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c-losur3 · 3 months

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389 words, angst, pre established relationship, reader is accomplished, based on the world @disneyprincemuke created.

My first real try at RPF, for the Logan Sargeant fans, I’m sorry in advance. >> Additionally, if you want me to continue, I have two endings in mind. Let me know!

part 2 here!

You win. The announcers’ voices boom over the track. Your name has never felt more foreign to Logan. Perhaps, it’s not the only unfamiliar thing, and that’s the cruelest thing to him.

You up there, on the top step, starry eyes sparkling with the flash of cameras

And where was he?

Far, far away from where you’re standing now.

Perhaps he knew for the longest time that you’d just continue to rise, fallen stars always make their way back to the sky, and he couldn’t fault you for it.

You and him through it all, you promised with a toothy grin, pinkies interlocked.

The reporters are cruel, even when he can tell they mean well. Congratulating you and your feat, female world champion and broken records.

You’re happy and that made him happy. What changed, he couldn’t bring himself to come to terms with.

He insists that he’s fine as you reach your respective motorhomes to pack up for the end of the year. (He’s not.)

And as you walk away, extra excitement in your step, and Seb ruffles your hair, he locks himself in his driver’s room.

You’re amazing. And he can’t fault you for shining.

But if you can win, succeed, then why couldn’t he?

Tears prick his waterline as it sinks in. The replays of your win sting. And it’s never been this way, but why does it hurt him now?

He snaps at you for the first time in your whole friendship, relationship now, this morning.

He’s apologetic immediately but your face loses the smile that’s been honed there for a while now.

He snapped about you and your shiny, amazing, champion friends. And you took it to heart, yelling back that at least they were something.

A pin drops as you realize that you fucked up. You’re sorry, you really are. Hotheadedness and youth go hand in hand, and you never meant to hurt him.

He shakes his head stepping backward as he puts on his coat, running out of the shared apartment, running away even when he feels that you were right.

He’s just a sentence in the paragraph of your life.

You’re reassured him time and time again that he’s important to you, and that his performance would never change what you feel about him, what what if it did, he thinks.

#logan sargeant #logan sargeant x reader #logan sargeant x you #f1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 x you #ls2 #ls2 x reader #f1 angst #🐈‍⬛>>#;drabbles

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vipermirage · 6 months

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send STRAINED for a scene from my muse's past in which they interact with someone they have a difficult relationship with

GLIMPSES OF THE PAST: a headcanon / prompt collection: accepting

tw: verbal abuse, mentions of gambling

"are you sure you counted this right?" the gruff voice of their father echoed in the tiny room they lived in. them, their family of three in a room so tiny you could barely consider it one. ▓▓▓▓▓ doesn't think much of it, they just knew that they will be okay if they kept quiet and let the words happen. it'll be okay soon enough. this isn't new.

they watched as their mother nodded, before their father slammed the pile of cash down, counting it note by note, his mouth murmuring every newly added value, the frown on his face never going away, only intensifying with every new sum. they felt a shiver run down their spine when the final value matched what their mother said earlier on. it was below expectations. this wasn't good.

"you." he pointed at them, his voice laced with accusation while their mother stood at the back, looking at them with barely any love, just disappointment. "you are the reason why we live in such miserable states." he continued, leaving them wondering if it was right for them to hear this. if it was okay to say these things to someone who had just turned eight, "should have believed that almost-sham of a fortune teller when they said that you were bad luck, shouldn't have let you been born."

they could mouth his exact words, having memorised all of it by heart at this point. but they also knew more than anything, that the only good idea now was to keep silent.

"you are the reason why we're dirt poor, you are the reason why we all suffer." he was angry, and she was sad. they could tell, they could tell it all. and now mother was wondering if the months were worth it if they were going to end up pathetic and penniless because she give birth to a curse. and they held bad luck. they were the reason why the wins never cover the losses. why the jackpot never hit sevens. why the roulette never hit the right number.

▓▓▓▓▓ didn't want to imagine the worse to come if they said anything, if they as much as reacted in anyway. they just had to keep quiet, then it'll be just words today. just words this time.

#;asks #queenharumiura #tw: verbal abuse #tw: gambling #;drabbles #(thank you for your ask here!!)#(i dont have a name for them yet but its implied here that viper/mammon isnt their birthname)#(i do wanna explore this more so i may have to list related triggers on my blog soon)

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vixtionary · 1 year

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When was the last time Swain has cried? Like, a genuine cry.

THE ROOM WAS FILLED with a heavy smell of wax. The arrangement of tall candles on the bureau resembled a crumbling castle, with drips staining a pathway to the room's entrance. Soot had seeped into the fabrics, staining scattered papers & hanged coats alike. There was stuff on the floor. A helping of medication upon a silver serving tray, cleaning supplies and a half empty glass of water; fresh bandages in the case of emergency leaking and a few scraps of stained ones from his nightly change. Folded neatly on a nearby stool; a change of clean clothes, iron-pressed yet soiled with the stench.

Everything was painted with warm candlelight; down to every nook & cranny of his bookshelves, where novels and maps alike collected dust. The window towering over his bed, his only passageway into the outside world ever since his return from the First Lands, confessed that it was a dreary night outside. But even Prime's stench felt liberating from the dread that had settled in his bedroom.

Thick lashes fluttered between each languid blink. His chest heaved slowly under the bandages. A dent in the mattress would confess his rigidity; his perpetual struggle to avoid the faintest motion lest the bandages moisten with discomforting pus. Through heavy lids, cerulean eyes fixed on the ceiling, murky with exhaustion. Disheveled hair framed a pallid mien; the light did him no favors, illuminating the darkness that pooled in his eye sockets and the smears of blushed skin that marked his pale skin. Still & silent; it was a wonder the dieners had not come to collect him yet.

Alas, he was fading into sleep. Succumbing to the fatigue, overtaken by a pleasant numbness that had his limbs feel like lead, sinking deeper into the sweat stains on his mattress. But then, a crackling sound summoned his attention to the ceiling. Trepidation forced his eyes a little wider. Pupils slipped to the corner of his vision, neck unmoving from his self-imposed prison. Through flared nostrils he rasped a strained hum when some shredded tendon complained. He stared longingly at the candle flame shooting straight from its wick. It trembled as if swayed by an unfelt breeze. Instantaneously his vision snapped to his left side; to the window.

It was shut.

Even through thick locks, the hair on his nape stood on edge. In spite of his own volition, he shivered. And so pain toiled a path up his left side, where the severed limb was still quivering with grief and infestation. He breathed through his bottom teeth, cracked lips parting. For as parched as he was, in that moment all was forgotten.

Naught remained by the blazing embers of a three eyed glare, observing his struggle quietly from the windowsill.

The candlelight's reflection was wasted on its glossy plummage. It seemed to blend perfectly into the dim moonlight outside, instead. Its head tilted abruptly, like an erratic puppet in the hands of a clumsy pupeteer. They locked eyes for a good minute, in a pregnant pause. Jericho's jaw clenched. In a desperate attempt to escape the inevitable, he shut his eyes tightly. But the all encompassing darkness was twice as unnerving. A final, desperate glance at the candles, and he turned towards it once more.

Still there, oogling him from the windowsill. But this time he decided to stare back. And the longer he examined its peculiar features, the more curiosity eased him into the tension. Through the wood, he could hear the scratch of its talons. It had burrowed in the walls. Suddenly, he identified the sound that kept him awake at nights; a sudden pitter-patter, like rats crawled under the boards and were scratching their way out. A steadying breath was drawn, then.

What is it that you want? His eyes confessed the thought a dry mouth daren't vocalize. He had almost found solace in the stillness of the scene, despite the company. Maybe he could even attempt to fall asleep, to ignore its scalding glare...

Tap! Tap!

His chest jumped; a cuss slipped through clenched teeth. The bird's beak was now mere inches away from his face, separated only by glass. And suddenly, that felt like a weak boundary. Whilst looking at its innate weapon, the sharpness of its tip, the thought was planted into his head that it could, at any given moment, break through to finish what they had started back when he was lying in soil, immobilized much like he was now.

To steal his eyes.

It just kept tapping! The boards roared as if the estate itself gasped in its presence. He could feel his heart in his mouth, a sudden wave of heat washing over him much as waters would once lick his toes, burrowed in pearly Ionian beach sand. What solace could he seek in memories now? Desperately, he sought to inch away from the window. Each beat gained was a pang to his nerves. And yet, he could not pull his gaze away from that thing; mocking him with its unyielding glare, demanding to invade him incessantly!

"...Stop." Lips parted to rasp drowsily. He begun to quiver amidst efforts to roll on his right side in anguish. To escape its glare. What was it looking for? What did it know? The ghost of his insolence advised him to try and banish it, but his legs, albeit their atrophied state, were begging for a chance to relieve him of his fate. And he bit down on his own terror to roll over to his side; with a finalizing groan.

His vision blurred with the pain. He sought comfort in the light, protection. There were no more choices, and nowhere to go. He was to be lying flat for the rest of his eternity, idly staring at the ceiling in defeat all whilst the despicable entity haunted him & wore him down gradually, stealing a peck of flesh every night until he was reduced to a rotting shell of his former self. It was over. This was death.

His palm clutched the sheets bundled up at the edge of the bed as he wept. Folded over, a desolate cry was released from burning lungs, crumbling under the weight of this realization. Utterly helpless before his own mortality. This was his punishment, for daring to dream. For daring to put his mundane ideals on a pedestal. The Gods would be laughing at him now, as they watched that wretched creature they had sent to scorn him tear him apart night by night. The physical pain urged his body to convulse; but it was incomparable to that of his realization.

"Stop, please..." He mewled, weakly. "Please, just take me, please..." Words buried into the mattress. He pressed his face into it hoping to drown the incessant sobs, barely hanging onto the furniture as it were. A leg slipped from the bed's edge and his toes barely brushed over the carpet beneath. He could feel the cracking of his own bones grinding together at their joint, albeit the brace's efforts to keep his knee in place. No, he had to get up. He had to get away from that thing. The sheets were now soaked.

"Jericho?"

Through blurred vision he spotted a splash of red at the doorway. Adorning the badge of a recent promotion & lowering his cowl; a familiar face. A lifeline. Marcus.

"What in the Wolf's name are you doing?" The approach left him with little reaction time. He barely managed to contain a wave of snivelling. It still poured from the corners of his mouth like the cries of a motherless cub. Only after he had felt a warm grip on his ravaged shoulder did it register that the thuds he had heard were his old friend's footfalls. Hurriedly, an arm was looped under his injury and another came to support his back. Hair strands fell on his own wet cheek and curtained his expression away from the other's sight. Which Jericho further sought to ensure by inching closer to the best of his ability. The tears only kept coming, however.

"Come. Come here." He clutched onto the comforting warmth, nose pressed into the beating of Marcus' pulse. A rattling breath signaled his melting into the embrace until his weight would fall idly, cumbersome in the General's arms. Every inch of tortured flesh revolted against the act, yet Marcus continued to settle his body back in the bed, undeterred by the wailing cries so close to his ear. "There we go." Jericho felt him kneel by his bedside, easing him under the covers. He chased after the embrace a moment longer, before releasing him in favor of covering his eyes. Instinctively, his left arm moved to follow and a dozen pinheads fired up the severed nerves. Jericho grunted, lying flat on his back.

"Are you running a fever again? I will call Claude." He felt Marcus' palm press to his own forehead, albeit incapable of deciphering whether it felt cold or not, in that moment. It was almost as if the mention of his housekeeper brought his consciousness back to the room. He did his best to sober up.

"No. It is alright." Jericho muttered back weakly, his eyes worriedly darting to the window. Nothing other than the glimmer of dying firepits in the sleeping capital awaited beyond the glass. "Don't call him." He sniffled. Witholding the unease in his own expression, General Du Couteau pulled a nearby stool closer, disregarding the clutter raked between its wooden legs. His spirits seemed to rekindle with practiced ease; it would not be their first time in this predicament, as the dark circles mirrored under Marcus' own eyes would confess. His frequent visits to the shattered veteran were starting to take an apparent toll on him as well.

"Well, in that case, I have some news that might cheer you up." He smiled a coy smile. "You would never guess what trouble Granth landed himself in. I will only tell you this; Boram even stood from his chair to scold him."

The assassin chuckled, yet Jericho only nodded through fading sobs. His palm was quick to wipe the remnants of his grief from his cheeks. Some quiet appreciation was instilled in his attempt at a smirk. Marcus knew him too well to focus on the incident longer than need be. Instead, he continued undisturbed in narrating stories of a bygone life and Jericho watched him through wet eyes, tracking his hand gestures.

Tear stains illuminated under candle light, he could feel that faintest breeze as a caress upon his cheek. His gaze lost focus & sunk somewhere in the distance. Marcus' words blended into a seamless blur; and Jericho's thoughts wandered to the things he could not speak. Albeit their many talks of ravens, he had seen the shift in Marcus' look when he started to ramble a bit too long about it. His old friend would never admit it to Jericho's face. But that taste of disappointment, of worry, it could not be disguised. Not between the two of them. Albeit his good faith in the man, Marcus thought him as demented as the others.

It would have to remain a secret. Jericho's deepest secret yet.

"I am feeling rather tired." He cleared his sore throat.

"Oh." The curt statement earned a ginger brow's twitch. Momentarily, bewilderment crossed Marcus' features. He leaned back in his seat, seeming unsure. Reluctantly, Jericho's tired gaze would withdraw to his left, traversing over the bandages to inspect for leaks. This scenery had become such a habit that he could almost predict Marcus' offer to help him switch them out. Only this time, Jericho cut in first.

"Thank you for your visit." He said, solemnly, concealing the moist feel that had begun to creep down his sides — at least, the parts of them that could still sense it, at the time. His palm rested flat on top of the covers, awaiting the expected response. And it was delayed; processed, yet respected.

"I could stay, if you would like. I have nowhere to be before sunrise."

"No, that is alright. Thank you."

"As you wish." After some reluctance, and ensuring the duvet was properly in place, Marcus made to leave. "He reached on the table to retrieve the small bell used to summon the housekeeping staff and placed it by Jericho's bedside instead with a disapproving head shake. Gently, he would push some wet, dark strands away from Jericho's face, albeit the latter not sparing him another look. Instead, he was pensively gazing out the window, even as Marcus made to leave.

"Marcus?"

The General halted, turned on heel.

"Before you go, could you blow out the candles?"

#(( you: simple question me: DRABBLE TIME!!! ))#(( he doesn't cry much nowadays tbh ))#(( doesn't really have the need to as his emotions are quite deadened under raum. but anyway THANK YOU SM!!! for the ask <3 ))#;answered #;drabbles #(( for mention : ))#notoriousness #TW long post #TW gore #TW horror

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bewitchingbaker · 4 months

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Another Christmas at the Richardson's family home.

In a maroon-colored bungalow home, the sounds of Christmas classics could be heard. Egg nog was poured, gifts were exchanged, and laughs were had. In the kitchen, Jess could be heard telling tales of her students at school to her aunts. Earning a few laughs with her impressions.

A few kids ran to the living room, eager to join Chris's uncle in a round of video games. Some gathered around Quas, happily hugging and cuddling him. Despite the Richardson's rather normal life, they welcomed Chris and Jess's strange life with wide open arms.

"Now ya'll know whoever lose gotta give up the sticks! Don't overcrowd the hellhound either, he deserves to relax too!"

Outside, Chris and Rico could be seen throwing out gift wrap with their younger cousin, Russel. The trio looked around before Rico revealed a spliff and suggested a 'walk'.

"So," Rico asks with a laugh. "Like do aliens celebrate Christmas? What about vampires and demons? Ain't yo best friend an alien?"

"Yeah! What about other dimensions?"Russel asked as he attempted to light the spliff.

A small laugh escapes Chris's lips as he ponders over their questions.

"Well," Chris begins. "Some do if they live on Earth or were raised with Christmas. Others have traditions but not super Christmasy but they're still family oriented. Other dimensions are...tricky because they could have Christmas or Yule but it could be different from ours. I guess Zora's an alien? They're like..."

His arms motion in a tendril like fashion.

"Cosmic."

A few oohs and ahs escaped his family mebers lips, earning a laugh from Chris.

"Now can we make this walk quick? It's lows cold out here."

#ic #;drabbles #; familia #//a mini drabble for the holidays #if you want a starter with your muse celebrating with Chris i'm down

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quantus-tremor · 4 months

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56 for Spotify wrapped thingie

((so the prompt was for a starter but I wrote a drabble type thing instead. we twist the rules in this house. basically just a stream of consciousness as armand contemplates sybelle reading tva for the first time.))

song 56:

[devil like me - rainbow kitten surprise]

is the devil so bad if he cries in his sleep, while the earth turns? and his kids learn to say "fuck you," they don't love you

The last of the night air hung heavy with the thick scent of oak as Armand reclined in his coffin, the lid ajar. The velvety darkness embraced him like a lover, but the relentless parasite anxiety festered within his immortal heart. His slender fingers danced nervously across the velveteen lining of his coffin, his mind consumed by the haunting prospect of Sybelle learning the intricacies of his existence. David had completed the chronicle, the elaborate account of Armand’s centuries-long journey through the shadowed corridors of eternity.

The coffin creaked as he shifted uncomfortably, the aged wood groaning in response. The passage of time, a relentless adversary, weighed heavily on his shoulders. Immortality had gifted him with a wealth of experiences, but it also burdened him with the knowledge that relationships in his eternal existence were as fleeting as the ephemeral mortals. He had to let her read it anyway, for her sake. What right did he have to expect her to stay? What right, after all he’d done? He, the devil himself with the face of a cherub, but Sybelle an angel through and through.

He had recounted it for her. Her and Benji. His beloved children. He had nothing to hide from her, nothing that he wanted to hide. Still, his unspoken fears twisted like tendrils of smoke to choke him. Would the revelation of his past, with all its sins and sorrows, finally alienate his beloved? Would she recoil from the weight of it — from the darkness that clung to him, relentless and opaque?

But there was a guilty part of him that told him the error in those thoughts. He could doubt himself, but he could not doubt her like this. She had already known pain, terror and sorrow. She saw the soul of Armand already and she had never once flinched from him, monster though he had been and could still be. They were so alike, she and he, and if Armand could find anything at all in himself that was akin to any part in her, then he could not be such a devil.

#;drabbles #sonataforsybelle #this is on my 'sacred songs' playlist of songs that have rlly resonated with me at some point in my life and become very important to me ))#i love it and i'm glad it was the one that came up ))#although it was only no 56 this year because I don't listen to it super often anymore))#anyways. armand and sybelle my beloved ))

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cryopathiic-a · 5 months

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ACHIEVED

RECOLLECTION PROMPT || accepting

send ACHIEVED for a scene from my muse's past in which they completed / achieved something they were proud of

His palms were still pressed together over his chest; clasping a dried lotus leaf that fell idly to the polished floorboards upon the abrupt arrival. There was the arrhythmic strum of a biwa resonating from somewhere overhead, in the bleachers shrouded by darkness. As prismatic eyes traversed the endless walls surrounding them the feeling begun to settle in; this was no mere room. It was a cage.

The Infinity Castle.

And he wasn't alone. Joining him in the bottom of the arena pit; a fellow demon. It was lathered with the stench of blood, flashing him three rows of razor sharp teeth — albeit their shared blood, the creatures were starkly different in appearance. The younger oni corked a brow then, his gaze once again searching the bleachers. And there, among the infinite passing shadows of souls eternally captured in the impenetrable fort, lurked plum red eyes.

On the next full moon you will fight for me.

And show me, what you are capable of... Dōma.

An empty gaze returns to his smirking opponent. There's drool running down the corner's of this demon's smiles and their claws are out, curly and thick like a vulture's. The smell of blood and death rises in the air. And a drum joins in the biwa's idle strum. He can feel the hard, slippery floor under his sock and the weight of that man's expectant glare. The other guy hisses and cackles out some insult in a voice that's not quite human-like. Somewhere between a man and a lizard. That seems to be the theme of this particular demon. Polychromatic eyes seek out the sigils in their gaze; Lower Six. A visibly indignated Lower Six, that was.

" What is this? You bring me this fresh spawn to rid of? This demon who has barely lived for a moon is no match for me! How many humans have you devoured, boy? "

Dōma's lips purse in a small smirk.

❝ Hey there! You don't look too shabby yourself! Uhm— ❞ His shoulders slouch as a finger taps his own chin, eyes averting to the ceiling like he's having trouble recounting the number. ❝ Uh, I don't know, maybe a hundred or something? ❞

That seems to get an immediate reaction from the other. He watches as their knuckles tighten and their jaw steels.

" Don't play games with me! You are a child with no place among the upper ranks! " A scaly fist punches through the air. The rhythm picks up. Slowly, Dōma reaches behind his back to the pair of golden fans crossed over his tailbone. And his cheekbones puff with a smile.

❝ Forgive me if I misread but... it says 'lower' in your eye. ❞

" Insolent scum! "

He charges. The drum beats; he remembers how the monks always said the taiko drums beat with the Lord Founder's heart. So that its beat may be heard by all; and all those who hear it will be blessed and motivated to pursue their enlightement; could it be? That this drum he hears is meant to drive demons to the realization of their purpose? The bloodlust poisoning the air... the feel of his feet gliding comfortably over polished wood as he draws a leg back and braces... That horrendous maw parts wide open and particles of drool fly out onto the wood; Dōma's frame hunches, coils like the snake before its lunge. The fan rests perfectly in the fat part of his palm; he can see the glimmer of his own skin as it reflects the castle's warm light.

In that moment it's just the two of them and the darkness.

In the next, the light disperses on the floor in fragmented rainbows. There's shards of ice everywhere; on the floor, through the wall, through his opponent. He shredded him into the wall with just one, swift strike. And the victor's first move of celebration? An apologetic bow.

❝ Oh, sorry! Excuse me, I may have gone a little overboard with the force! ❞ He calls out, waving a fan in the incapacitated demon's direction. ❝ I'm not really that well-practiced with this form yet! I was thinking of naming it something along the lines of... mmm, Frozen Flower! Frigid Bloom? Hm. Or... or, maybe Frozen Lotus! Yeah, that has a nice ring to i— ❞

He barely manages to dodge Lower Five's axe in time. It comes down from behind him accompanied with a battle cry. The enraged demon keeps swinging it left and right, summoned out of nowhere to proceed with the next unannounced round —

❝ Maybe it's just me but that felt a little aggressive — ❞

More incoherent cries from the boar-like beast that hounded him all around the arena; it quickly derails to a game of dodge and Dōma feels his limbs invigorated as his nostrils flare with the bloodlust in the air. It is the sort of stench that simply can't leave him unfazed. And in that way, the Lord's promise rings true.

There's a joyous note to the hum that accompanies another forward strike. And 'Frozen Lotus' suffices to shred this one as well; for all his might, the ice has a powerful bite that seeps into the blood within seconds. His opponent is left a frozen statue with the axe raised overhead and a small push from Dōma's palm suffices to send him falling back and shattering into a million bits.

Lower Four is tossed in.

He looks to the vacant bleachers; God abandoning his creation to its fate. Still, there's no semblance of trepidation in the polychromatic eyes that turn to meet his antsy rival.

❝ Hey there! Awh, you're so pretty! I'm sorry, perhaps you are more familiar with the guidelines here than me? I thought, we would get to eat the one we defeat... ❞

" Shut up, you won't take my rank from me! I worked hard to earn this rank! "

The sense of urgency in her voice translates to the consecutive blows of the nunchucks; a violent rain that challenges his footwork. The floor is very slippery all of the sudden. It's the thin layer of ice formed by the rime as it settles on each surface; and in that moment, his opponent makes a fatal mistake. She tries to balance herself. She tries to be the sturdy rock amidst the river; but this is a blizzard waiting to be unleashed. And the only way to survive it would be to roll with it.

He focuses on his feet. He imagines a pair of shoes. The crystal envelops his foot and glides, like a blade tearing through a finely seared fillet; he skates back and she trips flat on her face. The finishing blow is swift. Dōma makes the mistake of crouching over her limp form — and within a human's blink, there's a blade stuck in his throat. From one end out the other. Momentarily, his eyes widen. His hand is still on that demon girl's arm, halfway through its ascension to his mouth; and he is struck with the thought that it might be a Nichirin plunged in his neck. How would he know? He's only heard about those swords before.

Pressure on his spine; someone's foot pressing down on his back to pull it out. It doesn't budge the first time; it begins to slide out with the next labored effort — and then Dōma thinks of an owl. And turns his head around. The demon's blade snaps in half. And though it is instantaneously regenerated, Lower Three is stunted just long enough for the iceblooded to take his opportunity. Unaffected by all the sentiments that arouse in battles like this — fear, trepidation, anxiety; Dōma is... faster.

Dōma wins.

... Why is his heart so quiet then, even as the fan's golden gilding harvests another life? Why is his mind filled with naught but the recurring sutra of great compassion, reverberated over and over out of habit? Out of indoctrination. He would have liked to test his teeth against that girl but Lower Two comes next; and without a God here to witness it, their death comes swift. Swifter, still, the deeper that realization siks in.

He is not feeling accomplished, or triumphant, or even engaged in those fights. He is not offended, like the lizard demon or angry like the boar demon or afraid like the demon girl; yet he lacks the cold determination of Lower Three as well. In this group of demons that he has longed to meet for, for so long, his kin; he is still... different. In that way.

In the lacking way.

An unpleasant expression had sat on Dōma's face when the last rival was brought in. And he turned, expecting to see that last Lower Moon facing him with the same desperate fervor as the others—

But the demon that stood facing him, was none other than Upper Six.

#(( THANK U FOR THIS OPPORTUNITY!! ))#;drabbles #♛ ¦ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴏ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ༺ headcanon.#♛ ¦ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇꜱ༺ answered #whirling fangs #LONG POST TW

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janusflipped · 7 months

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i'm done with this place. -boxverse jason.

OOPS! ALL ANGST! PROMPTS //I'm bad at sad so have happy.//

Two-Face had invited himself over to Jason's apartment and had been sitting quietly with the teenager, an unlit cigarette in his mouth as they both sat in somewhat comfortable silence on the apartment's balcony.

"I'm done with this place."

Two-Face looked up at the teen. The cigarette sticking up in his mouth as he raised his eyebrow. "Yeah?" His voice slightly hoarse, he cleared his throat and took a sip of the water he had with him. No beer, Jason was too young for him to drink around him. "Penny for your thoughts?" He held up his coin and flipped it watching Jason catch it and snort.

"...I think you know why." Jason was now fiddling with the coin in his hand looking at the scrapped side of it, not looking at Two-Face. He could feel Two-face's steady stare. Opting not to say anything else.

"Hm...I'm not good with words you know." He heard a snort from the teen. "You don't believe?" He got elbowed in his side lightly and he chuckled.

"Yeah, you're friends with me. That takes some good words and charisma." There was a brief smirk before it returned to a frown, deeper than before.

"I think that was less good words and charisma and seeing someone done wrong like I was." He cleared his throat again and drank more water before taking his lighter and lighting his cigarette. "Also you're the son of Bruce Wayne... There's some appeal." Jason said nothing. There was a lot left unsaid. He grunted as he felt the now warm coin press against the unscarred half of his face before taking it back. "Rude."

"Forget what I said." Jason sighed loudly and leaned back his eyes closed. Two-Face lifted a hand and stopped a moment before reaching over and pulling the teen into a lopsided and surprisingly not awkward hug. When not met with resistance, he patted his head and started ruffling it and got an annoyed grunt.

"You'd be missed. A lot." Jason ignored him. "You should bleach the rest of this side white."

"What? No, that's stupid." He elbowed Twoie in the side and moved away sitting back up.

"Sure, sure. I look good enough." He leaned back and closed his eyes. Jason glanced over at him and relaxed again and the silence returned.

#;no more heroes [mun]#;drabbles #This sucks. lol #;ic #;answered #;inbox #;anonymous

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torncriminals · 1 year

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Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of her pen against the surface of the desk came to an abrupt halt when the door to the manager’s office opened up-- causing the damsel to stiffen for a moment. Which is unusual, considering she’s usually laid back. It was just her father, for God’s sake. She kept telling herself this, despite she held her breath as Giovanni raised a brow at how strange his daughter was acting. “You almost done with the inventory list, il tesoro?” The concern in his tone was genuine though and Marietta just laughed, a tad nervously-- god what the fuck was wrong with her. “Yeah! Almost. Just gimme five, Dad.”

Moments later after the door shut, Marietta exhaled aggravatedly and tossed the pen down-- slapping her palms over her face as she flopped back in the swivel chair oh-so-ungracefully.

Oh, she knows what’s wrong, alright.

Bright green eyes. Blonde hair. Killer smile and bod. That is what’s fucking wrong with her brain. What has been eating up every ounce of her thoughts and distracting her severely. This never happened to her before!

Well, actually... maybe it has. Once.

But the thought makes her next breath out shudder and a tiny sliver of fear began to swell inside her chest. Love was something she had desperately tried to avoid. Especially after the relationship with her last boyfriend ended up on the jagged rocks at the bottom of the cliff by the sea. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Only God knows what that fool is doing, let alone where he was.

Anyway. Fuck.

“Seriously? Come on.” She groaned, her hand sliding down her face before falling down to grip the armrests of her chair and she just stared at the ceiling. Does she regret going to Vegas? Maybe a teeny bit.

But then again... hadn’t it been for that merc, she’d still be strung up in the basement of a ratty farmhouse out in the desert of Nevada... or six feet under in the middle of nowhere.

Jesus fuck.

The way her heart ached every time she thought of her smirk. The way her body craved her touch. The way she longed to hear the sweet music of her voice--- the way her entire being pleaded to be near her, even if it just meant sitting on the sofa and watching a stupid show on the television.

Marietta Lombardi knew, for certain, that she is absolutely doomed.

#here have a random ass mini drabble #xD #marietta lombardi;; the glamorous criminal.#;headcanon #;musings #;drabbles

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mythboundmuses-archive · 2 years

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[ i know you already added them AND i know NOTHING about them but. i wish to see snippets of either joyce or elizabeth from TTMC. gimme. ]

They're having coffee together. Rather, Joyce has a fancy, frothy coffee and Elizabeth has a strong, sweet cup of English breakfast tea. They don't have a murder to solve (though Elizabeth is working on it and is confident she'll have a cold case by the end of the day, which they'll have cracked by the end of the week), so they don't really have very much to talk about. That doesn't stop Joyce nattering away about anything and everything that comes into her head. Elizabeth listens, because that's what she does, and begins to suspect that Joyce feels as aimless as she does without a case. "My Joanna was telling me about virtual reality when I spoke to her this morning," Joyce is saying. She has a little foamy milk moustache, but Elizabeth doesn't think it would be polite to mention it. "And I thought I'd mention it to you," Joyce carries on, "Because I thought it might be useful with our cases. Imagine if we could recreate the crime scene from the comfort of our armchairs!" Elizabeth agrees that, yes, that would be very useful. However, at their age, it really benefits them to get out and about and talk to people. Keeps them sharp. She doesn't want to waste away in silence, hidden away from the rest of the world. No, she's not going to fade away into obscurity. "I think," she says, after some consideration and a sip of tea. "Those headgear things are horrifically expensive." Then again, if anyone can convince the Cooper's Chase resident services to splash out, it's Joyce. No doubt they'll have four by the end of the month. She imagines Ron and Ibrahim's delight; they'll be able to play a round of golf without leaving the rec room, rain or shine. They could build the house that she and Stephen lived in when they first married; she's heard it's good for people with dementia to have a connection to their past. "But you're right, they could come in very handy." There, she knows that Joyce will hassle resident services until she gets what she wants, and who knows? Maybe they'll be able to use them for their next case.

#nightmarecountry #;drabbles #ic; joyce meadowcroft #ic; elizabeth best #[ both? both is good. ]#[ i'm about 1/3 of the way through the new one and my heart is so full of love for them both <3 ]#cw dementia #mentioned only. not either of the characters written here.

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ramonathinks · 7 months

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nanami drabble based on this (minors do not interact)

your sweet boyfriend nanami isn’t that old. but when he hears you say, “i want you to fuck me like a whore.” he gulps and almost spits out his drink.

“you want me to what?” he’s bouncing his leg and pulling you close against his chest to hear you say it again.

“i want you to fuck me.”

“don’t i always?” he chuckles, but the glint in your eyes are still there and a deep pout on your lips. “we always—”

“we make love. we have sex. but… i want you to fuck me. i want it rough and dirty—"

“do you know what you’re asking of me? i can’t… why would i want to be rough with my delicate baby, hm?”

“you can be rough with me and still show how much you love me… i love making love with you, but tonight i want you to just let loose and not so responsible,”

he thinks it over all night before he actually makes his way to bed. swallowing hard and his palms shaking. he’s never had this to be requested of him.

but when he sees you… naked and spread for him, he’s no longer thinking like the sweet man you know.

he’s flipping you over quickly and putting a hand over your mouth as he slips inside of you, no foreplay, just thrusting. a pinch of pain and your muffled voice making his eyes go hazy, his hips with a kind of their own as he pounds inside of you.

kissing and biting up and down your neck, he whispers words he never thought to urge, “you like when daddy fucks you? when i show you how this is mine?”

pushing your back down he continues, feeling you squeezing around him. tears streaming down your face and your eyes rolling back, “thought you wanted this? now you can’t speak? talk to daddy.”

but the only talking he can hear is the squishy sounds echoing off the walls as he fills your cunt, the fast thrashing of skin slapping together. “n-nanami—ah!”

your hands are pushing him away but he’s rubbing eagerly at your clit. “just a breakkkkk!”

“nuh uh. gonna break this pussy in, show her the new me.” your legs are shaking as he does a devilish smile, thrusting inside of you again

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nkogneatho · 12 days

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𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐘? 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐁 𝐀 𝐏𝐕𝐒𝐒𝐘.

— top jjk pussy starved men.

— cw: fem!reader, cunningulus, cowgirl, monsterfucking, squirting, overstimulation, edging, nicknames, pure filth.

— a/n: this is dj khaled's worst nightmare ifykyk, sukuna's is nastier than your room where you're lying in your bed reading this rather than cleaning it.

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

"atta girl. atta fucking girl!" satoru was so proud of you for riding his dick like it was your last. your body bounced on his, ass slapped so loud against his crotch that it was louder than the moans slipping from your lips.

gojo looked at you like a beast as he rested his shoulders and head on the bed frame, sitting up a little, making sure to get a good view. you made eye contact with him for a second and watched him stare at your pussy. he had heart eyes watching where you and him connected.

"getting tired, toru. nee—uh! need your help"

"aww princess. thought you'd never ask," his hands traveled your from your bent knees, to your thighs till they reached your ass and gave it a loud smack. you knew the consequences of asking him for help because this man won't stop until you've gone limp.

gojo grabbed a handful of your ass and used it to bounce you on his cock. his triceps flexed as bobbed you till your pussy stretched on his member. you watched as his tongue swiped against his lips and forged into a mischievous grin. his pace fastened and he hit your walls with so much force that it had your bed creaking and his ass levitate in the air for a millisecond.

"fuck fuck fuck fuck!! c'mon, baby. s—stretch it more. wanna cum in this—holy shit—cum in your pretty pussy."

"toruuuu," you cried as you rolled your head back in pleasure, barely keeping up with him.

"look—ahh how pretty she looks swallowing my cock in—goddamn! let's make her even prettier. let's paint her in my cum, y-yeah? fuckin—ahhhh! he moaned practically louder as he shot his load in you, his movements never stopping because he is a pussy starved whore. you could feel his trimmed white pubes stimulating your clit causing her to cum following his climax.

"fhuck princessh! huh! need m-more." you could barely comprehend his words because he was panting so much overstimulating himself. but he still craved for more, living up his pussy starved whore title.

𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈

"don't fuckin' move," his hand snaked tighter around your thighs.

"'s too much," you cried, fingers seconds away from tearing the bedsheets. toji had been eating your pussy for almost an hour. but the worst part was he hadn't let you come even once. the first fifteen minutes were fun but now it was plain torture. your pussy was so sensitive at this point that either needed to orgasm, or get the fuck away from the animal's face in front of you. is his jaw not hurting? you thought.

"toji, pleaaasee. lemme cum," you pleaded. his lips grinned against your pussy.

"wanna cum, yeah? do it yourself." he pulled away to look at your confused face. "grind this sweet pussy on my face, doll." you were scared he was going to pull something mean again. yet, you did it anyway because your brain doesn't work much when your pussy is hungry.

you were still in the same position, hips starting to jerk against his face. toji stirred his tongue out flat rubbing against your clit. with each thrust, you felt yourself getting closer and closer to your high. toji felt it coming before you and to make sure he'd get to drink all your juice, he latched his lips on your pussy as you shuddered when you came.

"anh! anh! toji—ffhuuck!!" his teeth caused you to overstimulate and whine. your body trembled post climax for atleast forty five more seconds before your torso finally laid flat on the body. toji climbed up and peppered you in his kisses, lips covered in your juices crashing against your skin.

"ready for round two?"

"fuck off."

𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀

"can't fucking run away tonight, can you?"

you never thought you'd ever feel so helpless. sukuna had your wrists pinned abover your head with his two hands, the other two held your thighs apart so he can savour all of that pretty pussy.

his one dick teased your hole and the other rubbed between your asscheeks. you watched in horror as well as excitement as a big mouth appeared on his stomach. you knew he was a monster that could do things like this, but this was your first time seeing it upclose. the mouth grinned before a big wide tongue rolled out it, licking a long stripe that started from your pussy and ended on your tits. you were curious if it could go farther. it did. it forced his way meeting your tongue. but yours was so tiny compared to his, almost invisible under it's presence.

"go ahead. give it a kiss." he ordered.

your jaw finally relaxed as the tongue pulled out, a hefty amouth of saliva drenched your tits, you lifted your head up and planted a kiss on the edge of it. the tongue retracted, and you thought it was over. but it was a mere distraction as when you looked down, both his cocks had filled your either holes, the tip barely in.

"shit. need you more wet." he said before the mouth on his stomach spat on your pussy, your labia soaked as much as the bedsheets under you. the tongue massaged your clit, making you stretch and giving the monster in front of you an opening to attack your hole. sukuna bottomed out and you gasped in pain.

"kunaaaa! ahh—meanie."

"I had to, woman."

sukuna made sure to start with slow thrusts but when he felt your pussy getting used to the size, he started going more intense. he felt you shaking under him so when he looked down you were already cumming. with no second thoughts, he pulled out his cock, and his stomach tongue filled your pussy till the tip could feel your velvety walls.

"he is hungry. let him, sweetheart."

you came so hard that you vibrated against his big body. he felt it. you were about to squirt. sukuna lifted you up in the air so easily on his bigger tongue so that all your juices flowed directly on it and you watched. you felt so filthy but when you looked at him, he couldn't take his eyes off how your pussy juice created a small stream on the surface of the wide stomach tongue. you saw his neck bob as he was savouring the taste of you even though he never took you in his real mouth.

"mmhm. you're sweeter than i imagined." a new mouth appeared on his hand and licked away your tears. slowly, a few more manifested on his body.

"how about you let all my boys taste you?"

@osachiyo @hellkaiserinphoenix @audrinui @ilhvm @wifeyana @rizzmin @venusiansilk @suchawasteofagirl @blondieeu @lavalampfullofsoup @getoloverr @tojilvrs

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vixtionary · 1 year

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THE VIEW FROM the Argent hilltops was inspiring. An explosion of life flourishing in the western expanse with water dividing the earth & sheltering the Silent Forest from mundane interference. Beside the two men, a Vindoran steed was grazing peacefully, its dark tail swishing ever so often. It had been a peaceful spring morning; an inconspicuous setting that would have never prepared one for the carnage to come. Now, as wet eyes traversed over scorched grassfields, all Fidel could think about... was death.

Death in the warcries of soldiers; death in the red tinge of the river's flow; death in the rattling of heavy machinery being pulled to join the decimation. Death, in the hand of his General; who solemnly stood above the battlefield, eyes assessing — no, knowing the predicament. Soon, the battle culminates. It becomes apparent then, even to the untrained eye of a mere pursuivant.

They were heading towards a swift and dishonorable defeat.

It would not be long now. The flying cavalry deployed could be faintly sighted in the horizon; thanks to clear skies. But, the Demacian front was not to be underestimated. They had accounted for that visibility by timing the entrance correctly. The raptors are far too agile for cumbersome Noxian machinery to follow. In the time it takes to load a catapult, a simple swoop of the legendary beasts would have cleaved a dozen arms from the frontline.

Fidel's eyes searched for answers in the General's gaze. But when he sought him out, the shadow of dark wings sowed trepidation anew; youthful features wrinkling with a shiver. Their cursed aura poisoned the air, enveloping them both. Fidel's limbs froze when he took note of the malice in Swain's expression; his inhuman glare (which the young guard had yet to grow used to) was fixed on their winged adversaries. Instinctively, he took a step away from him, but his lip still quivered with a question he dare not ask. In a rare display of generosity, the Grand General offered him the answer.

"Tactical retreat. Go, run to the warmasons."

From the frayed edges of his well-worn captain's coat protruded a crimson shape that had Fidel instinctively avert his gaze. Humble origins, as a former farmhand from Tokogol, had equipped him with modesty; to bow his head before a power he could not understand. His lowered gaze tracked the shift of Swain's shadow. Darkness was pooling beneath him, rustling the weeds.

"Yessir." Quivered Fidel, but his meager run would soon be interrupted by a finalizing order.

"Take the mount."

The guard hesitated. But the birds congregating around them like a cyclone were enough of an incentive. Within the blink of an eye, he had already climbed in the saddle, hands gripping the reigns like a lifeline. Morbid curiosity beckoned him to turn his head; over his shoulder, he witnessed the dark force lifting his General off the ground as one might a puppet. His head was assaulted by whispering voices, sweat dripping over wide eyes. Swain's form elevated, wings stretched to full reach.

He closed his eyes.

#;drabbles #;musings #((woke up feeling an urge for battle-))#((it's probably the hrs i've been grinding vermintide lmao))

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