#i drabbled

[lils-writes]

I wanted to write a little something something for @megatraven, sooo uh, enjoy? This is during season one of AFK, when MC is sent to the infirmary for the first time.

Alex watched MC laying in the metallic bed, a white sheet covering her hospital gown. She looked peaceful when she slept, her face relaxed, no worries pulling at her skin. Their hand rested on hers, the cold contact of skin anchoring them. She was there. She was resting. Everything would be alright. She wouldn't have to worry anymore.

MC stirred in her sleep, causing Alex's eyes to go wide. They stood, ready to call a nurse, when her eyes fluttered open, a small smile tracing her lips as her chocolate brown eyes met their wine red ones. Slowly, Alex sat back down, scooting closer to the woman. A smile made its home on their lips as they let out a breath they didn't know they had been holding.

"Did you rest well?"

"I did. Although," MC glanced around, taking in her surroundings, "I don't recall what happened."

They gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, bringing her attention back to them.

"Don't worry about that. You're alright now. You're all better now."

The way she smiled made Alex heart skip a beat, heat racing through their body. How they worried they never would get to see that again. How they worried that they would never get to see her again. But she was here. She was fine. Everything would be alright.

"Alex, I-"

"Sh... Don't worry. We'll talk about all of that later. For now, just rest. You need to get your strength back. And I'll be waiting for you. All be waiting right here."

"Shouldn't you get some rest too? You look like you've been here for days, Alex."

They shake their head with a smile, a light chuckle resonating in their chest. She knew them too well. One glance and she knew what they were thinking, what they were doing. Maybe it had been days that they had been there, right by her side, but they couldn't rest. Not until she was better. Not until she was back on her feet.

"And I would stay here even longer for you. I had to make sure you were alright. That being said," they rose to their feet, fetching a glass of water they had initially taken for themselves and handed it to MC. She shook her head, declining the offered glass. Alex gave her a short nod before setting it on her bedside and sitting back down.

Their fingers tangled with MC’s over the sheet, their heart pounding both in their chest and in their palm. Alex tried their best to speak, but their voice caught in their throat, a lump forming uncomfortably. Nerves weight down like lead in their stomach, but as they caught a glimpse of her smile, everything calmed. She anchored them, no doubt about it.

"Alex, if you have something to say..."

Her tone wasn't pressing, but they knew they couldn't hide it forever. No matter how badly they had tried to pushed their feelings away, no matter how badly they had tried to conceal the truth, they had to get it out. They had to be honest with her. Especially after nearly losing her.

"MC, I love you. I always have and I always will. No matter where I look, it's you I look for. I love you so much."

They felt breathless by the end of it, but their smile was easy on their lips. It felt good, finally getting to say it. It felt amazing even. And seeing how MC grinned, her eyes sparkling, it was magical. They never thought they'd get a chance to tell her, but oh how they were glad they did.

Tears formed at the corner of their eyes as they looked in wonder at MC.

"Alex..." Her voice was fond, sounding almost as breathless as they were. "Alex, I-"

MC was cut short, a voice calling out to Alex. They turned to the sound, spotting May in the doorway. Her eyes were red and puffy, looking as if she had cried all the tears of her body. And seeing her, seeing the sheer sadness on her face, it made Alex swallow back a sob, their hand tightening around MC's.

"Alex, it's time to go." May's voice was quiet as she refused to meet their eyes. "They're coming to get her. You have to say good bye."

Alex glanced back at MC. Her eyes were now shut, her face looking at peace. She still looked so beautiful, despite all she had gone through. May's hand reached for Alex's shoulder, but they shrugged her off, not bothering to conceal their sob this time. Their eyes fell on MC's chest which had nor risen, nor fallen a single time since the beginning of their talk.

[blackberreh-art]

Aizawa: *eating like a shit ton of junk food, surrounded in empty ramen cups and pizza boxes* Demon All Might: *internal screaming*

The demon froze, glowing blue gaze locked on the coffee table. The brand new coffee table that he’d brought. It had been clean, when he’d brought it into the apartment a day ago.A day ago.

He’d made himself scarce when Aizawa had asked, mentioning something about a few of his human friends coming over, and he hadn’t felt like explaining All Might’s presence to which the demon had agreed. Humans needed their own time, after all. So he’d gone, kept surveillance, used as much magic as his diminishing form could handle, and when things were once again quite in the apartment he’d returned.

To this.

The simple but elegant new table was now covered in this - this human garbage! Why they insisted on consuming things that had no nutritional benefits and was likely going to kill them in the end, he had never been able to comprehend! 

By all rights, he shouldn’t care. The few humans who had summoned him and managed to bind him to then, he’d managed to keep his emotions at bay. He did his thing, humans did their thing, and rarely did they intersect.

But.

He shifted his gaze to the one culprit that remained. Aizawa had passed out on the couch, an empty beer can held in slack fingers. 

But.

The dark shadows were prominent on his gaunt face. His stubble was now well on it’s way to a beard. His hair had half-fallen out of the messy bun he’d pulled it into. The scar on his face still looked raw. He looked like utter garbage. But.

But, but, but...

Without a word or noise to wake the pro hero, the demon cleared away the mess. All leftovers went in the trash, all rubbish was disposed of, and a glass of water was left for the human to drink when he awoke. As a last touch, All Might found one of the new blankets he’d bought and draped it over Aizawa’s sleeping body.

But. This human was his, now. He was different. It was All Might’s duty to look after him and his health, even if Aizawa insisted on making it difficult. But. 

All Might was glad to do this, for him. And now he was going to purchase a mass of healthy, nutritional foods that Aizawa was going to consume whether he wanted to or not. 

[deanssweetheart23]

The One With The Picture

Title: The One With A Picture

Summary: The reader stumbles upon Dean’s biggest secret. Dean’s not happy about it. He thinks...

Author: deanssweetheart23

Characters: Dean Winchester x reader, Sam Winchester

Word count: 500 (look at me, I can drabble!)

Warnings: Uh, language, I guess. And so much fluff, guys. So much fluff.

Author’s Notes: This is my sumbission for @trexrambling Daring Drabbles. My dear Jess, congratulations on your milestone and thank you so much for letting me participate (see how I was on schedule this time, even I can’t believe it lol.)

Special thank you to my wonderful twin @ravengirl94 for helping me figure out what I wanted to do with this. I wouldn’t have come up with this story if it weren’t for her (shocking, I know).

My prompt for this was the world “befuddled” and has been inserted into the fic.

Enjoy <3

Dean keeps a picture of you in his wallet.

It’s an old photograph, a fading reminder of all those mornings you’d spend at Bobby’s back yard, back when the world wasn’t such a complicated place.

Sunshine sweeps over your face while you’re sitting on the hood of the Impala, mug of coffee in hand, laughing at something Dean’s said. It’s loud and warm, a real laugh that makes your eyes crinkle and shine, and you wonder if you can still laugh like that after everything you’ve been through.

But that’s not the point.

The point is that Dean keeps a picture of you in his wallet, next to the one of his mother.

And that when you told him he’d be going on a date during breakfast that morning, he mumbled a quiet sounds good and didn’t touch the rest of his plate.

And that, just a few minutes ago, when he stopped by your room to look for an old encyclopedia, and saw you in that white sundress, he called you beautiful.

“There’s a picture of me in your wallet.” You state, matter of fact, as you storm into his room.

Dean looks up at you, bug-eyed.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“There’s a picture of me in your wallet. I dropped it and it fell.” You push some hair off your face. “And you called me beautiful. Why would you call me beautiful?”

The tips of his ears turn pink.

“Uh… Because you are?”

A scoff.

Brows furrowed in a scowl.

“That’s not the point. You don’t –you can’t… There’s a picture of me in your wallet.”

“You already said that.” He laughs, amusement coating his features. He folds his arms in front of his broad –shut up, Y/N- chest “Multiple times.”

You squint at him then, head titled to the left.

“Why?”

He smirks.

The bastard actually smirks at how flustered you are.

“You tell me. I’d love to know what you think.”

“That’s not…” you groan and smack his shoulder. “That’s not about me, smartass. I’m not the creep that keeps photographs of friends in-”

You’re cut off by a pair of lips, soft but insistent as they press against yours. It’s all slow and tentative at first, in case you want to pull away, but you don’t, so he just gives and gives and gives until you can’t breathe anymore and he has to grin against you and draw back.

“Does this answer your question?” he gloats, slanted smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“I dunno, D.” You wrap your arms around his neck. “You might have to explain that again. I’m,” you nudge your nose against his, “a little slow.”

He chuckles and it’s so rich you can feel it in your bones.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks and everything he’s never said, everything he wants to say and feels, is right there, dancing in the greenness of his eyes.

“Yeah.” You beam at him.

And then he kisses you again.

Tags: @jpadjackles @supernatural-jackles @ravengirl94 @trexrambling @escabell @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @percywinchester27 @keepcalmandcarryondean @becominglionhearted @impala-dreamer @imagining-supernatural @dancingalone21 @dancing-the-hellfire-rumba @becs-bunker @wordstothewisereaders @ultrafandomcat @sgarrett49 @ruprecht0420 @hannahindie @atari-writes @myrabbitholetoneverland @emilywritesaboutdean @iwriteaboutdean @winchesters-flannels @winchestersnco @spngeronimo @captainemwinchester @pickupthatamulet @mogaruke @imissyoualittlemoreeveryday @wellthatsrandomkek @atc74 @akshi8278 @kathaswings @thevioletthourr @tiny-friggin-human @polina-93 @mandilion76 @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @a-glass-of-orange-juice @ravenangel33 @holahellohialoha @tardis-full-of-fallen-angels @juanitadiann @winchestersnfriends @castianityislife02 @sinistersaltqueen @easelweasel

[ladylike-foxes]

He loves me with his eyes, gently crinkling at the corners when they catch my stare.

He loves me with his words, heavy with patience, with respect and ardor.

He loves me with his hands, entwining his fingers with mine before I slip into sleep.

He loves me, I realize. He loves me, he loves me.

[deanssweetheart23]

The Day That Changed Everything

Title: The Day That Changed Everything

Summary: Ruth doesn’t believe in miracles. And then they bring in Dean Winchester’s fiancée. 

Author: deanssweetheart23

Characters: Dean Winchester x reader, Ruth Walker (OFC)

Word count: 815 (I’m so proud of myself, lol)

Warnings: Fluff. Angst. Allusions to car accidents, hospitals and coma.

Author’s Note: This is my sumbission for @torn-and-frayed‘s Winter With Dean Drabble Challenge. Steph, thank you so much for letting me participate, you gave me the chance to experiment with this a little.

My prompt for this was “Christmas miracle”. This is kind of different from what I usually do, but I think I like it.

Without further ado. Enjoy. And merry Christmas, everyone! 

Ruth’s always been very firm in her stances.

She believes in the big bang theory, rejects conspiracy speculations of any kind and refuses to consider that Princess Diana was murdered. She hates Halloween and Easter, does not celebrate birthdays and doesn’t particularly care about Christmas.

And, of course, she does not believe in miracles.

Until they bring them in.

Because, you see, when a young couple that’s been involved in a car accident is carried through the doors of the hospital and she sees the way the man’s fighting the paramedics to check if the woman next to him is alright, when she hears him growl and yell and beg her to please, please, be okay, all rational thinking flies right out of the window, perhaps for the first time in her life.

And when the days pass and the swelling in the woman’s brain refuses to heal, Ruth feels her heart breaking for the young man that’s losing his life, his brightness, little by little, every day by her side.

But he doesn’t give up.

He never gives up.

Instead, he just smooths his fingers over the cuts and bruises that stain her skin like wine on a tablecloth, holds her hand in his and whispers tender nonsense he knows she probably cannot hear but he needs to get off his chest, and hums something that sounds awfully like Hey Jude under his breath. 

Most of the times, he sneaks into the hospital when visiting hours are over and sleeps at that stiff chair Ruth seems to accidentally forget next to her bed, but then there are days he just disappears, and no one hears from him for a week, sometimes even more. When he returns, Ruth knows, there’s always a new bruise dusted somewhere across his skin, some tiny new cut or a scar or a leg that’s limping, but every time she asks him about it, he says it’s all part of the family business and changes the subject.

Two month pass and nothing changes. Ruth notices then the man never prays. She asks him about it, and he says he doesn’t believe in God, but she catches him praying to a man called Chuck a few days later. She lets it slide.

When another month crawls by and the woman doesn’t wake up, the man starts bringing books with him. They’re all dog-eared, some of them in an almost terrible state, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he reads them out loud for her; The Great Gatsby, Gone with the Wind, One Day, Winnie the Pooh, they all parade in front of Ruth’s eyes, all acted out in front of a fading girl that stars in her own drama without even knowing it.

And then comes the Friday after Christmas and Ruth’s just passing by the girl’s room to get to the cafeteria when she sees him.

The man’s sitting next to his fiancée again, but his eyes are red-rimmed and there’s a look of utter desperation that she’s never seen there before, not even on the night they brought them in, not even when Ruth told him they don’t know when or if she’ll wake up.

And maybe she’s not supposed to listen, maybe it’s a private line she knows she cannot cross, but the sight of him breaks her in and she stands outside the entrace and takes every word in, gingerly.

“So, we, uh… Sam and I decorated a tree this year. I mean, it’s small and it looks awful, but it’s there. And it –I even used that stupid Impala replica you gave me.” Ragged breath. “Of course, Christma’s almost over now and Sam says we have to take it down, but I can’t… I can’t do that if you don’t see it first, kid. Ever since you,” -he swallows, hard- “ever since the accident, I can’t do anything without you there. So, if you could just-”

Ruth swears she feels something then, feels someone touch upon her shoulder and pass by her, feels someone linger next to the man and then-

“You know,” a raspy voice she’s never heard before interrupts, “I think I liked it better when you read to me.”

“Y/N?”

The sound of a heartbeat speeding up.

“Yeah,” she coughs.

“You’re awake.” The man says, voice gruffer than ever before, thicker than gravel. “You’re...God.”

“M’ pretty sure I’m not God, D.” The woman replies, and Ruth can hear the smirk that’s laced with the grogginess of her voice, even if she can’t see it.

Unable to help herself, she leans in, tries to steal a few glances of the couple.

The man’s leaning closer to the bed now, a hint of a broken smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“No,” he gets up, drops a lingering kiss to her forehead, “you’re not. But you’re my miracle. And that’s enough.”

And Ruth believes him.

Tags: @trexrambling @jpadjackles @supernatural-jackles @percywinchester27 @atari-writes @atwistoffate @there-must-be-a-lock @torn-and-frayed @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @ravengirl94 @dancing-the-hellfire-rumba @hannahindie @becs-bunker @becominglionhearted @carryonmyswansong @polina-93 @impala-dreamer @imagining-supernatural @mandilion76 @blushingdean @ultrafandomcat @dancingalone21 @atc74 @juanitadiann @masksandtruths @shutupiminlooove @wordstothewisereaders @ruprecht0420 @sgarrett49 @myrabbitholetoneverland @jayankles @winchesters-flannels @winchestersnco @escabell @keepcalmandcarryondean @kathaswings @iwriteaboutdean @spngeronimo @captainemwinchester @mogaruke @wellthatsrandomkek @imissyoualittlemoreeveryday @thevioletthourr @akshi8278 @tiny-friggin-human @emilywritesaboutdean @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @a-glass-of-orange-juice @ravenangel33 @tardis-full-of-fallen-angels @holahellohialoha @winchestersnfriends @castianityislife02 @sinistersaltqueen @easelweasel @emoryhemsworth @superapplepie @princess-of-erebor1992 @bebravekeeponfighting @carryonmywaywardcaptain @sebastianshoe @kleinkariertebetrachter @stellaa33 @pillow223 @samisimportant @jessilliam-caronday @masksandtruths

Crossed out tags are impossible for me to tag (and will be removed after a month if they remain so). 

[filmmade]

                     mom   is   a   mess   of   distraught   sniffles  ,   choked   sobs   &   tears   cascading   down   her   fresh   face   --   all   made   up   pretty   for   “  the   big   day  .   ”   she   meant   to   hide   wrinkles   eroding   her   age  ,   matching   dark   circles   that   had   bruised   beneath   her   eyes   to   match   you   &   dad’s   .  .  .   but   to   you  ,   all   it’s   done   is   accentuate   her   grief  .   she’s   put   on   a   MASK   for   the   press   --   for   you   &   for   dad   --   but   it   might   as   well   be   translucent  .   she’s   trying   to   straighten  your   stubborn  ,   crooked   tie   &   more   a   moment  ,   beth’s   manicured   hands   replace   hers   in   your   mind  .   they   shake   too   much  .   you   hold   them   gently   &   force   on   a   sculpted   smile   with   all   your   might  ,   reassuring   her   it’s   no   big   deal  .   she   smiles   too  .

                   all   of   a   sudden  ,   her   arms   are   around   you   in   a   hug  .   she   mumbles   into   your   shoulder   how   proud   she   is   of   your   strength  .   truth   is  ,   you’ve   just   gone   NUMB  .

                   NUMB   ---   like   your   arm   after  it’d   snapped   when   you   were   seven  &   the   twins   were   six  .   you’d   been   their   h e r o   then  ,   rescuing    their    kite   tangled   in   branches  .   they   cried   more   than   you   did   &   hannah   drew   armor   on   your   cast  .   “   it’s   a   big   brother’s   j o b   to   be   a   hero  ,   ”   you   told   them   time   &   time   again  .

                SO   WHY   DIDN’T   YOU   SAVE   THEM  ?   WHY   DID   YOU   JUST   DRINK   YOURSELF   STUPID  ?   STUPID  ,   STUPID  ,   STUPID  .

              everyone’s   a   broken   fucking   record   at   the   funeral   when   they   give   their   condolences   through   tightened   lips  .   sam   says   she   knows   his   pain   ;   hannah   was   her   best   friend  ,   after   all    ---   that   she   can’t   even   IMAGINE   the   hurt   he’s   feeling  .   you   tell   her   you   feel   nothing   at   all  .    for   once  ,   chris   doesn’t   try   to   make   light   of   the   situation  .   

            you   say   goodbye   to   empty   coffins   &   you   wonder   if   it’s   really   possible   for   life   to   carry   on   .  .  .   as   if   they   never   existed  .

[deputysaint-a-blog]

“ this night smelled like violence. ”

@ofwrcth // the call

   She’s got a way about her, a way of breaking things that he’s never seen before. The new junior deputy flew into Hope County like, as his momma would say, a demon straight from Hell, leaving nothing the same in her wake. 

   Deputy Pratt had joked about it, once or twice, before the crash. Slid right up to Saint’s desk and sat on paperwork, asked him if he’s seen the way their new deputy looks at people, like she’s measuring them for a fight.

   Saint had noticed, he always notices. People think he’s dumb because he’s kinder than anyone else in the office. But he’d noticed the way deputy Mercy Iratus looked around, like she burned too hot, and was looking for an excuse to fight and let off steam. He’d seen the look in her eye the night they’d left to go retrieve Joseph Seed, and he’d known that something was going to happen there, with her, something that would change Hope forever.

   Admittedly, he hadn’t thought it would be this, but he’d known, felt something coming deep in his gut.

   A light cigarette perched between his lips ( he’d been meaning to quit, but there didn’t seem a point anymore. Hope County was in the middle of a war, cancer was the least of his problems. ), Deacon considers the man she’d downed in front of him, a dirty boot nudging his head to the side, eyes narrow in the dim light as they take in the cross tattooed on his brow.

   One of the flock, then. He huffs out a sigh that’s mostly smoke, and turns to give her a look of mild disappointment. Something she responds to with a raised brow and the slide of a clean blade back into it’s home on her person.

   Right, he thinks, You don’t believe in not killing, even the drugged and taken advantage of. 

   “This night smelled like violence.” She tells him in a tone that’s warm with annoyance, cold with anger. 

   Deacon takes another drag of his cigarette, the cherry bright in the darkening night. He doesn’t approve of her methods, but damn it, she was making a difference. Dirty fingers wave her on, a wordless carry on. 

    ( Not that he could stop her anyway. )

   She turns to leave him, in the middle of a clearing, with not but a dead cult member for company, and Deacon thinks he’s figured her out in that moment.

   Demons were not the only ones in the bible to leave blood and death in their wake, after all.

[theotherredeyedmaster]

There is one thing Fire always finds comfort in. On days when the pain is too much, when the tears won't stop and the faint hint of forgotten memories claws at his mind, bringing with it a despair he can't understand, on days when the loneliness forces its way into his consciousness and not even the presence of his most trusted partners can drown out the screaming in his head, there is one thing that stops him from going back to a place he can't recall escaping from.

He was never afraid of the dark.

Fire doesn't remember how or when it started. Nor does he ever question it, doesn't want to ruin the illusion of it being real. He curls up when night falls and lets the shadows wrap around his body, an almost physical weight weighing down on him like a blanket that shields him from the rest of the world.

They surround him, hold him, and sometimes he swears the shadows even whisper things to him. He doesn't know what they're saying, but he understands it just as well.

He's not alone, they reassure him, the world is cruel but he is stronger. The shadows promise him the world will burn, and he is tempted, oh so tempted, to believe them. The words spark an anger that burns hotly in his chest, consuming sadness and apathy until all that's left is rage. From that anger, Fire draws strength. He's come to crave it. He needs it.

'Why should I trust you?' 

The question crosses his mind, but he never speaks it. It's all in his head anyway. What's the point in doubting himself? The warm breath against the back of his neck is familiar, reassuring, and oh, he remembers, right. That's the answer.

'It's not real,' part of him can never stop reminding himself, even as his hand locks with another - Nothing more than wishful thinking. 'Sure it's not,' the shadows whisper back, or maybe those words are his own, 'but you're plagued by nightmares so often, you can allow yourself to dream just once.'