#last time i bought a cherry one and a set of two honey scented ones and they were all lovely

[sparklehoard]

Actually going home today yayyyyy

Driving through a big city along the way so I'm going to go to winners to buy some fancy soaps.

What scents should I get?🌹🌷🌲🍊🍋🍑🍒🍓🍦🍫🍈🍇🍍🥭🍐🍬🍯🪻🌼🌿🌊🫧

[prince-liest]

I've become obsessed with perfume so I'm going to ramble about it on my blog to my captive audience, as you do. Sorry to anyone who is here for consistent fandom posting, but I do warn people in my sidebar. :'))

I've worn V&R Flowerbomb as my go-to fancy "I'm an adult who wears PERFUME now!" perfume after my dad gifted me a large 100mL bottle (and eventually a 50mL refill for a later birthday) of it... probably around 2014 or 2015? It's a nice, popular fragrance and Russian people consider perfume and cologne to be a standard thing to use, so it made me feel very nice about myself. I also had a 10mL vial of Banana Republic's Rosewood as an evening scent, which I recently googled and realized is very inexpensive for how much I enjoyed the smell of it, but I haven't seen it in a couple of years.

I know I used to think Flowerbomb was very warm and sweet and flowery, but at some point in the past few years I started basically tasting it in the back of my throat in an unpleasant, scrapey way, so with 25mL of it left in my last bottle, I decided to get a new perfume! And promptly fell down the r/fragrance rabbit hole.

Anyway, I've made three trips to two different Sephoras to stand around sniffing perfume until I go nose-blind and nauseated.

THE RESULTS (aka. I'm very vanilla, but Not Like That):

YSL Black Opium Over Red: An evening or cold-season scent that made me want to autocannibalize my own arm when I tried it out on myself. I've read that the original Black Opium is a very popular scent, but in my opinion it was missing something fruity or fresh, and the Over Red flanker's cherry note is exactly what it needed. I thought I liked floral perfumes more than gourmands but it turns out that I'm just a sucker for vanilla. I bought this for full freaking retail price because apparently it's a 2024 release. I guess I'm trendy now.

MJ Daisy Eau So Intense: A sweet honey-strawberry perfume for a spring or summer day that makes me want to go eat a pear. There are a lot of fruity-floral perfumes out there, but this one stood out and wrapped its strawberry-and-pear scented fingers into my grey matter when I first tried it and made me think of childhood summer vacation. This also has base notes of vanilla, though I wouldn't have been able to identify that without looking it up. Thankfully, this one I was able to get at something like 60% off retail price.

Burberry Her Elixir: Berries, jasmine, amber. This is the daily-wear all-arounder I was looking for to actually replace my Flowerbomb. It's suitable for any time of year or day, as long as I spray it somewhere I can smell it all the time because otherwise I'm going to be that weirdo sniffing their own wrist constantly. It is also the final nail in the "Yeah, okay, I'm obsessed with vanilla" coffin because it turns out that's in this one, too. (And the final nail in the coffin of my wallet because this one also wasn't available from discounters.) Also, the atomizer on this one is flawless.

Anyway, now I smell very nice all of the time. I might get one more if I can find a very rose-scented perfume that has vanilla in it instead of smelling like the color green if it was wet, but otherwise I feel like I'm set!

[sukirichi]

sweet angel

With a heart of gold, sweet lips, and white lace all over your body — he’s pretty sure you’re his sweet angel.

REQUEST. lingerie under his white button up shirt for gojo + somnophilia + established relationship + oblivious reader

CONTENT/WARNINGS. smut, somnophilia, mentions of insecurity, very slight angst, creampie, cockwarming, body marking, UNEDITED

NOTES. I haven’t written Gojo for a while but I sure do missed it! We’re gonna have more Gojo content this week too! if i finish my wips anyway lmao

next

The clock blinks back a painful three am to you, the time way past what Gojo’s promised. You don’t stop the sigh leaving your cherry red lips as you stare at the mirror, jaw clenching at the sight. Today’s supposed to be your second anniversary with Gojo, and instead of spending it on a skyscraper dinner like last year’s, you both insisted on staying at home for a more romantic date instead.

Him being the strongest sorcerer, it’s only a given that he’ll be busy, even to this day. He’s unable to take a day off, but he promised to come home on time.

The dinner’s gone cold, the candles melted and aroma of roses sticking hard to the walls. You’re wearing his favourite black dress paired with ankle boots, wrists clinking from the bangles and makeup done to perfection. Today’s supposed to be simple, quiet, and romantic – especially with your surprise for him – but he’s still not home.

Washing your face in the sink and covering the dishes, you blow out the candles, heading back to your shared room to call it a day. You swipe your dress with Gojo’s white button, wanting to feel that he’s still with you even with just his scent.

A blaring red that reads three forty-five is the last thing you see as you burrow deep into the covers, trying your best to ignore the panging in your heart.

He promised he’d be home soon.

“Honey! I’m ho—” Gojo blinks at the darkness of your penthouse, hands patting the walls before flicking on the lights. He’s not surprised to see that it’s neat as usual, but then his gaze lands on the dining table, and that’s when he realizes he’s fucked up.

The candles are already melted halfway, one wine glass still and the other already washed in the sink. You must’ve taken a few sips as you waited for him; an image he can imagine already. He’s admired you long before dating you that Gojo’s used to your habits, like how you’d rotate the drink in your glass three times before you drink, tongue darting out to taste the wine mixing in with your lips.

He knows all this, mostly because it always drives him crazy when you do that, and he’s lost count of the times he’s pushed you up against the counter, shoving his tongue between your lips to find out what it is about wine and flavoured lipsticks you liked so much.

It’s a little hellish to him the more he thinks about it, even more so because you’re completely unaware of your effect on him.

But he’s not the only one, since no matter how perceptive Gojo could be, he’s scatterbrained more often than he likes to admit. And of fucking course he forgot tonight was your anniversary. He never set dates on his calendars, waving his hand and confidently stating he had an ultra memory and didn’t need reminders.

Well, now that ultra memory is reminding him of the last time he’s forgot to attend your work event, a time you needed him more than anything else, and you didn’t talk to him for a week straight.

He wishes you would shout at him, push or shove him even, call him names and tell him he’s horrible, but you’ve always been a sweet, little thing – you’re timid even in your frustration. You never glared at him, never scolded him, and it’s even more terrifying because you’re still so sweet to him – preparing him meals, giving him a kiss before he leaves for work – but Gojo isn’t entirely dumb. He notices how you turn away from him in your sleep, your arms that would usually be wrapped around his torso now hugging yourself in an attempt to make yourself small and invisible.

That’s how you felt every time Gojo doesn’t keep to his word.

Unseen. Unloved. Unheard. Unimportant. He’s no mind reader, but it’d be pushing it if he can’t even turn to your thoughts like that.

And even in your slumber, it’s written all over your face, evident in the way tears are staining your cheeks under the sheets. Gojo sighs upon seeing your crumpled form on the bed, your dress hanging neatly from the closet and your heels placed beneath it. He crouches down in front of the shoe, his hands crumpled into fists. This wasn’t just any shoe – it’s the one he made you get during that time you were debating whether you could pull it off, but he encouraged you that you looked gorgeous in anything. Despite having bought it a long time ago, you never wore it, only on this day because you trust your comfort and safety around him; one he’s so effortlessly crushed.

Gojo quickly changes into his pyjamas not long afterwards, sliding himself next to your body in slow, careful movements to not wake you up. Aside from a slight stir, you remain deep asleep, the frown permanent and deep on your face.

It breaks his heart to see you like this, especially because he knows he’s the one who caused it.

Gojo runs his hand across the apple of your cheeks, caressing your precious face on his palm before leaning forward to kiss your head. You smell amazing too, and yet, you’re uncomfortable with whatever’s playing in your head. He could take a good guess and assume it’s him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your skin, sliding his arm over your body to pull you close to him. “I didn’t mean to forget, I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

He knows he should apologize when you’re awake, but he wants to say it now before his guilt eats up at him. Gojo’s eyes flutter close when his hands come into contact with something...lacey, and he pauses, lifting the sheets to inspect the material. He doesn’t really know what he’s expecting, but his breath stutters anyway, his aquamarine eyes zeroed in on his shirt draped over your form, the top three buttons left open and you’re not wearing shorts.

Gojo curses under his breath. His reaction is immediate; blood rushing to his groin and legs nudging yours apart. He doesn’t bother hiding under the sheets not anymore as he runs his hand over your body, his touch suddenly so cold in contrast to your warmth.

He’s fucked you a lot of times in different places and angles, so he shouldn’t be so nervous, yet he is, and his hands are fucking shaking.

His head snaps to your one more time, revelling in the way you open your legs just as he pries them apart. Even in your sleep, you’re still so trusting, so wanting – so perfect for him. Gojo situates himself between your thighs as he unbuttons your shirt one by one, his teeth clenched so hard it wouldn’t be anything surprising if he actually cracked his jaw.

You’re nothing short of looking like an angel; the thigh straps squeezing the flesh of your thighs and exuding such heavenly beauty he’s stunned.

You let out a sigh at his erection rubbing you through his boxers, completely unaware that Gojo’s fallen back on his thighs, eyes wide at the white lingerie set clad in your body. He licks at his lips, debating which land he should trudge on first.

The thigh straps he wants to rip with his fingers, the white lace panty that’s already nearly transparent with your arousal, or the frilly cups holding your breasts in place?

This is the first time Gojo’s gotten close to losing his mind, and lose his mind he did. Thoughts of making it up to you flies out the window, his emotions running turbulent with anger and regret in place. If he’d just gotten home, if he’d just killed the curses faster, he could’ve kissed you and heard you beg for him in your awakened state; he’d have the pleasure of seeing you squirm under him while he rips this pretty set apart.

His dick throbs harder at the fact you wore this for him, but you must’ve been so tired and sad to wear proper pyjamas. Should he be thankful? Angry at himself for making you feel this way?

He doesn’t fucking now, his mind is nothing but a mess as he sucks a wet spot into the juncture of your neck, large hands groping your breast. You mewl a little at the contact, neck arching to the side while you sigh, that slight dip in your brow a telltale you must be still in a sleepy daze.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters through pants as he cups your mound, only to be met with such astounding wetness. You look so innocent right now in comparison to your soft moans that it ruins him. You’re a good girl, such a sweet lover for him that you’re always letting him take in charge under the trust he’ll make you feel good. This trust is extended even in your wildest dreams, but you don’t need to worry about that. He’ll soon make it a reality.

Gojo is too needy that he doesn’t bother pulling your thong off anymore, pulling it to the side with two fingers before his thumb flicks at your clit. He’s rewarded with a sharp inhale, cheeks planted to the pillows and you look so pretty, so hauntingly oblivious that the only thing able to pull the strongest sorcerer limb by limb apart is through your needy wet cunt.

He aligns himself with your entrance, groaning when his tip is coated with your slick, the warmth of your pussy radiating off of him. It’s fucking stupid that Gojo shivers, and he knows it’s pathetic because he chuckles, lifting both your legs up before he hugs them to his chest.

You’re so wet that Gojo no longer finds the need to prepare you, his eyes falling down to where your bodies connect, breath taken away at how your lips eagerly spread apart to take him in. He’s a little too big for your tiny, sweet pussy that your lips pinch into a flat line, chest rasping up and down.

He wants to apologize, wants to caress your face and look you in the eyes as usual to tell you that you’re doing good, just breathe and the pain will be gone soon.

The situation deprives him of that privilege, so he’s left with no choice but to kiss your ankles affectionately before thrusting all the way in. A loud moan echoes around the room the moment he’s seated in, dick throbbing inside your heated pussy that’s so tight it’s nearly suffocating.

“Oh, my baby,” he thrusts in slowly, not wanting to completely wake you up despite the fact you’re unconsciously grabbing the sheets already. “My sweet, pretty angel – I’m so sorry daddy couldn’t fuck you tonight but look at you, you’re so wet,” he bites your calf at the last word to muffle his groans, the tight sucking in of your pussy to his length making his cock throb. “Did you touch yourself when I was gone, hm? You must be so unsatisfied, but I’m here now, I’ll take care of you.”

Gojo’s unable to keep his promise to you before, but he’ll definitely keep this promise now. He leaves little love marks at your skin, reaching forward to tug the cups of your bra down. He’s rewarded with the intoxicating luxury of watching your breasts bounce at his pace, your nipples the only thing stopping the material from completely falling.

You mewl at the pleasure he’s giving you, the constant friction of your hardened buds against the cups must be so heavenly by now, and you’re tightening around him, walls clamped down over his dick that Gojo never wants to let go.

He thrusts harder this time in response to your greedy sucking, his tip kissing your cervix. You throw your head back deeper into the pillows, hands patting every spot beside you. He knows that look all too well – mouth falling open, eyes shut tight, brows pinched together and that angelic little pant – it’s the face you always wear when you’re about to cum and Gojo wants to make it up to you, pushing your legs to the side before heaving his weight forward.

“Aw, baby,” he coos, “Coming already?”

The sudden stretch in your body only has your walls sucking him harder, his hips stuttering in its pace. Gojo kisses you flat on the lips as his hands thread to yours, squeezing it momentarily just as pleasure washes over him too. You come first, the spasms of your cunt similar to that one time you’ve accidentally gripped him too hard in your hand that Gojo’s cum suddenly landed on your eye. It’s tight, too fucking tight, that Gojo actually loses the ability to breathe.

His hips snap harder, dick driving deeper into your hole that’s already leaking out with cum. Your precious lingerie set is ruined, guaranteed to get him another pout that Gojo shakes his head, gripping hard at your hips while he chases his own high.

“I’ll get you another one, angel, I’ll buy you – fuck! – all the sets you need if it means dressing pretty for me like this,” he stutters in one breath, mouth latching around your nipple. He tugs at it in his need to reach his breaking point, no longer caring that you’ll wake up anytime soon, not when he’s so close and the squelching of your pussy sounds like heavenly music to his ears. Gojo thrusts in one last time hard enough that his balls make a loud slapping sound against your ass, but he doesn’t slide out, keeping himself right deep into your cunt in his orgasm.

Breathing heavily, Gojo falls on top of you, thankfully still strong enough to not crush you with his weight. He’s leaving fluttering kisses all over your face, your sweat slicking his skin.

He wants to pull out from the sensitivity, but you feel so warm and comfortable that Gojo plops down to the side, hugging your back and kissing your shoulder with panted breaths. You’re still recovering from the tremors of your orgasm that’s most likely still a dream to you, body trembling in his arms. Gojo does you a favour by throwing your bra to the side, his hands acting as a replacement for the missing piece.

He sighs onto your neck, barely managing to properly cover the both of your bodies in his exhaustion after a long day. He holds you close and tight in his arms, an I love you merely audible from his lips, followed by a regretful I’m sorry.

Gojo dreads tomorrow morning, in all honesty. There’s no easy way to explain that he “simply forgot” after all your efforts, his heart already darkening with the fear of seeing you pull away like you did the last time. His eyes droop down as he makes a mental note to just do whatever he can, but you’re stirring in his arms, lips puckered at the edge of his jaw.

“Satoru,” you whisper, hands tracing patterns on his chest. “You’re home. I’m glad.”

Soft snores follow after that, but Satoru is wide awake just as you’ve fallen asleep once more. He’s left speechless, and he doesn’t hold back in hugging you closer to his chest as a silent promise of never leaving you alone again. Even now, you’re still such a sweet angel, and how lucky is he to find someone like that?

[moonchildsaurora]

Darling, Dance for Me?

✤ sniper!San x female exotic dancer!reader ✤ genre: Mafia AU // 30% fluff, 60% spice, 10% platonic flirting with Woo  ✤ t/w: mentions of guns/shooting, mentions of alcohol, mature clubbing themes, highly suggestive in the second half (but not smut), rated M  ✤ count: 2k+

a/n - this was suppose to be for Valentine’s Day but, oh well! Enjoy some spice with one pink haired Sannie, coz we all know even though he looks soft. . . .he’s just a devil in disguise. This is probs my most suggestive writing till date as well, it was fun and am looking forward to writing more spice in the future hehet 💙

✛ play these vibes: BOBBY - ‘DeViL’, Sunmi - ‘Black Pearl’, Kai - ‘Mmmh’ ✛

“Mother told me, never to dance with the devil, So I danced for him instead.”

Cherry rouge.

Not your usual go-to, but a special occasion calls for some special exceptions. And damn did you look like fine wine tonight. Giving your styled curls another spritz of hair spray, you took one last inspection in your vanity mirror.  

Work was throwing a Valentine’s event and thus you found yourself having to dig through the back of your wardrobe to find a suitable outfit for tonight. Bold burgundy lace hugged tightly around your body replacing the mellower neutral tones you’d wear on any other night. Your roommate had even shoved a pair of thigh highs and heels on you to match the garter.

And cherry lips to bring the whole look together.

“You’ll thank me later! Hell everyone in the club would, for presenting god’s gift to them!”

You had laughed at her supportive enthusiasm, waving her away with embarrassment though you greatly appreciated the pre-shift hype.

When you headed for the kitchen, you could hear the TV in the lounge and glanced to see your roommate watching the evening news. She turned to call out for you but stopped mid-way upon realising you were already out of your room.

“Damn girl…you’ll sure be breaking hearts tonight with that fit!!” she yelled-gasped, brows waggling for a cheeky added effect.

“Well that’s no good. Dancers are supposed to be Cupids of the night, maybe they should’ve given me Aphrodite instead.”

A smile tugged on your lips as you saw your roommate falling back on the sofa snickering. Grabbing the bottle of Ten to One from what you both named ‘The Life Juice’ shelf, you started to fill your rose gold hip flask with the white rum. The debonair bartender at the club would usually be more than happy to concoct you a cup of much-needed poison to get you through the night. However, on such a busy event, you might not even have time to swing by the bar – so plan B was in order.

Also, whoever thought to invent garter pouches was a genius in your eyes. The amount of times you had snuck in a sip or two up on the podium without missing a beat or being noticed had to be one of your greatest feat till date.

Except maybe for the one who bought said pouch and flask for you. Seeing the shadow of their pleased smirk whenever you donned on something from them never failed to coax the goosebumps across your skin. Perhaps that garnet embellished choker would be the icing on the cake then. You made a mental note to put that on before you headed out.

“Hey honey…”

The tone of your roommate turned a little more serious.

“On the news just then, another one of those random sniper attacks happened along Soleil Street. Shit, that’s only two streets away from the club.”

The city has gotten used to such news every now and then. All leads of the serial sniper always went cold, not that they left behind any substantial traces for the authorities to begin with.

The law wasn’t the only ruling force in the area. Everyone knew that.

So long as one didn’t attract the wrong attention, they’d be free to go about their business.

“I’m dropping you off, are you ready to go?”

“Wait! It’s alright, I don’t want to trouble you.”

Your roommate gave you a look before swiping her car keys from the counter. “What would trouble me is not knowing whether you’ve made it to work and back safely. Now c’mon, the night is awaiting that cute booty of yours!”

“Yes mum.”

How lucky were you to have an angel for a roommate?

“Give me a heads up if you intend to bring anyone home tonight yeah? I’ll be sure to vacate the apartment before any sinning begins here.”

Or not.

A euphoric buzz filled every corner of the club tonight. Whether it was due to the special occasion or not, everyone was getting drunk off the atmosphere. The bar was a never-ending fountain of liquid luck and smoke veiled corners of the venue where patrons dealt cards and wits. A sea of bodies dominated the dancefloor, curling around one another in ecstasy as the thumping bass set the rhythm for them.

The centre podium was where the real magic unfurled.

Up on there, you felt powerful. Up on there, was your domain to rule.

Long have you enticed all those who returned back to ‘The Blue Butterfly’. So close, yet so far, for most could only have the visual satisfaction. Of watching you, along with your fellow dancers weave around golden poles and offer hands to those who sat in plush velvet chairs closest to the podium. Only to sashay away the last minute.

How bees are drawn to nectar and moths to light, the people keep coming back.

Tonight the club was decked out in a more sensual feel to fit the Valentine’s vibe. Long drapes of rose silk hung around the podium and you used those to accentuate the flow and movement of your body curves. The silks caressed the bare skin not hidden underneath your outfit and you pretended to take shy peeks around the fabrics at the audience. Sending a lucky wink or flying kiss their way.

In the middle of a mid-air twirl, you saw a familiar figure heading towards your side of the podium. You slowly lowered yourself back down to the floor, using your legs to wrap around the silks as leverage. Not missing the opportunity to be playful – you mimed shooting an arrow towards the club’s top croupier.

Wooyoung instantly clutched his heart with his hand that wasn’t occupied with holding one of Mingi’s own cocktail infusion. Letting out a hearty giggle, you slid over the podium floors to the edge where Wooyoung had propped himself up on.

“Don’t you look simply irresistible?” he crooned at you.

You could’ve said the exact same for him. All fitted to a tee in Givenchy with a classic choker that demanded attention for prominent collarbones.

“Now, how may I be of service to you tonight handsome?” you spoke over the music.

The youthful charmer leaned in towards you, shaking dark wavy strands out of his eyes. Eyeing his cotton candy pink drink, you ducked your head and took a few sips from the straw before Wooyoung drew it away. It tasted vaguely like pink lemonade with hints of vodka and vanilla.

“Ah ah, this isn’t for you poppet. Besides…” he tipped your chin back up with two fingers, “…wouldn’t want to waste your appetite before your main course tonight, would we?”

That made you perk right up.

“V.I.P Room Aurora has kindly requested for you. Drinks have already been sent up and the room’s been booked for the whole night.”

Not that booking was really needed since it was your room. It was just for formality.  

Wooyoung helped you off the podium and smoothly guided you through the crowd, placing you in front of him so as to avoid being grabbed by uninvited hands from behind. You both stopped at the foot of the polished glass stairs that led up to the V.I.P guest rooms.

“Off you go now! Oh and try not to make too much of a mess for our cleaners, they really ought to get a pay rise from some of the things they’ve witnessed in those rooms.”

You would’ve kicked Wooyoung for his brazen tongue, but you did well to remind yourself that would be rather impudent on your part. Whilst you have a jovial bond with him, it still doesn’t erase his high-standing status within the inner circle. You knew better than to cross that line of respect.

“Won’t make any promises I can’t keep, Jung!”

You left him with a soft pat on his cheek and ascended towards your utopia that awaited.

Swinging the golden embossed doors open, sultry melodious tune of a saxophone greeted you. Like molten dark chocolate, it was rich and tantalizing. The crystalline blue hue of the room’s lighting was fitting for the slow jazzy blues.

A spacious circular sofa curved around a glass table in the centre, providing a perfect view of the bejewelled podium. The wide one-way windows were especially designed for privacy. You could spectate over almost the whole club below, something you quite enjoyed during your breaks. The countless types of people that you observed stepping into your world; from the timid newcomers to the seasoned hedonists and the stories they brought with them of their journey to ‘The Blue Butterfly’.

But there was no time for that tonight. Not when you see broad sculptured shoulders that your hands have meticulously memorised the planes of – right in front of you.  

Still clad in his all-black incognito leather fit, you couldn’t help but stay by the door to appreciate his form. A huge bouquet of ivory and deep red roses sat on the glass table with an open box of what you suspected were chocolates inside. A loud pop of the champagne bottle went off. You bit your lips when you saw his toned arms flex as he gripped the bottle in one hand and tipped a stream of golden bubbles into two flute glasses in the other.

As the music picked up, you decided it was time to make your presence known. Walking with confident steps over the velveteen carpet you went to wrap your arms around his cinched waist. Resting your cheek on the cool leather vest of his back, you took his scent in.

Smoke and city musk lingered around.

You figured he must’ve come straight from his assignment. What better reason to use than to spoil him extra as post-work relaxation? His hand came up to wrap around yours and you felt the dancing of lips leaving petal kisses across your knuckles.

“You stink…” you mumbled lightly against his back.

San let out a low chuckle before setting the champagne bottle down and turning around to snake both arms around you. Calloused hands from the years of gripping guns instead of supple flesh imprinted their warm touch into your skin.

“Oh? Then I’m sure you won’t mind helping me freshen up, right Princess?”

“San!” you squealed when you felt him deliberately rub sweat against your neck before attacking it with more love bites.

“You taste like sweet temptation.”

You arched your neck out of habit when you felt his tongue swipe across it. Teeth bit down lightly around the garnet choker San bought for you for Christmas.

When you felt hands travelling down west towards your garter, you gave San a light shove backwards to the sofa.

“Not so fast, Choi.”

His predatory feline eyes took its time to rake down your body, committing every inch to memory. You made a show of bending over to grab the two champagne flutes off the table, the sharp intake of breath behind you made you preen with pride. You took your seat on your throne, not at all surprised to feel how much pent-up tension San had through the tight leather.

Clink. A toast made for the love of two.

“Happy Valentine’s, darling.”

“Thank you, San. You sure know how to spoil a lady don’t you?”

“Only the one who’s sniped right through my heart.”

Oh the irony.

You smiled when he pulled you close and claimed a proper kiss, whispering a, “You sap,” against his wind-chapped lips. Tasting the fruit acidity from the golden bubbles as you both exchanged kitten licks.

San’s rouge-stained lips chased after yours when you broke off from the kiss to place your champagne flute back down on the table. Hands anchoring your hips in place as you reached to pluck a couverture chocolate-covered strawberry from the box. Turning back round to San, your lips formed a small pout noticing that his freshly dyed hair was still hidden underneath his cap.

He let you discard it behind the sofa and you could’ve sworn he purred with satisfaction when you ran your hands through his cotton candy pink strands. Hands gave your bottom a firm squeeze and San begun to run his fingers along the hem of your lace. The husky vocals from the record player drifted back, interlacing with the saxophone.

That was your cue.

“Eyes on me.”

You held San’s gaze, fire reflecting fire. The strawberry gets slipped past the seams of his lips and all the while San chews intently, his eyes never wavered. He’s got his precious pearl all to himself, just the way he loves it. And you have the city’s most lethal hitman watching your back from dawn to dusk. San was the dangerous game you played, only to win the safest love.    

“Darling, won’t you please dance for me?”

“With pleasure, Sir.”

[unholyhelbig]

We Sold Our Souls | 001: Beca

Summary: A small-town rock band continues to play even smaller venues well past high school graduation. Aubrey, Beca, Emily, and Chloe struggle with newfound fame and the long bloody road to get there.

[Based off of "We Sold Our Souls" By Grady Hendrix"]

Read on AO3 | Dt to the amazing @ifionlyhadmorepaper

Beca’s fingers were split and callused where Chloe’s were warm and protected. They were covered in bandages of all shapes and sizes, little adhesive papers that browned at the edges from dirt or from blood that hadn’t been dabbed away. They were wrapped, lacerated where she had pressed too hard on the velvet cords of her guitar. Beca Mitchell would play until rustic oozing syrup covered the face of the instrument.

They stung, sometimes, but right now she leaned into the numbness that the temperature in the office provided. She wanted to spread them in an equal motion over the glass of the desk so each finger lined up with a toe in her Doc Martins. Instead, she placed them calmly in her lap and stared at the silver pen that rested next to the contract.

She picked silently at the ace bandage that she had strategically wrapped around her pinky finger. It had been the newest slice; a wound still fresh to the sterile room. She was sure it would drip one, maybe two drops of red on the white linoleum.

Beca glanced up from the writing utensil and saw nothing but a suit, a slate and dull grey that blended perfectly with the rest of the room. There were no photos on the wall, nothing but a bland black leather sofa and a glass coffee table that matched the same desk they sat at now. She wanted to look through the floor to ceiling windows but saw nothing but white. Everything was white.

She was the darkest thing in the room.

Her boot tapped against, a low and thumbed rhythm. She waited for him to say something, to say anything. But she realized quickly that he may be darker than her. She could stare into the abyss that was his face, into the shadow but it would mean nothing. There were no defining features other than a crisp, business-like smile.

She had switched from pulling at the dressing of her wounds to picking at the frayed edges of her black jean jacket, littered with patches and permanent marker. Beca traced a signature that Chloe had drawn on one drunken night.

They had popped a bottle of champagne and the bubbles made the cuts on her fingers burn something fierce. But she let the golden liquid slosh onto the carpet of the hotel room, and bubble up in her throat until she couldn’t quite hold it between her lips anymore. Chloe kissed her and she tasted like weed and cherry.

It was the first night that their song was played on the radio.

The four of them huddled around a radio, its antenna stretched to the ceiling of that dingy room. The lights buzzed as much as the static, and it was close to three am; too late for the bar handlers to be heading home, and too early for the suits to be warming up their cars. But they played it- they played it.

They could quite possibly be the only four people in the entire world to hear the first song from the DEMO that Beca slid under the studio door.

When she leaned forward, the leather her pants made an ungodly noise. She didn’t’ want to read through the stack bound with a thick black clip. The first page was highlighted where she needed to initial and bolded at the most important parts; the parts that distracted her from what really mattered.

Her father was a stockbroker before he was dead, and he would tell her every single time he brought home a new contract, that they make the glittery things darker. That’s not what she was supposed to read; she was supposed to look at the little pieces of text that had stars next to them. People liked to trick you with shiny things.

Beca moved her finger across the large stack; the paper was cool to the touch and caught on the adhesive of her ace bandage. “What exactly are you offering me here?”

Summer 1985

It took her four whole months to save up for the old white Charvel that sat at the back of Shawl's pawn shop. There were bars strapped across the windows and an ugly neon orange sign that let Beca know when they were closed and when they weren’t. She would cling to those bars when old man Shawl would tell her to buy something or get the fuck out.

He stared at her even harder when she emptied the shoebox of change and crumpled up bills stained with sweat and sticky substances onto the glass counter, but even he couldn’t turn down a profit. She waited for ages while his liver-spotted hands counted the money carefully. Then he pursed his lips and pulled the beat up guitar down from his perch above his shoulder.

In later years, Beca knew she didn’t have nearly enough, and she thanked him silently for taking pity on her and passing it over anyway. She was driving all of his customers, she reasoned, by sulking on the hot sidewalk in front of the shop, letting banana flavored popsicles drip onto her fingers until it was nothing but a stick left.

She had fastened the worn leather strap around her chest and straddled her jet red bicycle. Beca had never peddled so fast in her life. The Mid-August heat clung to every inch of her was humming with sweat by the time she skidded to a stop in front of her house. She let the bike drop and got an instant hit of relief when she crossed the threshold into the open garage.

Beca scooted past the dusty Monza that barely fit in front of the door leading into their kitchen. Her mother had bought it off a stranger that came into the diner back in 78’. There were questionable stains in the backseat and an odd scent of Clorox that they could never get rid of. But it ran back and forth, and that’s all they needed.

She pulled open the honey blossom fridge and grabbed the closest thing they had to a cool drink. Beca drank tang straight from the pitcher, letting it drip down her face and soak into the collar of her shirt. She was noisy when she drank, and oblivious to her mother watching her from the archway as she tied her apron around her waist.

“We have glasses, Bec’s”

Her mother didn’t’ comment on the guitar strapped to her back. She figured that her daughter had picked up another hobby. Last year it was basketball, and the year before that she begged and begged for a set of baseball cards from the local hobby shop. After they were shoved under her bed she was told to fund her ventures on her own.

Beca swallowed the last of the orange flavoring on her tongue and took a savoring breath to fill her burning lungs. She turned to the woman and smiled “That would just dirty two things instead of one. Besides, you don’t drink this anyway.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Her mother wrestled silently with the faux pearl earrings that matched the beaded necklace against her collarbone. The soft blue tone of her uniform washed out her skin and made her look pale despite the summer heat that lingered well into August.

Beca placed the glass decanter back into the bottom half of the fridge before she mock saluted her mother and wandered back out to the garage. Her skin instantly became slick with sweat. She pulled an empty milk crate a few inches from the line of the setting sun.

She finally pulled the old Charvel from her back and situated it in her arms. It was far from a perfect fit. She reached over the neck and felt the way the side dug into her ribs uncomfortably. The strings were frail and sounded rough as she dragged her thumb against them.

Beca had only learned the start of one song, the first few cords of Black Sabbath’s Tomorrows Dream. They had printed the cords on the back of the record sleeve, each specific note highlighted in a comically large dot. Beca would breathe in the dust of the garage and listen to the record on a constant loop, pressing her fingers down against the notes.

She took a deep breath and started to follow the instructions that she had completed a million times over. The strings were too tight and it sounded choppy, sharp, and thick all at once. She cringed at her half-hearted attempt and the way the cords cut so deeply into her fingertips they stung.

She ignored the old car pulling out of the garage, and the way she had to squint at the darkness after a while. There was still the sour taste of orange on her tongue and sweat dripped from her nose. But she played and played, and played until there was blood against the white face of the instrument and tears pinching at her eyes. It sounded somewhat like Black Sabbath.

“You like metal?”

Beca jerked her hand back quickly and drew in a sticky warm breath of air. She had been so wrapped up in her task that she hadn’t realized she wasn’t alone anymore. A girl stood in the dull light that leaked from the garage and into the pavement. She didn’t’ quite pass the threshold- instead, she lingered.

A certain chill had invaded the air and the girl folded into herself. Her wild mane of orange hair fell around her shoulders and ghostly blue eyes lit up optimistically at the sight of a guitar.

“Uh,”

“That’s a Charvel, right? I begged my parents for one last Christmas but they got me an acoustic instead. Hooked me up with lessons from Miss Jensen. I learned one country song and started pocketing the fifty bucks a week instead.”

“Yeah,” Beca swallowed hard “It’s a Charvel”

“That’s cool,” she rocked back and forth on the souls of her sneakers. The cold didn’t’ seem to get to her much anymore. Beca tried to place her. Her ears were ringing and her fingers hurt. The crickets were hissing their own song. “You go to Kennedy don’t you?”

“I’m second year”

“I’m third.” She beamed “I live right next door, I’ve seen you around.”

Beca lifted her chin; she had seen the girl around too. It usually followed loud screaming and slamming doors. She would sit on her stoop and stare at the way her cassette player would turn. Beca had seen her flip a tape four times once- still like a statue until the music stopped and hat to be reset.

“Listen, I uh- don’t want to intrude, but maybe we could play together sometime?”

“Yeah, I would like that.” She found herself saying, the orange drink in her system making her stomach churn. She nearly felt bad, felt a pang of sadness for the girl. “I’m Beca.”

“Hi, Beca. I’m Chloe.”

Winter 1994

Beca let the case fall shut a little too loudly. The acoustics on the small stage seemed to catch all the wrong things. She couldn’t get her voice to carry earlier in the night, but the fur-lined box that they housed their amp in bounced all the way to the entry of the little venue in Portland.

She blinked hard, trying to ignore the harsh red lights that covered every single inch of the place. There were bumper stickers covering the spotty paint of the walls and a bar that was more piss and peanut shells than anything. Emily gulped down warm beer and struggled to keep it down momentarily. She didn’t look up at the noise, her stare trained on a coaster, and the crumbs that lie next to it.

Beca leaned back on her heels and pulled in a thick breath. She smelled like sweat and blood and alcohol. Her little stunt had drawn the attention of Aubrey, the woman wrapping the cord to a different amp around her forearm and palm. She narrowed her unripe stare.

“This was fucking shit,”

“I’m doing my best”

They spoke at the same time. She knew that Aubrey’s anger was buzzing, it was festering until it finally burst. She looked pale under the red lights, the same tattoo they had all gotten two years ago stretched under her tank top and down to the gap between her jeans.

She knew what Aubrey was going to say. Her best wasn’t good enough, and it never was; they had been doing this for years, eight long years and they were still playing the shit-stink venues in even shittier towns. They barely had an audience tonight, and it had all been Beca’s fault. The whole room was thinking it, but no one had the balls to say it other than Aubrey.

Chloe moved from the corner of the room, “We’ll get a better place, Bree.”

“Yeah? When? I’m tired of giving my all to an audience that doesn’t’ fucking exist. We’re not kids anymore.”

“We’re shit broke.” Emily turned in the creaky barstool, swallowing the foam at the bottom of her glass. “I don’t even think we have gas in the van.”

“How much from this gig?” Chloe asked.

Her hair was matted with sweat and her thumb pulled at the chain around her neck. It was fastened with a marbled red pick, one from their first real venue ever. She had nervously wiped away the gold lettering and now the smooth plastic was all that was left. Beca hated disappointing her, and she did it often these days.

“Five hundred.”

“Five hundred? Beca that’s barely enough to cover the hotel rooms.” Aubrey let the wrapped cord fall back to the stage “We don’t break even on this. It’s not fucking worth it. It never was and it never is.”

They all knew what came next. Emily stared down a coaster she had begun to shred. The remaining foam on the glass culminated at the very bottom of the glass and she knew she couldn’t muster enough change to order another one. So she sat with the sour taste in her mouth and festered.

Aubrey would mention Julliard.

“I could have had everything.” She hissed instead.

Beca didn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, she leaned down and pulled the amp up with nothing more than a grunt. Instead, she walked out into the cold Portland air and let it make her skin tighter. She blinked away the red light and searched for the keys in her pockets. She had left them inside.

[springdaysblooming]

Fleur

My response is nuanced. I know the stories behind a range of flowers, after having researched them to write one of my own. The boy ran a flower shop and he would swap books with the girl who ran the book store, leaving her pressed and dried flowers in the pages as book marks when he returned them.

My fondness for flowers is derived from a number of things. It could be something nostalgic, that they resemble a time in my life or were used to marked significant events. They could be something simple, like its scent or its weight in my hands, the softness of its petals caressing my skin. The way they compress and fold onto themselves when dried, or the translucent veins and colours you’d be met with when holding them up to the light.

Like small common white daisies that I used to pick as a child, the same ones that I tried to make into flower chains and failed to do so, and again a ritual revisited with M last year when we took Lily for a walk in the park. We clipped yellow and white daises from the edges of people’s gardens, where their heads hung over onto the footpath. Sitting on the grass by the cricket pitch, I watched as M pierced the stalks and slid another of the same kind through the hole she’d made and used her teeth to tie a knot. She taught me how to do this and we put them on ourselves and made one for the dog and giggled and rolled around in the grass. The original, failed attempts of my own chains when I was younger and my associations with them, changed.

But I dislike large, orange, yellow, pink or red daisies because I think they’re the flowers people clumsily choose for others when they don’t know what flowers the recipients in question actually likes. I’ve received these once and hated them. They stocked too many of these in the old volunteer kiosk on the ground floor in the hospital I worked at for years, the same hospital I dreaded coming into work every day. Without fail, I would see people stand there, arms folded, or their hands tapping impatiently at their sides as they scanned the limited choices before they grabbed a box of daisies pierced through styrofoam and headed for the elevators. Those that visited with purpose would walk through the doors, arms full of a bouquet and ribbon ready made. 

I adore pink cherry blossoms, their delicate petals and the small thin spires that shoot out from their centres. They only bloom for about two weeks and always remind me of the fragility and beauty of life. Even after they wilt and die, they flutter with ease, still beautiful even after they’ve fallen. When the wind picks up, they swirl around in the air like snow. This is what I would etch onto my skin if I was ever inclined. My love for them has surpassed years. I once bought watercolours and acrylics and painted a large and lengthy cherry blossom tree branch across the length of my pink room wall when I was fourteen. I was scolded for damaging the walls but I didn’t care. I had my own cherry blossom tree. I still want one in my own garden.

Some flowers hold a special place in my heart because they remind me of people. M’s favourite flower is a lily. When I see them I think of her. One of my mother’s is a sweet-smelling rose - but only those cut from a garden. One morning we walked past a beautiful home in North Perth, white picket fence and all. We had stopped to smell the roses and the owner came outside, brought her scissors and allowed us to tour her garden. She cut us her Double Delights, yellow in the centre and red on the outside, her Mister Lincolns which were deep red and the epitome of romance and her Honey Perfumes that reminded me of apricots. I wrapped their bases with wet tissues and they sat in the kitchen for weeks.

My mother also cherishes wisteria. For me, they’re bittersweet. They remind me of the hard work and care she put into making them grow across the lattice of the front of the place I called home for years, before they were neglected and cut ruthlessly back by another owner when I orchestrated our leaving.

When I was in Stockholm, I came across large navy tents with white trestle tables and deep-set square buckets filled to the brim with a range of flowers. As I was admiring the colours, the florist greeted me. He wore a cap and had his long hair braided down his front, the ends of which skimmed the pocket of the apron his was wearing. I remember thinking that if his hair grows a little more, it’d sit in nicely at the base of the pocket. He asked me if I liked the flowers, to which I replied yes. He said the flowers liked me too. They were tulips.

I love the small, budding white petals that envelope the beginnings of lemons, oranges, limes and grapefruit. The soft and small flowers are key to something bigger and stronger than you think they could ever hold. Maybe it’s because they hold so much potential once they’ve flowered, that I am particularly drawn to them.

Peonies. They’re a favourite. Camellias, because of the amazing properties they hold. I like the small little star-shaped flowers I don’t know the names of but I gifted my Airbnb host when I was in Seoul. I remember wishing someone would gift me the same. The flowers Alina arranged for me at her arts stall, pulling together coral-like flowers and lime green leaves and pink petals, exclaiming to me that I needed flowers a little wild and pretty and weird like me. Azaleas that I saw on every street in Omotesando that lead me back to my apartment when I was lost and alone in Tokyo. Foxgloves because of the name and the thought that they’d be worn by foxes which then reminds me of the stories of Mr Fox and Jemima Puddle-Duck by Beatrix Potter and the rest of the stories of those animals I read as a child. 

Roses with scent, not the frozen ones you can buy in bundle for thirteen dollars at the supermarket that sit there, stagnant, resembling half a thought. Orchids, because they were the first plant I ever really properly took care of and bloomed for two years in my bathroom, representing my trials and tribulations and the fact that I could actually keep something alive. Any of the flowers my friends have ever gifted me, regardless of what they were.

Small, unique flowers that come in interesting shapes and sizes that you don’t usually see and most of the times aren’t given a chance by others because they don’t fit the definitive ideals of beauty. They’ve tried as hard as they could too, to be here. Protea because they feel like velvet dresses I yearned for as a child. The wildflowers I have seen and encountered across the harsh landscape I’ve travelled for two years. Flowers that are arranged in a way that resembles their most natural state, not bundled and tied and pulled into a tight and constricting ball.

Bright, colourful and sweet flowers, the flowers that have not yet been assigned a meaning.

[fadingvitality]

Yes Is Only The Beginning

*There were two items I owned, just two, that I’d sacrifice the roof over my head before pawning:  the bass guitar my dad bought me and the ring that was my momma’s. The emerald ring was an oversized bauble, but if I squinted I could sort of pretend it went with a glam-rock vibe. Not quite my style, but closer to it. 

Damn sale. Damn soap. Damn sentiments. 

I was in extreme couponing mode in addition to the ramen noodle diet and there it had been, free item of the week… Caress soap. 

The moment I opened the box the scent hit me like a brick to the chest. It took me back to the time when they were both here and now they were both...gone. 

She’d always used it, my momma, and the smell of it brought on tears I didn’t have the time or tolerance for.  Being human was a bitch. We got sick. We died. We left people behind. Every damn breath took us closer to our last, so there was no time to waste on those saline escapees that ruined up our makeup. 

Maybe worse than my emotional disruptions due to a box of soap, I was convinced the eau de chicken flavor packets had scared off any potential roomies interested in my apartment. Everything was ramen’s fault! Well, ramen and Laney. My eyes narrowed at the mere thought of that skanky wench. I was scraping by, even with working doubles at the dive I called my job. Okay, so it wasn’t that bad a place, and the patrons tipped well, but everything seemed like a downgrade lately and the sunshine of hope felt a galaxy away.

There had been one saving grace of all current troubles and traumas:  Antoni, my deliciously hot partner in crime, work-husband, and phenomenal chef in the making who spoiled me with orgasmic food I could not otherwise afford.  While I smoothed the soap over my skin in a lukewarm shower, my emotions were already bent and the scent of the Caress carried me back to a time I’d been carefree, yet to be affected by the type of grief and loss that changed a person at their foundation. 

I sucked up the swarm of feelings that came from an innocent bar of soap. Antoni was taking me as his plus one to a posh restaurant that you only got a reservation for if you had some kind of in. He confessed his in, as was required by our work-spouse status, and it was all kinds of salacious. I’m sure the owner of the place was still feeling Antoni all up inside of him a week later.  Antoni was incorrigible and I fucking adored it.

And now, a couple hours later,  he was the reason more tears washed my face, leaving dramatic trails of mascara as salty souvenirs down my cheeks.

I’d lost track of my surroundings in the schmancy sushi restaurant, pretty, delicate cherry blossoms etched into my water glass blurred by the storm in my eyes. 

Antoni’s words echoed in my honey brain. “I was offered a sous chef position…”

He was leaving me. Not just the bar. The whole ass area. Moving to a place I couldn’t reach by a drive, if I even had a car.  I didn’t realize what he’d come to mean to me until it felt as if he was being ripped away.

“Elliot.”  He reached across the table and put his hand over mine.  

“I didn’t bring you here to break your heart. I brought you here to ask you to come with me.”

Bleary eyes went wide. His smile stretched in recognition of the surprise he’d held back.*

Wait. You want me to come with YOU? 

*He laughed. “That is what I just said, but the temptation to repeat it so I can see that shock…”*

Asshole. 

*He wasn’t. Not really.  

“I’ve already been set up with a two bedroom, two bath as part of the offer. You’re better than what you’ve got going here.  Rupert might cry harder than you did just now, but… he’ll survive. But me? I don’t want to miss you every day, Elli.”

The hazel puppy-dog eyes were priceless. I didn’t even need them to push me over the edge.

“Say yes.”

My eyes squeezed shut while I battled against the twitch of lips that held back a beaming smile*

Yes.  A million times YES.  

*”I was hoping you’d say that.” Before I could register what was happening, he retrieved a box that he’d somehow hidden from me under the table. I put my hands up as he held it out to me.*

What’s this?! I can’t take anything else, not after everything, not after THIS.  It’s too much. 

*”You haven’t even opened it. For all you know it could be a gag to break up all this smarmy softness we’re swimming in.”

I shook my head at him, but he earned a laugh as I took the box, lifting the lid to see what was inside… and promptly burst into ANOTHER fall of tears.

Fuck.  Just fucking fuck.  Inside the box was every item of importance I’d put on consignment at the pawn shop. Sentimental belongings of my parents I’d been forced to part with and thought I’d lost forever. I picked up my dad’s set of handmade, acoustic guitar picks, and the long strand of vintage pearls that had been my grandmother’s before they were passed down to my mom.

I shook my head in utter disbelief, and met the eyes of the breathtaking soul that just turned my world upside down in the most unexpected way. I absently wondered what I did to deserve any of it.*

I could kiss you, BUT, seeing how I am already painfully awkward I will spare you the scene.

*I paused, my heart still beating even as it was lodged in a tight throat.*  

Nobody has ever done anything like this for me. Not even close.  

*His smile at me was something beyond priceless, and it turned me inside out. The heavy weight of resurfacing grief and a whole host of insecurities had been replaced with a flood of fondness and radiating hope. Inspiration was already on the rise as lyrics filtered through my musical mind.

“Get used to it, Elliot.  Your ramen era is over. We’ve got a world to set on fire with all of our bad bitch energy. Yes is only the beginning.” 

I lifted a fancy glass of even fancier, sparkling sake, my smile strong but humbled by complex emotions. My toast a repetition of Antoni’s last words.*

Yes is only the beginning.

[authoressskr]

Odd Doesn’t Begin To Describe It

Characters: Dean Winchester, Gabriel, Sam Winchester. Mentions of: Chuck, Lucifer, Jack Kline, and Michael.     ::     Warnings: Language, Light talk of issues, A bit of flirting     ::     Word Count: 1401

This was written for my 400+ Celebration!! Request your own here!

Prompt:  A: “Do you ever have moments where you’re struck by how odd and terrible your upbringing was?”  B: “Is that why you’re on the floor eating funfetti frosting out of a jar?” for @marichromatic -- Hope I did this well for you, sweetie! <3

Note: Please do NOT repost, copy & paste, post or share my works on any other platform without my EXPRESS PERMISSION.

-+- REBLOGGING is fine and very appreciated! -+-

Dean heard a clatter in the kitchen, prompting him to quickly set his laptop to the side and rush into the kitchen.

“Are you drunk?” Dean asks, righting the chair lying several feet from its proper place and scooting it back under the table.

“Pssssssssh.” Gabriel half raspberries, waving his left hand vaguely in the air at Dean’s question.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” Dean muttered mostly to himself, crossing his arms over his chest as he took in not only the archangel before him, but the state of his had-been freshly cleaned kitchen. Fighting back a sigh, he opted to clench his teeth instead, watching Gabriel sway minutely in front of the sink before turning to examine the bowl of fruit he kept for Sam by the fridge. “Something on your mind, Gabriel?” Dean raises his voice a little, Gabriel’s hair subtly moving as he shook his head before turning around with his forefinger in the air.

“Acccccctually...there is! How do you and Sammich do it?” Dean’s forehead furrows slightly as his gaze goes from Gabriel’s to the spot on the wall just over his shoulder. Jesus, he wasn’t good with emotional talks.

“Do what, exactly?”

“Deal with this shit-storm you call a life with more shit constantly being flung at you, without powers or hell, even a damn vacation once in awhile?!” Gabriel has moved closer, giving a little grunt as he finishes before snapping himself an extra large cookie.

“Sex, alcohol, shoving it down so it never sees the light of day again.”

“Well, I’ve hit several dozen liquor stores and am enjoying a reaaaally nice buzz right now. And,” He attempts to lean against the kitchen table but it moves, his hand shooting out to steady himself against the wooden betrayal. “I’ve been shoving shit down since I realized how fucked up my family really was.” Those slightly clouded golden orbs rake down Dean’s body as a smirk curled his lips. “Guess that leaves sex, big boy.”

Dean laughed humorlessly, deflecting the very odd switch in Gabriel’s normal flippant, seemingly carefree, Trickster demeanor.

“What happened to you tonight?”

“Ahh, well you see, I got a personal, super secret call up from Daddy.” There isn’t any denying the slightly venomous tone laced around the sarcasm, an armour that Dean knew all too well himself.

“If it makes you feel any better, I think you’re handling it better than Lucifer did.” The look in Gabriel’s eyes shift once again, from the hardened bronze when he spoke about Chuck to a more appraising honey color.

“What did Princess do, hmm?” Dean watches the archangel stumble-slide himself into the nearest chair, never looking away from Dean.

“Locked himself in Sam’s room, while in Cas’s vessel, and was generally being a dick. Wanted Chuck to apologize. Wanted him to admit he needed his help. Mostly wanted someone to blame beside himself.”

“WELL IF THAT DOESN’T SOUND FAMILIAR, FUCK ME SIDEWAYS.” Gabriel yells dramatically, gesturing with both hands now. “Never his fault. Typical Luci.”

“Guess that wasn’t what Chuck wanted to talk to you about.” Dean moves to the fridge, withdrawing the two pies he’d bought. “Now, before you launch into this - remember, I don’t like sharing my pie and don’t expect this from me in the future, capisce?” Gabriel nods, almost buzzing with an eager energy Dean could swear he felt.

“Capisce.” Gabriel agrees, reaching for the fork Dean offered as he slid the pie before the angel.

The first few bites were quietly relished before Gabriel lifted his head from the cherry pie to gaze at the hunter across the table.

“He wanted me to help Jack.” His whisky eyes are piercing now, pining Dean with that otherness that Castiel and Jack just sometimes flashed through briefly. “Wanted me to help find Lucifer and either toss him back in the Cage and remake the Seals or put him down.” Dean wants to tell Gabriel his vote is firmly in column two, but he just gives the smallest of nods as he scoops another forkful into his mouth. “If you recall, it didn’t turn out so well the last time we tangoed.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, but the porno was a nice touch.”

“Aww, Dean, you care.”

“You knew I wouldn’t say yes to Michael. And you knew we’d keep fighting, no matter the odds.”

“I never said you were exceedingly smart when it comes to your own mortality.”

“Look, what I’m saying is you did it. You bought us some time and you gave us the help we needed when we were looking at a brick wall. Are you still a dick for killing me all those times? Yes. Do I trust you? Not as much as I should, but I know you’d have all our backs.”

“That make me part of Team Free Will?”

“We’ll take a vote later.” Dean gives a soft, almost reassuring smile to the archangel before returning to his pie.

“You know - this would be better flambeed with whiskey.” Dean looks down at his pie, want warring with ‘I don’t know if that’s the smartest thing. Fire plus an overly tipsy angel...’

“Whiskey.” Dean finally agrees with a nod as his dessert blinks out of existence for a few seconds before reappearing with a sharper scent that wafted before him.

::   -   ::   -   :: 

A couple hours later - a giant pan of boozy brownies with caramel rum sauce, bourbon blondie chocolate chip bread, and one too many whiskey ice cream floats...Dean was sitting on the concrete floor, propped up against the bottom cupboards with his eyes blissfully shut as his lips and tongue were trying to locate his straw to finish off the last of his whiskey ice cream float.

And that’s what Sam walks straight into. Gabriel sprawled on his stomach with a plush pillow under his chest as he shoved a spoon into his mouth while Dean searches blindly for his straw.

“Well, at least you didn’t kill each other.” Sam mutters, watching Dean’s emerald eyes flutter open and a lazy smile graces his face as Gabriel waved his spoon up at Sam.

“Sammich, do you ever have moments where you’re struck by how odd and terrible your upbringing was?” Sam wrinkles his forehead.

“Been having some deep intellectual conversations while we’ve been gone, I see.” Sam clears his throat. “Wait - is that why you’re on the floor eating funfetti frosting out of a jar?”

“You should join us Sammmmy.” Dean mutters, drawing out his name.

“Nah, this - this looks like something for you guys. I’m gonna go take a shower.” Just after he leaves, smirking to himself, Gabriel’s too bright golden eyes slide over to Dean.

“Wanna bond some more over torturing your brother?”

“Gabe,” Dean smacks his lips together loudly, enjoying the dregs of his milkshake and the buzz that warmed over him completely. “I don’t think you should be fucking with him too much. Heat of the Moment still makes him jittery.”

“Not like that. Maybe some hot pink hair dye mixed in his shampoo? Or a constant flower crown? Maybe make his underwear change to pink silk panties?” Gabriel raises his eyebrow suggestively at the last line, the gold melding into something warmer. “What’dya say, big boy?”

“I think he’d look awesome with some green hair. Really bring out his eyes. With hot pink highlights.” Dean agrees, pushing himself off the floor as Gabriel rises languidly, stretching the kinks out from the hard floor. Dean moves forward, attempting to go towards the door when Gabriel’s fingers wrapped firmly around his wrist, just above his watch.

“Thanks, Dean-o.” The mask slips away, like it had at least two dozen times in the last few hours, Dean returning his soft, unsure smile with a nod. And if Dean hadn’t been tipsy off his ass, he might have seen it - but also realizing this was Gabriel, he might not have.

But feeling Gabriel’s lips against his cheek caused his skin to flush immediately, his breath coming out in a soft whoosh. “Thanks again, Dean.” Gabriel’s smile holds more of a knowing curl before he bounces from the room, leaving Dean stunned just by the kitchen table, his hand lingering on his cheek where Gabriel had kissed.

“Huh.” Dean breathed before following Gabriel from the room, the alcohol clearing from his mind a little at the encounter. “Huh.” He muttered again, letting his hand drop.

Tagging: @thewhiterabbit42 @nobodys-baby-now @unleashthemidnight @sumara62 @clockworkmorningglory @crowleys-poppet-queen-of-assgard @whinywingedwinchester @chelsea072498 @sakurablossom4 @galaxiesinmymind @stay-frosty-royal-unicorn @keepingcalmisoverratedgoddamnit 

[restlessmaknae]

Candy man

Dedicated to the lovely and extremely talented @pocketofyoonmin for the @bangtanbudsnet Secret Santa project because guess what I’m your Santa! ❤️I’m so glad to have met you because you are such a sweet, caring and wonderful person! It was a pleasure talking to you! I hope we can continue to be friends in the future! 🎁

This is my little gift to you. 😊 As the event was supposed to end on 25th December, I wrote you a Christmas story but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless!  ❤️

Pairing: Park Jimin x reader/you

Setting: boyfriend!Jimin; Christmas!au

Genre: fluff, fluff, fluff (because it’s Jimin after all 😊)

Words: 1.3k

Christmas markets had always been your thing.

You loved nothing more than a stroll along those little wooden houses as the scent of freshly baked pastries and sweet desserts wafted through your nose. Of course, the cherry on top would be a beautiful snowfall along the way – not too much yet not too little.

Unfortunately, you never really had one particular market day that you could call the perfect one. You were either freezing to death while trying to get through the mass of tourists or the weather conditions were so outrageous that you wished you had just stayed at home, cuddled up in your bed with a cup of hot chocolate and an old-time favourite book of yours.

Sadly, you couldn’t go with your friends to visit the Christmas markets last year because you didn’t feel well. It was such a shame but you really needed to get better to function properly and enjoy the holidays without getting another infection. This awful experience made you wait for this year’s markets even more impatiently, especially because it was the first Christmas with your ever-so-lovely boyfriend – the one and only Park Jimin.

You two had met due to Taehyung – a friend of your friend’s friend – who invited both of you to his birthday party. Honestly, you knew only a handful of people there due to the fact that you signed up for the same classes but you wouldn’t say that you knew them well. Jimin felt the same way and you two ended up bumping into each other in the garden under the oak tree, watching the snowfall while getting to know each other. Maybe that’s why you wanted snow so eagerly this year but it was to no avail. Snow was nowhere to be seen.

Since then, you two had started dating and officially became a couple in March, your love for him growing bigger and stronger every single day. You swore Park Jimin was an angel in disguise – there was nothing he wouldn’t do for his girlfriend, therefore you felt blessed to have a guy like him by your side.

His only flaw was that he was a perfectionist and wanted to make everything perfect – sometimes to that extent that you had to stop him from overreacting things. You managed to reassure him that you would love him with all his imperfections. In fact, you would be more than happy to see those imperfections (because you had way too many yourself), so he loosened up a bit.

He had changed a lot though. You did too. Maybe that’s what love made people do without them realising.

Small wonder why you were so worked up this year and couldn’t stop grinning when you two started your little walk along the wooden houses. You had made sure to have enough money on you and to wrap up well because of the chilly weather conditions; you forgot only one little thing.

“Honey, your hands are freezing!” Jimin shrieked as he caught sight of your slightly blue hands. Yep, you forgot to bring your gloves because that was you; you always forgot something.

You had made an attempt to hide the unpleasant feeling that you got because your bare hands were exposed to the icy cold breeze of the wind but of course it couldn’t go unnoticed by your attentive boyfriend.

“Oh no, it’s not that bad!” You tried to shrug it off like it was nothing.

The next thing you remember is that you found yourself at a little shop where Jimin was contemplating whether he should buy the rosy-coloured or the baby blue gloves for you.

“It’s really not necessary, Jimin!” You wanted to talk him out of his plan but he was adamant as always.

“Of course it is! You can’t enjoy the Christmas markets with cold hands!”

In the end, you chose the baby blue one because if he bought them for real, why not choose the one that you like better? You had to admit that he was never more proud in his whole life when he held your hand again – this time with gloves on. You felt a blush staining your cheeks when he looked down and started smiling to himself. Gosh, his beautiful was inexplicable! If anything was close to ethereal, it would be his genuine and affectionate smile.

Frankly, it was more enjoyable to walk down the streets without freezing hands. Plus, Jimin made sure that you had fun because he told you jokes and cheesy lines on the way, paying for every little attraction you had tried and buying foods for you two. The best part was (of course) when your boyfriend reached forward to wipe some of the waffle from the corner of your lips.

It was almost like a culinary experience – you two had tried so many festive foods, you had a blast. Everything was so delicious from the chocolate covered fruits to the caramel-flavoured rice cakes. Not to mention that creamy hot chocolate that was made with white chocolate, topped with lots of whipped cream!

Luckily, apart from eating, you could even buy some bits and bobs for your family because you didn’t have time for a proper Christmas shopping before. Jimin also brought some gifts for his family but he insisted on buying something memorable for you too.

You were on your way to a shop where Jimin knew he could buy something for you when he came in sight with a sign at little shop saying that there were candy apples on display.

“If I buy a candy apple, does it make me a candy man?” He joked around, making you laugh like crazy. You had to stop in your tracks to regain your composure and start breathing properly.

“You spent too much time with Jin!” You teased him a bit but he merely stuck his tongue at you.

“That joke was actually mine but I’ll definitely tell him later because I’m sure he would enjoy it!” He fervently bobbed his head as he thought of his friend’s reaction.

You had met all of Jimin’s friends and they were all lovely but Seokjin always stood out – he definitely had an old man aura to him. Yet, you had to admit that his egg rolls were the best you had ever eaten! Small wonder why he was one of Seoul’s best chefs! Thanks to your lovely boyfriend, you could even eat at Jin’s restaurant – Worldwide Tasty – for free. He was that genuine.

You walked for five more minutes when Jimin found the wooden house he wanted, so you left him there and you started looking for a gift for him. You ended up buying a dance shoe-shaped necklace for him which you thought would suit him perfectly.

Much to your amazement, Jimin bought almost the same for you although the necklace he had chosen was handmade and it was in the shape of a pen because he knew you were fond of writing and wanted to become a writer in the future.

“Oh my god, Jimin! It’s beautiful!” You screamed as you looked at the necklace in his hands, yours is already around his neck. “I love it so so so much! It’s the best Christmas gift ever! Thank you so much!” You jumped up and down, then crashed him into a bone-cracking hug.

“I thought my joke was better!”

“Almost!” You giggled and let yourself enjoy that infinite moment with him.

You and him in the middle of the Christmas market, hugging each other and watching as the first snowflake hit the ground. Well… it was perfect.

[tommyoboe]

MANCHESTER - PART NINE.

We are now at the end of what has felt like a huge waste of a month, one that I am not going to get back. That is a sad thought.

Productivity is mixed. Some days I manage real progress and professionalism in my oboe playing; other days are filled with visions of me throwing the instrument through the window in a state of anger and frustration. (I did break a glass the other week in anger, oops...)

Time has helped me come closer to figuring ways of sleeping better. Here are some things I have generally found useful so far:

- completing work earlier and giving myself more time in an evening to unwind

- reading before bed                 

- catching up with friends with lots of laughs on a couple of occasions

- going to bed at an earlier set time, giving me opportunity to not sleep before I sleep.

Productivity has definitely improved this week. I have had moments of sadness, but removing myself from work for a period and coming back to it has been a generally beneficial method to counteract this. Making my practice more interesting has also enhanced results, taking methods from others with experience and constantly varying these to create a routine I look forward to getting stuck into. For instance, thanks to the wonderful keepinginshapeoboe exercises I found on Instagram from a lovely professional I played with on a couple of occasions, my high notes have never sounded better! Just saying that really brings a smile and readiness to do more.

My aim this next month is for all practice to be productive. Then I may have time to do a whole list of other things I want to complete, from reading to writing to listening to podcasts on language learning, music, classical civilisation and men’s mental health.               

I have enjoyed time to talk to my friends, family and flat mates, particularly for my previous flat mate Izzy’s birthday and a much needed catch up with my home friends the other day. Both did wonders for my morale and sense of purpose. Four shots of honey whisky and an incredible scented candle helped too.

Time has also been spent creating new delightful bakes (none of the recipes created by me unfortunately), including artichoke and leek frittata; rigatoni, pancetta and artichokes; and most recently mushroom, rosemary and goat’s cheese tart. These simple pleasures have been small but life enhancing.

Series have been watched, such as Killing Eve, The Serpent and It’s A Sin, the latter bringing actual tears to my eyes, which is a rarity. Next it’s WandaVision and rewatching The Office (US version).

Cakes have been bought, in the last two weeks Biscoff and cherry nut brownie.

More importantly, classes have been had and largely I have benefitted from these, particularly a great oboe masterclass with Kai Frömbgen on Monday. Despite not having the pleasure to play, I will be taking much away from the experience and injecting what I have learnt into my practice this week and onwards.

I am investing more in specific bits of kit for making reeds, a vital part of any oboe player’s journey, and although my bank account is not particularly grateful right now, the purchases will almost certainly be worth it and I am excited for the results that will be produced.

At the moment, these little things are the height of what I am achieving, and that’s OK. It will make the exciting times even more so.

I do find that I put an immense amount of pressure on myself to achieve and progress so I can reach the orchestral profession, but now it is just nice to know that I am spending my time surrounded by music, and that I love.

Right, better go put the tea on.