#random drabble prompt

[scealaiscoite]

.☽༊˚ a hundred assorted prompts

¹⁾ raspberry lip gloss

²⁾ pajama bottoms

³⁾ a silver lighter

⁴⁾ fresh honey

⁵⁾ flushed cheeks

⁶⁾ a fogged-up mirror

⁷⁾ the imprint of a belt buckle on skin

⁸⁾ helium balloons

⁹⁾ a broken cocktail glass

¹⁰⁾ old playing cards

¹¹⁾ chipped green nail polish

¹²⁾ a brown leather wallet

¹³⁾ bullet holes in a wooden wall

¹⁴⁾ seashells lined up along the curve of a spine

¹⁵⁾ beaded curtains

¹⁶⁾ pomegranate seeds

¹⁷⁾ a carabiner heavy with keys

¹⁸⁾ fresh-cut orchids in a pottery vase

¹⁹⁾ vending machine cigarettes

²⁰⁾ an out of date map

²¹⁾ a creaky wooden gate

²²⁾ a minifridge stocked with budweiser and paracetamol

²³⁾ snapdragons growing between pavement slabs

²⁴⁾ smudged yellow eyeshadow

²⁵⁾ slept-in braids

²⁶⁾ library books that’ll never be returned

²⁷⁾ a pink-tiled shower

²⁸⁾ a honeybee on a linen shirtsleeve

²⁹⁾ burnt popcorn

³⁰⁾ watching an eclipse from bed

³¹⁾ a black lace bralette

³²⁾ a tattered patchwork quilt

³³⁾ blue raspberry bubblegum

³⁴⁾ a rusted fishing rod and a dried-up lake

³⁶⁾ the taste of whiskey on someone else’s lips

³⁷⁾ rose-scented candles burned down to the wick

³⁸⁾ crescent-shaped coffee stains on a wooden tabletop 

³⁹⁾ odd socks 

⁴⁰⁾ a loose thread on a jumper sleeve

⁴¹⁾ warm sheets on cold skin

⁴²⁾ amber-tinged perfume

⁴³⁾ gold jewelry 

⁴⁴⁾  a calloused palm against a soft cheek 

⁴⁵⁾ a busted headlight

⁴⁶⁾ sunrise from a jail cell

⁴⁷⁾ hand tattoos that weave around fingers

⁴⁸⁾ coconut shampoo

⁴⁹⁾ a doorbell sounding in the middle of the night

⁵⁰⁾ ladybugs crawling across a headstone

⁵¹⁾ grass stains on blue jeans

⁵²⁾ a loaded saddlebag

⁵³⁾ a dusty wine cellar

⁵⁴⁾ a bikini top draped over a bedpost

⁵⁵⁾ snow in july

⁵⁶⁾ dirt-red mountaintops

⁵⁷⁾ goosebumps in a heatwave

⁵⁸⁾ an empty dinnertable

⁵⁹⁾ a fresh manicure and bruised knuckles

⁶⁰⁾ zombie movies

⁶¹⁾ bitten lips

⁶²⁾ dark eyes full of tears

⁶³⁾ a soft cast in summertime

⁶⁴⁾ stale coffee in paper cups

⁶⁵⁾ frozen peaches on a black eye

⁶⁶⁾ acrid smoke

⁶⁷⁾ bound hands

⁶⁸⁾ animal tracks

⁶⁹⁾ unwound vhs tapes

⁷⁰⁾ cartoon plasters

⁷¹⁾ lipstick marks on shirt collars

⁷²⁾ silver bangles

⁷³⁾ sharing a coat in a downpour

⁷⁴⁾ fields with grass at waist-height

⁷⁵⁾ daisy chains up to your forearm

⁷⁶⁾ rolled-up shirtsleeves

⁷⁷⁾ the smell of bleach in a dark room

⁷⁸⁾ a shared sleeping bag

⁷⁹⁾ a new haircut

⁸⁰⁾ swimsuit tanlines

⁸¹⁾ perfume clinging to a pillow

⁸²⁾ lollipops dangling between lips

⁸³⁾ a badly-timed grin

⁸⁴⁾ old books

⁸⁵⁾ tongues stained from slushies

⁸⁶⁾ waking up in a hailstorm

⁸⁷⁾ dying sunflowers

⁸⁸⁾ colourful sunglasses

⁸⁹⁾ the last pew

⁹⁰⁾ tall, rattling windows in a storm

⁹¹⁾ six missed calls

⁹²⁾ sticks of incense burned down to the last

⁹³⁾ bunk beds

⁹⁴⁾ matching sets

⁹⁵⁾ ruined mascara

⁹⁶⁾ a boxing ring

⁹⁷⁾ stained glass windows

⁹⁸⁾ fairy forts

⁹⁹⁾ a cluttered bedside table

¹⁰⁰⁾ a hangover in the evening

[xxlady-lunaxx]

since inosuke understood how to use a phone, zenitsu had been bombarded with an abundance of texts. usually, they were only keyboard spams, or accidental texts, and occasionally they were more relevant but not really coherent things inosuke decided he needed zenitsu to know. apparently, tanjiro’s reactions to his randomness were ‘boring,’ therefore zenitsu was victim to inosuke’s chaos. yet, once in a while, he found himself not minding (albeit he did keep his notifications off most of the time, due to this). mainly because some of inosuke’s texts could’ve even bordered on sweet.

sometimes, or many times, when inosuke found something that reminded him of zenitsu, he’d take a picture and send it immediately. in most cases, it was something stupid—french fries, a shoelace, a box of pencils, the edge of a chair—but every so often, he’d find something nicer. like a bird, or decorative lights. sometimes, zenitsu checked his phone and scrolled past the fifty texts and found something buried beneath the mess that made him pause and smile at the screen.

< inosuke: bongitsu

look i found

a feath

er

its kidna flufy

liek ur hair

see

[attachment provided: containing an image of a single feather in the palm of a hand]

feahtre

how do u sspell that

[attachment provided: containing an image of several pebbles]

also this

its like whn u and kamboko crash into each other and fall to lok like a bunch of measly rocks

lmao!!! >

sometimes. only sometimes, inosuke could be slightly less annoying.

[emmalouisefanfiction]

Read it on Twitter/X.

Read it on AO3.

A collection of drabbles based on prompts from the Dramione Prompts 2.0 Twitter account. The drabbles in each chapter will all be dramione of course. Varying ratings and content warnings: so be warned I'll be updating the tags as we go, as needed. But I do intend this all to be mostly light-hearted. No dead doves, if that's a worry, so no worries. I will be posting new chapters as the daily drabbles inspire me. Just on a whim, so not daily.

.

Prompt: Deep breath.

Enjoy. :3

.

Hermione took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She could do this. It was going to be fine.

"Ah."

She started pacing again, shaking her arms out. Stretching her fingers like they were overworked and cramped.

You can do this, she told herself. It's simple.

Just a few words. No harm, no foul. Best to get it over with.

She paused, looking at the door in front of her as she frowned. No, it was too hard. She'd never done this before. Ever.

Fuck. This was so hard. And he wasn't even back yet.

She returned to pacing and started mumbling under her breath the words she was trying to psyche herself up to share.

Quick and easy like a bandaid. Rip it off. Endure the pain of the stinging, sticky adhesive. Yeah, just like that.

She stopped and took a deep breath again.

"It's fine," she said to nobody in particular. "It's fine."

It was late and the ministry workers in this department had already gone home. Coming to his office now made Hermione grateful that he was almost as much of a workaholic as she was.

There would be nobody around to witness her absolute horror.

But no, it would be fine. There was nothing to it. She was brave. Brave and reckless. Okay, she was too logical to be completely off the rails like many of her former Gryffindors. But Hermione knew how to  be impetuous when the situation called for it.

Like right now. As in right now, as she heard the Floo in his office go off. Which meant he was back. Finally. Fuck! Her nerves were already shot.

Couldn't get any worse, right?

Okay Hermione, she told herself. Deep breath.

She inhaled, closing her eyes for a moment, and then let it out softly. Good. She had stopped trembling.

Hermione lifted her chin defiantly and knocked on Auror Malfoy's door.

"Come in!"

She strode in confidently, smiling widely as she always did when she saw her boyfriend and felt her body warm at the attention he suddenly gave her.

Sitting behind his desk already, he'd looked up and smirked, now interlocking his fingers together in anticipation.

It was just three words.

She'd never uttered them before to any man. He was waiting.

"Yes, Granger?"

That smooth drawl almost made her trip over herself. Damn him and his ability to make her stutter like a first year with a crush.

"Draco." She took another deep breath and cleared her throat. It was easy. People had been saying this to each other for thousands of years.

"I love you."

[wisteriagoesvroom]

promptfill for @clearlyclairesblog!

P.s. I don’t know if this is the direction you wanted, but here is what I ran with…

++

Mercado lestappen Rated G for general audience vibes (and a bit of angst) Minor mentions of drinking 1.2k words (Also readable on ao3)

The supermarket is playing a mariachi cover of a radio song that Charles doesn’t know the name of, nor does he particularly care to. In the last year since he’s been to Central America he’s been racing in what the newspapers would call “beautifully”, “at a level that hasn’t been seen in over seven years” — and if the Twittersphere is also to be believed, “b for big slay”. But apparently it still, still! isn’t enough to beat the number one two nights ago at the Autódromo.

Charles swats away the thoughts. This is not time to dwell on the bad race. He is here to try and forget the bad race. He rubs his eyes and holds a bottle of what he thinks is tequila, the words abstract on the amber bottle. The lights are too bright in here, and the aisles too colourful. Driving on the track suits Charles because he can expend his energy hyper focused on what he needs to do, where he needs to go. It gives his anxiety a channel of relief, where high octane and being rabbit-quick serves a glorious purpose.

Here, in the real world, sometimes he is not so sure.

There are too many soda options that could go with the bottle that he's holding. (It behooves him, a son of Monaco, to at least have some kind of chaser. To keep this nominally classy, to make this self-pity show not entirely pathetic. Even Charles when sad has standards. Maybe grapefruit jarritos would make a good accompaniment for tequila and depression?)

Andrea would probably kill him, but whatever. There’s a reason Charles left the whole team at the hotel, wandered off with a cap and big hoodie in search of quiet time. Besides, abstinence from indulgence, in all its forms still hasn’t gotten Charles any further in the standings compared to last year. So he deserves a little boozy soda, non?

Of course, to add insult to injury, Max Verstappen’s face stares at him from a can of Red Bull. And of course Charles can’t help but laugh. Of all the endorsements in the world, of all the people to see now, it is the cause of his despair, Satan on hot wheels himself who deigns to make an appearance to haunt him in the Fresko.

That is what breaks him. It starts as a giggle, ends with his face buried in his hands, and Charles wonders what the world would make of him having un petit meltdown in the middle of a suburban supermarket.

“What the hell?”

The voice knocks him right off kilter. He would know that voice anywhere. No, it could not be.

But when Charles looks up, there he is. His rival, in the flesh. Equally in a cap and dark hoodie, holding a loaf of bread and a six-pack of Corona under one arm.

“Is that bread?” Charles says. He doesn’t know what to say, really. They do not share much off the track, him and Max. They live in the same city, but don’t cross paths. They are born sixteen days apart, but besides racing have almost nothing in common. They carted together for over a decade, fought in F1 together for almost another more and somehow Max has over quadruple the WCs and Charles has nothing to show for it except a couple of podiums, and maybe a lot of shame. (He tries not to think too much about the shame.)

Max, to his credit, doesn’t seem particularly ruffled about any of this. These days, Max has mellowed out, grown from defensive boy to assertive man, relaxed in his shoulders, laughs a little more easily. In contrast Charles finds himself trying not to sink into his car, to tell himself to smile more genuinely for the cameras that are now starting to feel more and more like a burden rather than anything fun, because years of expectation and being told you’re a winner, and for it to never be true, can gnaw at your self-esteem like that.

Slightly further down the aisle from him, Max tilts his head. “I was hungry.”

“That’s fair.”

“And thirsty.”

“Me too.”

Charles doesn’t miss the way Max’s eyes flick down to the shopping basket and back up.

“That bad, huh?”

That bad? Charles fumes to himself. Max doesn’t know what it’s like, he couldn’t possibly imagine what it’s like, to always be second, to aim for something and fight for it so hard, only for it to still fall out of reach—

“You raced really well.” Max says, factually. As if the sky were blue, as if the supermarket did not at all intellectually or spiritually affect his cognitive functions like it already has thrown Charles for a loop. Max pronounces his assessment as if it were an absolute, which is Max’s power, you see. To take destiny by it’s teeth and force it to heel.

“Evidently, what I did was not enough.” Charles says.

“You took every line that was needed.”

“I did.”

“Your tyre management has been the best I’ve ever seen it.”

“Thanks. But you were better.”

“Yes. I’m not going to apologise for that. You know well, how it is.”

Charles laughs, low, a little bitter. Yes, he does know well, how it is. “The rest of us are mice. Scrambling around the ankles of an elephant.”

Max, for his part, seems to chew on this. Shifting the bread a little higher in the crook of his elbow, eyes glancing but not really looking at the cans in the aisle. The music plays on for a few moments in the background, a cheery tune with lots of fast strumming. It’s a minor miracle that they’ve not been spotted, but this late at night, it seems the only person around is the disinterested cashier who is filing her nails at the checkout.

Somewhere in the distance the cashier coughs. Max taps the side of his thigh with his index finger, once, twice. Neither of them seems to know what to say.

Finally, Max yanks a Red Bull can off the shelf, closes the distance, and drops it right into Charles’s basket. This close, Charles can see the proud tilt of Max’s chin, the brown flecks in the other man’s eyes.

“A chaser.” Max says. Both of them aware of the double meaning. The drinks, their history.

Charles swallows. So fine, maybe it because it’s 2am, or maybe it’s the desperation. Here, face to face with Max, away from the cameras and the rest of the world, they can slow their strange dance, and Charles is able to say what he has really wanted to say. He wills it into his mind with more iron and fury than he truly feels.

“I will beat you one day, you know.”

His blood swims with it. He wills it to settle, to become familiar with the feeling, asserting himself in this way, speaking what he really means.

In turn, Max smiles. Genuine, this time, crinkling to the corner of his eyes. The rare ones he grants to the rest of the competitors on the couch after a good race, when he’s come off the track with fantastic pace. The one he has when he waves to his nephews.

Max doesn’t back off at all. He leans even closer. (Charles could count every lash. Tucks it away somewhere secret, somewhere with sharp edges that he can’t look too closely at, yet.)

“Absolutely, Charles.” Max says, all conspiratorial. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

[biotic-raptorian-angel]

The Makeover

Angela awoke to the soft, gray light of dawn filtering through the narrow window of Moira’s minimalist apartment. It was quiet enough to hear the humming of the city below. She stretched under the sheets, savoring that sweet moment between rest and waking.

Just then, Moira’s distinctive, low voice drifted from the direction of the kitchen. “Good morning, Dr. Ziegler,” she greeted, the faintest trace of playfulness in her tone.

A contented smile spread across Angela’s face as she tugged the blanket aside and padded barefoot across the polished floor. She found Moira leaning against a sleek kitchen counter, sipping tea. The scientist offered Angela a measured smile, warm in a way that only Angela truly recognized.

“Good morning,” Angela replied softly, sliding her arms around Moira’s waist in a light embrace. Moira tipped her head, pressing her lips to Angela’s temple.

Tonight was the big night: a prestigious medical awards ceremony, at which Moira would be recognized for her advancements in biotic and genetic research, and Angela for her contributions to nanite medical technology. Not only would it be a formal affair, but also the first time they’d appear publicly—together—as a couple.

By late afternoon, the two of them had cleared time in their schedules to prepare. Angela had already teased Moira about rummaging through her wardrobe; it was an inside joke that the scientist never wore anything that wasn’t pants, suits, or lab coats in a strict color palette of blacks, greys, and purples.

But Angela had a plan. She trotted out from Moira’s bedroom, rummaging through the closet until she found it: an exquisite, floor-length gown in deep emerald green. It was nestled at the far end of the closet, an artifact from some event long forgotten. Angela couldn’t hide her triumphant grin as she tugged it from the hanger.

Moira watched from the bed, an air of skepticism in her gaze. “You’re joking,” she said curtly, though a hint of amusement quirked her lips. “I haven’t worn that in ages.”

Angela hugged the gown to her chest, eyes bright. “Exactly! You haven’t worn it in ages. We’ll dust it off, and you’ll look incredible. You do realize this is an awards ceremony, right? We can show them all that Moira O’Deorain can dress to impress.”

Moira raised an eyebrow. “I do that already.”

Angela laughed, then placed the dress carefully on the bed. “You impress with your intellect, Liebe. Tonight, I want to show them another side of you.”

Moira’s hesitation was evident—she had never felt entirely at ease with lavish clothing or flashy displays. But there was something about Angela’s excitement that was contagious. With a soft sigh, she relented. “Very well. But on one condition.”

Angela cocked her head. “Name it.”

Moira drew closer, arms folding. “If I’m wearing that gown, then you’re wearing a power suit.” She smirked, clearly expecting Angela to balk.

Angela blinked, then grinned broadly. “Deal. You’re going to look phenomenal. And you know what? So am I.”

The next hour was a playful whirlwind of transformation. Angela, perched on a stool, directed Moira to sit in front of her vanity. Angela had come prepared with her own cosmetics bag, armed with all the essentials: a palette of warm, subtle eyeshadows, high-quality mascara, blush, highlighter, and a lipstick in a flattering wine-red shade.

Moira watched every brush stroke in the mirror, a mixture of curiosity and wary surrender in her gaze. “I can’t recall the last time I did my makeup,” she murmured.

Angela dipped a brush into a shimmering eyeshadow, leaning in with gentle concentration. “That’s why you’re in good hands,” she teased, applying color carefully to Moira’s eyelids. “I do have a steady surgeon’s hand, after all.”

Moira scoffed affectionately. “Don’t remind me that I’m your newest lab project.”

Angela laughed, the sound light and fluttery. She finished the eyeshadow and moved on to the blush. “I’ll have you know,” she said, “this is a labor of love, not science. You’re going to be stunning, Moira.”

The moment lingered. Beneath Angela’s playful teasing, there was a palpable sense of closeness. Moira’s sharp features, usually so stoic, softened under Angela’s attentive care. The hush of brush bristles and the faint scent of cosmetics filled the space between them.

Soon enough, it was Angela’s turn. She traded places with Moira, smoothing down the front of the crisp white shirt she’d set out to wear beneath a tailored black suit. Moira studied her with a measured eye, rummaging through a little collection of accessories—tie clips, cufflinks, sleek belts.

“Let’s see… you’ll need these,” Moira decided, choosing a set of stylish silver cufflinks. “And a matching belt. Something to accentuate your waist.”

Angela beamed. “Yes, ma’am.”

“None of that,” Moira muttered, though her lips twitched in amusement.

Moira took it upon herself to fix Angela’s hair. Gathering Angela’s long blonde locks back from her face, she twisted them into a chic updo, leaving a few strands to frame her cheeks. She was meticulous, every pin placed with mathematic precision.

Next came a subtle touch of makeup that Moira applied with surprisingly steady hands, given she rarely practiced such an art. Angela closed her eyes, her heart fluttering as she felt the gentle brush glide across her lips, painting them in a soft, natural pink.

When Angela opened her eyes, she saw Moira’s reflection in the mirror—there was admiration there, a quiet pride.

“You look formidable,” Moira said, voice almost reverent.

Angela reached back and gently squeezed Moira’s hand. “So do you, my love.”

Finally, the pair stood in the apartment’s small living room, taking in the full effect of one another’s transformations.

Moira looked regal and slightly out of her element in the emerald gown, but her tall frame carried the design beautifully. The deep color set off the subtle red in her hair and made her mismatched eyes appear even more vibrant. The jewelry Angela chose—a slender silver choker and matching earrings—added just enough sparkle without overwhelming Moira’s sleek elegance.

Angela, meanwhile, radiated confidence in her tailored black suit and crisp white shirt. She’d swapped her usual heels for low, sharp pumps and wore her hair in that refined updo Moira had meticulously styled. The effect was simultaneously powerful and undeniably alluring.

They stared at each other for a moment, taking it all in.

“You clean up nicely,” Angela teased, brushing a speck of lint from Moira’s shoulder.

Moira’s lips curved. “Yes, well, I might say the same of you.” She glanced at the mirror, as though mildly surprised to see herself dressed in such finery. “I almost don’t recognize myself.”

Angela stepped forward, sliding her arms around Moira’s waist. “I do,” she whispered. “You look every bit like the brilliant, commanding woman that you are.”

For once, Moira had no witty retort; she simply inclined her head and captured Angela’s lips in a soft, fleeting kiss.

When they arrived at the awards ceremony, all heads turned. Conversation seemed to stall at the sight of them gliding through the elegantly decorated ballroom. Moira’s gown and Angela’s suit could have been ripped straight from the pages of a fashion magazine—both of them brimming with a magnetism that transcended their usual professional attire.

Whispers followed in their wake. Some recognized Moira’s signature sharp features, made softer by the flowing gown and precise makeup. Others did a double-take at Angela, who was accustomed to wearing refined dresses, not sharply tailored suits.

An old colleague of Angela’s approached her with wide eyes, a dazzled expression plastered on her face. “Dr. Ziegler, is that really you? You look… incredible!”

Angela felt her cheeks warm, though she grinned widely. “Thank you,” she managed, trying to keep composure.

The praise continued in Moira’s direction, but the scientist met it with her usual reserved, confident nods. No biting commentary, no curt dismissals—just a gentle acceptance of the compliments. Angela suspected that Moira, despite all her bravado, was actually soaking up the rare admiration for her appearance.

As the ceremony went on, the recognition for their medical achievements was sprinkled with more than one admiring glance at how impeccable they looked. Yet beyond the outward transformation, both women discovered a shift in their self-assurance. Angela felt an invigorating strength in the snug suit, an energy that made her walk taller. Moira, meanwhile, radiated a cool elegance, strides that felt smoother in the trailing gown.

When the awards were announced, the two of them received polite applause and more than a few dazzled stares. Standing side by side on stage, Moira’s emerald gown catching the light, Angela’s suit jacket accentuating her poised figure, they shared a secret, triumphant smile. In that moment, they were each other’s greatest supporters—bound not only by professional respect, but also by the magnetic pull of love that had steadily grown between them.

As the evening wound down and the crowd began to disperse, Angela slipped her hand into Moira’s. “Did you enjoy tonight?” she asked softly.

Moira gave a curt nod, though her eyes were warm. “I suppose I did.”

Angela lifted an eyebrow, smirking at Moira’s typical understatement. “Only suppose?”

Moira leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper, lips close to Angela’s ear. “I felt… powerful,” she admitted. “In a way I didn’t expect.”

A shiver of delight ran through Angela. She linked her arm with Moira’s, guiding them toward the exit. “You looked absolutely stunning. And you always have been powerful, my dear. Now everyone else sees it too.”

Moira dipped her head in a gesture of agreement—maybe even gratitude. “It’s not just the gown. It’s… everything. Us.”

Angela’s heart skipped a beat. She pressed a quick kiss to Moira’s cheek, lipstick leaving the faintest imprint. “Yes,” she replied softly. “Us.”

They stepped out into the cool night air, two luminous figures stepping away from the lavish ceremony, side by side. And in that moment, Angela decided that no matter how many accolades or transformations they went through, the real victory was in each other’s gaze—steady and glowing, proud and loving.

[writemeagoodprompt]

"I loved you!"

"You didn't love me enough."

[hisuian-history-makers]

Infi-Map to Anywhere, Anywhen, and... Anywho?

—For the record, Danny and Sam wanted to say this was all Tucker’s fault. He just had to make a joke about them facing Phantoms of the Past.

While handing the Infi-Map back to Frostbite.

———————————————————————

They didn't expect it to react to a joke.

Once Mayor Fruit-Loop was iced, Tucker said something offhand about them being fully-fledged time travelers. The three had gone to a really dark future and now the distant past.

(Jazz kept saying he deflected by making jokes about what he went through.)

Phantoms of the Past. He couldn’t have said ghosts noooooo—it had to be the hero name.

Now they were in a castle that resembled Pariah’s Keep albeit wintery, with a Dan-looking Danny who had the Crown of Fire on his head.

Several Dannys, Sams, and Tuckers joined them on the castle grounds. There were a few other people that got dragged along but Danny was trying not to hyperventilate into fainting. A handful of his alternates(?) chatted with Dans.

Two versions didn’t even seem to be human! It hurt his brain looking at them. Alarmingly, a majority of the Dannys had the Crown of Fire and Ring of Rage. The kingly outfits kinda hinted at why they even had those artifacts.

He swore he saw DC comic book characters alongside several alternates. Danny had trouble keeping track with so many people here.

—

Sam and Tucker weren’t doing much better.

Several versions appeared more ghostly than normal. They explained what being Liminal and having ecto-contamination meant. Like being a quarter ghost rather than the half Danny was.

Various Sams were part plant. The Tuckers had kept the odd past life abilities although their strength in them varied between timelines.

Danis, a majority who went by Ellie/Elle, made references to them being in a relationship with each other! Not just Sam dating Danny, Tucker dating Danny, them dating each other, but the three dating altogether! Each corresponding Jazzes tried to explain how preferences were pretty fluid amongst different timelines. So they shouldn’t think about it too hard.

To make matters more heartbreaking. The Dan-looking Danny who ruled as a King seemed pretty overjoyed despite the chaos. As it turned out—for him, the Zones natural portals shut off so it could focus on healing. Leaving him forced to be alone without his family indefinitely.

He had tried to leave. To open new portals.

(It never worked... His throne was hollow.)

This left Danny feeling unnerved because the possibility of being crowned Ghost King was pretty strong. That or being caught by the GIW and experimented on. His future sucked...

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

[Otherwise Canon! Danny, Sam, and Tucker meet some of the AU versions. Takes place in “Infinite Realms.” Infi-Map might be able to take them to someone specific. Anywhere, anywhen, anywho. Just say the name.]

Edit: Why is this my most popular post so far?

Edit 2: Seriously, why did this become my most popular post? In just a single freaking week! I posted this as a joke! A well thought out joke but a joke nonetheless.

Edit 3: It went past two hundred notes!

[voctorianwriting]

〃And we sat there,

me, leaning forward from the bench behind and, you, turning yourself ever so slightly, just so our eyes would meet as we talked, engrossed in each other's words, until the professor called out "Eyes on the board lovebirds!"

When both our heads whipped around, until our eyes met again, as the symphony of our giggles was lost in the cacophony of the whistles and laughter from our classmates, when we realized,

it wasn't us who the teacher was talking to, for when we're together, we're truly in our own little world,

subtle enough for only the other to notice... 〃

♡

[janeykath318]

Bucky x Reader Royalty AU +soulmates

“I have found the man, your highness,” proclaimed the captain of the guard. “He has an incredible knack for hiding.”

You gave a pained smile. The stunningly handsome, but glowering man standing before you dressed in all black over chain mail certainly looked like like he could disappear if he wished. It was a little demoralizing that he’d chosen to disappear almost immediately after the moment of recognition of your shared soulmarks.

“Thank you, Steven,” you told him gratefully. “Will you give us a moment alone, please?”

“Of course, your highness,” Steven bowed, and having giving the man a warning glance, marched out of the room, with your other attendants following. You were alone with your soulmate.

You sat and looked at him unspeaking for a moment. He didn’t move a muscle, and returned your gaze steadily. The man had nerve, you admitted to yourself. Rising from your throne, you approached him and got right in his face. Up close, he was even more attractive and you noticed the blue of his eyes and the dimple in his grouchy chin in full detail.

“Why does such an exemplary knight turn tail at meeting his soulmate?” You queried, circling him slowly. “Surely I am not so terribly objectionable, am I?”

The way his eyes followed you as you suggested the complete opposite, which you took as a hopeful sign.

“In no way, your highness,” he finally spoke. His voice was deep and as majestic as the rest of him. “It is simply because I do not feel my soul is worthy to matched with yours. If you knew me, you would be disgusted at how black it is.”

“Sir James,” you sighed sadly. “I know. I also know what you suffered and sacrificed for our country. Life has not been kind to you, but you DO deserve to find happiness, and I deserve to have a choice in the matter, do I not?”

“Of course you do,” Sir James sighed after a moment. “But it could stir up trouble for you.”

“I can deal with that,” you told him. “Just trust the universe knew what it was doing when it matched us. I’ll never forget that look we shared that day. I felt something. Did not you as well?”

James’s eyes softened as you drew closer again.

“I did,” he admitted. “Very strongly.”

You took his marked right hand in your own so that the two soulmarks touched.

“In that case, Sir James, I am making the choice to try to win your heart. Despite what you think, it IS a good one.”

James stared at the joined hands then back at you.

“Who am I to turn down the queen?” he said finally, relaxing from his stiff posture.

“That’s better,” you encouraged. “Shall we adjourn to a more comfortable area for conversing? I wish to learn more about you.”

“Lead on, my queen.”

[maybankgotbank]

welcome 😏

rules are:

no kids here, this account has stuff that could traumatize your little minds kids. 🥲

if you want to be anonymous, send your emoji you want to claim, pronouns, and age!!

nsfw welcome!!

dms: open <3

inbox: open <3

claimed anons: 🍓 (she/her, 19) | 🌷 (she/her, 20) |

[candiiicanes]

“You did this.” She said soullessly, laying in her own pool of blood. Her eyes terrifyingly black, face bruised. “You ruined my life.” Her voice got shaky all of the sudden, as if she was going to cry. “It’s your fault. I’m not here anymore, because of you—” My eyes snap open as I jolt up, covered in sweat. My hands were shaking, I felt my heart was beating so loud I wondered if it was in my hands instead. Shit, it happened again? I look around my room, attempting to steady my breathing, still trying to convince myself that it was just a nightmare. It wasn’t real right? No- no, I'm home….it wasn’t real, it wasn’t real this time. I look at my alarm clock, wondering what time it was. 6:16. I sighed as I rubbed my eyes, I was supposed to wake up soon anyway. 

©candiiicanes

[astrodances]

Olympics prompt

So I may end up regretting this, taking a long time, or maybe not even following through (fair warning XD), but I like learning about different Olympic sports, so, in an effort to do so, I thought of a prompt idea:

give me a character (or two) [for a fandom I know] + an Olympic sport, and I'll try to draw or write something for it! 😄⚽️🏊🏃🥇

[emmalouisefanfiction]

Dramione Picture Prompt Drabble

Read it on Bluesky.

Read it on AO3.

A collection of drabbles based on prompts from Dramione Prompt accounts on Bluesky. The drabbles in each chapter will all be dramione of course. Varying ratings and content warnings: so be warned I'll be updating the tags as we go, as needed. But I do intend this all to be mostly light-hearted. No dead doves, if that's a worry, so no worries. I will be posting new chapters as the daily drabbles inspire me. Just on a whim, so not daily.

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Summary:

Hermione scoffed at his claim. There were no magical creatures that transformed on a New Moon. Except, apparently, her demonic mate.

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Picture prompt: of the 'above' image.

Rated: Explicit.

Enjoy. :3

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It was just a dream. It had to be. She kept her eyes closed as his hands scraped along her soft skin. They were rough. Like sandpaper. But surprisingly erotic.

She moaned.

His body felt like an inferno. He hovered over her, face pressed into her chest. Forked tongue lapping at her breasts. She wriggled underneath him.

"Draco..."

And when he made his way down her body she could only squirm and wait for the inevitable. For the feel of that otherworldly tongue inside her. The brush of his elongated nails along her pussy lips.

The scream he tore from her throat. The earth shattering orgasm that ripped through her.

It had to be a dream. He wouldn't do this to her. To them. Hermione squeezed her eyes tighter as she felt the length of him brush against her cunt. As her body sagged from the ordeal. 

He was harsher like this, his skin covered in bristles. His grip punishing.

She loved it. She couldn't get enough of it. But she was terrified of him. Of what this change meant. He'd warned her. She didn't believe him. When the New Moon was full, his curse would kick in. 

But no, there was no creature that transformed during a New Moon. She'd scoffed. It was the antithesis to the werewolf. A demon transformation.

Hermione cried out, eyes finally snapping open when he started shoving his way into her. 

And like the blinding light of the moon itself she couldn't look away. He was beautiful. Hideous but beautiful. And undeniably still Draco Malfoy.

Those grey eyes haunted her as he took her. As he proved her wrong. And as he claimed her as his mate.

[storms-corner]

001. the seaside, as the sun is setting

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Water laps at their bare feet, toes buried in the wet sand. Seagulls make noise, soaring in circles overhead, large and annoying and look, birds! Oksana’s voice is bright and full of wonder, because as a child she never saw the sea. Sand sticks to her legs all the way to her knees and there are tiny fragments of seashells stuck to her damp skin, too. Her pockets are full of shells and sea glass.

The sun sinks lower and lower, turning the sky into blooming waves of pink and red and orange. Everyone else had gone home. It was just the two of them left.

“Come on,” said Eve, hand in hand with Oksana. “Before it gets too dark, baby.”

They walk back to their spot. With no one around, Eve simply helps Oksana out of her bathing suit. Oksana enjoys the feeling of the breeze on her body for a moment before Eve tugs her long sundress over her head. When Oksana’s head pops back out, she giggles and Eve kisses her freckles.

“Mommy,” Oksana coos. She taps her forehead. “Kiss.”

Eve tenderly kisses the girl’s forehead. She wrings the water out of Oksana’s bathing suit the best she can and stuffs it in their bag. Oksana lays down, head on her pink duffel bag, and looks up at Eve. The older woman is blurred by the glare of the setting sun. The waves make a loud, repetitive noise. If Oksana were to close her eyes, she thinks it would sound just like mommy’s hand when it brushes through her hair. She rubs at her tired eyes and watches sleepily as Eve steps out of her bikini and tucks her wrap dress around her body.

“Let’s go home, sweetheart,” Eve helps Oksana up on her feet and the little girl clings to her side. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”

[missmouse43]

Jiara Ficlet #1

Word prompt: Obedient (Read on AO3)

Thank you random word prompt generator. You’re allowing me to do the Lord’s work 🙏

Dom/sub dynamics, Pushing that top!kie agenda

333 Words

❗️Smut ahead❗️

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“Ah, ah, ah. No touching.”

The scolding comes with an impish grin and a light swat at the hand JJ had instinctively reached out to tangle into a mass of dark curls. Not to pull, never to force, but to hold back out of consideration—wayward strands getting in the way tucked affectionately behind an ear.

JJ’s hand flexes, checking himself, then curls into a tight fist and joins the other pressed firmly against the outer part of his thigh. A low whine vibrates from his throat, involuntary and strained. Not a protest, no. He accepted the terms of their agreement, thrilled by the shift in dynamics.

He was disciplined. Obedient. Just the way Kiara liked him.

Kneeling between his legs on the hardwood floor, the girl nods approvingly, honey-streaked mane falling loose over her shoulders as she descends on him again. Soft pink lips, plush and spit-slick vacuum sealed around his cock. Seductive mocha eyes holding his gaze steadfast and hungry, commanding his full attention.

Up, down, up, down, up, down.

JJ couldn’t look away.

She pulls off of him once again with a slow, indulgent drag, her tongue flat and wide against the popped vein throbbing on the underside, taking her time to tease the slit with several kitten licks just to watch her boyfriend’s eyelids flutter and his head tip back into the cushions. A strangled groan of satisfaction pulled from parted lips.

She wraps her hand around him as she speaks, long, delicate fingers pumping silky skin, just as capable as curling into a fist to throw a pretty decent right hook as they were at turning JJ into a bumbling pile of mush right there on the old pull-out couch.

“Are you going to keep being a good boy for me?”

“Jesus, Kie. You’re driving me crazy.”

“Good,” Kiara giggled, pearly white teeth flashing up at him in amusement. Her smile dazzling, dizzying. And then she’s swallowing him whole and JJ’s seeing stars for an entirely different reason.

[wield-the-mighty-pen]

To cope with my writer’s block, I've decided that I want to do some drabbles!

To make this fun for me, I decided to do 'playlist prompt' drabbles. So, if you'd like, please send me a lovesquare pairing and a number between 1 and 144 and hopefully I'll write a drabble based on the corresponding song in my playlist to that number

My inbox is open, so please feel free to send requests!