  scoop  and  he  would  forget.

Simply  forget.

                               The  flavor,  the  texture,  the  disgust.

                        An  unfamiliar  memory,  intangible  and  ephemeral,  would  linger  on  his  tongue. 

                   ‘  I  remember  it  tasting  differently  ‘  he  once  tried  to  explain.  A  confusing  crossfire  of  the  mind  and  body.  The  brain  expects  a  flavor  which  in  turn  gets  lost  in  translation  physically.  Kit  could  only  hypothesize  it  as  a  glitch  of  some  sort;  an  unresolved  error  in  his  code.

                            It  keeps  happening,  and  not  just  with  frozen  sweets.

                          A  sigh.  Spoon  hits  the  bottom  of  the  now  barren  cup  and  he  could  only  look  on  in  disappointment  before  rising  to  his  feet.  No  good  ever  came  from  thinking  this  deeply  about  himself,  he  had  bigger  priorities  and  as  scans  the  crowd  he  realizes  said  priority  went  further  than  promised.

                       “  Surge  ?!  The  hotdogs  are  over  here  !  Wait  up  !  ” 

oh  boy,  here  we  go.

[theconceptofkidney]

Wei Wuxian wonders how he didn't notice before. It's true that he didn't know about these things back then, but couldn't he have noticed something was off? "Wei-xiong, I…" Huaisang fiddles with his fan. He makes as if to open it, then closes it. He looks to the table, to the window, to his fan. "I don't know." They hadn't seen each other face to face since Wuxian came back. He's had his suspicions, yes, but he hasn't been able to confirm anything. Could it be that Huaisang knows? "I…" He finally looks at him "I really don't know." He has no eyes.

-- From an early reconstruction of Wei Wuxian's thought record