#*drabbles

[hiddenqveendom]

* —VEINS OF FIRE: official book cover

A collection of House of the Dragon/A Song of Ice and Fire verse original character drabbles and one-shots. ⚠️Warnings: General ASOIAF themes! Triggers may include: violence, implied sexual themes, death, blood, gore, foul language, abuse, etc.⚠️

see the entire collection here!

Taglist::@nikosasaki@erraticrandomficwriter, @jewishbarbies , @sgtbuckyybarnes ,  @decennia , @veetlegeuse, @arrthurpendragon , @raith-way , @scootermcooter , @stanshollaand , @chrissymunson , @foxesandmagic , @eddiemunscns ,  @waterloou , @endless-oc-creations, @kingsmakers, @https-svnshine, @daughter-of-melpomene,@dyhlanobrien, @fragilestorm , @nolanhollogay , @carmens-garden , @impales , @emilykaldwen, @darkwolf76, @princessmadelines, @iloveocs, @nectarinesrule , @nyrafireheart , @rebloggingocs , @conaionaru , @eddysocs , @xoteajays, @thatmagickjuju

send me a message to be added / removed !

[scerek]

I want Derek and Theo pressing their massive tiddies against a big hard cock

Idk I made a thing :D

Derek Hale pressed himself against the alpha's massive erection. It pulsated between his perky pecs, flushed bright pink and leaking all over his chest.

The alpha bucked his hips upward and fucked his cock against Derek's tits.

"You next, Theo..." Alpha Scott said as the chimera strutted into view, looking cocky as his cock swung from side to side. But tonight was all about his pecs.

Theo got down on his knees and pressed himself against Derek's chest, sandwiching Scott's engorged dick between himself and Derek. The sensation made Alpha Scott feral to the point where he unexpectedly shot a huge load that landed on the two betas faces.

[dear-yandere]

wintertide.

yandere! tartaglia (childe) x reader. series of drabbles. disclaimer: this is not a healthy relationship.

prompt: warmth written for a holiday collab, masterlist can be found here!

art belongs to ino/イノ (twitter).

i.

when he first sees you, he doesn’t know what to think.

maybe it’s because there’s nothing particularly special about you, nothing to look at, nothing to dwell on. maybe it’s because you’re easy to pass over, your hair braided and decorated with a simple pin, and your attire even less eye-catching. maybe it’s because you’re just like everyone else in this city, and maybe it’s because you’re the furthest thing away from him. from who he is. from what he is.

but it’s the way the sun kisses your skin that makes him look twice.

and he realizes then that you are so much more than you appear. as he watches you make your way around the market, he realizes that the sun never once leaves your skin. under it, you shine, every detail of your person accentuated beneath the seaside sun. your qipao is elaborate, its colors and designs plain so as to not draw attention, yet tastefully paired with simplistic jewelry around your neck and wrists. the pin holding your hair together shines beneath the warm light, as if its sole purpose is not to look pretty, but to be worn by you.

he can’t look away.

because you’re standing there, looking as if you are wholly unfettered by the worries of the surrounding world. because you’re smiling at him, and the air separating him from you grows warmer. because you’re standing there, and the sun falls for you too.

he falls for you, and he wonders, 

‘what is it like to be loved by the sun?’

ii.

his hands were made to kill.

so, the first time you welcome his touch, he’s thrown off guard.

it’s the moment you press his cheeks between your palms and give him a playful little kiss, your giggles so bright they’d make the sun envious. and, despite all his misgivings and misguidance, he’s not one to use force where it’s unneeded, so he hadn’t expected this, not now—not ever, really. after all, you only started dating him a week ago and he’s done nothing but annoy you and vie for your attention. he was fully expecting you to break up with him on day two; he would’ve preferred it, considering he’s not from around here, considering he’s a bad guy and you’re someone who’s enamored even the sun. he fully expected you to leave, but you didn’t—and now he’s in a situation he’s never been in before. 

he’s not used to being touched, not in return. he’s not used to the legs entangled with his own, not like this. he’s not used to the sweetness on your lips and the sugar in your tone, not for him.

but he doesn’t question it.

to love and be loved is a concept far lost on him, the recesses of his mind home to visions of war and bloodshed alike. his heart holds no room for warmth and love, not the kind that humans feel—and yet, when he holds you, he finds himself enamored all the same. he finds in himself a warmth he could never find in snezhaya. he finds in himself, you.

his hands were made to love.

iii.

he likes the way you feel between his hands.

there’s one on your body at all times, even if it’s only loosely hanging onto your sleeve. he’ll let go if you ask, but you won’t get your way without a dissatisfied twitch of his lips in response. tartaglia isn’t normally one to mope (he can’t recall having ever genuinely done so in his life), but he still lets that facade slip—just briefly—when you deprive him of your touch. it isn’t entirely intentional, he’ll tell himself. he doesn’t want to guilt you, nor does he want to force your affections.

but he doesn’t want to let go. he can’t let go.

not in a million years. not when you fit so perfectly in his hands. not when your hair feels best between his fingers. not when your hands carry a warmth he can’t quite place—a sunspot localized entirely in your palms. his mind is only at peace when you’re nestled in his arms, even if you’re paying him no mind. your attention never stays fully focused on him, the shadow in his eyes too unsettling to dwell on for too long. but that’s alright. you don’t have to look at him; you just have to stay.

he’s painfully aware that what he’s doing is wrong. his sole purpose is to be a weapon of war, a puppet of the tsaritsa’s, and yet you’re in his arms and everything feels right. he’s painfully aware that dominating and demanding your attention like this will one day backfire, that you’ll leave—or worse, be killed—and he’ll only know the cold again.

but he doesn’t want to let go. he’ll never admit it, but it’s almost like he’s become...

clingy.

and the day you admit it yourself will be the day he starts to die.

he just wants to dream a little longer.

dear-yandere, all rights reserved.

[userdjarin]

“ you’re bleeding! ” w din ??

hi anon!! thank u so much for participating!! and sorry this took a while i suddenly got busy with life afgfsdf

hope you like it :))

shortcuts | joanne’s 1k follower celebration

pairing: din djarin x f!reader

rating: teen (for brief descriptions of injury, brief sexual suggestions)

summary: you take a shortcut on your route, even though din has taught you all the ways to not take a shortcut.

genre: fluff, some hurt/comfort

wc: 1.2k

“That took you a while,” Din greets you from the top while you climb up the Crest’s ramp. Where his words seemingly lacked warmth, he made up for with an earnest tone in his voice that inexplicitly asked whether you had met trouble on your trip.

You did, in fact, meet trouble on your trip. You had offered to do the supply run into town this time instead since Din had his hands full with maintenance around the ship, and the two of you were on a schedule to leave for the planet of his next quarry.

But, you decide a minor charade is harmless – he’d make a fuss otherwise. So, you play out a light feint, choosing to reply with a playful quip that’ll eclipse with any colour you’ll happen to give away. “Flirted with the shop owner a little bit to get the nut loaves for cheap.”

But ultimately, you’re no match for him. No little detail about you ever escapes his register.

He’s helping you take the pack brimming with provisions off your back when all his movements die as soon as he finds the slightest speckled pattern on the sleeve at your elbow. “You’re bleeding.” The pitch of his baritone never needs to stray for him to still deliver the heaviest magnitude of gravity.

It startles you – the way such a simple string of syllables manages to cut through the air with such solidity. And then you curse inwardly at yourself for not knowing better than to make sure you didn’t bleed through your shirt. You diffuse the situation the only way you knew how. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

A joke. But his temper blinds him to the sarcasm, so it only inflames the situation.

“Tell me who did this to you.”

Stars. If his actions were to share even a fraction of the severity that his speak takes on now, whoever you would’ve pointed your finger at would surely no longer have all their limbs by the end of the day.

“M-Maker, Din—I’m joking! No one did it. I—” You’re embarrassed to have made a flustered spectacle of yourself in front of such an ironclad certitude. “—I fell,” you finally admit, and it falls from your lips as a shameful whisper.

“You… fell?” The tension that spans his shoulders doesn’t let up, but his helmet dips to one side as if that could utterly confuse him more than you getting into a spat with someone.

“Yeah. I, uh—yeah, I took a sh-shortcut. Through the woods. Didn’t see the drop off in the terrain. Fell and scraped my arm.” You brace for the reaction you’re expecting.

And you get it when he sighs with the same quality that expires the wrath from his muscles. “Sweet girl, what did I tell you about—”

“—taking shortcuts, I know, I know. Never venture into unknown grounds on my own.” You can’t help but pout since you already feel like an adolescent being reprimanded. “I was going to take the roads back, then I saw the woods and—pack was heavy—and thought cutting through it would be quicker. It just made sense in my head. I mean, I did make my way out.”

A gentle nod comes after what seems like a whole solar cycle’s worth of a pause. “Okay.” The word falls slow, like he holds onto it for a bit before he lets it go, because he’s hesitant to agree with a reckless choice but still has to admit that it was fair enough if you held up your end of it. “Good. You found your way through. But, beloved, you have to remember to—”

“—mind my surroundings, extrapolate my topography, I know. I wasn’t being careful enough. I’ll remember next time.” The feeling of defeat dampens your volume as you’re embarrassed to have demonstrated absolutely none of the tracking lessons and navigation tips he’s taught you.

Din finally decides to retire the lecturing, thinking he should pick up some of the pieces of your spirit that he might’ve splintered himself. All the hard edges to his voice erode to something soft and honeyed when he utters, “Let me have a look at you.”

He simply only holds out the spread of his fingers in front of you, but the warmth of it calls for you like a magnet. You offer him your arm without waste, dropping your elbow into the leathered cave of his palm. The wrap of his grip is immediate but is so careful, so gentle.

“I-It’s just a scrape,” you quickly try to curb any grand reaction before it starts. He’s come back with way worse before and handled those times with much less care.

He rolls up your sleeve with the most delicate pressure, and he finds himself the telltale sign of your elbow being the first to catch your fall by the light abrasions that pepper your forearm. Bacta patches will heal you in no time. But Din is faithful to his traits of precision and thoroughness. So, he lightly ghosts the pads of his gloves across the scuff marks. “Does that hurt?”

You shake your head.

He takes a short step forward, but it’s enough to completely crowd your space, almost crushing your face against his chest plate. He takes both hands now and circles them around to the back of your head, where he soothingly cradles and squeezes the nape of your neck. “And that? Can you feel that?”

You bite back the sigh that nearly rolls off your tongue like a savouring purr. “D-Din, relax. I just got cut up by… a patch of dirt”

“Just making sure you didn’t concuss yourself.”

A light scoff breaks through your lips. “Well, what do you think, Medic? Will I make it?”

He responds by shifting his weight to one foot, helmet dipping in the same direction as the hip that juts out, and you can almost audibly hear the sarcastic Really? that would’ve sieved through his vocoder had he used his words instead. It’s enough to tear down your tension with a coy chuckle.

He drops his hands but still keeps himself on you by a thumb against the zipper of your vest. “Take off your clothes.”

A fever rushes you before anything else. “G-Gods, Din. Is this your way of comforting me?”

“For me to clean. You have dirt all over you.”

Although, he is finding it intriguing just how many different shades of rouge could swath your face from a simple prompt of his. How much more could he make you blush? He’s certainly one to follow through with things.

A strong palm flattening on the small of your back fixes you in place as the hook of his thumb drags the zipper down your chest. “But if you want me to make you feel better…”

And how could you answer with anything but complete surrender to that dark, gravelly cadence you have never been any sort of match for?

taglist:

@pedrostories @lackofhonor @startrekkingaroundasgard @marvelouslyme96 @hypnoash @booksandwonderlands @natthebattygeologist @jay-bel @sparedcupid @k3nnedycurse @shadesofnerdlygrace @depresseddarth66 @djarind-in @fic-appointment

add yourself to the taglist here!

[merlinemrys]

ARTHUR LEGALISING MAGIC: DRABBLE

prompt : (gen) alternate s4 ending where arthur drops the bomb on morgana that he’s repealing the ban on magic

══════════════════

“I will not raise my sword against you, Morgana,” Arthur said, back firm and voice unbearably soft. His hands were held loosely at his sides. He had enough of pain, of anger and wrath and vengeance. All he wanted was peace. Morgana’s eyes widened, shocked, and the flame in her hand lessened its intensity. 

“Not even for my crime, brother?” she asked, spitting the last word out like blood. Arthur could do nothing but stare at her, unyielding, even while his heart ached for the familiarity of their banter, of the days past. “Your own sister is a witch and yet you will not uphold Camelot’s laws. Father must be rolling in his grave. And his body hasn’t even gotten cold yet.”

She casted her fire away, but her eyes were still dark. 

“Morgana,” he started and didn’t flinch as Morgana walked towards him until they were a foot away from one another. “For all you’ve done… for all you’ve done, you are still my sister and I don’t wish to see you harmed.”

Her jaw tightened imperceptibly. She said, “Then you’re a spineless coward.”

“Then I am,” he agreed. He was so tired, tired of it all that he wished for a different life, one where he wasn’t king. Maybe one where he wasn’t even human. He wondered what it would feel like to be one with Earth. 

His father’s rage fueled by grief had slaughtered innocents, and perhaps some were dangers to society, but even Arthur knew mere children — dear God, infants — shouldn’t have been caught in the crossfire. And Arthur even raised his own hand against them, their blood staining his clothes, the screams still ringing in his ears. His deepest regrets and they would never be forgiven. Arthur remembered, years ago when he had barely seen his fifteenth winter, his father had ordered a raid on a Druid camp within their borders. After everything, Arthur didn’t eat well for weeks. And now Morgana seemed to have inherited the Pendragon rage, her own twisted sense of justice killing innocents just like their father did. 

And despite it all, Arthur had loved them so deeply, every death of their doing was a lethal blow to his heart because they were wrong, so wrong, yet Arthur still did nothing. Still couldn’t kill them. 

So he was a coward, but peace could not be achieved through blood alone. His father’s reign was a well-tested example of that. 

He would be different. He had to be. 

“Magic will no longer be outlawed in Camelot,” he said. Merlin would help him draft the laws. Of course, he would. The idiot had been hiding his magic so terribly it was truly a wonder no one in the kingdom knew about it. “Under my word as king, no person shall be persecuted for the act of using magic.”

“Arthur?” Morgana said, utterly confused. 

He continued, looking into her eyes. “Of course, those who use magic with harmful intent will be prosecuted rightly.” Arthur stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. She was stock-still, a childish thrill ran through him. He never usually got to surprise her anymore. Not that he did back then. “Come home, Morgana.”

[benhardypout]

A LONELY GHOST

Joe is a ghost who only goes out during Halloween. 

And Halloween comes again, the holiday he ironically dreads being a ghost cause he's forced to scare people, specifically, the guy in the house he's staying at, and it's their third year living here together. He calls himself Ben.

Joe has been a lurking ghost for ten years after a bunch of kids played spirit of the glass and called him out of his solitude. And now he doesn't know how to go back. His past continues to haunt him when he thought, death will finally bring him peace. Guess, either you're alive or not, doesn't make any difference.

"Come out of your hiding place, Joey. Know you're in there," Ben calls out, he is watching some show.

Joe slowly peeks out from behind the couch Ben is sitting on, and passes through it since he can. He sits next to Ben and says inaudibly, "Boo!"

"Fuck!" Ben gasps but never does he look at his direction, instead tries to make a grab on him, forgetting he's just a spirit and can't be hold on to. So, he takes the pillow within his reach to cover his face.

He's watching a horror movie. And so far it is more successful on scaring the blond than Joe could. No, he fails to scare the shit out of Ben...

“If you’re gonna be staying with me, I can, at least, hold you for comfort.” Ben whined, taking the remote to pause the show. 

He turns to Joe. Joe looks at him but soon avoids his gaze. If only he can talk, then he will  tell Ben he never liked nor dreamt of doing any of these and to stay here any longer, and that he must stop watching scary movies if he's too scared to continue and can't watch it alone.

“How did you even die?” Ben asked after a moment.

Joe doesn't remember it anymore.

"You're not even scary," the blond added.

Now that offends Joe, if Ben only know he has the ability to posses and use his body which he will never do. He doesn't want to disrespect any living creature. Joe loves his own peace and values it dearly.

"I actually missed you," Ben said. "I mean, you only appear during these times and it can be lonely not having you around, y'know. So, can you just stay here? I mean where I can see you?"

Is this guy out of his mind?

He's the first person who asked him this kind of proposal. And Joe really doesn't like the idea. He doesn't want to do anything with the living world.

"Please? I'm desperate, I know. You don't even talk and I can't even touch you but I want you here."

You'll leave too like the others.

As if Ben heard him, he says, "You can go back to where you came from after I leave."

Joe can only nod, making Ben smile.

No one has ever asked him to stay. And he admits that being a lost ghost can be lonely. 

So he thinks that maybe this isn't bad at all. Good thing Ben is kinda crazy.

So he stays.

He watches Ben silently in his day to day lives, listens to all his ramblings, watches shows with him,  can be creepy but he also watches as he sleeps. Most of the things he does is to watch and listen silently, which helps him learn more about this human, and to actually know him. He cries at everything, doesn't like to cook, he sometimes writes stories and really loves watching films. He also loves taking pictures but only keeps it for himself. He aspires to act in theatre one day, and many more. He also has some insights Joe loves listening to. And in conclusion, Joe sees Ben as a humble, wise and simple being. And soon enough, he finds himself caring about this human more than he planned.

And then one day, Ben left just like that. No goodbyes… nothing.

Maybe he's just another lonely ghost to Ben. What's special about a dead person anyway?

Or maybe he got tired of having to spend his hours after boring hours with him for a long time. But for Joe, the time he spent with Ben is short, since they're living in a different time. A year for Ben is just like a day for Joe.

But he continues waiting for him to come back. He made a promise he will stay. So he stays. 

Different people, family, odd couples had occupied, making the lonely house, lonelier as Joe anticipated for Ben's arrival…. 

He's coming back.

At the end of the day, time doesn't exist for a ghost like him. It's just passing. He can stay here forever; forever waiting for Ben. Forever keeping his promise.

A lost ghost can be quite lonely after all.

Until…

Standing by the doorway, another lonely ghost...

Ben.

+++

A/N: this was supposed to be posted this Halloween but unfortunately, I only able to finish it now. would you believe if i say that this has been lying on my files for a year now? i only had the idea but didn’t know how to continue before. lol. you can guess this was inspired from a film. just because i find the concept beautiful

anyways, hope you guys liked this story and had fun reading it. ♥

tagging: @oniriquex ; @igotsuckedintothevoid ; @heybuddy-drabbles ; @thosequeenboys ; @doctorqueensanatomy ; @halfasleepoetry ;

[prowl-autism-extraordinaire]

prowlcoswave + similarities

Coswave pretends very hard he isn’t watching his boyfriends- probably unsuccessfully. Prowl’s doorwings are raised and spread to try and make him bigger as he snarls at Soundwave. (He probably thinks he’s being subtle about it, too.) On the other side of the table, Soundwave’s plating is flared, but at least he isn’t as obviously picking a fight. Cosmos takes a minute to be thankful that neither mech is paying him any attention at the moment; they probably wouldn’t appreciate his observations about just how alike they really are. “For the last time- and I really don’t understand why this is even a conversation- It’s Berenstain Bears. Not Berenstein, you cretin-“ Soundwave cuts Prowl off. “Prowl: Incorrect. Again.”