#just a lil Drabble

[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

[koreofitall]

Okay! so I saw this art of Kaveh and Al Haitham on twitter and IMMEDIATELY wanted to write something for it. My brain instantly saw the potential to include snz, so I did lol. These 2 will have a forever grip on my heart istg 💚

Al Haitham and Kaveh are sat together on the couch. Haitham is sitting upright, Kaveh is laying against the arm of the couch, legs draped over Haitham's. They're conversing, but Kaveh is doing all of the talking, and using sign language nonetheless. Haitham had a rather overstimulating day at work and needed to come home and recuperate, headphones off and all. Kaveh goes in and out of vocalizing some words because he just can't help it, but most of the conversation is done in complete silence. He starts by explaining how he dropped his pita pocket on his way to a consultation this morning, and then how one of his clients was completely delusional for wanting to build their house right in the middle of the desert.

'Oh my god, he never shuts up,' Haitham thinks to himself, but with the sweetest smile on his face. Kaveh learned sign for him, and even knows immediately when it needs to be used. No questions asked, just the most willing and effortless accommodation for his love.

Kaveh, still signing, is going on and on and on and on about other various little troubles he encountered throughout the day, when he suddenly pauses. His hands stop moving and actually hover closer to his face. Haitham notices, but just keeps caressing his legs as he's been, waiting for Kaveh to continue but aware of what's about to happen.

"Hhi-!tzshu!-IShu! HHha-! HI'NGXT-shiew!"

He let's out 3 small(ish) and clearly subdued sneezes, throwing them into his elbow and away from Haitham.

"Snf! Guh, sorry," he semi-whispers.

"Bless you," Haitham signs and speaks, then goes back to just signing.

Why did you hold those back? It sounded like it hurt.

You've had a rough day, I don't want my sneezes to add to that.

His normal sneezes are ridiculously loud and Haitham can't deny that. He smiles to himself, Kaveh noticing.

What? Kaveh signs.

"You're so good," Haitham says, very matter of fact. "To me, to those around you. Very accommodating and attentive."

Kaveh pauses, not expecting to have heard that from Haitham. It sounds too good to be true.

Well, I try to be. Kaveh signs with a rather proud look on his face, soaking up this rare praise.

"But don't do that again. Not only is it bad for you, but holding back and stifling make your sneezes specifically ten times worse. I'd rather you blow my eardrums out now than over the course of the entire evening."

Kaveh, who is now visibly fuming, angrily signs and speaks.

"You! Just when I thought I'd finally received genuine praise for being so mindful of you, you pull this! Everytime!"

"That was genuine praise. You can't deny what stifling does to you, though. Any second now and-"

"HA'GTZSH-UH!"

. . .

"Don't-"

My point exactly.

"HAITHAM!"

Haitham then takes Kaveh's left hand, brings it to his face and kisses it, making him blush and shutting him up immediately.

"Thank you, Kaveh."

[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.

[unohanabbygirl]

Lucerys didn’t die that night in Storms end, instead he was left bloody and defiled, knowing that he would soon to swell with child.

(Moodboard for my fic Hiding in plain sight)

Luke never imagined he would present as an omega, always assured that he would be an alpha just as his mother and Ser Leanor had been. Sometimes he would sneak off from his studies to read tales of strong alpha's, standing tall with the world on their shoulders as they road into war, coming out beloved and victorious.

He wanted that, to be strong and respected. To stand tall in the face of those who thought they could cause harm to others. However, his twelfth name day came and went without any growing pains nor muscles aches, fever or chills.

Nothing.

Jacaerys, who had made both their mother and father proud by presenting as an alpha on his own twelfth name day patted Luke on the back and assured him that his time would soon come. While his mother and daemon soothed his sorrows with comforts only they could provide.

But by the time Luke was fourteen he was still without a second gender, almost unheard of in those with royal blood. The rumors of bastardy and muddled impure blood running through his veins grew stronger as word spread throughout the kingdom that Prince Lucerys was soon approaching five and ten years of age without having presented. It even became a trending topic at court much to prince Aemond’s pleasure.

Luke had become depressed, his already low self esteem dwindled even more so. Many a time had he gone to maester Gerardys to express his concerns as he worried something was wrong with him that needed to be fixed urgently

The older man sighed sadly, upset for the boy he had come to see as his own "Everyone's body is different my prince. I promise that you will become the strong alpha I know you will be when your time comes.”

When Lukes time had finally came, he was unfortunate enough to have been in the wrong place surrounded by the wrong people. Quickly falling into the throws of his first heat with nothing but enemies around him.

"You're wet bastard." Aemond growled in his ear as he ripped off his soiled undergarments.

That had been a little over ten moons ago, now he laid here in the small home he had made his own halfway across Westorss as he cradled his babe. A child with his coloring and the face of the man who took everything from him.

Yet all he felt as he gazed upon his babes chubby face was love.

Luke bent down and rubbed his own cheek against the other’s, soft and warm. “My beautiful Osferth.” He whispered.

[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.

[endlessthxxghts]

Posting at 12pm pst my babies <3

[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

[strangersteddierthings]

"You fucking left. I didn't do that. You did." Steve isn't yelling, his voice is just hard and cold. Eddie wishes he was yelling instead.

"I had to go," is all Eddie can say back, pleading at Steve to understand.

Steve does, is the thing. Eddie watches as the fight drains from Steve. Steve has always known him, in ways that terrified Eddie. Steve has always cared about him in an overwhelming way. Like the not yelling right now. Steve has every right to scream at him; he deserves it completely because he did leave. He packed his shit in the van and drove west until the ocean stopped him.

But Steve won't yell at him, because years ago, the first and only time Steve had yelled at him in a fight, Eddie'd frozen up, had a panic attack remembering his asshole father yelling at him and what always followed the yelling.

So even now, years later, Steve still won't yell at him.

"Go home, Eddie," is what leaves Steve's mouth next. "I can't do this."

"Steve, please," Eddie should leave. If he were a better person, he would have but instead he stays in the doorway of Steve's home, "I just want to apologize."

Steve lifts his eyes and stares Eddie down. "For what."

That's the crux of it, isn't it? What is he apologizing for? Everything? Nothing? Eddie gets the feeling that there's only one correct answer here and he's worried he'll be wrong.

"Sorry for going, even when I asked you to stay?" the hard tone is back in Steve's voice, "sorry for just walking away when I asked you to ask me to go? How you wouldn't do? Sorry about how you just ripped my heart out, rejected both options -you stay, or I come with- and then just walked out my house, my life, like it was the easiest thing in the world for you to do?

"This wasn't a-a two-sided fuck up, Munson. This is on you. I said 'stay' and you said you had to go, so I said, 'then ask me to come with' and you didn't. And if you couldn't even ask me, I wasn't going to follow after like some-" he cuts himself off and the breath Steve sucks in is watery. Eddie can see the tears gathering in his eyes, "I wasn't going to beg you to love me then. And I won't do it now."

"I fucked up," Eddie blurts, "I fucked up so bad and I'm sorry. I am so sorry that I didn't... I didn't give you a choice. I won't make excuses for myself, or explain -unless you want me to- but that's what I'm sorry for. I made a decision for both of us and that was fucked up."

"Glad we agree," Steve says, before sighing and stepping back, opening the door wider, "I've spent a long time wondering why you did it. If you're offering an explanation, I'll listen. If you give me an excuse, I will throw you out of my house."

[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.

[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.

[willowser]

after you and katsuki have the "baby talk", you're being wrapped up in him in bed and your toes are curled and you can feel the nerves tingling even in the tips of your fingers and you're shuddering through the aftershocks of a GREAT orgasm and he's so close and fucking you so deeply and lovingly and he sits up suddenly, back on his knees, to ask—

"'kay, 'm not," he's breathing so hard, skin tan and gleaming with sweat, and you don't know if he notices, but his hands are shaking when he rests them on your thighs. "'m not pullin' out, right?"

you try to swallow and your throat is dry, the nerves in your belly buzzing for a different reason. "yeah," you breathe, shifting your hips absently, yearning for the friction when he hisses and holds you still. "i mean, unless you...want to."

"d'you want me to?"

and despite the fact that you just had this conversation—you feel shy, suddenly, a little flustered at the thought that he's, essentially, putting a baby in you.

but katsuki swallows hard and wets his lips and he's flushed, in the low light of your bedroom. it could be from all the activity, sure, but his own end is coming a lot sooner than it usually does and you have an idea why that might be.

"no," you tell him, honestly, "not really."

before he can finish letting out his sharp exhale, he's back on you, cradling your face in his hands as he speaks, breathless, against your lips. "fine by me."

(and it doesn't take much more than that.)

[toshidou]

can't stop thinking of domestic ghost learning how to crochet after he sees you practicing, large scarred, battle worn hands working away with a crochet hook and wool; not missing the way your eyes go fond as he joins you on the couch to crochet by your side. trying to suppress your giggle at the soft sounds of his frustrated grunts when he tries (and fails) to tie the slip knot for the 5th time in a row before he turns to you with a blank expression, arms extended in your direction.

what starts as slowly mastering little granny squares quickly evolves into working on whole projects; clothes, hats, face masks, stuffed animals. your house slowly fills up with both yours and his creations. although it's something you mostly do together, it wouldn't be uncommon for you to come downstairs as the sun rises only to find Simon hunched over a ball of wool, clearly awoken from a night of terrors and craving comfort from the repetition that crocheting provides.

he'd inevitably have to leave for deployment, but not without laying out a new cardigan he'd made just for you (a way he can keep you warm despite the thousands of miles that might separate you) or a little crocheted plush of himself, fitted with its very own little mask; even giving you the option of dressing it in either combat gear or his go to black hoodie and jeans. it leaves you teary every time, clutching his new creation to your chest and nuzzling the soft wool into your cheek, always knowing that his hands were made for more than just war and death.

and if the day comes you finally bring a child into the world, you better believe he's making them an entire wardrobe that matches the clothes he's already made for the two of you; holding the completed tiny garments up whilst you try your absolute hardest to not burst into tears at how small they look, knowing they're so lucky to have a dad who's going to love them so, so much.

[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.)