#* drabble

[thewrecked-andthewriting]

Building their Camelot.

Summary: Prince Arthur and Princess Catherine had recovered from the sweat in 1502.

*

March 21, 1503.

Nearing ten in the evening.

“This is utter torture.” Catherine said, not taking her eyes off of her sewing. She knew that she ought be getting to sleep, knew that she ought be asleep already. But one tends to find it difficult to sleep when there are a million things running rampant in the brain all at once.

Once again, Henry had challenged Arthur to rough house on their last visit to Westminster. The sixteen year old humored his eleven year old brother and it had ended in a tear one another one of his shirts. Rather have one of her ladies in waiting do the task of mending his shirt, Catherine had taken the duty upon herself.

She had been in confinement on bed rest for the last month as she entered her third trimester. There was only so much that her ladies could do to keep the Princess of Wales occupied lest she go stir crazy. Too late for that.

Arthur chuckled from the doorway. He had come by, as he did every night to speak with his wife before he went back to his own chambers for the night. “It is doctor’s orders, my love.” he said, sitting on the edge of his wife’s bed. She lifted her head to glare at her husband but there was an overwhelming playfulness in her blue eyes that was overriding the irritation.

“This is your first pregnancy and no one wants to risk anything happen to you.”

“Or the heir. Mainly the heir.” the seventeen year old princess added, lowering her gaze to sewing once more.

“Both of you.” Arthur insisted, reaching over and pressing his hand to his wife’s knee. “Only a few months left and we will soon be holding our child. It will be in the midst of Spring. We will be able to take him outside, show him some of the lands he will eventually rule over.”

Catherine put the shirt, needle and thread aside onto the wooden bedside table and reached her arms out to her husband.  

The sixteen year old Tudor smiled gently and the two moved about on the bed until he was lying next to her, both of them under her blankets. Her arms wrapped around his midsection as her red curls rested upon his chest. “Stay with me for the night.” she asked, her voice ever so muffled as she nuzzled his chest through his nightshirt.

Arthur laughed softly as he pressed a kiss to his wife’s head. One arm resting behind his head, the other wrapped around Catherine, his hand placed upon her swollen stomach. “You know I-”

“I know. You also know that I am an early riser. I will be able to wake you up and shoo you off before my ladies arrive.”

He did know that. Knew it well. Before she was with child, there were many a mornings when he was jostled awake from his wife moving off of the bed before the sun had even fully rose above the horizon.

“You know I can not say no to my Guinevere and you use it against me.” he teased.

Catherine nodded, a triumphant smile spreading across her face. “Indeed. My Arthur.” she moved her head away from Arthur’s chest and leaned up to peck her lips against his. “I love you.”

“And I love you. So much.” he said, pressing their foreheads together. They had both prayed so much, alone and together, and thanked God for allowing them to overcome their sweat from the year prior. To give them a second chance to grow. To plant the seeds that would someday blossom into their Camelot.

[astromechs]

here is a concept drabble i wrote in 15 minutes of the storm siblings as hunters a la the winchester brothers based on the result i got from the last dumb post i reblogged lmao; i did not edit this and i hold no responsibility for anything thank you and goodnight

Force fields don’t always work on spirits.

Reed had explained it to her once. Spirits, see, don’t follow all the laws of physics that govern the human world; while sometimes they have a corporeal form, and can be pushed around as a physical body would, often, when they’re more translucent, they’ll just pass right through. With the way that her eyes bend light, thanks to the effects of the cosmic radiation, she’ll always be able to see them, but in the cases involving the latter scenario, that’s where the usefulness of her powers ends.

Still, Sue always tries it — even if it’s a gamble. And right at this moment, that gamble isn’t working out quite so well in her favor.

This one’s giving her a real thrashing, sending her flying into the walls at every conceivable opportunity, with an intensity that has to be personal. She figures that it is; the spirit they’ve tracked to upstate New York, isolated in an abandoned cabin by a lake somewhere in the Adirondacks, belongs to a woman who’d lost her two children, a boy and a girl, in a drowning. Sue feels for her, she really does, because she can’t imagine what it’d be like to lose her own children at all, much less in such a horrible way, but —

The wall cracks under the impact of her head for the fifth time, and she doesn’t have to be able to see anything to know that she’s bleeding.

“Johnny!” she calls to her brother, whose shovel she can still hear digging into the dirt just outside the cabin. “What are you waiting for? Burn the damn bones! I don’t have all day!”

“That’s really high and mighty coming from the one who left the salt in the car, Sue! And you tell me I’m irresponsible.” More shifting of dirt, and then there’s the distinct clang of metal on bone. “Hang on, I’ve almost got her!”

The spirit seems to know it, too; her head turns, mouth open inhumanly large to scream. She moves, swiftly, to the window…. 

“FLAME ON!”

Instantly, the hold on Sue releases as the spirit disintegrates: she slides to the floor, gasping for breath. The fingers that slide to the back of her head definitely feel blood, but as far as she can tell, it’s nothing too serious — something that another few minutes might’ve changed.

Regardless, though, the job is done, and hopefully, finally, the spirit can find some peace.

As Sue pushes herself up off the floor and heads outside, she thinks the spirit will be the only one who does; after that comment, a certain little brother of hers won’t know peace for a long time.

[herassent-blog]

WHEN  SHE  FIRST  LAYS  EYES  ON  HER,     it  feels  like  seeing  colour  for  the  first  time,  like  up  until  this  point,  her  life  has  been  black   &   white,  but  now  there  are  pinks  and  oranges  and  blues  and  greens  shining  brighter  than  ever  before.  and  the  breath  in  kaia’s  lungs  is  stolen  from  her  as  she  sees  aurora’s  smile.  she  has  to  remind  herself  to  breathe,  she’s  so  in  awe  of  aurora.

and  she  thinks  that  the  unseelie  queen  was  aptly  named  because,  looking  at  her,  kaia  feels  the  same  way  she  does  whenever  she  watches  the  sunrise  over  the  hills  behind  her  castle.  she  thought  no  beauty  could  ever  match  that  of  a  sunrise,  and  she  was  both  wrong  and  right  because  the  unseelie  queen  is  a  sunrise,  and  kaia  had  never  seen,  nor  will  ever  see,  something  as  beautiful  as  the  woman  standing  before  her,  again.  and  she  can’t  help  but  wonder  if  her  title,  dawn  hailed  was  a  hidden  prophecy,  foretelling  of  this  moment  as  she  sees  the  woman  who’s  dawn  brought  to  life.

@steeleofheart

[chibiuseless]

Darcy/Tony = If they invented a way to actually have sex over the internet you and I could use that glorious technology for internet hugs. (You know, when I wasn’t using it for sex.)

Pairing: Darcy/Tony

Word Count: ~550

Prompt: #47 If they invented a way to actually have sex over the internet you and I could use that glorious technology for internet hugs. (You know, when I wasn’t using it for sex).

Warning: Implied smut, language?

A/N: Darcy/Tony is not a ship I would ever have written without a prompt. However, I didn’t want to not answer this, or not give it a go. My sincere apologies if this is utter trash because of that. I did my best. <3

✽ ✽ ✽ ✽ ✽ ✽ ✽

When she asked Tony what would happen when she left for the Asgardian liaison duty and she needed him; a suit was decidedly not the answer Darcy expected from her brilliant partner. Several snarky Stark one-liners about the Bifrost, or Mjolner? Of course. A couple rejoinders about her not leaving at all? Par for the Stark Tower course. Hell, she even imagined a half-joke about phone sex.

But not this.

Not these two almost weightless suits. He tried to explain them to her, but after only a few minutes her eyes glazed over and she mumbled, “Dammit Tony, I’m a poli-sci major not an engineer.”

That made him laugh, and he dumbed the science down just a bit for her, “Essentially, Shortcake, they’re wifi-paired suits that allow one wearer to feel what the other wearer feels via external stimuli.”

“So, let me see if I get this… If you hug yourself, then I will feel like you’re hugging me as long as I’m also wearing a suit, and it’s calibrated properly? Or will I feel like I’m hugging you?” It was an important distinction, she’d thought.

“Well, it’s programed for both, Darce. You just have to set it up for each session, based on what you’re interested in.” He demonstrated for her, sliding a semi-transparent glove over her hand, then his own, and showed her how if he clenched his hand she could either feel as if she were clenching her own hand, or as if someone was holding hers instead. “Additionally, you know I didn’t spend a full month on this for just Internet Hugs. Optional casings for inanimate objects can be used to simulate intercourse.”

“Jesus Tony, you really put a lot of thought into this,” though honestly that wasn’t a surprise to Darcy anymore.  In the last couple years she’d gotten used to Tony’s ability to fully immerse himself in a project, thinking of nearly every possible angle. He was a genius afterall. Her genius.

“I put a lot of thought into it for you, Pint Size,” his eyes slid from hers to her lips, and back up. She was going to miss his kisses while she was gone.

“Okay, all thought processes aside. Have you tested it out for its full intended purpose, or just for business handshakes?” Darcy raised one eyebrow in concern. She had no intention of leaving for Asgard with a suit that would hypothetically let her get freaky with her lover. It had better do it’s damn job. “I think we should test drive this invention of yours.”

Nearly an hour later, a soft ‘woah’ was all Darcy could manage as her breath finally began to regulate; Tony’s slow caress of his own arm made the hair under her own suit raise in response, and she sighed contentedly.

“That was something else, Tin-Man.” Darcy peeled the suit from her flushed skin, and folded it up to place on the lab table next to her. “I just have one question for you.”

“Shoot, babe,” her lover’s eyes were still dark from his own release, as he eyed her.

“How’s this supposed to work in Asgard? There’s no wifi…”

[askleta-blog]

44

How easy or difficult is it for your character to say “I love you?” Can they say it without meaning it?

tw: borderline mentions of abuse and rape, forced marriage

“Do you love me?“ 

 He asks it a few months after the wedding. Leta is trying to sleep, but she forces her eyes open and finds Amalric leaning over her, eyes glittering in the dark of the bedroom. She reaches out a hand, and the candles flicker to life. 

She knows the answer he wants, but her shoulders tense at the thought of giving it. He is all dark hair and chiseled jaw and lithe limbs and she ought, at least, to be able to conjure lust. Some nights she forgets enough to manage that. 

It should be an easy answer to give. She has been trained all her life to give it. Ticklish whispers in her ears -"tell grandmother you love her,” or “tell uncle how pleased you are to see him”- and Leta would be expected to toddle over to the relative in question, and smile, and accept kisses and embraces when offered. As a small child, with dirt on her knees and twigs in her hair from playing with the cousins, she had once thrown a fit, not feeling much like telling anyone she loved them. 

Her father had been furious. He had grabbed her shoulders once he could get her alone, hissing, “This is how you earn your place with them. Do you want them to forget us?” His hands had been so tight, but what scared Leta most was the fear in his eyes. After Leta had made the prettiest apology she could, her father had put his hand on her shoulder, pride replacing fear. “Without family, we are nothing,” he’d told her. Even then, Leta didn’t want to be nothing.

The next time, she didn’t have to be asked. She smiled at her grandmother and kissed both of her cheeks. “I love you,” she said. And again the next time, and again, until it was reflex. 

At school, she’d learned something else to be, away from her parents and the endless round of family visits. There were cousins close to her in age, but she had rebuffed their attempts to draw her into their social circles, pretending that it was only their friends she didn’t like. Inside Hogwarts, Leta was free to be whatever she wanted - and by third year, she had begun to be as perverse and direct as she never could be at home. 

And yet there was one thing she could never say. She practiced it, her sixth year, mouthing words at her reflection in a window or whispering them to the insides of her bed-curtains, trying to get the words just right. I love you. I think I might love you? I’m in love - isn’t that silly? She would catch sight of a shock of ginger hair, and her breath would catch as she thought of saying it. Every time she opened her mouth to say them, though, the words stuck. 

It could never have lasted, anyway, she told herself later. It was small comfort, with the broken pieces of their friendship still scattered through her life. Newt was gone from her side as surely as if the expulsion had been enforced. The trust was broken.

“I’ve missed you so, grandmother!” she said brightly that summer, the secret of her apprenticeship held close to her chest. She moved easily through garden parties and dances, the trick of pleasing well learned. 

Amalric’s eyes bore into Leta’s, and she takes a careful breath, careful not to let the tightness of her chest show. It’s only a matter of pleasing, she tells herself. But those eyes and hands have known her too well. He isn’t asking in front of the family, while chatter burbles around them. Amalric’s eyes begin to narrow as she makes him wait for an answer. 

“Of course I love you,” she says at last, turning over and drawing the sheet up. “What kind of question is that?” she adds, forcing a laugh.

Character Development Questions: Hard Mode

[thewrecked-andthewriting]

Untitled Phantom Drabble 01.

Summary: Phantom has doubts about letting Callie and her abilities to take over his business when the time comes.

*

“And what would I have to do?” Phantom’s newest possible prospect asked. The young man’s knee was shaking rapidly.

Phantom tilted his head and gave a charismatic smile. “All you have to do is sign a contract, son.” he insisted.

“There is really nothing that you want i-in return?”

The underground’s lord smiled. “Only a small thing. What I will gain in this treaty is nothing in comparison from what you will.”

CRASH.

Phantom turned his head towards the direction of his office door, a dark brow cocked upwards. The other male turned halfway in his chair to look in the same direction.

“What was that?” he asked, his voice filling with more tension than there was before.

Phantom shook his head. “It’s nothing. Now back to the task at hand.” he tapped his knuckles at the wood surface of his desk to get the man’s attention once more.

“Is there nothing you wouldn’t do to ensure your family’s safety? To guarantee their security henceforth? Both financially and ph-”

CRASH.

Letting out a low growl of annoyance, Phantom stood and turned his head to his henchman who stood stoically at his side. “Make sure he doesn’t try to leave.” he pointed his cane towards his client. “One moment please.” he smiled at the young man before leaving his office and making sure to close the door behind him.

After walking down the few hallways to his office, he entered the main barroom.

To say it was chaotic would be a tad bit of an understatement.

A few major things that caught his eyes one by one --

The house band he’d hired that night was all standing, not a lick of music being played.

Broken chairs. Wood shrapnel littered his exquisite - and expensive - marble flooring.

The behemoth of a man laying atop a pile of what Phantom figured was the remnants of table.

His daughter grinning up at him as she stood over the groaning man. How he wasn’t entirely knocked out at this point was beyond the demon.

Phantom placed the end of his cane on the ground and leaned on it with both of his hands. His dark brown eyes flashing crimson at his offspring for just a second as he glared at her. Her smile faltered a bit.

“I have several questions but the first I will ask you, Calliope.” he cleared his throat. “What in the fuck is going on out here?”

Callie shrugged her shoulders. “He was heckling the band. And he was harassing a few of the patrons.” she defended herself as she nudged at the man with the tip of her boot.

“Uh-huh.” he nodded. “And what did I tell you do in an instance just like this?”

“To get one of the bouncers to throw any nuisence out and lock the door behind them?”

He nodded once more. “Yes. And why do I tell you to follow this protocol?”

“Because you are almost always with clients and we don’t need reason to try to scare them away?”

A nod once more. “And where the fuck do you think I was just at?”

“In your office…with a client…that you don’t want to be scared away?”

“Sharp cookie, kid. Sharp cookie.” he said, standing up straight. He snapped a finger towards one of the bouncers. When he had gotten their attention, he simply pointed to the man on the ground with his cane. “Get rid of this asshole, please and thank you.”

“Of course, boss.” The bouncer hefted the near dead man over his shoulder and more or less threw him out the front door. He tossed the man’s wallet to Phantom who had caught it easily in one hand before removing what money and few credit cards were inside before tossing it back. The bouncer tossed it outside - it landing with a small thump on the man’s chest.

“Father, you don’t understand. You didn’t hear what he was sa-”

“Calliope, I don’t care what he was saying!” he interrupted her.

“But!”

Phantom shook his head. “No buts! You keep saying that you want in on my business, on my empire.” he started.

“And I do!”

He pointed his cane in her direction. “Well, first off. Stop interrupting me and listen!”

Callie shrunk back ever so slightly.

“Seldom do you ever listen to me. I give you the simplest instructions and you can not even follow those.”

“Sir, please just hear her o-” one of his bartenders spoke up. Phantom then pointed his cane in their direction.

“I did not ask for you - or anyone for that matter - to chime in.” he said, without even pulling his gaze from his daughter’s. “You’re relieved. Go home, Calliope.”

“But.”

“Go. Home.” he repeated his words. “We’ll talk later.”

Callie rolled her eyes and scoffed. She walked behind the bar and gathered her things before walking to the door. She turned on her heels to face Phantom.

“You know, you might do a good job at ruling this empire, this fucking kingdom, but you are a shit father.”

“Go. Home.”

Once his offspring was gone, Phantom sighed and straightened his tie. He spoke to no one in particular. “Someone better get this mess cleaned up. It better be fucking spotless the next time I come out here.” as he turned to return to his office, he heard scrambling behind him.

[astromechs]

little tiny piece of writing, the dialogue prompt was “i wasn’t ready to say goodbye”; i took an inch and i ran a sad mile that one night, apparently ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ anyway, set during gotg 2020 but also ignoring bendis because that’s how we roll in these parts

When he's discharged from a hospital he doesn't know the name of, on a planet he doesn't know the name of, still weak but functional, alive when he should've long since been dead, he commands his helmet to give him the coordinates to Hala. Going airborne is enough to wind him, and the effort of just creating a stargate is almost enough to make him collapse, but he has to go. Being stuck surrounded by the same four walls has only made things worse, and he —

Can't think of anywhere else to go.

It's approaching dusk when he touches down at the park just on the outskirts of the city of Attilan, and other than the grass that singes slightly under his boots, everything is untouched. Quiet — just like the void he's come to know entirely too well. Immediately, a lump sticks in his throat, and he thinks that maybe it'd been a mistake to come here. Maybe (definitely), but it's too late to turn back now.

Rich removes his helmet and collapses it, but grips it tightly in his fingers as he walks, passing giant stone replicas of friends he'd once trusted to have his back on the battlefield — some returned (like him), some lost forever. His eyes lift to each of the faces in turn, like he'll find something if he stares long enough.

He doesn't, especially not when he reaches the last one and stares at himself. At....

The lump in his throat spreads, to the point that it could choke him.

His legs shake, struggling to support his own weight, so he ends up kneeling instead, putting him at eye level with the inscription at the statue's base. He reaches out, moving his thumb over the letters Peter Jason Quill, "Star-Lord", back and forth and back again.

For a long time, he stays like that in silence. Until: "I wasn't —" His voice catches. "I wasn't ready to say goodbye."

Even if no one's around to hear, he buries his face in his free hand to stifle his sobs.