#just a lil drabble

[minalover]

By the time Eddie makes his way into the kitchen after the funeral, Buck's got both the coffee pot and the tea kettle going. He's still in his formal blacks, mourning band still around his arm, and his hand is shaking against the kettle's handle.

"Buck," Eddie starts. "Why don't you go change?"

"Nah, I'm okay," Buck replies. It's stiff, masked, strong. Solid. "How about you? You go change."

"Buck, I did already. See?" Eddie points to his sweatpants as enthusiastically as he can muster, like a game show host on quaaludes.

Buck doesn't turn around.

"Coffee will be ready in a minute. Or tea, that too. Whatever I can make you."

He doesn't let go of the handle.

Eddie moves further into the kitchen, coming up behind Buck and placing his hand over Buck's on the kettle. He wraps his other hand around Buck's shoulder, leaning his jaw into the meat of Buck's shoulder. He can feel trembles shake Buck's entire frame. "You've had a really hard day today, Buck. And you," he adds with a tight squeeze of Buck's shoulder, "have been so good. All day. So strong for everyone."

Buck's body shakes harder under Eddie's hands.

"But you," Eddie punctuates with a soft kiss to Buck's shoulder, "deserve to mourn, too. To be supported, too."

Buck's face is twisting, as he tries desperately to plug every hole before the tidal wave of emotions breaks through the barrier he's successfully held all day. It held as he held Athena's hand at the internment, as he wrapped a sobbing May in his arms, as he stood beside Hen as she delivered Bobby's eulogy — it could hold now.

It could. It would.

It had to.

"But you don't have to hide, Buck. Not here. Not at home."

The tea kettle clicks off.

Eddie moves Buck's shaking hand from the kettle handle, folds it gently into his own, and works to turn Buck around. Buck's head is stuck in the downward position, eyes open and glazed over, tears pouring in streams down his face.

Passing Buck's hand from one to the other, Eddie moves in, wrapping his newly freed hand around the curve of Buck's jaw, gently pulling his face forward to meet Eddie's eyes.

"Don't hide. Not from me."

Buck cracks.

Eddie would swear he could hear it like thunder.

All at once, Buck collapses, right there in kitchen. Eddie almost doesn't catch him, but manages, folding Buck's shivering body in his own, pulling him in, muffling the wails in Eddie's shoulder.

"He's gone, he's gone he's gone he's gone," Eddie hears between gasps. Buck's voice is wet and miserable and so, so vulnerable. "And I—I—I couldn't do—anything—to stop it." He's wheezing now, his voice interrupted by the sharp noises. "Just like—just like you—I was just—just the guy—standing there—who couldn't—who couldn't do anything."

A part of Eddie must crack too. He feels it, more than hears it this time. He tightens his grip on Buck, pulls into him with every print of every finger on his hands.

"But you are still here, Buck," Eddie pleads into Buck's hair. "You are here and you're right here with me, in my arms. Do you feel them?"

Buck's body is quivering, breath quick and unsteady. Eddie can feel the wetness of Buck's tears through his shirt.

"This sucks so much and it's horrible and awful and your heart is broken but you, you are not broken, do you hear me?"

A fresh wail comes out of Buck, then.

"And even though it feels like every part of you is somehow numb and on fire and drowning and completely fine all at the same time, and you don't know where to put your feet or how to open your mouth, know that I have never loved you more than I do right now."

Buck's body pushes into Eddie's, his fingers reaching out to grasp into Eddie's shirt, pulling and shaking.

"You are so full of love and you will make it out the other side. And on those days when it feels like you can't, you've got me, okay?" Eddie nuzzles his nose in Buck's hair, pressing soft, lingering kisses onto his scalp.

Buck's sobbing is quieting, his grip on Eddie still firm.

"I'm right here. And I'm not going anywhere."

[coulsons-left-arm]

Just think about it, though...

Daisy is laying in a hospital bed, asleep. Coulson has a predisposition to stay at her bedside, especially if she hasn't woken up since coming out of surgery.

When she first wakes up, her brain feels like soup because those pain meds are working their magic almost a little too well. There's a man next to her bed, and she recognizes him as someone she feels safe with, so she says his name.

"Dad?"

Mmmmmm, that doesn't seem right. That's not his name. That's not usually what I call him.... Right?

It seems to catch his attention, though, as he smiles shyly and leans forward a bit, grabbing her hand gently. It's warm and solid and safe, encompassing her whole hand.

"Daisy? How're you feeling?"

How does she feel? Everything is hard to pinpoint, but she knows two things for sure.

"Sleepy, but better now that I've got pain meds and you here." Or maybe that's three things... She gives him a dopey smile, one that she thinks probably looks like one of the many she's seen on his face. It probably does look like his because the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree, right?... Or wait, is she even hi--

He seems to give a breathy chuckle, reaching a hand to move some of her loose hair behind her ear. The warmth seems to calm the soft pounding in her head, so she leans into it. And to her satisfaction, his hand seems to stay close, his slightly calloused thumb rubbing back and forth on her cheekbone.

His presence is warm and safe and all the things that make her drowsy... And she ends up falling back asleep on accident.

~~~~~

When Daisy wakes up again, she's more coherent -- the drugs were wearing off --, and Coulson is now sitting with her. She groans as she tries to wiggle her stiff body. The noise makes Coulson perk up, a little tentative, but still reaches for her hand. It felt... familiar. She decides she likes it, so she doesn't remove her hand from his.

"You're here."

"Of course. Pain meds wearing off?"

"Yeah, but I'll be okay for a little bit. It's good to feel a little pain. And I don't want to be too loopy... Which, do you know if I said anything crazy?" If Daisy didn't know any better, she would've missed the slightest bit of red in his cheeks as he seemed to smile to himself.

"Meh, nothin' too crazy... You may have called me, 'Dad.'"

That was him??? Oh....

"But... Honestly?... Is that too far from the truth?"

[c-t-r-l14]

His Eyes

————-🧡———-

Dontis x Reader

—————🧡————-

In the short time you’ve been living on this Earth, you have experienced a lot in your life. You’ve experienced the whirlwind of compassion, burning desire, and the warmth of falling in love. You’ve experienced the satisfaction—the complacency of living in a humble home with the person you loved more than life itself. You’ve experienced the joy—the overwhelming privilege of building a family together, and the immense fulfillment that made your heart swell with so much love when you heard your children laugh. You can still hear their high pitched, childish giggles every time you close your eyes. Their laughter hauntingly echos in your mind like a distant memory. You couldn’t remember their faces anymore, no matter how hard you tried. And, when you did—though in vain—you were often filled with disheartenment and sorrow, because all you saw was blank spaces. Blank spaces in the places where their beautiful glowing eyes, straight noses, and upturned lips should be. All you saw were faceless figures—

And that is because the war took them away.

You used to go through life without any worries, burdens, or troubles. You used to live life as if it were a dream; and it was, for a while. But, if there was one thing you’ve just realized after all these years—it was how finite and fleeting life truly is. How things can go from perfectly fine to disastrous in the matter of seconds. How you could go from living the life you’ve dreamed of ever since you were a little girl—having a husband and children of your own, to them being snatched away by men with guns and cannons. You carried that pain everywhere you went; and it was so heavy that sometimes it made you fall over— leaving you wishing for the impact of the fall to be hard enough to kill you every single time. But if anything, most days you just wanted to forget. The pain was too much to carry—and you had no one to share that load with.

In your quest of finding a vampire—who are said to wield immense, mystical power over people’s emotions, and beheld the ability to compel someone to forget anything they wished—you instead stumbled upon another creature. One who feeds off of desire.

He told you his name was Dontis.

And although you were initially disappointed that he wasn’t a vampire, you didn’t object to his company either. You didn’t know if it was just your intuition, or maybe if the grief and utter loneliness that consumed your entire being was making you delusional—but you could tell that he has also been through quite a lot, as well. You can see it in his eyes. They were always low-lidded; devoid of any glint of happiness, sadness, or life in them. They were dull and empty—and a sort of wariness emanated from his cold, vacant gaze. You couldn’t help but feel uneasy when his eyes would meet yours, because whenever they did—it never felt like he was looking at you; it felt like he was looking through you. As if—he were looking at someone—something—a thousand yards away. It didn’t matter how many times he tried to joke, or to laugh, or smile—the hollowness in his eyes were all you can see. And the only thing they beheld was insincerity. And maybe it wasn’t your place—maybe it was a bad idea, but a big part of you just wanted to know why.

What could’ve possibly unfolded in his life that made his stare so haunting?

“What is the matter?” Dontis asked, his voice snapping you out of your stupor.

You were so deep in your own thoughts that you didn’t even notice that you were the one staring at Dontis. His eyes—his cold, dead eyes were locked on yours. Looking at you—through you—almost as if your entire being was transparent.

A shiver ran down your spine, and you quickly looked away.

“Nothing,” you replied as you grabbed a plate of food and placed it in front of him, “Eat up.”

Maybe if you didn’t let his vacant gaze unnerve you—maybe if you weren’t so fixated on the tiles of the floor—you might’ve been able to see the genuine surprise that reflected in the glint of his widened eyes.

—————🧡—————-

Masterlist

[cyrassol]

Sometimes Eden thinks things he shouldn't think. Feels things he shouldn't feel. He doesn't ever share them, though, because that's just not who Eden is.

Sometimes he remembers the beginning, the very first time he met you. He remembers you trying to resist the inevitable, doing your best to punch and scratch and kick and bite, and he remembers that your best wasn't good enough. He remembers subduing you was easy, and he remembers that he wasn't gentle. You had to learn, and pain is the best teacher of all.

"These woods are dangerous. You could have gotten hurt," he'd said afterwards.

I did get hurt, is what your vacant eyes and tear-stricken face had said when your mouth didn't.

But not as bad as you could have been. I'm protecting you, he'd wanted to reply, but right then his mouth hadn't moved either.

You agree with him now. But sometimes, late at night with you sprawled across his chest, he wonders if he agrees with himself.

He wonders if you would have loved him if he hadn't made you. Sometimes the question keeps him awake long after you've fallen asleep. The question distracts him just as he's about to pull the trigger on a target, the question sours the sweet moments when you look at him with nothing but softness in your eyes.

Sometimes, you wake up in a cold sweat and look at him with the same eyes as in the beginning, and the question returns again.

"Please, Eden," you always pant as he rams into you while your climax approaches and sometimes, for a moment, his mind flashes back to when you'd said those words while begging him to stop.

Sometimes Eden thinks things he shouldn't think. Feels things he shouldn't feel.

He doesn't ever share them, though. Because he can't risk those thoughts becoming yours too.

[gvnner]

"For me, dissecting a cadaver is fun."

☾ Fandom: Wednesday ☾ Pairing: Wednesday Addams & Enid Sinclair ☾ Warnings: None ☾ Prompt: "Genius and stupidity are two sides of the same coin." by @freya-remy ☾ Summary: Enid attempt to get Wednesday in the fall decoration spirit. (756 words)

The autumn air was crisp as Wednesday Addams walked through the shaded paths of Nevermore Academy, the fallen leaves crunching under her boots. The sky was a muted gray, and a chill wind carried the scent of pine and decay—her favorite time of year. She moved with her usual purposeful stride, her dark eyes scanning the surroundings for anything out of place.

As she rounded a corner near the greenhouse, a blur of pastel colors and energetic movement caught her eye. Enid Sinclair, Nevermore’s resident werewolf and eternal optimist, was bustling about, arranging pumpkins and hay bales in a display that seemed to defy gravity.

Wednesday paused, her head tilting slightly in curiosity and mild disdain. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice flat but laced with a hint of bemusement.

Enid looked up, a bright smile lighting her face. "Howdy, roomie! I'm setting up the decorations for the Fall Festival. We need to make it look inviting!"

"Inviting," Wednesday repeated, her tone dripping with skepticism. She approached the display, her gaze flicking over the assortment of gourds and scarecrows. "Genius and stupidity are two sides of the same coin, Enid. This seems to lean heavily toward the latter."

Enid rolled her eyes, her smile unwavering. "Not everyone likes doom and gloom, Wednesday. Some of us enjoy a little color and cheer."

Wednesday arched an eyebrow, her expression impassive. "Cheer is overrated. It’s merely a fleeting distraction from the inevitable decay of existence."

Enid laughed, a bright, musical sound that seemed out of place in the somber surroundings. "You know, one of these days, I’m going to get you to enjoy something fun. It's a challenge I’ve taken upon myself."

"A fruitless endeavor," Wednesday replied, though there was a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth, almost a smile.

Enid grabbed a particularly large pumpkin and struggled to lift it onto a bale of hay. "A little help here, Miss Morbid?"

Wednesday hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. She grasped the other side of the pumpkin, and together they hoisted it into place. "I fail to see the appeal in this tradition," Wednesday said, brushing off her hands.

"It's about community, bringing people together," Enid explained, adjusting the pumpkin so it sat perfectly. "Plus, it's fun! You should try it sometime."

"Fun is a subjective concept," Wednesday said, crossing her arms. "For me, dissecting a cadaver is fun. This," she gestured to the decorations, "is tedious."

Enid grinned. "I bet I can change your mind. How about you help me with the rest of the decorations, and if you still think it’s tedious, I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the day."

"And if I find it enjoyable?" Wednesday challenged, her dark eyes narrowing.

"Then you have to come to the Fall Festival with me tonight," Enid said, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

Wednesday considered this for a moment, her gaze steady on Enid’s. "Fine," she said finally. "But don’t expect me to partake in any frivolous activities."

"Deal!" Enid said, clapping her hands together. "Let’s get started."

As they worked side by side, Enid chattered away, filling the silence with stories and laughter. Wednesday listened, her responses terse but not unkind. Despite herself, she found Enid’s enthusiasm oddly infectious.

"You know," Enid said, stepping back to admire their handiwork, "you’re not so bad at this."

"I excel at all tasks I undertake," Wednesday replied, though her tone lacked its usual sharpness.

Enid nudged her playfully. "See? That’s the spirit!"

Wednesday gave her a sidelong glance, her lips quirking into the faintest of smiles. "Perhaps genius and stupidity are indeed two sides of the same coin," she murmured, more to herself than to Enid.

As the final touches were put on the display, the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows over Nevermore. Enid dusted off her hands and turned to Wednesday, her expression triumphant. "So, what’s the verdict?"

Wednesday took a deep breath, the cool air filling her lungs. "It was... tolerable."

Enid laughed, her eyes twinkling. "I’ll take that as a win. See you at the festival, Wednesday."

As Enid walked away, humming a cheerful tune, Wednesday watched her go, a strange warmth blooming in her chest. Maybe, just maybe, there was something to this concept of 'fun' after all. And perhaps spending an evening at the festival wouldn’t be the worst fate imaginable.

With a final glance at the now festive courtyard, Wednesday turned and headed back to her dorm, a small smile playing at her lips.

[redstreetsahead]

Damirae Post-Flashpoint Drabble for Damirae Week

The universe would provide no gifts to this new world. No lucky happinesses.

Yet even still.

“Raven.” The girl would offer doubtfully, extending her hand.

“Robin.” The boy would respond tersely, ignoring it.

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

The universe was cruel. But even she had always granted small mercies.

In the world before, the daughter of a demon found love with a boy who was raised to become one.

It wasn’t fated, wasn’t common. Not like the things the universe couldn’t stop, such as the bashful reporter with a secret destined to fall for the sharp-eyed colleague sure to find it out. Not like the princess who would mourn the body of the pilot that had shown her a new mission.

Their love had been one that flourished against all odds.

When the girl was willing to condemn herself, he walked through hell itself to save her. When the boy was supposed to take his final breath, she forced life back into him. Even after pushing each other away, they found each other again. And again.

The world was supposed to continue with them together. They had fought their challenges, triumphed over them. The universe had allowed them happiness. Their own shining light in the darkness. A small consolation in the broken world that the heroes would have to rebuild.

That should’ve been the ending. A planet on its last legs that would rise up again. Not because it deserved to, but because the Earth was surprisingly hard to destroy. It would have recovered eventually. In centuries, maybe. Not without casualties, of course, but a price always had to be paid.

The promise of a price paid was why even when the speedster reversed time, the universe was still willing to grant small mercies. A price would be paid for this new world, and small, unsurprising happinesses could still bloom.

But the universe had been slighted. A sly magician refused to watched his planet suffer again. In one brave, stupid, heroic, final act, he had damned himself while saving the world. Slighting the universe in the process.

And thus, the universe would provide no gifts to this new world. No lucky happinesses.

Yet even still.

“Raven.” The girl would offer doubtfully, extending her hand.

“Robin.” The boy would respond tersely, ignoring it.

The would meet later in this new world. He would be older, harsher. She would be older too, sadder. He would be a monstrous human, and she a humane monster. They would fight, and hate, and ignore.

The universe was cruel. 

But that did not mean she was not curious.

There would be an understanding that can only occur between people like them. There would be glances, looks with the kind of fire that was most certainly not hatred. There would be the chance for two people to find the kind of solace that felt both impossibly familiar and entirely unknown.

And if two people as broken as them could stitch together happiness from nothing but their own tragedies… 

Well, the universe would find others to enact revenge on.

[necromelli]

working on a southern!finnick drabble (save a horse, ride a cowboy) ,, will hopefully have it posted tonight at some point 🙏🙏

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Excuse this extremely self-indulgent ask but. Sarah and the rebels (?) taking care of drunk Cinder/Alex

Sarah's POV of This Scene

cw: bad coping mechanisms, alcohol

"Cinder."

"Nnn..."

"Come on, you need to drink some water."

It was a little past 4 in the morning, and Sarah was busy being impressed that the assassin had managed to walk all the way here in this state, much less remember which was the correct doorstep to collapse on.

Impressed, and more than a little concerned.

Attempting to shake him awake or drag him inside seemed about as safe as poking a sleeping bear, so she'd instead grabbed a bottle of water and sat in the doorway, a foot or so out of his reach, and tried to get his attention.

So far, the man wasn't giving her much in way of response. At first she'd assumed he'd been caught in a fight, but once she'd crouched down she saw that the bruises on his face were old. And she didn't need super-senses to smell the booze on him.

"Cinder," she tried again, considering splashing some water on him. How wrong could that possibly go?

Still, she needed to get him inside before someone saw him, and she didn't want to have to wake Akeela up and make the kid deal with a drunk assassin. Maybe...

Shit, there was an idea.

Sarah stood slowly so as to avoid startling the killing machine on her porch, and made a beeline for the kitchen. She felt a little ridiculous putting the oven mitts on, but at least they'd offer a little protection if she scared him.

Back at the door came the next challenge: where was the least dangerous spot to poke a bear? If it were anyone else, she'd just tap on his hand or something, but would he even feel that? Touching anywhere near his face or torso would probably startle him. Well touching him anywhere was sure to startle him, but if he wasn't responding to her voice...

With fingers enclosed safely in an oven mitt, she took Cinder's hand. He didn't respond to that, so she pulled on it lightly. Maybe he'd feel it on his shoulder, and that would be enough---

She let go with a start when his eyes flew open, his metal arm bouncing onto the concrete with a sound like shaken coins.

Cinder didn't move though, and when his eyes started to drift back shut---

"Hey. Hey! Wake up."

"Why?" he mumbled.

Sarah let out a frustrated huff. Okay. She really didn't want to add to his anxieties, but if there was no other way...

"Someone will see you," she said. "You need to come inside."

And though his breathing quickened and the muscles in his throat tightened, it seemed to get through to him.

"Do you... want a hand?" Sarah said, holding one out as she watched him struggle to stand.

His eyes landed on the over mitt, gaze sharpening for just an instant. "Wh' the fuck is that?"

"Don't laugh at it," she said, though she doubted he was about to. "I'm just trying not to get burned."

"'M not gonna burn you," Cinder mumbled, pushing himself the rest of the way up and standing with his back pressed firmly into the wall.

"Okay. Well let's go inside. You can crash on the couch for now." She held the door open, following after Cinder as he made his painstaking way into the building. She swore she could hear him muttering under his breath---little rhyming phrases---but she didn't try and sharpen her ears to hear what he was saying.

Once he'd collapsed onto the couch, she again tried handing him the water bottle.

"Drink."

"Why?"

"I know you know what a hangover is."

"Doesn't matter."

"You aren't about to die of alcohol poisoning on my couch. Drink."

He clumsily snatched the bottle away, chugging it like he wished it were something stronger.

"Happy?"

"Yes." Sarah stood up and started to leave. He'd be fine down here, at least for the night. Should she get him a blanket? Put some more water next to him?

"Wait. Spyglass."

"Hm?" She stopped.

"Am... Am I safe?"

She turned back around. He was sitting up now, something like fear under the glazed over look in his eyes. "Safe?"

"He won't find me here?"

He. Uriah. Sarah nodded. "He won't." After a moment, she added, "We'll watch your back. Just get some rest, okay?"

He nodded, silent as he lay back down, his eyes slipping closed.

And if in a few hours he woke up and disappeared without another word, that was fine.

Right now, all that mattered to her was that she could hear his heartbeat slowing to a calm.

•°•°•

tag list:

@whumpacabra @enteredin2eternity @kixngiggles @whumpsday @kiichu @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @shywhumpauthor @distinctlywhumpthing , @bloodinkandashes , @fleur-alise , @whumpy-daydreams , @whumpwillow

[deathchasing]

The memorial service could have been better, he supposes. Maybe more fireballs.

He doesn't really remember what he said up on the podium. He doesn't remember a lot of things he says, but he probably should have been cognizant for this one. The old man had always put a lot of probablys and should haves in his life, what was one more? Instead something raw had spilled out of him, blood from a wound, and the warmth of Obi's guiding hand had been the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.

Blood is all he sees when he closes his eyes now, bursting from Torres's chest, spraying across the floor as mechanical reapers tear him to pieces. There's a feeling he can't name-- a plea for more time, for a second longer, but he doesn't know why. What would Torres having stayed alive any longer really accomplished for Octavio? What had he been waiting for? For the old man to give a damn? Everything for Torres was a means to an end and Octavio couldn't even pretend he was any different, though he'd certainly tried. He should be sad, shocked, something-- a good son would grieve, or like a good Silva, at least pretend to. But that's the crux of this misery, isn't it? Not that Ajay betrayed him, or even that Torres is dead; but that Octavio might be just as much of a monster as the man that raised him. Selfish, ambitious, willing to do whatever it takes to get what he wants, even if the process harms everyone else. No, the only thing to be upset about is his own willful ignorance, the disappointing facsimile of a father he spun from lies to convince himself he mattered. He's not mourning the loss of Torres Silva. He mourns what never was.

[arminsumi]

Ahhh, student!Satoru, who's leaning into the palm of his hand, mouth concealed behind his pale hand, eyes stuck on you. And they've been stuck on you ever since he saw you first walk up the steps into Jujutsu Tech. Bright blue. Heart quivering. Fixed gaze.

He takes any excuse to be near you, even though he knows that you're annoyed by him — he's so cocky and full of himself. But don't you see that he's also just a lovesick boy? Look at the way he follows after you down the halls, long striding legs effortlessly meeting your quick pace.

You're just trying to get a cold soda from the vending machine after a long two hours of practicing martial arts with Satoru, Suguru and Shoko. And since Shoko promptly left with Suguru for a cigarette break, that left an overjoyed Satoru alone with you.

"Which flavor do you usually get?" he asks, grasping at any conversation starter he can think of. He just wants to talk to you, even if it's about something so dumb... even if it's while stood next to a vending machine.

"Uh, strawberry... it's my favorite."

He takes a mental note of that.

He's always trying to get your attention, even if he has to become a fool in order to earn a glance from you. Walking away, looking dumb, even his best friend shakes his head at him and tells him that he's way too downbad for a girl that doesn't even like him back.

But Satoru doesn't listen to anyone when they say that you don't like him back. He knows the chemistry is there, as awkward as it may be sometimes. He knows there's something connecting him and you, like an invisible thread.

He still brings you gifts on V-day. He still pesters you in class. He still shares one earbud with you on train rides. He still gets that accelerated heart beat when you so much as graze your hand over his while walking side-by-side.

So eagerly looking at your lips, Satoru pulls out lip balm and makes eye contact with you while applying it. He's always got chapped lips, he knows because someone made exactly 1 comment about it and now he's never forgotten to put a lip balm in his pocket.

"Whatchya starin' at my lips for? You wanna have a taste of strawberry?" he winks, puckering his kissable lips at you.

"Ough..." you cringe at him, "Satoru, it's no wonder you're single."

Okay, he has zero flirting skills. But he earns a smile out of you right then, so even if he's cringe, he's surely doing something right. Are the cogs turning in your head? Do you think he's cute? Do you want to kiss him should he lean into a kiss oh he's leaning into a kiss now aaand he nearly falls flat on his face, because you didn't notice that he was leaning in for a kiss and now he just has to play it off and look like a dumbass once again.

His feelings grow exponentially as the years pass.

You're always catching him staring and he doesn't even feel ashamed.

Though it's been on his mind all the time, it's not until after three years of knowing you that Satoru kisses you.

It happens one day during heavy rainfall. He runs to you with a grin, no umbrella, totally soaked, and like a bright-eyed bunny he bounces at your side.

He's unzipping his uniform jacket, hanging it over the two of you. The proximity has his heart thumping. Before he knows it, he's leaning down to kiss you, right there as the two of you are concealed from the world in your own little bubble — in reality, everyone knows that you two are liplocking under Satoru's jacket. Duh. His shoes click on the ground as he repositions himself, bending his knees and arching down to meet your lips, 'till his spine gets angry at him for falling for a short girl.

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

kaminari complains to his friends about how gross it is that you and katsuki kiss every morning in front of your classroom door. like, have some compassion for the singles, yknow ?! his friends tell him to just drop it.

what they don’t know is the reason he kisses you every morning is to guess which flavor your lipgloss is. and he’s a little too proud when he gets it right.

[coulsons-left-arm]

The liquid courage of my expired cold medicine on a semi empty stomach has convinced me I shouldn't keep this thought in the Discord.... So now all of you have to suffer with it too. 🙂🫶🏻

What if instead of Skye getting shot in s1, it was Coulson, and Skye is the one that finds him? *My thought is rough and it's been a while since I've watched the scene, so bear with me. 💀*

Like, Quinn mentions something to Coulson about how he's glad Coulson didn't send in Skye considering how much he loves and cares for that kid? And Coulson wasn't fast enough to swipe the gun out of Quinn's hand, and gets shot in the gut... And to make it worse, he shoots him another couple times for good measure since mans is known for coming back from the dead.

Coulson drops to the ground, trying to put pressure on his wound, but he can't do it alone. He needs help. He can't call for help bc the pain is overriding the usage of his diaphragm. So he starts inching his way over to the door, but passes out when he props himself against the wall to reach the door knob.

~~~~~

Daisy heard the shots, and was running straight towards it, tunnel vision bc she's got a bad feeling about it.

She finds the door ajar, and swings it open, gun out front, but something right next to the door jam catches her eye... And it's him. Her heart goes into her throat, she starts to shake, and words just seem to unconsciously string from her mouth as she finds his wounds, puts pressure on it, and starts calling his name, louder and louder, thinking if that'll wake him up. She lightly smacks his cheek a little bit with her palm but it doesn't work.

A pulse. She needs to find a pulse. Putting her fingers up to his neck, she can't tell if it's there or not. It's possible it could be weak enough that she can't feel it under her shaky hands. And that's what she hopes. That's what she has to hope for.

Jemma's name comes flying out of her mouth as she returns her hand from his neck to his abdomen. Theres blood. Just so much of it. It makes her faith in him waiver and she wants to break, but there's still a chance. There has to be a chance that he will make it.

It feels like eons before the biochemist shows up, and before Skye knows it she's asking what to do. She can't let him die. Not after he took a chance on her to join his team. She still has to prove herself, prove her worth to him, show him that she's capable and he wasn't wrong for picking a civilian to join his team.

Jemma works quickly, asking for help to get him into the hyperbaric chamber. Skye helps lift him in, not even feeling any strain on her muscles from the adrenaline forcing it's way through her veins at what feels like the speed of light. They can't afford to lose Coulson. The ringing in her ears has her asking Simmons if it's working in a harsh tone. The look of uncertainty and fear in her eyes creates a pit in Skye's stomach. She helps the team get the chamber into the Bus, and once everyone boards and May guides them into the air, she can't seem to remove her bloodied hand from the glass. She can't leave him. She needs to know he's still alive, if only barely. She needs to see the spike of a heart rate, hear the beep of the monitor. If she doesn't, she isn't sure what her brain and body will do.

They can't afford to lose him. She can't afford to lose him.

[wttcsms]

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ you know i'll take you there

ᝰ.ᐟ shinsuke isn't too happy after your little escape attempt, and he makes it known. (fem!reader)

word count 2.5k content contains mating press, creampie, yakuza au, yandere themes, dubcon, praise kink, pet names (good girl), depictions of violence (not towards reader) author's notes sorry for lack of context; this is meant to take place after this fic concept

Shinsuke Kita doesn’t flinch when he pulls the trigger on a gun. 

The recoil doesn’t even register for him; when you do something for so long, eventually, it just becomes second nature. Like the mechanical movements you do when you brush your teeth, or the way you can tie your sneakers without having to actually look at the laces — shooting someone in the head is a mundane thing for Kita, for his line of work. He does it so often, has practiced it ever since he was a young boy, that what he does after is muscle memory. He removes the handkerchief from his suit and wipes the tiny splatter of blood that ended up getting on his cheek. He folds the sullied handkerchief neatly, tucking it away in the inner pocket of his suit. He makes sure the safety on his gun is in place, and he nods for Aran to drag the dead body away. 

When Aran takes his leave, the still-warm corpse in tow, the only people left in the room are Kita and a very scared young man. 

One of these men will be leaving this room, and the other will be hoping for a death as swift and merciful as the flawless execution Kita just delivered. 

“I told you there would be consequences,” Kita doesn’t taunt his victims. He’s not the type to do so. Cold and calculated — his own gang considers him to be a robot, and for the longest time, Kita agreed with them. But that was then, and this is now. Now, Kita has a reason to drag out his torture. Now, Kita understands what it’s like to find his very reason for existing. His purpose isn’t to lead one of the biggest yakuza families in the underground criminal world of Japan. His purpose is to devote his very being to you, and vice versa. 

So imagine how heartbroken he felt when he caught you trying to escape from the farmhouse he built for the two of you. And this man, a low-level runt in his group, had been foolish enough to give in and help you. 

“Please, sir, I wanted no part in the escape! She begged me, she—”

“She’ll receive her own punishment. I value fairness, after all.” Kita interrupts him, sounding as cold as the blood running through the young man’s veins. He’s frozen in fear as he tries to stammer out more excuses, more explanations, more promises to do better in the future but—

—there really isn’t much of a future for him. Not one that he’ll be happy to live in, at least. Kita is fair; having you slip away would have killed him internally. So now, Kita has to kill this man internally. Crush his spirit. Make him dream of death, dangle death in front of his face like a treat to a dog, but never, ever allow him such a kindness. 

(Kita is a fair leader, but very rarely is he kind. 

Kindness will get you killed. 

The boy dumb enough to help you — he’s kind.)

Kita retrieves a knife from one of the inconspicuous cabinets in this room. The fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling casts a warm glow over the both of them, but the blade of the knife reflects back the light, makes it shine in the poor boy’s face. He flinches. 

“Do you remember?” Kita asks him, turning the knife as if to inspect it from every angle. 

“Wh-what?” He stutters out, sounding breathless. He might be on the verge of a panic attack. That’ll make things messier than they need to be. 

“Do you remember what hand you used when you held hers?” Kita clarifies. He sounds calm, but the sight of another man holding your hand had him seething. Even now, it takes everything in him to not plunge the knife right into this young man’s heart, to twist the blade ‘round his insides, make him hurt like how Kita hurt when he witnessed it. 

“It was your left hand.” Kita answers for him. “Fortunately, you’re right-handed. Surely it won’t be too much of an inconvenience for you after I’m done sawing it off.” 

Kita’s chopped off a few fingers and one hand before, but never has he attempted to do it with a medium sized knife. A knife with a purposely dull blade. 

He smiles faintly. Sometimes, it can be fun to break routine and try new things.

You’re in bed by the time Kita returns home. He’s back later than he expects; it turns out, his little experiment with the dull blade is very, very messy. Maybe with practice, he’ll perfect that, too. That boy still has another hand to spare, after all. 

Feeling satisfied with himself, Kita starts humming gently as he makes his way to your shared bedroom. Before you, Kita never bothered making unnecessary noise. He rarely listened to music, but now—

The sting of your betrayal has lessened considerably. Kita isn’t even upset with you anymore. It’s normal for couples to fight and want to storm out on each other, but what matters most is that at the end of the day, he’s coming home to find you warming his bed. 

In his line of work, simple pleasures aren’t usually so sweet. 

You don’t stir when he joins you in bed, the mattress dipping just the slightest bit due to the sudden shift in weight, but he makes his presence hard to ignore, even in your slumber, when he presses his chest against your back, his lips nipping gently on the soft skin of your ears. 

You whine, your eyesight blurry as your eyes flutter open, trying to adjust to the darkness of the room. You’re instantly aware of Kita’s body covering your own, and when he feels the subtle shivers of your body, the both of you know it’s not because of the chill of the air conditioner.

He makes a tiny grunt of disapproval. Even after all this time, you’re scared of him? Silly girl — he’d never do anything to hurt you. 

Well, nothing that would hurt you too badly. 

“Did ya have a good dream?” He asks you, breath warm against your ear. 

You swallow hard, not brave enough to shift your body. Ever since the truth came out, the fact that sweet Shinsuke is more than just an average overworked businessman but is a yakuza crime boss, things have never been the same between you two. Kita is nothing if not persistent, though. He still cuddles up against you, he still whispers sweet nothings in your ear, he’s still affectionate and downright loving in every action he does towards you. 

He knows not to expect an answer from you, especially when he plays with the bottom hem of your silk nightgown. “Wish ya would tell me what goes on in that pretty little head of yours.” 

You can picture him frowning; as perceptive as he is, you know that he prefers hearing your thoughts directly from you. 

“What happened to Goto?” You dare to ask, and the air seems to shift in your bedroom. 

Kita is gripping the soft flesh of your thighs, his hand large and imposing, rough with calluses and forever red with blood. You never really learn, you suppose, about how there’s a time and place for such questions. 

“Goto received his punishment.” Kita answers calmly, voice steady but cold. “And I nearly forgot about yours.” 

Liar. You want to call him out, but you at least have enough self-preservation to bite your tongue. As if Kita would ever forget. It hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours since your little escape attempt. 

Kita adores you, loves you, because in a world of greedy, nasty, spiteful little creatures, you are kind and caring and full of the sugary sweet goodness he’s always going to have a taste for. It’s why he’s not surprised when you ask him, 

“Is he… alive?” 

He lets out a short, sharp laugh. “Is that what you’re really worried about? Goto, over the broken heart of your husband?” 

When you don’t answer, Kita tightens his grip on your thigh, contemplating his next move, before he lets his hand travel to the apex of your thighs, his knuckles brushing against your bare cunt. He’s pleased to find out that you’re still his obedient, sweet girl, following his direct order of going to bed without a bra or panties. Some nights, he’s so tired, any excess fabric is a hindrance. 

“If you have a heart, you’ll tell me what happened to him.” You mumble, trying to ignore the way your body craves for Kita’s touch. Before the truth of his second life came out, you were an addict for him. No one has ever touched him the way he’s touched you, and even now, when you want to ignore him and try to remind yourself of what an awful person he truly is, you can’t.

There’s a traitorous part of your heart and soul that still longs for Kita, no matter the truth.

“It’s because I have a heart that I didn’t kill him.” Kita isn’t lying. The torture was for his pleasure, sure, but he knows how upset and inconsolable you would be if you felt like you were responsible for Goto’s death. The register of his voice lowers as he speaks again, though. His warning leaves you frozen in fear.

“If his filthy hands ever touch you again, I’ll kill him.” 

There are a litany of reasons why you find yourself in the position you’re currently in: wanting, waiting, whining for Kita. Fear, for one thing. You feel compelled to do whatever he wants, considering the sheer difference in strength and power between the two of you. But try as you might, it’s hard to ignore the tiny, nagging voice in your head that lulls you into a state of docile desire. Kita’s always taken care of you, right? You were in love with him, for fuck’s sake. And as you ride his fingers, content to wrap your warm, wet heat around three of his digits as he chuckles at your wanton display, that nagging voice reminds you that you still do — love him, that is. 

Three fingers buried deeply in the warmth of your cunt is enough to make you forget about the events leading up to tonight. He withdraws his fingers, much to your displeasure, and you whine out for him to continue with his ministrations before he shuts you up by forcing you to suck his thumb. You can feel the rough skin of his finger on your tongue, and you hollow your cheeks, treating this situation as if you were about to suck his cock, and your tongue laps at the pad of his thumb before he removes it from your mouth. 

Without any preamble, he’s back to burying his fingers into your pussy, his thumb — wet with your saliva — pressed firmly against your clit. 

“Do you wish it was my cock filin’ you up?” He grunts out, rubbing mercilessly against your clit as you continue to writhe against the bedsheets. Your cheeks feel warm, blood rushing up to your chest and face, and you bite down on your bottom lip, knowing your answer. A shameless, pitiful yes. 

“You’re so beautiful, so sweet, so kind.” In his world, kindness gets you killed. Kita’s no different from any other man in his line of work, and it’s why he’s ravaging you right now. Pumping his fingers in and out of your slick hole, making a mess of his fingers, of your pussy, of the bedsheets, of you. It’s why every time he brings you to your climax, you cum violently. You’re letting out a string of stuttered, fractured fucks mixed in with sharp intakes of breath and Shinsuke’s, and you buck your hips wildly against his fingers, pushing his digits even further in as you cum. 

With your mind hazy from pleasure, your brain scrambled from sleepiness and an intense orgasm, Kita wastes no time pouncing on you. There’s no chance for you to beg for him to wait, and you register that this must be your punishment.

Shinsuke is going to fuck you without any of his normal restraint.

He slides in your sopping wet cunt in one sharp thrust, burying his thick cock deep into your warm, snug hole. He likes having a routine, he likes having set boundaries and rules, he likes being a man of practicality. But right now, he’s fucking you like a wild beast. All you can do is just take it; take his relentless thrusts, his anger, his need to dominate you, to remind you who you belong to. 

“Open up.” He demands, his voice rough and thick with desire. You comply; it’s so easy, considering that you haven’t been able to hold back a single moan as he has his way with you. He spits directly into your mouth, watching the way his saliva sits on the surface of your pink tongue. He doesn’t need to command you to swallow, because you do, savoring the taste of him.

He makes you look him in the eyes as he fucks into you relentlessly. One hand is gripping your hip, practically crushing you as he pounds into your pussy. You’re so fucking wet that the sounds of him moving in and out of your cunt are so lewd, so loud. The inescapable burn of pain and pleasure, the sensitivity of your cunt having to endure his insatiable lust, has you moaning like a bitch in heat. 

“Shin— Shinsuke! G-gonna cum!” You squeak out, and it only motivates Kita to double down. He holds up your legs, your limbs burning from the stretch as he continues to get rougher with his movements. You’re looking at him with a dazed, fucked out expression, and he has the audacity to let out a chuckle. 

“There’s my good girl.” He praises you, spitting into your open mouth once more. 

With your legs trembling and the foggy haze of pleasure clouding your head, you greedily, happily accept his praise. Your legs press tightly against his sides, and with his spit in your mouth and his cock drilling into you with even sharper movements than before, you cum. 

Kita lets out a grunt of approval as he finishes inside of you, a load of hot seed pouring deep inside of you as he keeps your legs folded, his hips pressed against yours, as if he wants to plug you up with his cum. He kisses your forehead that’s glistening with sweat from the heat of his body colliding with yours; it seems the two orgasms he wrung out of you have taken its toll on your body. You’re a pliant, fucked out little mess — his pliant, fucked out little mess. 

“Good girl.” He murmurs sweetly. “I love you so much.” 

He doesn’t wait for you to say it back. He just pulls out his cock a bit before thrusting back into you. This action causes you to let out another long, drawn out moan. He’s absolutely relentless, and as tired as you are, you realize that you don’t want him to stop.

(Pity that you’re not capable of speech at the moment.

Because you would have told him that you love him, too.)

[zevrra]

jayce talis is the type of man to hold your hand constantly. he wants to make skin on skin contact whenever and however he can; especially during sex. did not matter the position, he constantly wanted to hold your hand. you never bring it up and just assume he wants to make sure you’re okay…or it could mean holding your hand keeps him grounded because you know you’re in for some trouble when he stops holding your hand.

when he holds your hand, he’s far more intimate. grips your hand tightly, intertwining your fingers together as he slowly rolls his hips. he places kisses against your collarbone, whispering sweet nothings as his cock vanishes inside of you. he’s soft, needy, wanting to make you feel so good your head spins.

“you’re always so perfect for me. so pretty, so beautiful. i love you, love you, so much.” he’d mutter, praising you as if you’re the goddess that hung every star in his sky. holding your hand as tight as he could, without hurting you of course, solely because he was afraid you’d disappear.

he asks you how you’re feeling, whines when you don’t look into his eyes to tell him that you’re feeling good. he begs for every kiss. fucks you slow and passionate until you’re breathlessly moaning his name.

until he’s no longer holding your hand. when he doesn’t hold your hand; he’s a man possessed. gripping your hips enough to bruise or securing a snug hand around the base of your throat, just enough pressure to make your toes curl. he’s leaving blossoms of hickies along every inch of skin that he can reach, marking you as his. his pace is brutal. he has no problem flattening you into the mattress while he slams his hips right up against you. he thrusts in deep and rough, stretching every inch of you that he can while he reminds you why you’re his.

“you’re perfect. fit me so fucking good. so tight.” jayce groans, gripping your hips a little more as his cock slides out of you. he chuckles deeply at the way you tighten and suck him right back inside. “mine. you’re fucking mine.”

and he doesn’t stop until he’s completely satisfied and you’re too overstimulated, twitching and soaked, to speak any other word except for his name.

[mercvry-glow]

Too short to be a fic, too long to be an open drabble so enjoy some jack and night shift reader 😘

Made myself sad thinking about Jack and night shift reader, who’s a young r3–you’ve been with him since the starts of your residency, and have no plans on leaving the program even after boards. You’re close. Closer than you probably should be a for a mentor/mentee relationship. You know each other’s quirks, what works and what doesn’t in your relationship. So imagine when pitt fest happens, everyone is frantic, zones are crowded and you’re stuck in red with more victims piling in by the second.

Jack is in one of the main bays with Robby, Mohan and a few others from day shift. You’ve seen bad, night shift always gets the weird and scary shit that would never happen in the light of day.

But this is too much.

You’ve never felt this overwhelmed before. You’re completely alone here, flying the seat of your blood stained scrub pants. Nobody’s died under your care (yet), but you’re not confident in your ability to keep that under control much longer.

John’s not there to crack jokes with you… Parker isn’t around to share a granola bar and a packet of goldfish… Jack isn’t next to you saying that you’ve done enough, that you’ve done a good job.

Normally you can seek him out, tonight there’s no point.

You weren’t even supposed to work tonight.

By the time it dies down, you’re already in the bathroom crashing. The door is locked and you can feel your phone vibrating in your pocket. A call or two, definitely more than a handful of texts.

Tears run down your cheeks, the hair you put into cute braids before the tragedy started were ruined, black scrubs wrinkled and sticking to you in a way that feels oppressive.

No one’s around to say that’s it’s okay to cry, so you sob instead. Heavy and heaving, cries stealing your air as you gasp and brace yourself on the sink.

You’re not even sure if it’s pitt fest, or the feelings you’ve kept inside bubbling out. You’re overwhelmed, you’re jealous, you’re scared…

It seems unreasonable to feel that way, people died, people got saved—and you’re crying because it’s the job you signed up for, and you couldn’t do it with the man you trusted more than anyone else in your life.

For fucks sake, it’s like you were ten again and separated from your class crush during partner projects.

You couldn’t even steel yourself enough to leave the private bathroom with a straight enough face and head home.

Your phone slipped out of your pocket as you slid down to sit against the bathroom floor.

3 texts from Parker

1 call from John

5 texts and 2 calls from Jack

You only texted Jack back, just your location, telling him you’d find him in a second.

Clearly the person knocking on the door had other plans, you called out to let them know you’d be out soon but the unlocking of the door came as more of a shock.

Admin key in hand, Jack Abbot had broken into your crying session.

“The hell are you doing on the floor kid?” He looked at you with a raised eyebrow, a hint of a smirk on his lips as he looked down at you.

You could only give him half a scoff, as he locked the door behind him moving to lean against it as he continued to watch you.

“Didn’t see you all night, you doing okay?” He asked, if he didn’t know he asked, if he knew he asked anyway, that’s just who Jack was.

“I-“ you paused, “I think so… I don’t know,” you weren’t normally this unsure of yourself, Jack Abbot’s sidekick (or just sidekick, the nickname you had been graced with since your intern year) wasn’t normally this unsure of herself.

Jack picked up on it immediately.

“I-I lost someone, sh-she was just a kid… an-and y-you weren’t there and- I just… you’re normally there ya know? You were trying to save other people, an-and I couldn’t even save her an-and-“ you just began to ramble spiraling as you went over your night without him.

“Hey-“ he crouched down in front of you, prosthetic be damned, looking you right in your eyes as he grabbed your chin, “You did good work today, you always do a good job. I’m sorry you lost a patient, but look how many people you did help.”

You nodded slowly, allowing his presence to ground you. “Y-You shouldn’t be crouched like that.. s’not good for you.” Your concern came out as more of a whisper than anything else.

“Then get up off the bathroom floor, and come grab a beer with me. We’re headed to the park,” he stood back up and offered you one of his hands.

You pouted, “You know I don’t like beer…”

“You’re such a princess,” he sighed, “then I’ll get you a soda and you can just sit next to me, yeah?”

He pulled you up, taking a good look at you before brushing a few strands of hair out your face. “Heard the Diet Coke got restalked on the second floor,”

You perked up at that before deflating again, “is Mohan going?”

“Why would I know?” He raised an eyebrow at you suspiciously.

“You were with her all night…”

“I don’t keep tabs on all the residents that run around this place, just you.” He slung an arm over your shoulder about to lead you out of the bathroom after god knows how long.

“Hmph…”

“You can pout at you want kid, doesn’t change the fact that I wanted you next to me tonight. Nobody else can be my sidekick.”

And for the first time that night, you smiled.

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

"I'm here to pick up Dallas." Darry runs a hand absently up the back of his neck, looks past the desk and into the hall where they keep the cells.

He'd gotten the call half an hour ago in the middle of dinner but he'd had a sinkin' feelin' since this mornin'. Dallas had been gone when Darry had woken up, apparently still hacked off over a fight they'd had last night. He should have known really. Dallas' anger was visceral and volatile. An argument with one of the gang easily rolled into a multi-day affair endin' in a trip to the station. Like clock work.

"Last name?" Darry gives himself a shake and returns to the current moment. He blinks at the man behind the counter once, twice. "Dallas? His last name?" He prompts and Darry bites back on his annoyance.

"Winston." He shoves aside his instinct to ask new around here? "Dallas Winston."

The man looks back down over his paperwork and Darry clenches and unclenches the bottom of his shirt to keep himself from reachin' up to grab the back of his neck again. He was gonna throttle that kid. He means it.

"Sorry, I don't have a Winston here." That snaps Darry back and he cocks his head to the side. He'd known the cop that had called him. There was no way they had released the kid without it bein' directly into Darry's hands. "I got a Dallas here but the name's different."

"Blonde kid? Seventeen? Real blue eyes?" Darry ticks off Dallas' most identifiable features without listin' asshole kid with a death wish and an urge to pluck his older brother's last nerve.

The man looks back at his papers and nods to himself. "Nah, that's definitely him. Sorry sir, when we picked him up he was pretty sloshed. Must have mixed himself up. Gave us the name Curtis. Dallas Curtis."

Darry feels the anger drain right out of him. Glory.

He signs the paper the cop shoves towards him with a sigh he doesn't really mean, "That's him. That's my kid brother."

Maybe Darry would still throttle him, but no one would mention it if he held him extra close tonight. And they wouldn't talk about the fact Dallas hadn't touched a drop all afternoon.