#drabblish

[argentarrogance]

[ 𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄 ] ― sender and receiver lock eyes across the room

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐒 || @fallesto × ] acceptingㅤ➠ ㅤJOKER

Ten years from now on would crawl through faster than than immovable queue of petrified hydra he got himself stuck in. Poising elegantly with crown of indifference or gliding down mound of ashes -- his punishment walks abreast with indefatigability. Waiting made even the air taste of brine. Woe to him, for six more people couldn't decide whether they wanted a large menu or a light snack down their stomachs. The only thing he wanted right now was that one pack of warm cheese-coated nuggets desired greatly once in a blue moon and what he couldn't get from regular store. Now, how hard was that to get?

Of course, on spot he could violate the law of motion divided by time ... but whilst endearingly taken by such oblique tergiversation to hold -- defiant of winds and walker on seas was sure he hardly flinched to give pretext for suspicion or exposure even though there was always time for degustation of forces. Coincidental or maybe not but rather sensational is the reflex that guides his vision to stray and not root on thoughts cultivating understatement. There was someone who visually did not seem to quite fit into locality frame of context, someone bluntly ignoring portion of food behind the table and rather tracing with mapping eyes; a count down to ease tightness in his face. This Gotham city sure was one hella suspicious place. Out of the whole line, he was the one he was looking at, and while it certainly wasn't prohibited by law to gaze at anyone he was piqued by ambiguity of such long pointed degree of fixed stare which he had noticed several times before. A curious amalgam of the anti-traditional and the modern.

Painted face pale ceruse, denoting suit once violaceous engulfed in a crumpled shade of defiled mulberry. His inner thunder rising. Lipstick smeared upon brim-contours reaching parabolic heights. Additionally, another thing that irked him more than green hair ( and a whisp of 'yoohoo~' lying unspoken but resonating so much from his countenance he expected to hear it aloud any minute ) he so tried to ignore when eyes ran over him ... not something that had to do with personal conception but rather a presentation of the external form reminding him of a clown ... but the worst part? The more Pietro looked at him the more he was smiling ... and it was that kind of smile that would prettily put on you lavallière decorated by poisonous malachites of distress.

― Huhh??? He compounded the problem by trying to make wrong things right. Pietro's sharp intake of oxygen via nostrils resulted in a brisk 'look-away' for a solid moment until secretion delivered recurrence and certainty that maybe this time the funny chap got bored of his prolonged act of ignorance except no ... still. Why. Why was he still staring?! ... past bearing, full of holes, intolerable. Eyes cerulean like wintry gales exposed with a slide of sun-dodging lenses, and as terrible as it was fascinating within absurdity of the moment the situation created a fusion of disparate elements; eye lock at length finally happened under timing such as pop of soda can that seemed louder than ripple of noises withindoors.

[unbloomingmoonflower]

Mangst Prompt 6: You've Done So Well. Let Me Take It From Here.

Mangst Prompt List here. Yes, more of my ship. I'm having this go back to when they were kids because it touched base on their relationship (and Sana's backstory).

TW in tags, everything under the cut since it's angst.

He'd never seen her look so hurt before. And for a reason he couldn't name, it tore him up.

Satoru's blue eyes were narrowed, his heart galloping in his chest as he held Sana's battered body to him. They were barely ten years old, and while he knew that he was all but treasured in his clan for being born with both the Limitless and Six Eyes, he never knew that the girl he'd known since they were practically infants was the total opposite of him.

Where he was valued in his family, it became clear in her family she was not. And all she did was one thing: defy them.

Sana's pale face had angry, purple bruises blossoming like poisonous flowers and Satoru was certain there were matching ones on her body. Something white-hot and burning in his chest permeated to the rest of his body and his fingers tightened against Sana's shoulder.

Satoru knew one thing about Sana and it was that she was often very meek. His polar opposite when it came to strength and yet he couldn't even muster any disdain toward her for it. It wasn't her fault became a mantra that was repeating in his head as Sana struggled to remain conscious.

The fire in his body only burned hotter.

"Leave it to me," Satoru murmured to Sana, focused on her expression. When Sana's lips parted to argue, the Gojo heir shook his head. "I mean it. You already did well. Leave it to me this time."

It seemed those words were all she needed to let go; Sana's lashes fluttered before she drifted into unconsciousness and Satoru took that as all the incentive he needed.

He was going to make sure her family paid.

[imagionationstation]

Why He Plays - 2012TMNT Drabblish

Leo’s never experienced a slowed moment. Not really.

He’s never witness the seconds inch along in hours. He’s never felt time stretch out in the heat of battle. He’s never even been able to rewatch a horror like it was slowed to a fourth its speed. Every nightmare play-by-play went by in the same blur that spins reality.

Those slowed moments on tv were meant to dramatize. Leo wished it could happen. A single minute stretched out into several so he can analyze every millisecond of a battle?

It sounds amazing.

Instead, he has to move faster than time, using each second even as they fly by at impossible speeds. He doesn’t have a chance to see if the Foot soldier that he just shoved off the edge was human. He can’t spare a thought to wonder if the katana that he threw actually made its mark. The outside world has no effect on him.

Everything in his peripheral is meaningless, blurs of seconds and moments and things that aren’t meant to be documented.

He jumps over the railing, swings from a rafter, and kicks Razhar hard enough to send him screaming off the platform.

Leo doesn’t check to see what happens after the mutant falls. He barely hears the thud as he lands, skidding over metal, almost slipping off the edge himself. He jolts towards the tank. Glowing green liquid shines back at him as he throws his body forwards.

His motion is frantic enough that he almost topples in, but he locks his stance and clasps at the trembling green arms.

He yanks with all the adrenaline coursing through his blood, pulling up the brother whose sweaty grip had slipped. They trip backward when Leo tugs too aggressively, and he hits his carapace, getting his breath as he rolls over on his side, desperate eyes taking in the brother that they almost lost.

Leo won’t be able to clearly recall this string of events in an hour. Everything, from the image of Razhar holding his younger brother over mutagen to the feeling of his brother’s trembling limbs holding on for dear life, will be nothing more than a blur.

There won’t be any single instance to pick apart or dissect in the future. It was all no more important than a blink. A flash of memory that amounts only to a mixed emotion of terror and determination that he deals with every night.

What he will remember- hours, weeks, months later- is how it felt to wrap his arms around the brother who is safe and whole and himself. He will remember the panting voice that wheezes a thanks, and the weight surrendered into his steady embrace. He will remember the way a familiar life breathes in his arms, only because he managed to hear a soft cry in the mist of raging battle.

Time has never given him the luxury of slowing down, so he’s learned to be quicker than it. It’s fast and furious and steals away any chance of thought or recollection in the swiftly approaching future.

Leo doesn’t care. Time has never played fair, so neither has he.

He used to take score, back when the practice runs ended in losses of bruised skin and chipped shells. Now, he plays for something a little different. Something a lot more important.

Leo presses his beak against the side of his head and finally exhales, squeezing lightly enough to be noted, warmth under his fingertips.

And it’s always, in a moment like this, one that he will actually recall with crystal clarity, that Leo remembers why he plays.

“Yeah. Anytime.”

[bookishbrigitta]

I wrote a drabblish thing about Uncle Owen, and the working title is just That'll Do, Pig.

(But seriously, how do I title this for real? Help?)

[emiline-northeto]

(A Hackle drabble)

Hecate slipped into the staff room.

“Ada?” she called quietly. A few embers still flickered in the fireplace, and she thought she saw an outline of an arm dangling over the chair.

Hecate padded over. Ada was asleep, a book resting in her lap. Hecate picked it up, summoned a bookmark, and placed it carefully on the table. She leaned down and kissed Ada’s forehead. “Ada, it’s time to go to bed.”

“Nnngh,” Ada complained.

“I can transfer us, but you’re going to have to stand up.”

“Oh, very well.” Ada groaned and pushed herself out of the chair. “But only because my sleeping-in-a-chair days are long past.” She winced. “Or not yet here again - I don’t know how Gwen does it.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Ada confirmed, slipping her hand into Hecate’s, and moment later they were in their rooms.

“Thank you, dear,” Ada leaned up and kissed Hecate. “Goodnight.” With a wave, she was in her nightgown, and was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

[spdcadetsandcrew]

This is fine

Subtitled “Lord Drakkon’s efforts to make his own perfect world almost unmade the universe, or at least one of them”

“Some idiot tried to unmake the universe again,” Dee grumbled. 

“Is that why SPD headquarters is across the street from that Chicago pizza place?” Charlie wondered.

“Precisely. And Jungle Karma Pizza is down the street next to your friend Sylvan’s bakery.”

“Well, at least there’s pizza and sweets.”

“Charlie, this is serious. My brothers are trapped in a pinball game, Castiel is being chased by some angry orcs, the Winchesters are in the Mystery Machine with Scooby Doo, and Lucifer is trapped in the Love Nikki World...albeit without his powers.”

“So, what’s the problem again?”

“You know what? This is actually fine.”

[just-another-winchester]

“I Love You”

This is my apology to @amanda-teaches. I promised her fluff yesterday after I destroyed her with my fic Last Words... sorrynotsorry lovey, still love ya though!

“I love you.” you muttered

Dean inches away from you. He looked down at you, love in his eyes.

“Why?”

That one word absolutely broke your heart.

You reached out, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him against you.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, one hand sliding through the short locks of light brown hair. You nuzzled gently against his neck, pressing your lips against his ear.

“I love you, because every time i think about you, every time your name pops into my head, every time i see your face, my heart skips a beat.” you began.

“I don't love you because you're attractive, or brave… i love you because you're genuinely, a great man. You have a huge heart, you fight for what you believe in. You defend your family, you protect people, even bad people, you jump into a lake, to save a kid… without a second thought. Its second nature and i see that. And i love that.

I love you because you're so good… because you always try… i know you beat yourself up over the mistakes you've made, but Dean… everyone makes mistakes, i know you were just trying to do good, you weren't being selfish, you were trying to help people.

I know it sounds cheesy, corny… whatever, but Dean i love you so much i literally can't stand it… i feel like my heart might explode. And i wouldn't want anyone else, to father my child, to sleep beside me at night, to depend on, because that's a two way road and Dean i really like taking care of you. You alone make me feel safe. You saved me Dean, in so many ways. I love you because I can, i love you because i always will.

I love you because you're you. You are honest to god Dean Winchester. I love Dean Winchester. I'm in love with Dean Winchester, to me, Dean Winchester is the most amazing man there is, and i wouldn't want anyone else beside me as i walk through life.”

Dean had no tears, but you could see them starting. His face was flushed, eyes red rimmed as he looked down at you, making your heart skip a beat.

In a split second Dean pulled you in, trapping you against his chest as he dipped his head, pressing his lips to yours in a desperate kiss.

You love him.

[imagionationstation]

One Last Time - 2012TMNT Drabblish

So I was scrolling through Tumblr and came across a headcanons list that named a sleep-like headcanon for each turtle. Leo’s involved being unable to sleep without a weighted blanket (misses turtle piles, I bet <;/3) and Donnie’s listed something about sleeping well on his own but eventually ending up in Leo’s room when he has nightmares (always manages to sneak back out before Leo wakes up tho. Keep his dignity intact). 

I went look for them again to reread and make sure my memory was holding true, but after scrolling to the point that my device almost crashed and searching #tmntheadcanons with every possible description that I can think off- I gave up the search. 

If you recognize these headcanons as your own- I surrender the ownership to you! I’m just using them for fluff because my brain won’t leave me alone.

Donnie jolts upright with a choked scream. 

He falls back onto the surface below him, something definitely not as concrete as he remembered. Heart pounding, breaths quick, a cold sweat covering every inch of him- he rolls over and grips the sheet over the mattress, fingers digging into the elastic surface in a desperate attempt to ground himself. He’s home. He’s in his room. He’s safe. He’s safe. He safe. 

He can still hear the gravely laugh. It’s only in his head, he knows that, and he repeats this mantra to block the overlapping voices- He’s home he’s safe “Do it now!” He’s safe he’s safe “I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do…” HE’S HOME HE’S SAFE- and squeezes his eyes shut to avoid looking around and risk seeing even the tiniest glint of a blade. 

He’s knows there’s nothing there. He knows he won’t see anything. He knows. He’s safe. He’s safe. He’s safe. 

After what feels like hours, the fears begins to lessen its hold and his fingers loosen over the sheets, dipping into a light doze that eases his heartbeat because he’s home he’s safe he’s safe safe he’s…

“We’re gonna see what makes you TICK!”

He’s on the floor before he realizes that he’s jumped off the bed in a blind panic. He scrambles away from the hotel bed that would bear his crude remains and out the first exit that presents itself, slamming the door shut and scanning the permitter-

This is the lair. He’s in the lair. He turns, trying to regain his breath. That’s his room. He’s home. 

A soft, frustrated whine escapes as he leans his head on the door. He’s exhausted beyond belief and the terror programmed in his brain wouldn’t leave him alone. It had been three days- three days!- and he still can’t bring himself to sleep longer than a few minutes. It takes longer than that to calm himself back down. He can’t calm down. Why can’t he calm down?

It doesn’t make since. There’s something about his bed that isn’t comfortable anymore. Something about lying there that doesn’t feel safe. He’s not safe. 

But he is. He is. He’s safe. He’s home. He’s home so he’s safe. 

His body weighs a million pounds as he digs in the belt he forgot to take off and pulls out his t-phone. He glances at the time. They all settled down barely half an hour ago. Is that even enough time to enter REM sleep twice? Is his sleep-deprived mind hallucinating? 

That’s just what he needs. 

His hand tightens around the phone. This isn’t fair. It’s over. Everything’s fine. He’s safe! 

He just wants to sleep. 

He drags himself off the door and takes hold of the handle. He knows he should head inside and try again, but he’s been trying and it’s not working. It’s flawed and pointless and he’s tired and he doesn’t know what else to do and- and- 

His eyes are burning and watering in a frustrating mix. He lifts a hand to scrub at them, letting loose a weak puff of air, eyes unconsciously trailing to his brother’s door. Instinct kicks in and he’s taken a step before rationality follow suit. 

No! 

No, he swore that was the last time. 

He can’t start this again. He’s too old for this. 

He’s practically an adult! He- he just needs- 

His hand closes around a doorknob, but it’s not his own. He takes a steadying breath. 

Just- just one more time. This is the last one. Last time. This one. 

It’s not a bit deal, right? Leo doesn’t notice. No one knows. He-

“Do it now!”

He wrenches the door open and staggers in, fighting to breath. He refuses to look behind him because he’s not there not there no one is there-

Leo stirs and rolls over. Donnie freezes guiltily, expecting him to sense his presence and check up on the room’s intruder, but he settles, breathing evenly. He knows he should leave. He knows he should just get out and go to his own bed in his own room and stop acting like a spineless whimp- 

He steps forward. Don’t overthink it. Don’t overthink- just do it. Do it. Just- 

ALARM. ALARM ALARM ALARM- 

Memory kick in hardcore and Donnie scrambles to unlock his t-phone. He turn on the alarm to wake him at least an hour before Leo normally wakes up, setting it on vibrate to give him plenty of time to sneak out unnoticed. He clutches it in shaky hands, glancing back at his brother. 

Last time- last time- don’t overthink it- don’t think don’t think don’t- 

Donnie doesn’t know how the brother that prides himself on mastering his senses never notices when the distribution of the weighted blankets that he leans on almost every night changes. Yet, he simply doesn’t, and Donnie thanks his lucky stars for this. 

Donnie lays down, but immediately feels like there are eyes on him, boring into the back of his skull. He left the door open. Goosebumps prickle and spread, but he refuses to look back, biting down on his lower lip when a whimper tries to escape.

He gives in, snatching a weighted blanket to drag over himself and then hugging the t-phone to his chest, waiting for his pounding heart to settle. He tries to stay as small as possible to not invade his older brother’s space. It’s shameful. He’s too old for this. Way too old. Why is he even in here? 

He should go.

He doesn’t move. 

The adrenaline rush doesn’t last long as the triumph of being unnoticed sinks in. The silence is only broken by the steady breathing of his older brother and he stares at the back of his shell as his eyes flicker, becoming harder and harder to keep open.

Then Leo rolls over- hardly unexpected, he leans heavily on those blankets- and an arm drops over the blanket on him. Donnie shrinks a bit, worried he’s going to feel the difference and awaken, but a firm grip subconsciously urges him close. 

Donnie can breath again. The cold in his bones is replaced with an impossibly familiar warmth and the even breaths above are so much better than his mantra. He shudders as the rest of the fear oozes out, pressing as close as he dares to the pillar of safety. He rests his forehead on his plastron, feeling each patterned beat of his heart.

When a yawn startles him to reality, he pulls away, settling on the mattress to avoid taking pillow space. The exhaustion is impossible to ignore and he doesn’t have to say what his body and instincts willingly accept. He’s not alone, but that’s okay. That’s perfect.

He’s home. He’s home and he’s here. He’s home and Leo’s here so… so he’s… sss..

Leo sighs. His not-so-sneaky ball of brother is lost within minutes and he stealthily adjusts the blanket so it doesn’t risk coming loose, just in case the shivers that he felt were partly from the cold, even though Leo knows why he’s receiving an afternoon visit. 

“I blew it. I led him right into a trap.”

“Hey. We’re a team and we cover each other’s mistakes. We’ll get them back.”

“Then we better move. Whatever he wants Don and Gecko for, it’s not good…” 

Donnie never did tell them what The Don’s plans where.

Leo’s sure he will in time, but whatever happened before they could get to him is clearly at the forefront of his thoughts. It’s weighing heavily on their brainy bro, preventing him from resting or relaxing, and that’s how Leo knew that this ‘visit’ was coming. It was really only a matter of waiting.

Donnie nuzzles into the bedding beneath him, leaning on the t-phone between his hands and plastron. Leo smiles fondly, fingers curling around his pillow as he watches the admittedly cute subconscious approval of his bed. He doesn’t remember when this started.

Thinking back to their days in turtles piles, Leo wonders if the two of them never really stopped. He rubs the younger turtle’s shell, deeming him asleep enough not to awaken from the movement.

He needs the rest.

Besides, Donnie would be mortified if he knew that Leo knew.

He’d probably stop coming at all, which is exactly why the leader doesn’t say a word. His younger brother prefers to pull away from the rest of them when bad things happen. He gets lost in his head and tries to process things on his own- but even geniuses need help sometimes, and Leo’s alway willing to give whatever help he can. It’s his responsibility.

…And maybe, deep down, he’s a little selfish. He doesn’t know what to call this. A routine? A habit? There has to be a title for it, to describe the reason why he got so worried those first two nights when Donnie didn’t come. Second-guessing if he’d even show up this time. Flicking in and out of sleep as he wonders if maybe the��older brother wasn’t needed as much as the leader anymore. 

But he’s here. 

So doesn’t that say something? 

He’s here, right in Leo’s reach, safe and alive and home.

Leo tucks him a bit closer, feeling tension still in his shoulders, and mutters a line as familiar as the secret that the other doesn’t realize they share. “You’re safe, Dee. You’re home. I’m here.”

Donnie presses into Leo’s plastron again, something he often does during these nights, perhaps finding the firm surface calming somehow. He churrs, something distant and content and so very weak, but Leo hears it all the same.

The tight knot of worry falls undone. He’s able to relax then, protectively clutching something so much better than a shaped pile of weighted fabrics.

Donnie will wake up in a few hours and be unaware that Leo watches him leave, satisfied to have chased off the few nightmares that day. Neither brother will say a word as the evening passes and day closes in, wondering if that was the last time.

It’s hard, really, to determine a last time when they can’t recall a first.

[thatonejhinguy]

The Virtuoso sighs dreamily as his lover struggles to put on a shirt that they haven’t realized wasn’t theirs. He couldn’t stop himself from giving a soft, loving smile as the fighter began to growl and chudder while wrestling with the shirt.

The fighter gave the shirt a deathly glare. It could have been intimidaing, were he not puffing out his cheeks and pouting as well.

Jhin rested his chin on his hand and snickered.

“Would you rather I got you another shirt? Perhaps one of your own, this time?”

His lover’s grumpy gaze shifted to meet Jhin’s. The two stared for some time, unmoving, Jhin’s smile growing bigger by the second as his words sunk in. The cranky laidian grumbled some more, throwing the shirt to the ground, then crossing his arms.

“Yes.”

“Ah-ah~.”

“Yes, please.”

“That’s better.”

[ejzah]

A/N: A bit of light Callen and Deeks angst to finish up your night.

***

You ever think about having kids?” Deeks casually asked Callen one night as he closed up the bar. Callen was wiping off tables, even though he technically wasn’t on the payroll, while Deeks straightened and restocked beyond the bar. If he thought Deeks’ question was weird or too personal, he didn’t say anything.

“Theoretically, I suppose. But it’s never really been at the top of my list,” he answered after a minute. Deeks just nodded, focusing on the neat row of liquor bottles he’d just lined up. “Any particular reason why you asked?”

“I guess I was just thinking about how neither of us had great childhoods, and our parental figures weren’t always the best role models.” Callen snorted.

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“So knowing all that, along with the fact that I’ve done some pretty despicable things in the name of the law, do you think a guy like me has any business becoming a father?” Deeks couldn’t quite keep the same level of nonchalance as he asked this next question.

This particular thought had been on his mind for a while, he’d just been too afraid to ask it. Callen sighed heavily and turned to face Deeks with a completely serious expression.

“Deeks, I’m not exactly sure where this is stemming from, but I’m really the person you should come to when it comes these types of questions,” he said and Deeks nodded again.

“Yeah, no, I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” he said dismissively.

“You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say, I do know that you are a good man. Whatever mistakes you might have made in the past, you aren’t a copy of your dad. You won’t make the same mistakes he did.”

“So you’re saying you think I should have kids?” Deeks frowned, trying to reason out what Callen was trying to tell him. He chuckled and tossed Deeks a balled up bar towel which he caught in one hand.

“I’m not telling you to do anything. I’m just saying, don’t let your past determine the choices you make,” he clarified and Deeks rolled his eyes.

“Well, that clears everything up.”

“Hey, I never said my advice was good.”

“No, no you didn’t,” Deeks agreed, laughing. “Why don’t you get some sleep? I can finish up here.”

“Alright,” Callen agreed, grabbing a bottle of beer from the bar before he left. It was a brand that hadn’t sold well at all, but Callen seemed pretty fond of it. “Don’t stay up to late.”

“Yes, dad.”

“Oh and Deeks,” he called over his shoulder, “You’re going to be a great dad.”

[kekkaisensen-imagines]

Ok how about a Klaus scenario were his s/o it has been shrunk (like fitting in his palm) for 48 h?

oh boy

Klaus has seen some odd things in his life. But this had to be one of the oddest situations he’s come across. 

Holding you in the palm of his hand was… interesting and a bit scary to say the least. Scary in the sense that if he dropped you, you’d most likely die from falling onto the ground or even breaking from the impact of Klaus catching you. You, on the other hand, just wanted the 48 hours to be over already. You always thought about how interesting it’d be to be shrunk, but this was way out of proportion (no pun intended). 

Klaus’s table? Basically a building now. A shoe? Probably something you could live in, minus the smell. Klaus himself? He looked even taller now. It was a bit terrifying, to say the least. 

Not wanting to take any chances, Klaus gently let you down onto his desk. You gladly slid down his hand and onto the surface of the wood. He bent down eye level with you, squatting a little on the floor. 

“I’ll leave you here for now, if that’s okay. I’ll be getting some things for you since you won’t be changing anytime soon, unfortunately.”

Klaus spoke a bit softer than usual. You assumed that he didn’t want to hurt your hearing, as you were no bigger than a pencil. You, however, had to speak up a bit for him to actually hear you as you gave him the ok.

A few minutes went by as you explored Klaus’s desk and played on the keyboard of his computer. When he came back, he held a few items in his hands. They turned out to be dollhouse toys, the ones that children played with. 

“I remembered that K.K’s children had these, so I asked if I could borrow them for you,” He explained, putting down a small house the size of a large tissue box. You quickly walked over to it, looking inside. There was a bed your size, along with a desk. A look of surprise crossed your face. You hadn’t expected such a nice house and a toy one at that. 

You didn’t see it, but an amused smile appeared on Klaus’s face. It was pretty cute amusing to see you inspect it. 

The next day went by fairly smoothly. A few of the others of Libra hadn’t caught wind of you getting shrunk, so seeing you on the shoulder of Klaus was a bit of a shock. Particularly to Leo and Zapp. You had to cover your ears as Zapp yelled out in surprise when he saw you. You knew he was loud, but being practically the size of cellphone made it ten times worse. Steven made sure that you would be fine when you would come back to normal and of course, Klaus was the one who watched over you. You firmly held onto him (literally) as the day went by. Sure, it was pretty terrifying to see Hellsalem’s Lot a lot bigger than how you usually see it, but at least you got to experience eating ice cream that was bigger than you. Even turning the pages of a book was pretty exciting. 

Soon the 48 hours were over. You were back in your normal sized self and not at risk of being squished by a foot. The best part of the entire situation was being able to actually hug Klaus without a worry. 

[imaginationcemetary]

Ah yes hello it is I the angst queen. You said you werent too familiar with the outercodes, so let's get some practice in! How would Ink, Error, Night, and Dream react to their s/o leaving them for the other after an big argument with the ex skele. (Nights to Dreams, Errors to Inks, likewise)

Howdy angst queen, thanks for the opportunity for some practice! I did a little research, so let’s take a crack at this shall we? I do so love me some good angst, so hopefully you will enjoy this too.

Nightmare to Dream:

At first it started with small things, minor disagreements, petty fights. You don’t know what it was, but being around Nightmare filled you with sickly feelings of anger and animosity, it was like every negative thought you had was amplified to ten. The bickering got louder, and the fights got bigger and more out of hand, until finally you screamed that you would be leaving Nightmare for his brother Dream; someone who never made you feel bad about yourself, who filled the room with a breath of warmth and hope unlike the stifling air of negativity in your own home.

The room falls silent, and Nightmare’s singular cyan eye light looks you over like you’ve just told the worst joke in the history of the multiverse. “heh, heh, heh...of course you are. he’s dream, he’s the good one, the one everyone loves, the one who can do no wrong, the one whose so much better than me,” he hisses, narrowing his socket at you. Squirming inky black tendrils begin creeping closer to you, curling and uncurling dangerously. Something inside of Nightmare spills over, a painful hurt at the knowledge that he’ll never be as good as his brother, never have the warmth of hope and love return to his soul, that not even his best efforts to be good again were good enough for you. The protective voice inside his mind hisses anger and poison into his heart, quickly driving the pain away. There’s no time to be sad when you’re pissed right? “like hell you’re leaving me for that creampuff.” The steadily advancing tendrils shoot out and coil around you...You don’t make it to Dream.

Dream to Nightmare:

The ever beaming ray of hope and positivity that is Dream stares at you with wavering eye lights, once full of such joy and now welling over with a confused sort of betrayal. “BUT WHY ARE YOU LEAVING ME? I THOUGHT WE WERE HAPPY?” And you were...at first. Dream was always supportive and loving, there to pick you up when you were feeling down, but somehow that morphed into a forced positivity. Whenever Dream was around you, you weren’t allowed to feel sad. It was nice in the beginning, having someone there to cheer you up, but lately he hasn’t been giving you the time to process any of your negative emotions, the moment one wells up he tries to shove it back down and it’s been taxing on your mental health. All you did was tell him you were going to see Nightmare and he looked at you like you’d just kicked a box of crying puppies into a river. You’re so mad at him, you just need to feel what you feel.

Dream is afraid, afraid that if he lets you be sad, or angry, or jealous that the darkness will rise and take over your soul...take you away from him...just like it took his precious brother away. He can’t let that happen, he can’t lose both his most important people, he won’t. But here you are, with those very feelings he tried so hard to keep away, walking out the door without looking back. He wants to stop you, but he’s afraid that when he turns you around...it won’t be you anymore. You walk away. He falls to his knees sobbing, arms curling around himself and bony distals clutched tightly in his golden cape. “PLEASE, PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME!”

Error to Ink:

You were so lonely in the antivoid. Error was never around, and when he was, he didn’t have the time of day for you. You were becoming touch starved and desperate for companionship. There was no big fight, just a string of growing heartache leading up to the one day you finally had enough and told him that you were leaving him for Ink. He clutched his chest and laughed at you, glitching out for a moment from how hard he was laughing. He looks at you with a smirk and rolls his eye lights at you. “trust me puppet, you think you’re lonely now? just wait till you’re with him. that soulless abomination only cares about one thing, and it sure as heck ain’t you.” Error twitches his fingers and a blue thread grazes against your cheek. “at least i can love you.” You don’t feel very loved. “besides.” Another thread wraps around your neck, squeezing lightly. “if you join him, i’ll have to destroy you.”

Ink to Error:

You love him, you love him so much, you knew he needed help feeling things, but you never expected it to feel this bad when you realized he would never...could never tell you he loved you back. For you he would drink vial after vile of emotion just to make you happy, but then the vials ran out, and he would not lie to you anymore. “i don’t love you, i never did, and i never can.”

You stand there in shock, a cold chill running down your spine at those words that you already knew deep down were true. You can’t keep hurting yourself like this, you need to get as far away from Ink as you can. But how can you when he is everywhere? You tell him you’re leaving him for Error. Ink’s blank, uninterested expression doesn’t even change and he waves you away before you even start walking. “see you around then.” You start crying and he doesn’t even care. You wish he would care...wish he could care, stars above why does this hurt so bad.

[sonicspsychos]

Troubled teen

@ranger-slayer @fivetimesaranger This one’s for both of you. No bio on this one yet-consider it a what if on that son speculation. I thought about doing a drabble, but decided this would be more fun.  Post below the cut-no need to match length.

His parents had named him David, after an uncle he’d never known. Even his father hadn’t seen him after he’d disappeared after what seemed to be an all too brief reunion during his high school years. David Oliver had learned martial arts with his sisters, but upon hitting his teenage years, he’d lost patience. He and his father just ended up arguing about David not concentrating or trying hard enough, and David would storm off in a huff.  In the end, he ended up learning from his sister Tommi instead.

Today he’d stayed out far too late again. Usually he’d remember to text his mother where he was-he wasn’t that much of a dick, after all. But tonight had been different-tonight he’d been attacked by things-weird things in the dark that he couldn’t identify. There were far too many, and he found himself surrounded, beaten, and hurt.

It was a greenish blur that saved him-whatever had been beating on him disappeared in a flash of green fire and the sound of stabbing.

“Hmph. They weren’t even a challenge.” David heard a voice, and could hear footsteps. “Stupid little human. Don’t you know you shouldn’t be out by yourself?” And before he could argue, David found himself slung over someone’s shoulder.

He was deposited rather unceremoniously on his own doorstep, but not before his would be savior knocked harshly on the door. “Tell those parents of yours that Psycho Green says you’re welcome...and they owe me pizza. Next time, be rebellious somewhere else so I don’t have to baby-sit you.” And with that, his savior was gone.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Black is the Cloth

Warnings: religion, anti-religious thoughts, death, grieving, dark content. Warnings are not exhaustive and you proceed at your own risk.

Character: demon!priest!Bucky

Summary: Your mother is dead and you’re left without direction. (1950 AU)

Note: I dunno, had an idea, wrote it out. Drabblish one shot energy today.

I always appreciate feedback in any form and know that you are loved. Whether you read or not, thank you for scrolling by!

Your mother isn’t a bad person. Wasn’t. The internal correction brings more tears to your eyes and you dab away the tears with your rumpled handkerchief. 

This day was inevitable, yet you can’t believe it’s come. Your mama’s dead, in a casket, lying beneath the dirge of the church organ, candles glowing in contest with the sparse electric bulbs along the walls.

She isn’t, wasn’t, a bad woman, just lonely. A solace you inherited. Isolation thrust upon you upon the mission of piety. Be pure, be good, my girl, and the lord will carry you.

You sniffle as you kneel at the pew and listen raptly as the organ quiets. The priest takes his place at the altar, a gentle man, Father Barnes, is your only companion in this grim journey. A final goodbye to your sole protector. You barely hear him as you once more devolve into suffocating sobs.

He’s been patient. The only priest willing to settle for the modest amount put away by your mother over her humble lifetime. A fortune to you but not to many. You would spend it all to see her blessed on holy ground.

More than patient, a guiding hand. He knew the casket maker and arranged the service, walking you through each step, asking who should be expected in the pews. Just you. That he didn’t believe, but there you are. Just you and him in the gloom of his ordained eulogy.

There is a world outside these walls he cannot lead you through. One you must face alone for the first time in your life. The old house must be sold, you can’t maintain it alone, and the seamstress job you found won’t pay for anything so spacious.

But that’s after. You have to get through this first. You fold your hands and close your eyes, the priest’s sonorous voice carrying over you in Latin lamentations. 

You see your mother, so skinny and withered. Sick for some time but unconcerned until it was too late. You blame yourself, not her. You should have insisted but she always claimed silence as a virtue. Perhaps a lesson not so biblical as she declared.

She’s gone. The Lord took her as he willed and you cannot contest the order of his creation. 

Your vision blurs as you watch Father Barnes gesture a cross above your mother’s casket. You smother your mouth with the damp handkerchief and swallow a hiccup.

He closes the service as the censer sends scented smoke across the space and tickles your nose. He shuts his bible and places it upon the alter.

“Service will reconvene in the cemetery upon the hour,” he declares, only to you, but he acts as if there are dozens more parishioners among the rows, “in the name of the Father.”

You rise and his eyes meet yours. A bold blue even through the acrid smoke and from a distance. His jaw squares and he bows his head before turning sharply on his heel, marching away.

You fix your shawl and shake out your skirt. The black wool makes you sweat, stiff and straight. You walk down the aisle as you clasp your hands to your chest, squeezing the handkerchief. You’re not ready to say goodbye.

You go out into the hazy Brooklyn fog, a remnant of the storm that morning. You descend past the statue of St. Michael as motorcars puff by with indifference. It is only the end of the world for you.

You follow the path across the green and to the plot dug out for your mother. Her stone is small and flat to the dirt. No one else will know to look for her but you. You wish you could do more, that you had more for her, to honour her. 

You quiver and blow your nose, the church bells bellowing out the hour as wet footsteps slick on the grass before you. The priest watches the pallbearers patiently as they carry your mother with heads down. They pass her off to another group of men waiting, the gravediggers.

As they ready her to be lowered, Father Barnes opens his bible once more and begins his recitation. His square jaw tenses with each word, his dark hair curling with the moisture in the air, the lines of his face as handsome as those depicted in paintings of the saints.

His figure blurs as you tear your eyes away. You can only see the wood, nailed down to hide your mother’s corpse. You shake as you’re consumed in your grief, watching her descend in horror.

Your knees buckle and you fall to the grass, pantyhose soaked by the wet grass. Barnes comes to you as he keeps his voice even, reading still as he offers his arm and helps you back to his feet. He hooks his elbow with yours as you stand shakily and remains with you as he proceeds.

The crunch of dirt signals the finale. The priest finishes his verses and nods. He stands close, comforting as his thick arm remains entangled with yours as the first shovel dumps soil upon the lid. The sound of it showering onto wood makes you whimper and dab your eyes once more.

“Be strong, sister,” he touches your sleeve, “the Lord has called to her, as he does everyone, and she will be his most precious lamb.”

“Thank you, Father,” you sniff and crumple the handkerchief in your glove as you suck back the last of your tears.

“I understand there will be no gathering to give glory to your mother, but if you might permit it, I would welcome you for tea in the priory,” he intones as you watch the shovels work in unison to heap upon the mounting pile.

“Father, that is very generous,” you say, entranced by the sight of the earthly end, the dreary departure of your mother buried in dirt.

Is there a God? Would he see your mother leave this world with only you to mourn her? Would he have condemned her to rot away before your very eyes, a sickly skeleton with hollow eyes. Your despair turns to bitter resent.

“So you will join me?” Barnes prompts.

You turn your head slowly, stiffly. You forgot he was there, you forgot what he said. Then it comes back through the sour sheen of your boiling grief.

“Tea?” your tongue is dry and clumsy, “yes, Father, I couldn’t deny such a kind offer.”

“My child,” he pats your hand and presses it to his forearm more firmly as he leads you away from the grave, “it is my duty to shepherd all my parishioners through the pasture.”

“You’ve already done so much,” you say numbly, the trees a blur of green against the grey sky, the noise of the city blending together in a muffled cacophony. The world goes on, they do not care, how can you think the Lord does either? 

“These times are difficult but we must all face our trials in time,” he keeps his hand over your glove as he walks you along the path, “we think the Lord cruelest in these times. We think of all those tales of his vengeance, of his wrath raining down upon his creation, and we wonder, ‘why us?’, is He not meant to be benevolent? If he can do anything, can he no vanquish death?”

Silence but for the drip of water from wet leaves and the church roof. It’s close to blasphemy but from a man of the cloth, it is but a theological observation. He must voice the doubts to speak to them. As God has beckoned him to do.

You proceed up the aisle and past the altar. The priory is behind; the same room where he helped you plan the service. He lets you in, the old candle beam lit in place of electric bulbs as it hangs over his desk. He helps you down into the armchair that faces his priestly perch.

You thank him as you fall weakly against the back. It’s over and that means you must go on. Alone. The fear is as palpable as the sadness. Oh, how can you do it without her? You cannot hear God without her.

Father Barnes leaves you for a moment and returns with a steaming pot of tea. He sets it down and takes two cups from the glass-faced cabinet against the wall. He pours the dark tea and offers you a tuliped cup. You take it with gratuity.

You sip but choke as another unexpected sob tightens in your throat. You cough and he quickly steadies the cup, easing it from your grasp. You keel over as you unball the cotton square and weep into it. He gets to one knee as he touches your arm, rubbing it soothingly.

“I know that you are afraid, my child,” he coos, “I know that there are questions in your mind that cannot be answered. But I am here, you are not alone.”

You flick your lashes up. His eyes bore into you as he watches you fervently. Your mother would’ve loved him if she had ever left the house.

“You are so kind, Father, and I cannot–” you sniff and try to clear your throat, blotting your face diligently, “I cannot understand how you can be so giving.”

“Lost souls are always welcome here,” his thumb rubs your sleeve as he kneels beside your legs, his other hand gently settling on your skirt, “tell me, what troubles you? What thoughts have you so aggrieved?”

“My mother–” you begin.

“It is more than that,” his voice is low and fills you like the warmth of a fire, intoxicating, “I see it. I know it. Tell me your fears.”

“I… cannot,” you plead, “for I fear I think of sinful things.”

He squeezes your knee through the wool of your skirt. If it were another man, you might wince, might push him away, but his touch is comforting. And he is a holy man.

“We all think of such things, it is human to question your faith. It is how the Lord made us.”

You gulp and push your hand down to your lap, “Father, I don’t… I feel as if God has turned his back to me. That he has taken the only thing I love and that is horribly mean. And I am angry, I feel as if I can never forgive him. I– oh, how can I say it?”

He’s quiet as he watches you. He brings his hand up to wipe away your tears, gently, doting. Affection you never felt before. For all that she taught you, your mother was never so outwardly loving.

“And why shouldn’t feel that? You are not wrong.”

Your eyes round. He cradles your cheek and for a moment, his eyes linger on your lips. He inhales, as if breathing in your essence, and his gaze meets your once more.

“He has taken her and cruelly so. Torturously, he made you watch her die a painful death,” his fingers tickle down your neck, a shiver flutters up your spine, “and he has left you with nothing.”

“Father…” you gasp as his fingers dance over the collar of your dress.

“How many priests turned you away? And for what? Because they are greedy? They expound humility and yet will not offer their voice for less than a fortune,” his hands slips further, “they would see you in a poorhouse before they see you in their chapels.”

He cups your bosom and your lungs swell in disbelief. He fondles you but it feels good, it feels so unlike any touch you’ve ever known.

“Father,” you utter again as you stare down at his large hand, “what you say…” you try to stop him but you cannot move, “it is blasphemous.”

“It is the truth, you should be angry, but more so you should be happy and a vengeful god does not care for happiness,” his other hand trails up your shoulder as he moves in front of you. He urges you forward as he grasps the back of your neck. His eyes are dark, endless, the blackness spreading over the whites. “I can make you happy, I can give you a purpose.”

You’re paralysed as you gape at him. This is no man of God, this is something sinister, a soulless being from the depths, and yet he speaks pleasantly. You cannot look away, cannot pull away as your heart plucks. He leans in closer, hot breath flowing into your nostrils like smoke.

“What good is living for a God who doesn’t love you? My pet, you could be happy, you know the truth, you can see it in my eyes.”

Your lips part, close again, then once more open in your confusion. His deep voice enthralls you and his touch stokes some unknown delight. His hands rove down your chest, stomach, and knead your thighs through your skirt. 

You have only the strength to grip the arms of the chair as you plummet into the void of his eyes. He gets closer and closer, lips brushing yours.

“Say you are mine, pet, and you will never know fear again,” he rasps as his hand slips beneath your dress, crawling up your thigh as you tremble.

Your heart pounds in your ears, flesh tingling, scalding, your breaths coming ragged but unafraid.

“I am yours,” you murmur without thought, as if another guides your tongue.

He smirks and his eyes flash red, nails digging into your tender flesh, tearing through the nylon of your pantyhose, “forever,” he growls and presses his lips to yours, the flames of his possession swallowing you up with his embrace.

[thegrandmasteratarms]

Jax huffs, hugging a pillow to his chest as he sat on his porch. 

The space heater behind him gave a quiet, tinny sound as it buzzed away, warming the air under the covered porch. Occasionally the wind would blow through the entryway from the front yard, causing the Grandmaster to grow cold and shiver. He had brought a blanket and pillow to prevent this, but it still caused a bit of chill despite it.

Jax wasn’t sure why he was out here. In all honesty, he had no reason to be. He’d be warmer inside, and he’d have more blankets. And food. He didn‘t even feel happier out here, he still felt hungry, still felt tired. Maybe he came out to see if he’d sleep better out on the porch? Not.. really? Maybe for a breath of fresh air, that seemed more likely. But it was dusk in Piltover, hardly the time or the place to go out for fresh air and some peace and quiet.

Regardless the reason, here he was, bundled up outside on the porch with nothin but a pillow and a blanket.