#drabblet

[gwynthemoose]

Paladin walked calmly into the room, an assurance radiating from him that had been noticeably lacking so far. A surety and clarity of purpose that was distinctly at odds with the careful, almost considerate way he had fought before.

"Is it some divine intervention?" Rouge whispered to Cleric, who shook their head.

"Sir Thornrick has ever held himself in careful check." they replied, a troubled look as they glanced down at the young girl. "I don't know what this is, but Mighty Astrea's touch on him is unchanged. No more than any of Her devoted servants carry. Stay near me, Corv. I do not know what will happen." The young Rogue nodded abd shuffled closer to the Cleric.

"This is our toughest fight yet." the large mountain to their left rumbled, hefting the big Ironglass hammer clenched in his hands. "We may all go to the Raven Queen before this ends, Sartea. I hope your faith in your Oath brother is based on more than sandstone."

"I trust my Warden to keep me safe if aught goes wrong, Gaurak." was the tart reply from the Cleric, but all levity ceased as they reached the chamber of their foe.

"Velaran D'Horla, your foul life end today." Thornrick proclaims with utter certainty. The iron spined and iron haired man in opulent dress sneered at the announcement.

"And how do you propose to kill me, boy, with a sword that won't cut?"

The silence rang louder than the steel that flowed expertly forth from the scabbard along the man's back, white teeth flashing in his sun-darkened face.

"You have left us no choice. My sword only shines when all other lights go out. Defend yourself if you wish, but my blade will not return to it's sheath without it's fill of your blood!"

So y’all know the classic edge trope of “my blade cannot be sheathed until it has tasted blood”? What if a magic sword that has that requirement, except it’s sort of inverted. A sword that, instead of being inhabited by an evil spirit which once awakened cannot be lulled back to sleep except by blood sacrifice, was inhabited by a benevolent spirit who would not allow the sword to be drawn unless bloodshed were the only possible solution. A sword whose power could never be misused because it would only allow itself to be used in situations where it was justified. What about a Paladin who spends their entire journey fighting with a sheathed sword, incapacitating but never killing or maiming. The party believes that the Paladin has taken an oath of no killing, until they face the big villain. And it is in that moment, and that moment alone, that the sword will allow itself to be drawn.

Idk, this image set my mindwheels a-turning.

But do y’all see the vision?

[yllirya]

Red Blanket

[wriolette drabble of a gifted red blanket. see the full drabble collection here]

After Wriothesley becomes the administrator of the Fortress, and Neuvillette gets closer to him (for official matters first), one day, the Judge gifts him a very soft, fluffy, red blanket. 

Neuvillette feels embarrassed but he explains – he feels after Wriothesley's hard days, this could be comfort.

He thinks it’s a silly action, but it was something like a winter bazaar in Fontaine. And when he strolled there on his way back to the Palais, his eyes got caught up on that blanket. 

At this point, Wriothesley is only the head of Meropide for a short time, and when he becomes that, Neuvillette helps him to settle the new arrangement with the overworld. He voted to trust him and put faith in the young man. As all prisoners stood behind him, it would have been a riot to remove him anyway, even if some governors would have wanted that. Anyhow, Wriothesley takes over Meropide, and Neuvillette offers him help to settle the correct paperwork regarding some changes - all by the laws.

They spend some time together but Wriothesley also has to make order by his gauntlets to shut down riots at their core. Neuvillette can see him halfway beaten up during their meetings, sometimes before Sigewinne could heal him. They never speak any of this.

Wriothesley always just shakes it off as if it'd be nothing. But Neuvillette wonders when he got comfort - even if only in the sense of having a good night's rest. Because not on the streets. Not in a cell in Meropide under the old regime.

So when Neuvillette sees that red blanket, he just can't help but think of Wriothesley and he buys it. Do humans gift blankets? He does not know. He keeps a straight face while Wriothesley opens it, and he gets a rather neutral "Thank you" in return.

It's many years later that Neuvillette learns Wriothesley cried himself to sleep that night, alone, wrapped up in the blanket – and that he still has it and never intends to throw it away, ever. For his next birthday, Neuvillette buys him a new one – and he gets a warm hug in return this time.

[kurjakani]

Some horsing around. I feel like Vulgora would be more into chariots than riding horses: someone else steering and they can focus on hitting things.. Also, pontifex is an ancient roman title... and ancient rome and chariots... you know!!! Still, some horsie riding for them today. Based on a drabblet fic im planning on.

[fionarara]

on this same token, kunimi is always relieved and quietly whispers "...thank fuck" whenever oikawa’s replacement batch of korean skincare finally gets delivered after it took a few weeks to arrive because that way, shittykawa can finally stop mooching off of kunimi's products whenever kunimi goes to open up his locker in the team room–repeatedly asking for days on end to "borrow just a little dollop of moisturizer" here or "a spritz of ginseng toner" there

it's a good thing too: because oikawa's face was beginning to look extra punchable these days for being such a pest, and what an unfortunate waste of shiny new skincare products that would've been, since they'd do no good on a poor bruised blueish-blackened face.

all of aoba johsai has a 4-8 step skincare routine, except for mattsun who has 3, and that number only bumped up because makki shamed him for using nothing but face cleanser that one time and eventually caved to his peers' influence (he is grateful for the nice results in the end, though he'd choose certain death before ever admitting it).

kyoutani sticks his head under a faucet and calls it a night.

[ibeta]

Mind-Reading Fellcest Drabblets | Chapter 7: death?

'i'm glad i could protect him.'

[diedbydeth]

i made a drabblet based on my classmates throwing away their art projects lmao

If Art Could Cry

[pt: If Art Could Cry /end pt]

The girl cried, looking at her rock with googly eyes and a drawn-on crooked smile. She turned away with her face in her hands. The rock, cursed to smile, looks down as gravity condemned it to, screaming silent pleas, shedding empty tears, and feeling emotionless feelings. Little did she know, it would stay there. When sun met ground, when rock met earth, through dusk and through dawn, through life and through death, it would stay there. Whether in a closet, whether in a dumpster, perhaps obliterated to a million pieces, perhaps set on fire. There it would be, smiling, awaiting the day where she would turn around and smile back.

end

its not my best by far (i thought this up and wrote it all in one hour (which was 1 am if you’re curious)) but idk.

(ps this does NOT represent my stance on thrown away art, i do not give a shit about what you do with your art. that’s just what inspired me.)

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Hey bouncy! Can i get some Geralt being real sweet/tender with Jaskier? Im in a real soft geralt mood so go ham if u so wish!

You sure can, fam.

---

The bard snuggled closer, snuffling and snorting a bit in his sleep. Geralt should have been annoyed. He should have removed Jaskier’s limbs from around him and turned away, letting the bard find his heat with a blanket like a normal person.

But he didn’t.

Instead, as Jaskier slept soundly, Geralt allowed his arm to wind around the bard’s waist. He pulled the other man closer, ever so slowly, careful not to ruin his rest. When Jaskier was close enough, Geralt buried his nose in the dusty brown hair and breathed in deeply. This was heaven.

With the warm weight of his bard against his side and the scent of home surrounding him like a spell of protection, Geralt drifted off to sleep himself. 

[igni-ard-bladeandbard]

But 

Jaskier catching Geralt alone in the courtyard where the stage is. After everyone has gone

and Jaskier is still in his lovely costume and they are poking fun at one another and Jaskier begins to sing to him

it’s a joke at first ...

because it’s a love song and Geralt is no blushing maiden for Jaskier to serenade 

and Geralt laughs and shakes his head but Jaskier’s voice is wonderful even when he’s teasing...

and it’s just teasing like it always is, but then

it becomes 

very

very

serious....

and Jaskier doesn’t look like it’s a joke anymore because the song 

was always about Geralt... 

and he can’t pretend when Geralt is there looking up at him in the flame lit courtyard with his incredible eyes

“..through the darkness

I can see your light,

and you will always shine, 

and I can feel your heart in mine”

Gerlat is helpless against this undivided attention bearing down on him now like the golden heat of summer, has no way to shield himself from it,

“..In my eyes you do no wrong,

I’ve loved you for so long

and after all that said and done

you’re still you..after all..

you’re still you...”

And Geralt hasn’t felt like crying in years but there’s a heat gathering behind his eyes..

“and I believe in you 

           although you never asked me too..”

and they stand there looking down and looking up at one another in the quiet, in the gloaming, and they are both so unmasked in that space, so incredibly naked and obvious to one another in this moment that it’s almost too much for either one of them to take

and Jaskier’s lips quiver as if he needs to say something more, as if he’s going to apologize, as if he’s afraid of the consequence now of having dropped the act.. 

but Geralt doesn’t flee, and his expression doesn’t harden

and there are no more words left between them that need be spoken...

[yaz-the-spaz]

penne a la vodka

Summary: G*gi makes penne a la vodka, so Liam makes penne a la vodka. But better.

a/n: just a short ziam ficlet born from a plotbunny that wiggled its way into my head about how the decision (and ensuing reaction) for the penne a la vodka thing went down in the ziam household lol...enjoy :)

Liam sees her story because of course he does. Try as he might not to see every little thing she does, when it implicates Zayn—which is almost always—he can’t not. Especially considering half of his fanbase is also Zayn’s fanbase and, by extension, now her fanbase as well, so he’s bound to have it circulate back to him eventually anyway. May as well bite the bullet himself and monitor her on his own time first before others can bombard him with her bullshit when he’s least expecting it.

Anyway, she’s always stealing ideas from him and Zayn anyway, and two can play at that game. So, when he gets the opportunity to do a Tik Tok cooking bit, it feels like the obvious choice.

He brandishes his dish to the camera proudly. Unlike hers, his actually has the required amount (well, okay, maybe a lot more if he’s being completely honest) of vodka in it. Because why even bother to go out of your way to make a dish with vodka literally in the name and then make a whole production of cooking it without the vodka when you could’ve just made another dish that doesn’t have vodka in at all. Nothing she does makes a lick of sense when you think about it too hard, but then when has it ever.

When they’re finished filming though, Darren packing up and setting aside his filming stuff for the day, Liam looks up to find that Zayn has walked into the kitchen. He’d been upstairs FaceTiming with the family, but evidently he’s finished now and judging by his knowing face, has either already seen what Liam posted or overheard him talking about it.

“Hey,” Liam starts, flashing a smile, not exactly sure what kind of reaction he’s in for.

Zayn just looks at him.

Liam can’t tell if he’s annoyed or weirded out, or both.

“Babe.” His tone still reveals nothing.

“…Yes?” Liam says warily.

“You’re petty and I love you.”

Liam breaks out into a grin. “Love you, too. Wanna get drunk on pasta with me?”

[arysthaeniru]

He hasn't asked them to call him Father, and Murky is grateful. There are plenty of things to love about Artemy, but he's not her Father yet, even if he acts like one. She perches on the counter in their new house, swinging her legs back and forth. The new skirt that she'd been given by Miss Lara makes a pleasant swishy sound, and even though it's heavier than her old dress, Murky likes it a whole bunch. Artemy is cooking next to her, chopping some mushrooms to throw into the pan, humming under his breath.

He stirs the pan, pulls up a spoon to taste, and smiles. It pulls at his face, makes him look almost unfamiliar. Murky's used to the resting scowl on Artemy's face. But she could get used to the smile.

"Want to try some, Mishka?" He asks, holding up a spoon. She nods, but before she can take a sip, he pulls his hand back, blows on the soup a few times, before offering the spoon back to her. Murky stares at him for a moment, before taking a sip.

It's creamy, smooth and just the right temperature, and Murky shuts her eyes, for a moment. Nobody had ever blowed on hot food to cool it down for her. Nobody's ever really made her much hot food, honestly.

"It's good." She says, knowing that he'll be expecting an answer.

"Good." Artemy says, softly. He brushes a hand across her hair, smoothing it away from her cheeks, before going back to the soup.

Murky watches him work, carefully, cautiously, to make something new. She'd first seen him use a knife to kill. Now, he's using his knife to make food, for her and her new brother. A killer could change after all, huh? And became the best person in the world.

The Plague was wrong. Clara was wrong. Nobody was evil. Everybody could change, with enough time.

[shiftylinguini]

aHHHHH witchy harry checking on all his succulents each day to see how his friends are doing. i love this concept, would love to hear more about him sometime :)

Yessss, witchy Harry, right??? In a sweet little cottage, herbs drying in the windows and jars of miscellaneous things everywhere, fancy old books and what looks like parchment scattered around and pretty symbols on the wall.

He’s got fifty different kinds of tea and always offers Niall a brew when he stops by, and always serves it in tiny tiny floral tea cups that make Niall think of Hyacinth Bouquet terrorising the Vicar’s wife with periwinkle china.

Harry’s house is a bit weird and stuffy but not the worst Niall’s been in - the swans out the front are slightly terrifying but that’s just swans, they’re basically elegant dinosaurs and Niall’s not scared of them (even when they nip him on the bum). The busts and statues are a bit much, Niall has to admit, those do kind of give him the willies. How can something that has no pupils, just blank alabaster eyes, seem like it’s paying so much attention to the conversations he and Harry have? He always feels like they’re tilting their heads, ears pricked like attentive dogs, when Harry reads Niall’s tea leaves.

Niall’s imagining it though, he imagines things when he visits Harry’s, that’s all it is. Harry house is cluttered and friendly and sort of benevolently mad, and it puts Niall on a weird edge, but not one he doesn’t like. Niall’s house is so clean and ordered (it needs to be, he can’t have it any other way) and that’s good, but Harry’s is such controlled chaos, stuff everywhere, and stuff on the stuff, and Harry in the middle of it all wearing too many rings and velvet slippers and chattering about swan poo.  

And there are soooooo, so many lovely plump succulents on the sill, and all leaning towards the sun  - except when Harry talks to them and they look like they’re leaning towards him, but that’s not right, plants don’t do that, do they?

Niall doesn’t know, he’s just a fucking butcher’s kid, working for his dad on weekends now he’s moved back home. He has one houseplant himself, a big fiddle leaf fig by the telly but that’s been looking peaky for weeks. He certainly doesn’t look after it like Harry does his plants, calling them his ‘old friends I don’t get to see so much anymore’ and cancelling whole plans with Niall because one of them fell off the sill and Harry fell into a panic. 

It wasn’t a date anyway, that night, although Niall was thinking they could get dinner after Harry took him to see ‘this amazing pond I found which has all these mushrooms nearby and just, like, really lush mud. Satisfying to stand in at night and look at the stars, you know? I’d love to show it to you’ which, who knows. Maybe that actually was Harry’s idea of a date?

Turns out Harry’s mate broke his leg that night, so good thing Harry was already freaking out about broken terracotta pots and bruised sedum leaves. They’d’ve had to cancel anyway. 

They can always go another time. Niall really kind of does want to stand in mud and look at the stars with Harry. 

[luvsavos]

“shortie” shangchi drabblet bc reasons

“Chiiiiiiii,” the sorcerer whines, looking up at the necromancer, who's hunched over a desk.

“Yes, Shang, what is it.” Quan Chi's voice is monotone; it's clear he's only half listening, apparently absorbed in whatever he's working on. Shang is draped across a chair, one leg splayed out upon the arm of the chair, the other propped up on the back. The rest of his body hangs off the edge of the chair; he's looking up at Quan Chi upside-down. 

“Chiiiiiiiiii,” he whines once again, this time in a more demanding, notice-me-dammit sort of manner.

Chi glances over finally, raising a brow.

“I won't even ask the point of you sitting like that.”

Shang shoots Chi a snarky grin.

Chi rolls his crimson eyes before letting out a huff. “So. What is it you demand my explicit attention for?”

Shang stretches his arms out for a moment, grunting.

“Why are you so tall? It's like... Prejudice against short people like me.”

“You aren't too terribly short,” Chi points out. “The average human male grows to at least five foot nine.”

Shang whines stubbornly. “Yeah? Well I'm only two inches taller than than, and pretty much every guy I've seen has been at least six foot. Usually six three.”

“Your point?”

Shang grumbles something in Chinese, sliding off of the chair and onto the floor. Chi looks down at him with a blank expression.

“You're only, metaphorically, making yourself even shorter by doing that, you know.”

Shang glares half-heartedly at Chi.

Chi merely chuckles. 

Shang rolls onto his back, crossing his arms and staring up at Chi through narrowed eyes.

“I'm becoming one with my people.”

“Your people-?”

“Ants. Because they're tiny too.”

This causes Chi to legitamately snort. “They are also quite strong for their size.”

​​​​​​“Exactly,” Shang responds, a smug undertone to his voice, “I'm tiny and all, but I can kick ass.”

Chi smiles a little, crouching and looking down at Shang.

“Alright, get up; you'll mess your hair up.” Of course he would use the hair against Shang. Anything but the hair.

Shang quickly sits up, scooting over to Chi and pressing his face against the necromantic sorcerer's arm. He then looks up at Chi snd offers him a smile. He then leans over, thankful that Chi isn't wearing the spiked part of his armour, and presses a light kiss to his cheek before returning his face to where it was, cheek pressed against Chi's arm.

Chi gently curls an arm around Shang's waist for a moment before seeming to perk up.

“You seem to... Strongly dislike being short, yes?” he asks. 

Shang nods. “Well, of course I do. Why else would I complain so much?”

He, too, then perks up a little, grinning up at Chi.

“You should lift me up. Let me sit on your shoulders, or something. You're tall, and strong, it would be win-win.”

Chi arches a brow. “Mm?”

Shang has already stood up, grinning like an idiot, which is oddly endearing to Chi. He settles himself on Chi's shoulders, seeming incredibly happy.

​​​​​​“Do you trust yourself to not fall?” Chi asks.

Shang nods, smiling.

“Of course I trust myself! Why wouldn't I?” he responds.

“You do realize you will be quite high up, yes?” Chi asks.

Shang nods, still smiling. 

“Yes,” he purrs, clearly happy, “I am well aware.”

Chi waits a moment, before shrugging simply and standing up. Shang lets out a surprised squeak, clinging to Chi. Apparently he had not anticipated just how high up he would be.

“Do you need me to set you back down-?” Chi asks uncertainly.

“No-!” Shang says quickly. “No, no, I'm just...” he trails off, slowly straightening back up and looking around. It is interesting to him how different things look.

“I'm fine. This is... Wow-...”

Chi chuckles. “You make it seem as if you have just traversed a mountain peek and are looking upon the vast forest below.”

Shang sticks his tongue out, though he knows Chi can't see it.

“Oh, whatever. Things are different up here, you know. It's like... I've transcended.”

Chi merely smiles in response to this, glancing up at Shang, who looks very happy.

Shang leans down, gently cuddling Chi as best he can, a serene smile on his face.

“You can set me down, now,” he murmurs, sounding content.

Chi sits, and Shang rolls off his shoulders and crawls to his side, curling up and resting his face against his shoulder, a happy expression clear.

A cat jumps up and curls up by Shang's leg with a soft 'meow,' nuzzling it's face against his thigh.

Chi curls an arm around Shang's waist gently, tilting his head back and sighing softly, though it is a happy sigh.

Shang presses his lips to Chi's shoulder gently, giving a soft, content sigh as well.

“I love you,” he says softly, his voice tender and quiet.

Chi simply smiles and leans over, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to the sorcerer's forehead.

His way of telling him that he loves him, too.

[ibeta]

Mind-Reading Fellcest Drabblets | Chapter 6: sandpit

Papyrus couldn’t be far from sounding incredulous.

[fionarara]

draken ryūguji listens to every word you have to say whenever you go on a rant, gotta vent, or need to express emotion of any kind and is sure to allow you to completely finish each sentence before responding. rarely does draken ever interject in the middle of your verbal thought process.

having grown up as a young boy in an environment surrounded by emotionally open or vulnerable women in the brothel, you realize, means he'd been in many an involuntary position when just hanging about at home where he would listen to them speak their hearts out on the vague hardships of their taxing lives and those moments had caused him to mature faster; developing the skill for being more intrinsically understanding and very receptive to others whenever they are in a fragile state of mind — and then, to top it off, you'd be gifted with a warm embrace by him at the end of it all.

lucky you.