#smoke trails is just a silly little drabble

[not-equippedforthis]

doing hot girl shit (planning to post a sappy af holmes and watson one shot instead of studying for the final exam i have tomorrow)

[sundayiminlove]

sleep, pretty darling [ dallas winston x f!reader ]

synopsis : you're overworking yourself with studying in preparation for exams, and dally isn't havin' it. contains : academic overachiever reader, whipped dallas winston, mostly just tooth-rotting fluff, notes : first writing post on here, kinda (very) nervous!! think i'm gonna make a point to write for each greaser in effort to shoehorn my way into outsiders tumblr?? yeah??? okay, GREAT. 99% chance i post something different for dal tho. just a messy, silly little drabble. ironically wrote after not sleeping for 32 hours. i'm sorry if he's a lil ooc y'all, this is my first dal fic in give or take a year!!! he'll get there, i promise! mwah mwah hope u enjoy warnings : not proofread, we die like dally

i.

PALE BLUE EYES slant sideways, casting a brief look at you.

Your nose is scrunched in concentration over the comically large textbook laid open in your lap. You're hunched over, tracing under each printed word with your finger, thumbing down when you stop to take a note.

Dallas is preemptively annoyed. He's been leaning expectantly against the doorframe circa ten seconds ago, and you're yet to notice him. He takes one last dramatic drag from his cigarette before begrudgingly discarding it on the outsole of his shoe. The creases on on your nose tighten as you catch a whiff of the wafting smoke. Though a vehement anti-smoker yourself, you've spent enough time around the gang to guarantee your lungs at least a permanent char. Despite this, you always just have to make a big song and dance of your distaste for them, and Dally does nothing to curb the quirk of his lips into a slight grin.

You have him, hook line and sinker.

"(Y/N)," he speaks at last. His tone is firm yet without underlying aggression; one exclusively for your ears.

You perk up.

Dallas' fingers splay against his lips as if holding a phantom cigarette. "What're you doin' over here so late, huh? Was out lookin' for you."

He watches as your gaze darts to the window. Nightfall has long since kissed the apex of Tulsa, yet you hadn't a clue. You'd been there for hours, crunching equations and fruitlessly jotting down formulas. The encroaching weight of finals week had rendered both your circadian rhythm and measure of passing time nugatory.

"Borrowin' one of Darry's old textbooks," you explain, the corners of your mouth tugging into a frown. "Not exactly a monastery but it beats that old Soc-infested library, long as Two stays gone, that is."

He crosses the Curtis' living room in four smooth strides, plopping down next to you on the couch. The flimsy cushion sinks beneath him, forcing you closer to him, and for once, Dally's grateful for the pathetic old thing's lack of structural integrity.

He lifts the textbook, ignoring your whimper of protest and sets it on the coffee table. He spins the silver band on his knuckle, averting his gaze downwards. "You know, sweetheart," he pauses, choosing his words. Dally wears his worry uniquely, sparingly. "I'm not particularly likin' all of these.. these books, and.." he trails off, thumb tracing your newly-formed eyebag as if he could swipe it clean. "When's the last time you got any sleep?"

Things are different. You're his girl now. And not just his pretty skirt for the night and until 7am after; no, this is serious. You're his girlfriend. His lover. It's foreign. It's enthralling.

No one had told poor Dallas that falling for you would unwind a deep vortex in his brain that noticed the trivial things, like how suspiciously little you blinked or how the vibrant pink in your cheeks had drained.

You lean into his touch with an exasperated sigh. "Dally, c'mon, don't you start this. I know it's nothin' to you, but it's finals week!" you huff. "I'll catch up on the sleep, swear it! I just, I got so much left to do here, and,"

Your defense falls on deaf ears. This has been it for weeks now; and the you-sized hole burning in his chest is only getting deeper. Dally's arms encircle your waist as he taps gently on the small of your back. "Don't give me that," he sighs. "God, baby, you're worryin' me, alright? Don't like seeing my girl so..." he fans his hand outwards.

As you tense and start to fly into another excuse, he shakes his head, mind already made. He's sparing no more of your attention. "You're comin' back to Buck's with me, alright?" His timbre leaves no room for argument, but you squirm regardless. His grip on you tightens. "And I'm making sure you get some goddamn rest."

You pout, looking over at your textbook as if it would personify and save you. "But," you start, only to be hastily shushed.

"But nothin', doll. C'mon, up ya go,"

With that, he scoops you up, one arm hooking around your legs. Your series of half-hearted protests are nullified as he secures you into Buck's old truck, movements careful yet hasty. You inevitably surrender, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you lean back into the torn leather.

BUCK MERRIL'S HOUSE is as quiet as Buck Merril's house is capable of being. You've never been to Buck Merril's house, so you don't find it very quiet at all.

Running his hands over the blanket, Dallas spreads it out on the floor, smoothening out the crinkles and corners. They reform almost immediately and he sighs heavily, airing it out on the pummeled mattress in defeat. If he would have know he'd be conducting a full-scale kidnapping for the sake of your rest, he might have better prepared. Might have.

So, here's the thing, right?"

There have been girls in Dallas Winston's bed before.

There have been quite a few girls in Dallas Winston's bed before.

There have been zero girls in Dallas Winston's bed that he didn't bring into it with meaningless sex on the horizons.

You're no snob and he knows this, but now, it's the principle. Dallas Winston may sleep on a mattress deficient of ample springs and no top sheet, but Dallas Winston's girl should never. In spite his hazy, rose-colored, Y/N-centric world created under this roof, he knows he has to step it up.

As soon as he hears the faucet cut off, he's off his feet. He flings himself onto the mattress, hitching one leg up as he awaits the slow creek of the door.

And there you stand.

Dallas wonders what karmic debt is being paid off for him to deserve to see you like this. His lips part as he drinks in the sight of you like a man dying of thirst. You, in his lightly wrinkled grey tee that scarcely conceals your bare thighs. Your face glistens with renew, a few stray droplets racing down your forehead and cheeks. Even trammeled by exhaustion, you knock the wind right out of him.

You wear the moonlight beautifully. It traces each feature so delicately as you sit beside him on the bed. "I'm—," you start, but pause to let a little yawn. He practically melts beside you.

"I'm sorry I gave you such a tough time, darlin'," you continue, situating under the blanket. "You were right, I'm proper beat."

He smirks, propping his head up to look down on you. "As always," he notes, tucking a fly-away hair behind your ears. You roll your eyes and give him a playful jab, to which he winces in mock affliction. "Some nerve," he hums, thumb tracing your cheek.

You look at him, lips parting gently. This isn't Dallas Winston; that infamous, no-good hoodlum from the wrong side of the tracks. This is your Dally, someone you alone have the absolute pleasure of knowing.

"That's it," he whispers as you surrender to his side, nuzzling his neck. Your eyes are heavy, faltering by the second, yet your grip on him is unyielding. He's never felt a thing like this before, and he's quickly becoming putty in your careful arms. He's content to lay awake all night, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as slumber claims you.

His gangly fingers trace idly on your back, and he knows. He will never be the same.

[slowd1ving]

Hiiiii can u write Kim Dokja x Goth!Male!reader this sponsor constellation is Apollo and The reader is a simp for Dokja ( I love this man )

LOVE LIKE BLOOD ・゜゜KIM DOKJA

“The life is short, and I’m running faster all the time, Strength and beauty destined to decay, So cut the rose in full bloom.” By chance you meet him, by chance you become his friend, by chance you stay by his side; until it cannot be called fickle, capricious chance any longer, but an example of the inevitable law of universal attraction between two starving masses. art by @ 1L9l2Aa8UCL0IGJ (blackbox) on x! also thank you anon this ask was so big brained I yapped on for like 5k words (very sorry if you wanted headcanon/drabble form I got the most profound inspiration for this at like 3am :3) also damn you have no idea how many song titles I was perusing trying to find a suitable one for this... pairing: kim dokja + male goth reader warnings: pretty graphic metaphors, child abandonment/implied parental death, child neglect + abuse, alcohol, smoking, depression + bullying, hurt/comfort, injury, violence (as it's orv), does 10+ year long pining and oddly tense homoeroticism need a warning, anon I hope you ENJOY reading because I enjoyed writing wc: 5.6k (YAP because i love this silly man, I've never written so much for a request before lmao)

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Fundamentally, you and him are the same. 

There’s a sense of loss that’s too heavy for either of your bodies to comprehend. Rather than a heart, there’s a black hole right where the organ lies; so greedy, so hungry for acknowledgement. Born blue into this world—deprived of oxygen yet wailing, screaming for your voice to be heard—it’s little wonder you’ve always been avaricious for the love your parents could never give. The hands cradling the babe were never loving; they were clinical, they were covered in sterile blue gloves and they smelled only of caustic antiseptic. There was no kiss on your slimy, puckered forehead. There was only the sting of alcoholic sanitiser. 

Kim Dokja is similar, yet his parents wouldn’t (rather than couldn’t, for in your embittered mind the two concepts were so different as to be alien) spare him scraps of care. Rather than press a kiss to their son’s awaiting cheek, only bruises blossomed where the love should’ve been. No flowers were given for Children’s Day—only oily blood spilling and macerating against his chubby hands as a last, vibrant gift for their son. 

These two black holes sputtered on their axes while they spun round each other: gluttonous, esurient for care that didn’t come with bruises and wailing grief. 

Seoul had been unusually cold; blue afternoons spanned across the school rooftops. They were frigid and foggy—perfect for avoiding detection. Thus, the boy without kisses (only contused skin) encountered another like him on the rooftop that day. Against the haze, your own cigarette smoke had dulled the edges of what he saw—a boy canted against the railing with rippling earphones and a head tilted so far back he could taste the polluted mist. 

A merger had occurred. 

And though neither of you said it, there was an unspoken recognition of each other’s greed in that moment. Your eyes, ghosting over his injuries while the heavy bass played and the prussic wisps trailed around him: deep reverberations sounding a bit too like his careening heartbeat—as he made sure no one had followed him up here, that he was safe. And his umbrous eyes—honed in on the cigarette wedged between your lips, now stained black from the gloss decorating your humourless smile.

Maybe it was just that inherent feeling of kinship that came with avariciousness: a snarling sort of camaraderie that snagged at your skin with its claws. The wounds left behind were tender, but tender was precisely the adjective you were looking for—as was he. 

And so, Kim Dokja found himself coming to this particular rooftop the next day. When his breathing came ragged and his vision began to swim, he instinctively sought the numbness the frigid azurine firmament would bring. Like a wounded animal, he sought safety. Flight over fight—a lesson he’d learnt too late. Bruised fists would never save him. 

There you sat—eyes closed and lips still glossed in modest black. There were silver rings on your hands; rings he’d seen flashing before his eyes before he was hit, that those people no longer sported. Quietly, he matched up the scrapes on your own knuckles to the ones decorating their faces: to their unusual sullenness today. They’d furtively sequestered themselves in a club room all break, touching their swollen lips and eyes with bruised fists. Bruised fists. Like trophies, the achromatic metal glinted against the cobalt haze, and for once, his heart didn’t skip any beats at the sight of the gleaming metal. Neither did you acknowledge his presence nor their sins, but still, he sat on the same bench you were sprawled upon: hugging his bag to his chest while he scrolled the hallowed pixels of Ways of Survival. 

There was no grand exchange of words, no heartfelt conversations between Kim Dokja and the boy with a messed-up uniform. 

This was how tentative company was kept for a fragile week. 

Tuesday was the day that fragility finally shattered. He still remembers every detail about it—down to the particular cigarette brand you’d purchased that morning, down to the chips in your dark nail polish, down to just how many rings you’d worn on your left hand (three—it was three rings). Tears had spilled down his cheeks that afternoon; they warped and distorted the words that had saved him thus far, evoked from the pain in his purple ribs and his empty stomach. Somehow, the salt he’d kept tightly bound had been coaxed by your cold presence—perhaps, knowing your indifference made it easier to cry pathetically in front of you. 

You still didn’t speak, but you did hand him a tissue. You still didn’t speak, but you did press your shoulder to his own trembling one: smelling of caustic smoke, and something rich and sweet lingering beneath the plumes. You still didn’t speak, but your rings clinked on your left hand as you unhooked the earbud in your pierced ear and offered it to him: fingers brushed against his palm as he was forcibly shocked out of crying any further, like a blubbering child faced with such a conundrum that their little brains focused entirely on that rather than the reason for their tears. 

Melancholy had streamed out of the device. Doleful chords twined against threnetic voices—which he could not translate nor understand but could feel in pulsing waves. 

In that short whorl in the great machine of time, in the chill of the blue hour, he could not help but feel warm.

And thus, that Tuesday changed the trajectory of this merger somewhat. A deafening hum had finally blossomed from the gargantuan event; your presence could no longer be described as distant. 

When he went to class the next day, you were in the seat next to him: a mirage brought on by his lack of food, no doubt. He limped to his desk, but there your corporeal form remained: this time with silver chains lining the base of your throat and a dry, sharp grin decorating your face. Sure, he knew there was a student that never showed up in his class, but he wasn’t expecting it to be you: your name now a permanent fixture in his mind. 

There was a new name for this phenomenon: friendship. 

The boy, with the pensive music and trophies stolen from Dokja’s tormentors, smiled up at the reader staring at him. It was an inviting gesture: the proverbial hand reaching out, the hand which he took.

You weren’t a particularly talkative friend at first: preferring to simply share your music rather than speak much. That was fine with him—it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to reading alone. Then, you started bringing boxes of food alongside your cigarettes: containers that lacked the refinement of store bought meals. One for you, and one sheepishly thrust out to him with a smile bright as burst yolk and as messy as it too. Consequently, he returned a wobbly, unsure smile back at you—not mentioning that the vegetables were slightly burnt, slightly too salty. But that was fine. The more lunches you brought, the more skilled your hands became—until he never felt truly full unless he was eating what you gave him. 

In return, he cracked open his soul: pried its rusted walls with bleeding fingernails in a gesture never before seen, not since his childhood when he still knew what hope meant. Dokja for once didn’t blubber apologies and pleas for mercy—but became a teenager rather than a groveller. He complained about teachers, he discussed Ways of Survival at length (noting how you listened even when you showed no particular interest in reading it), he finally developed his own, modest aspirations for his own life. Lying in his bed in his lonely apartament, it suddenly didn’t feel so claustrophobic (yet somehow far too big for one) when you were there with your shoulder just brushing his own. 

You were not as cold as you seemed: though this was always obvious from that fateful Tuesday. You made fun of and empathised with the eternal regressor; you diligently stood at his half-broken stove frying meat and vegetables; and you talked at length about whatever band you were currently into—“I’ll take you to one of their concerts when we’re older,” leaving your lips, for your dense black-hole hearts did not conceptualise a future where the other was not present. He saw your loneliness—heard the rumours of you bouncing around from orphanage to orphanage, roaming the streets and working nights rather than return to that boreal home. 

So, more nights than not, he woke up from his nightmares to see you sleeping on the small couch in his home—legs just about peeking over the armrest, for your avarice didn’t only cover the abstract but the heaps of food you swiped from the canteen (and over the past two years he’d known you, you got your growth spurt far more obviously than he had). It partly contributed to almost skittish aversion his tormentors had of him—one you never did acknowledge, and so he learnt quickly to not mention it either. In this way, he too never mentioned why he invited you to sleep over more nights than not. And so, neither of your selfish hearts ever spoke a word of pity, but rather conveyed an unspoken understanding that bound the two of you in this merger. 

This routine continued.

He enlisted after graduating from the local university, and so did you—suffering the eighteen months of hazing with the smoke lingering on your skin and that same, humourless smile he first saw on your face. Frigid mornings turned his own lips as blue as the sky, yet he found it was harder to feel the chill when he saw you. Just like back then, you wore the same smile that brimmed with such colour it was practically incandescent with its heat. 

Two outcasts. It was hilariously terrible. Two outcasts, still sharing a pair of earbuds that had seen better days—blaring out the dolorous music that had grown on him, that described this situation perfectly. Stars were strewn in the fabric enveloped around you: memories that would continue to shine even after the world slowly marched towards its apocalypse. 

In that cramped bunkroom, it had been just like school—blue nights with the moon just barely peeking through the window, with your leg still hanging off the side of the bunk and within his field of vision. And he still found the steady rise and fall of your breathing far more comforting than any white noise: like a guard dog, almost, you still shielded him by his proximity to you throughout the brutal eighteen months of mandated service. 

Adulthood had crept up unbidden. In his single-room apartment, he sat on his couch with your legs sprawled just as lazy as they had been eight years prior. Though, your appearance certainly had changed—beneath the loose material of your tank top, he could see the ink seeping and decorating your skin. He’d gone with you to the underground artists right after the discharge: worriedly biting his lip while you simply grinned at him as if there wasn’t a needle pressing into you. And despite his initial concern, he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away—sneaking glances even as he browsed through job sites since the winding patterns under the fabric and silver jewellery was oddly entrancing to the eye. 

In the end, he applied to the same company you had done on a whim: Minosoft, where you carefully wiped off the black residue on your lips and the smudged pencil round your eyes. You still shared your earbud with him on the subway (though you’d sent him your playlist aeons ago), you still smoked the same brand you did eight years ago, you still occasionally put on those rings you’d kept as prized trophies, you still made two sets of lunches for work. You still listened over drinks while hammered Dokja updated you on the latest update of Ways of Survival. You still angled your body just so, so that you would bear the brunt of Han Myungoh’s scolding rather than him. 

You hadn’t changed. 

But in some ways, he could no longer see the same boyish guy who’d awkwardly offered him his earbuds nine years ago. The look in your eyes was far more intense, the messy smiles splitting your cheeks were sharper, more overwhelming, and there was no longer any clumsiness in your movements from your sudden growth spurt from years prior. Even the very hand that occasionally clasped his shoulder, even the legs that you still casually flung over his on his beaten old couch, were far more scorching than he remembered. 

You had changed. 

And in the end, it was him who was left behind. 

Eternal loser, Kim Dokja. 

Though, he could never find fault with you for that. Not when you leaned over the tangle of limbs on his couch, not when he caught the thread of oud lingering beneath the smoke on your throat, and not when you thrust your phone screen at his face with that stupidly boyish grin that only peeked out when you brimmed with excitement—with a “look, I finally got us tickets for this festival!”. And he knew at that moment that you weren’t leaving him behind: stretching out your rough palm just like you had more than a decade ago. 

He let you tousle his hair to give it more spikes. He let you dress him up in your clothes—they sat too large on his frame, but he found himself unconsciously burying his body in the fabric that smelled like your laundry. He let you slip your rings onto his fingers: slender digits jolting at the sensation of the cool metal and the action itself. 

Finally, he let you rub your dark pencil on his lashline—lids fluttering up at yours while he did his best to not avert his stare. His gaze traced the bold lines of your brows and eyes, and finally onto the dark stain on your lips as you bit them in concentration. “There,” you’d murmured, gently grasping his chin. “That looks pretty.” 

And just like the loser he was, he felt his chest tighten at the casual compliment, for seemingly no reason. 

Over the din of the hall, he could barely hear the ebb and flow of music. Goth chords jostled him, weaving past the throes of post-punk and metal as band after band took the stage. In this crush of people, he was more focused on how your index finger threaded through his left-most belt loop; linking the two of you just enough that he wouldn’t get thrown into the mosh pit. No doubt the buzz of cheap liquor contributed to his distracted train of thoughts—he never was the best at handling alcohol. His hazy gaze distorted his view of your side profile; in the dim lights, obviously the wide smile (yolk-like, as was your grin years back) couldn’t possibly be that bright. 

It was at this moment that sentimentality got to him. He was thankful that his friend had stuck by his side for so long: gazing so softly at your happy expression he was unaware of his look himself. 

This was the night before the apocalypse began. 

When the crowds trickled out, when the reverb of bass still played through the club, you hugged him tight for coming with you. Outcast with the outcast, you’d thought introspectively. There were cheap spirits clouding your mind that night—a hangover would surely strike you come morning—which was why you weren’t as reserved as you usually were. As you leaned down to press the man into your arms, your lips had brushed past his cheek accidentally, and you could feel the black hole in the centre of your chest constrict. 

Profanities had whirled through your mind when the dark smudge remained on his cheek, and especially so as he made no move to wipe the umbrous gloss off on the subway back. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed—not with the flush on his cheeks from the alcohol in his system. There was a terrible, discordant crescendo to your pulse as you gazed at him. The gloss, from where it smeared slightly past the boundaries of your lips, burned your skin. But you made no moves to wipe the corners either—for this night only, there was something linking Kim Dokja to you. 

Thus, for the first time since he was a mere babe cradled in his mother’s arms, there was a kiss planted on his cheek that wasn’t from a fist. An accidental one, but one that could not be considered devoid of affection. And though neither of you remembered it after the hazy stupor faded, it did not change the fact that it happened nonetheless. 

A small snippet of joy in the bleak landscape. A caesura found within the long, winding elegy of this world. A reprieve before tragedy. 

It was a fitting conclusion for the night before the end. 

✦ . 　⁺ 

[The free service has now been terminated.]

Back in the carriage, wedged between Yoo Sangah and Kim Dokja, the two of you had shared a glance confirming the unspoken truth. Minds intrinsically linked together—he did not need to speak for you to understand his thoughts immediately. And Yoo Sangah had recognised this—as did she remember the devoted gleam in your eyes whenever you spoke to or of the man seated adjacent to you. Yet ultimately, her lips would remain closed. 

When the scenarios began, it was Kim Dokja’s turn to repay you. He would be your shield moving forward—protecting your messy smile even as the world burned away. He vowed this to himself, and though the promise was heard only by him, it did not change the fact that the constellations watching him and his companions could see the oath brimming from him as he put you first. 

[Almighty Sun has sponsored you.]

Even when Apollo chose you as his incarnation, even when you were just as capable as you had been before the cataclysm occurred—he could not help but feel his fists clench as you put yourself in danger. 

“Hold on,” you’d murmured, rings flashing as you’d caught his wrist in your firm grasp. Even with his coins improving his stats, he still felt so much weaker than you—still the boy who ran to the rooftops while your fists bruised against the faces of those who tormented him. 

Had your touch always been so scalding?

Privately, he thought Apollo had chosen the right person—smile bright as the sun, skilled fingers deft enough to play the electric guitar you’d bought on a whim, presence practically a healing balm for his soul. 

“You’re injured, Dokja-ya.” And the words had made him shiver as the syllables ghosted over his flesh—your face was too close to his chest where he’d been slashed by a monster, while the affectionate tone added to his name made this situation far worse than it was. Secluded like this, in an abandoned corner of the station, it was easy to misread the situation; this was the only reason his face flushed red. His friend was far too close. When those aforementioned fingertips brushed over the wound—just grazing the wounded flesh—he jolted. From the pain, of course. 

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire has sponsored 200 coins.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire would like to see more action.]

“Steady.” You eased him against a pillar while ignoring the message—ignoring how your pulse was now leaden in your mouth, how the golden gleam stitching flesh back together seemed far more shaky than usual. Though, you couldn’t ignore the pain you felt as you saw the rise and fall of his torso grow shallow; you were useless when it counted—arrows meeting their target far too late. 

“Dokja-ya,” you breathed, sweeping the hair that plastered to his clammy forehead. He didn’t meet your eyes, and the heavy feeling in your chest grew more burdensome. He was supposed to tell you what was wrong; as his best friend, you duly heard his complaints and dealt with them where you could. More often than not, you could intuitively tell what bothered him; much like you had from the very first day you saw him all those years ago. And as time passed, the object of your adoration only grew easier to read. 

But he was never avoidant like this. 

What happened? As you watched him leave with heavy steps and not a glance spared back, you could feel the crushing weight of the sky drop back down on your shoulders. Fuck. Burying your face in your hands, you barely registered the message that popped up. 

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire expresses her sympathy.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire says she knows how the two of you can make up.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire sponsors 69 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun tells the Demon-like Judge of Fire to not be stingy.]

[The Almighty Sun sponsors 6969 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun empathises with a lover’s quarrel.]

“Shut up,” you seethed, and the bad mood carried on late into the night. It was obvious to anyone with eyes; the conjured lamps lining the perimeter of camp had seethed with you. Gold had been interspersed with bleeding red—crackling like true fire, though it was anything but. Even the tattoos that lined your skin had begun eroding into ember-like patterns, as though lava was breaking through the dermis of your skin. 

Unsurprisingly, it was Yoo Sangah that had approached first: past the harsh glow of your lamps, gracefully weaving through the brightness with the light steps that belied her nebula. She’d taken a glance at the incandescent splintering of your body, your hands furiously working away at the guitar plugged into your practically-bulletproof earphones, and finally the imposing frame of Yoo Joonghyuk only a few metres away as he stood guard tonight. 

But when you paused, when you hastily yanked the buds from your ears, she could also see the wobble in your lip. The furrow in your brows wasn’t angry, it was anguished, while the fearsome glare in your eyes contained only pain. If she was being honest, it was hard to approach you at work and even nowadays—with ease, you picked off enemies from a distance and your longbow conveniently morphed into two curved daggers when it came down to it. You were a maelstrom with the capacity to take lives—stained with blood as you bared your proverbial teeth at any threats to Dokja. But it was precisely that that allowed her to see your stupidly blind adoration of this man. 

(“Your devotion will only hurt you,” she says, as if that will dissuade you. You’ll take whatever feeling he gives you: greedily swallowing each and every morsel of emotion. Tender is your heart, but tender is good. It means you aren’t going mad over the situation you’re in.

“Yoo Sangah, I appreciate the advice,” you reply politely—you do respect her, after all. “But I do not mind that.”)

Yoo Joonghyuk had bemusedly watched as she left: staring the the dim red tattoos strewn across your body as if they could possibly help him decipher the fool in front of him. His Sage’s Eye flashed as golden as your lamps for a brief moment—detecting that your statement had, in fact, been true. 

Fool, he’d said as your hands flew over the fretboard once more. Fool, as you disappeared up the stairs to the rooftop. Fool, when your lips had pressed together tightly against one another. 

You did mind, even when you thought it was the unequivocal truth that you didn’t. 

Maybe it was futile to even think it, but he thought that idiot didn’t deserve the long-standing care in your hands, and the veneration in the timbres of your voice. It was pointless to get attached to someone like that—especially when the end of the world was upon you. 

But you wouldn’t know that, since you could not read his mind. But you wouldn’t know that, since he would never explicitly say it. But you wouldn’t know that, since you’d long-since accepted your self-torture as perfectly and utterly a part of what came with knowing Kim Dokja for as long as you did. 

The rooftop was like all other rooftops. Similar. The same. Azurine fog was at your fingertips: just like that day all those years ago. Except this time, Kim Dokja was not in your sights, and you were left alone with wisps of smoke trailing from your lips and no other company save the glowing stick in your fingers. Just like it had been; before you met the boy with a heart as greedy and all-consuming as yours. Before the merger between two black holes occurred. Before he ran up to the rooftops with bruises on his face and placed new stars in the endless vacuum of your universe. 

There was no charge in your phone, but the song that played that day still rested heavy in your neurons as you sprawled out on the bench. Mindlessly, you summoned the lyre-turned-guitar: doleful chords germinated, flourished and withered away once more under distressed fingertips. It was a night between scenarios; another caesura in this ceaseless tragedy. Though those days were filled with an empty stomach and an endless struggle, they were your halcyon days. 

Just like that time almost twelve years back, it was a blue Monday once more. 

Just like that time almost twelve years back, you didn’t hear the heavy run of footsteps through the heavy burr of music. 

Just like that time almost twelve years back, Kim Dokja’s black hole heart pulsed with each discordant twang of chords—though this time the link was acutely clear to him. 

The boy who once tasted the mist and tilted his body into oblivion was no longer there: replaced by a man who’d faithfully stayed by him for more than a decade. Though you hadn’t changed, not at all; not when he could still see the rings you took off his bullies, gracing your fingers just as they had back then. A trophy, dedicated to his protection. When his plans involved his sacrifice, you were the first to reach him. Your face was the first he saw, tears brimming from your lash line. For despite how you’d grown into your looks, you wore your emotions clear on your face. Your heart had been taken from the cavity in your chest and replaced with a dense core that greedily always wanted; yet it had been sewn messily onto your sleeve rather than discarded. 

Kim Dokja suddenly remembered another interlude. A club, where the amorphous ebb and flow of bodies could not sweep him away from your side—since you kept him there, treasured his presence enough that you hooked your finger firmly into his belt loop and rooted him there. An anchor: you’ve always been the rock beneath his shaky feet, after all. He remembered that, and not the endless churn of music that made your face glow with happiness. 

(A black smear of gloss left on his cheek. His hands, carefully wiping eye pencil away yet not touching the remnants of your lips—not until it smudged away on its own, forgotten for all of time but this day.)

A sun of his own. The reader trod his slow orbit around you long before he could conceptualise the gravity that drew two masses towards each other. Newton’s theory of universal gravitation be damned; you were the only centre of the universe, the only body that ever existed to draw others towards your brilliant light. 

His eyes flickered over the smoke in your lips: the dim embers of a glow from the lines in your skin made it seem as though you were alight yourself. Instinctively, physically, he was compelled towards the patterns just like he had been all those years ago: your music, your stupid piercings and your stupid discussions about bands and the stupid way you listened attentively to his yapping about Ways of Survival. Stupid, because why did you do that? Why did you convince him to make a shrine for you in his heart? Stupid, because why is it only now that he can see what exactly lays atop the stone altar?

“Kim Dokja,” you spoke through your plumes, formal in the way he knew you spoke when you were upset and trying to keep it together. He swallowed, and he could feel the same pitter-patter of his pulse as he did all those years ago—heartbeat colliding loudly in his ear drums while he steps towards you, unsure. You didn’t let up with the strum of strings: electric in the drizzle of rain and wind and cold Seoul air. 

For once, he was the one looking down at your impassive face. He was the one brushing his fingers through your hair, he was the one whose hands made themselves comfortable on shoulders—for it’s always been you wrapped around him, you whose legs wedge on top of his domestically on his shitty couch in his shitty studio flat. 

“It’s Dokja-ya,” he corrected: tongue thick and leaden. It constricted his larynx and made his cadence oh so small at this moment. Tentative. Because he was your close friend and you his. He was the one who knows all your expressions—even the ones you deliberately tried to hide from everyone. He was the one who’s been with you the longest: always staring up at the muscle of your back while you act as his shield. He was the one who’s been blind. 

Your fingers halted against the strings and the instrument dissolved into the wind; the concert for two had reached its conclusion, just like it had all those months ago. For despite being packed full of people, the club only ever had two people in it for him. 

Lazily, those same hands that have bruised for him—but somehow had a touch that was far more painful than any torment that was physically inflicted on him—wrapped round his own that rested neatly on your shoulders. 

“Dokja-ya,” you answered, and the axis the world tilted on is finally righted. This man, Dokja thought—and his umbrous eyes traced down the warm lines of your face, stopping on your lips. Bittersweet. 

“Don’t leave me,” he all but begged—voice only a whisper. Don’t die on me, the black hole wanted to say instead; selfishly wishing for you to always be by his side so he doesn’t see you depart this world first. That would end him more than anything else. 

“I can’t leave you,” you murmured, and oh, the hand brushing his tear-stained cheek suddenly made more sense. “Dokja-ya, I should be telling you that.”

He pressed his face into your warm palm—scorching even with the boreal damp settling over his skin. There was something twisted within him that revels in your admission: that you, too, feared him abandoning you just as he feared you leaving him behind. 

“Idiot.” And he twined his fingers in yours, seeing the surprise on your face bloom—for he’s already established that you’re ever so easy to read. Idiot, because it’s ludicrous to even think that he’d ever willingly walk away from you like that. 

“You’re the idiot,” you whispered as your phantasmal hand ghosted from his cheek to his collar, yanking him so he fell onto the firm sprawl of your legs—in a way he’s never felt. So warm, he thought through the haze as he straddled your languid body—fit so right against you that there was none of the tension nor the anticipation that he might’ve felt. His hands splayed out onto your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart, tracing the glowing lines he adored on your body. 

So warm, he thought as your hands gently cupped his face—for you’ve never been anything but soft with this stupid man perched on your lap. 

So warm, as your lips met his and he melted into your body. He could taste the acrid smoke on your tongue, but he could also taste the food you’d prepared earlier for him, and the traces of whiskey you’d scavenged. All traces of you; his insatiable heart could not help but want to merge into you. 

So warm, as your tongue melded against his and he could feel the seam of his mouth against yours grow ever more ragged and messy. His hands desperately curled into your shirt, and he could feel your palms pressing harshly against his waist and canting his torso into yours more—something which his avaricious heart eagerly swallowed. 

On a blue Monday just like this one, two boys met for the first time once more on a rooftop just like this one. 

Again. Like and like created a merger for the second time, or perhaps it was already the third. Or fourth. Or the thousand-eight-hundred-and-sixty-third time this has happened—over and over and over and over. 

Fate has a funny way of bringing people together, or maybe it’s just the intrinsic law of gravitation that binds two black holes in a binary system. 

Blue Monday. What a silly notion, when the man beneath Kim Dokja is as warm as the brilliant sun. 

✦ . 　⁺ 

Fellas is it gay to pine after your best friend for over ten years and have oddly homoerotic moments with them

✦ . 　⁺ 

EXTRAS

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire returns from her work and asks what she missed.]

[The Almighty Sun keeps his lips shut.]

[The Abyssal Flame Black Dragon stays silent.]

[The Prisoner of the Golden Headband, perhaps not fearing his imminent hair loss, opens his mouth.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire promptly goes catatonic and explodes.]

[billyharringson]

@wrecked-fuse gave me brain worms with a drawing of Eddie and Jason post gym workout and I ended up writing a silly little Munver drabble.

Eddie felt like he was dying. Why the hell had he agreed to this again?

He looked down at the clock on the treadmill. Shit had he really only been running for 10 minutes? He really was out of shape.

"How are you holding up Munson?" Jason called, far too chipperly for Eddie's taste.

Eddie's response was a desperate weeze, gripping the front of the treadmill to stop from wiping out. He could only imagine how long Jason would hold that over his head if he did.

"That's what smoking all those cigarettes does to you." Jason was grinning as he walked over to him, leaning on the console. "Come on sweetheart, 5 more minutes, you can do it." They were close enough now that noone else would be able to hear the endearment but it was still enough to make Eddie blush.

Or it would have if his face wasn't already glowing red from exhaustion.

He tried to swallow, nodding his head and doubling down.

"Atta boy." Jason said, before reaching forward and upping the speed.

Eddie shot backwards with a shriek, landing in an ungainly heap on the floor. Jason's cackle filled his ears as he climbed to his feet.

"Okay asshole, that's it. I'm done." Eddie hissed, the venom in his voice slightly undercut by the way he was still struggling to breath.

"Aww c'mon Eds. Fifteen more minutes. I've just got the chest press to do."

Eddie's resolve crumbled the way it always did when he was faced with those blue puppy dog eyes. "Fine, but I'm not doing anymore exercise."

Jason's face lit up, like he was genuinely happy that Eddie was staying with him. "Okay cool, you can be my spotter then."

He said before settling onto the machine.

It took perhaps two reps before Eddie realised that maybe the gym wasn't so bad after all. Watching the way Jason's arms bunched and his pecs flexed as he did each rep, the sheen of sweat on his smooth skin. Eddie suddenly felt like he might have a second wind, perhaps after this his boyfriend would be up for a different sort of workout.

He didn't particularly care that he was staring. He could play it off to the other gym goers that he was simply very invested in being Jason's spotter. From the way Jason's cheeks were beginning to flush, and the way his arms were starting to tremble, his boyfriend knew exactly what Eddie's intense gaze meant.

"Eddie." Jason whispered a little while later, letting his arms drop to his sides. "Can you..." He swallowed, licking his lips as he shuffled on the seat. "Can you stop staring at me?"

"Nope." Eddie replied, eyes following a bead of sweat as it trailed down Jason's stomach and into his shorts. "You asked me to spot for you, that's what I'm doing."

Jason readjusted his shorts as casually as possible but Eddie still caught him. "I uh... I think I'm going to hit the showers."

"Great idea, cherub." Eddie said, following after Jason as he practically sprinted towards the showers.

[ladymunson]

Sleeping Trouble

Fic Summary: You get awoken in the middle of the night by your silly affection starved boyfriend.

A/N: So this is a little fluffy Drabble I came up with… enjoy!

Word Count: 679

Warnings: None, pure fluff

Inspired by how I feel lately

I do NOT give permission for my work to be copied, translated or posted to any other platform. Support content creators by reblogging!

- - - -

Eddie Munson sighs as he rolls over for the, what feels like, the millionth time. It’s been multiple nights since he last slept. No matter what he’s done, he’s been unable to fall asleep. He’s tried; warm milk, smoked a joint, taken a Valium… nothing has worked. The only thing that came close was when he picked up the jacket you’d left behind yesterday and he could smell your perfume.

That’s when it hits him… he needs you.

- - -

You’re woken up by a light tapping on your window, you think it’s just a tree branch so you roll over, when you hear it again. You glance at the clock on your bedside table, it’s 1:30am. You look over to the window and see your boyfriend, awkwardly balancing on the roof of the garage.

You get out of bed and pad over to the window, opening it and stepping aside to allow Eddie to enter. He tries to climb in but catches his foot on the window frame and falls in instead. You wince at the loud noise he makes as he falls into your bedroom head first, hoping he didn’t wake your parents.

“Oh shit, are you hurt?” He shakes his head. “What are you doing here Eds? It’s one thirty in the morning!” You ask in a hushed voice. He looks terrible, like he’s not slept in days. “Are you okay?”

“I couldn’t sleep, I need you.” He replies, pulling you into his arms and inhaling. His body already beginning to relax.

“When was the last time you slept babe?” You ask.

“I can’t remember, it’s been a while.” You gasp and grab his hand, pulling him towards your bed. He removes his shoes as he gets close to your bed, his jacket coming off as well which he just drops on the floor.

You begin to blush when you realise you’re wearing his Metallica shirt, and not much else. Evidently you needed him to sleep as well. As if reading your thoughts he smirks.

“My shirt looks good on you Princess.” You grin and slide under your covers, moving aside for him to join you.

He takes the hint but stops to remove his jeans and socks, leaving his Hellfire shirt and boxers on. “You can take your shirt off if you want.” You say.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He asks earnestly.

“Yes Eds, here…” you pull his shirt up over your head, leaving yourself in a pink tank top. “Not quite the same but this is okay right?”

Eddie groans, “Be careful or there won’t be much sleeping.”

“Oh shut up and get over here!” He removes his shirt and you can’t help but stare. No matter how many times you see his bare torso, it never fails to take your breath away. His pale skin, the tattoos, that trail of hair that leads down to his happy place… You shake the thoughts from your head as Eddie slides into the bed beside you, and lays down. You lay on your side facing away from him, giving him the opportunity to snuggle into your back as the big spoon.

Eddie wraps his arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest. The warmth of skin against skin feels so nice, you revel in each others body heat. Not that it’s a cold April Friday night, but it’s just such a comforting feeling. You both sigh contentedly, your eyes closing.

“I love you Princess.” Eddie says as he inhales your scent again. Your eyes fly open, your breathing ragged and heavy.

That’s the first time Eddie has said those words to you! You don’t know if it’s because he’s super tired or if he actually means it but you don’t care. Right now, you feel you’re both exactly where you’re meant to be.

“I love you too Eds.” You reply, but you don’t see the smile on Eddie’s face as he drifts off.

He meant every syllable and as from tomorrow, he’s going to show you just how much he meant it.

The End?

[xxladyballadxx]

Smokey Kisses

Eiji Arashiba x f! reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚Note: Just a fluff drabble with a little bit of spice involved ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚dividers by: @/cafekitsune˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

It drives you wild whenever Eiji leaves a trail of kisses on your neck, even a hickey. Kazuma had a bicker with his older brother at times, telling him off for doing it so openly in front of him. Poor Kagumi had to witness this, hiding his reddened face behind the pages of the book. Eiji carried you to his bedroom, laughing as Kazuma tsks and rolled his eyes in disgust. 

Eiji kicked his door to close and plopped you down on the bed, crawling onto you to tickle your neck with his kisses. “Gosh, Eiji! That tickles!” You died in laughter, kicking your small feet. 

“What? I can’t shower my girlfriend with all my love and affection?” Eiji continued to attack your neck with his smokey wet kisses. Your face drowned in joy, cheeks turning into a happy red faded colour. “I love to see you like this, babe.” Eiji pecked your lips, leaning his forehead against yours.

Oh how you love the sound of his sexy voice, making your tummy go all wild…

You cupped his face, inching yourself close to smash your lips towards his. You could taste the smoke across his lips, crawling down your tongue. You let out a low moan while Eiji’s lips were still on yours, feeling all the sensation flowing over your warming body. 

Eiji hoisted you up against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist while you held his head. Deepening the kiss passionately. Eiji goes to your neck once again, sucking your skin as if he were kissing it intensely. You shrieked in small excitement, “E-Eiji..”

How lucky is Eiji Arashiba, the Hero Of Akatsuki, to have an amazing girlfriend like you in the whole world?

The two of you plopped on the bed, laying down next to each other with gazes wandering, “You’re so cute, you know that?” Says Eiji, squeezing your hand lovingly. His sky blue orbs locked on you. “I’m not cute.” Your cheeks are heated in a faded red hue.

“Yes, you are, my sweet cupcake.” Your boyfriend pinched your cheeks adorably. You faced the other way on the bed, covering your face in embarrassment as Eiji laughed at your cute reaction when he called you ‘sweet cupcake’. You turned to face him with that softening expression, your smile gleaming towards him. Eiji felt like he was seeing an angel right in front of him.

Eiji motioned his hand to the side of your face, his thumb caressing your cheek romantically. He leaned in to touch your lips with his. Your eyes closed slowly as he kissed you, tasting his breath of smoke. “I love you a lot, (Name). I am the luckiest man to have you. I can’t live without you.” Eiji professed, locking his gaze on you.  

“I love you too, Eiji. You mean a lot to me and I can’t live without you.” As you expressed, you held his hand and pecked a quick kiss on your boyfriend’s cheek, your eyes not even looking away from his dazzling gaze. 

He scooped closer to cuddle you, his arms crossed around you. 

“My sweet, adorable cupcake.” 

“My silly, charming dork.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

a/n - my first ever Eiji Arashiba fanfic! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ Eiji is such a dork, I don't know how I've fallen for the likes of him!! I'll be sure to write more of him in the future! ^-^

UNTIL NEXT TIME 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[keisurou]

sugar + spice

(ft. osamu miya)

a/n: a little drabble written for @bakuroo-writings’ hello gourd-geous collab, and i am so so sorry for the lateness (i love you). 

cw: implied accident, osamu has a cast, that’s about it.

          There’s a poke to your side, a tug on your ponytail. 

         “What?” You break the silence first with a long sigh, eyes never leaving the stove as you lean over, watching the white glaze bubble in the pot.

         Osamu lets go of your hair immediately, casually leaning against the kitchen bench. “Nothin’,” 

          You force yourself to bite down the retort resting on the tip of your tongue. “Okay,” 

         You can see him shuffle about from the corner of your eye, staring holes into your back as you take your hair out and redo it again, tighter this time so it doesn’t come loose or undone no matter how much his hands wander through it. The air is thick, stifling with a tension that you can’t name, and it makes you a little unsure, a little forgetful. It makes you want to both slap him and kiss him senseless because you can’t afford to be distracted now. “Osamu, what’s wrong?”

         “It’s nothin’, really.” To a casual outsider, he looks as he always does, his expression giving nothing away. But there’s the occasional flicker in his eyes when he turns away a second too quickly, the soft nibble to his lower lip whenever he stares at the cast on his arm for a moment too long. “Ya need help?”

         You don’t, not really. You’ve seen him make his signature cinnamon buns a million times before but the small furrow between his eyebrows are becoming more and more apparently lately as the days go by. “Sure, thank you,” 

          His shoulder’s sag in relief by a fraction. It’s so small, you almost miss it because of the way he looks over your shoulder, grinning unabashed and the sight almost makes you forget everything else. He should really give some kind of warning signal when he’s about to smile like that. 

          As if on queue, your gaze falls to the cast on his arm, held upright with a loop around the back of his neck. People don’t get warning signals in life—Osamu didn’t get any warning signal last week. The thought makes you freeze up as you grip the edge of the bench top until your fingers hurt, and the question falls from your lips unprompted and without warning. “Do you want to hear something scary?” 

         “Is it really scary? Woulda liked t’see Tsumu freak out over it,”

         “No, it’s not...” You trail off, staring at his side frame as he happily tastes the glaze and checks the oven. The confession hanging on the tip of your tongue sounds a lot more silly now. “It’s not that kind of scary,”

          That gets his attention. He quirks an eyebrow and brings you closer, looping a finger around your belt loops and you panic for a split second until you see that his injured arm is out of harm’s way. His grin is wicked, and unfortunately it only serves to make him look even more handsome. “It’s a dirty kinda scary, huh?” 

          You can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes you. “No, it’s not. It’s just—it’s just I don’t think...” your words die in your throat as you scramble to find the words you’re looking for. “I don’t think I could go on if something happened to you,” 

          Osamu doesn’t say anything after that; he doesn’t need to. The message is clear through his actions, through the way he slips an arm around your waist to pull you closer, chin resting atop your head. He smells like powdered sugar and it’s oddly comforting when combined with the steady beat of his heart. You want to listen to it forever. “Osamu?”

         “Yeah?”

         “I smell smoke..”

         Needless to say, you took over the cooking completely for the second attempt of the cinnamon buns.

Taglist → @death-palette, @levylovegood, @souyana, @momoraen, @lukehemmingsfan101, @the-actual-audrey, @jadasz, @dont-mind-me69, @potayopothato, @Pau_sleep, @noblesavagex, @campfire-underwater, @namyari, @dylansbabushkaa, @toobsessedsstuff, @chaotic-fangirl-blog, @cemeiia, @theselfieofdoriangrayy​, @Anoniem 

          — those in italics couldn’t be tagged

[yeojaa]

( GHOST IN MY BED. )

Sometimes, hating someone is the only thing you can do.

pairing.  jjk x (named) f!reader.

genre + rating.   rockstar!au.  e2l (exes n enemies!).  explicit flut aka fluff and smut.    

tags / warnings.  it’s filthy.  like.  dummy filthy.  oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (don’t be silly!), creampie, an inappropriate use of a mirror, idk.  a stupid amount of petnames.  there should be a warning for kook as a person, too.  

beta reader(s).  @jjiminah the lob of my life!!

wc.  2.6k

drabble:  mirrors. four years ago.

It’s taking you far too long to find your keys, far too long to unlock the door, far too long to return his kiss.  He’s greedy and demanding, bowed against your back with his lips attached to your neck.  He sucks bruises into the skin the longer you take, biting incrementally harder with each second that passes.  It doesn’t occur to him that he’s the reason you’re so slow. 

“Kook, stop.”  It’s hardly a word.  Hardly a name.  It skips off your tongue like rain and drips molasses behind his molars.  

Don’t you know he’s a sugar addict? 

He noses against the column of your throat, humming delightedly over the strawberries and cream that blend in pretty swirls, left there by his hand.  He inhales the overwhelmingly jammy sweetness of your perfume - practically tastes it on his tongue - and guides the flat of his palms over silk.  It bunches beneath his rings, around his knuckles.  Jungkook loves when you wear it - loves the way it wears you, like a second skin. 

“C’mon, Pumpkin.  We gotta celebrate.”

You don’t notice it then - how his words come too slow, too slurred - even for an evening at the Ritz.  Coherence has left him, lost to the bottom of an empty glass or furled edge of a hundred dollar bill.  It leaves a shadow in its wake - one that rants and raves and believes in Neverland or something like it.  

The key slots into place - finally! - and he moves as one with you, stepping when you step, laughing when you laugh.  It’s not enough that he’s there in every motion.  He wants more - wants to fill all the spaces between you and then some. 

“Can you get the lights?”  You’re extracting yourself from him as best as you can, not realising it’s futile.  Every minute adjustment has him pressing closer.  It doesn’t even matter that you’re trying to unlace your heels - towering things with intricate ropes across the top of your foot.  He holds you like you’re a puzzle piece that completes him, refusing to allow you even an inch.  The frustration barely brushes the edge of your adoration.  Sharp as the words are, they’re coloured pretty pink - steeped in love and affection.  “Can you please let me take off my shoes?”

An impish smile appears then, draws across his face in a cartoon grin with eyes too big and teeth too white.  

The hands previously on your waist descend, snake themselves down the length of your hips - and then he drops to the ground, knees knocking against slick hardwood.  You gasp - a quiet little thing, more in worry than surprise - and he places a chaste peck to the bare skin right above your knee.

Thank fucking god for wrap dresses being a thing.  He’d fill your closet with them, if you’d let him.  Any excuse to open you up like his favourite gift, bounce you on his lap like a good girl at Christmas. 

“Kook.”  It’s his name again.  Same, same, but different.  There’s a swirl of emotion in your eyes - a supermassive black hole that threatens to swallow him whole like the colour of your irises.  He stares for too long, lost to the twinkling stars and silence.

So pretty, he thinks, pressing another kiss to the soft skin beneath his hands.  

“Yeah, Pumpkin?”  It’s sinful, seductive, laced in cigarette smoke and Scotch.  He’s a sucker for a good single malt but he wants something else now - something to ease the burn.  

“Shoes,”  you repeat, so faint he has to strain to hear it.  

Five fingers that had busied themselves beneath your dress fall, dropping to the neatly knotted tie at your ankle.  One flick of his wrist and it’s undone.  You step out, teetering dangerously for a moment;  you catch yourself on the broad expanse of his back, digging fingers into leather and sinew. 

Jungkook buries a laugh against your thigh, open-mouthed and full of teeth.  “Hold on, angel.”

The other shoe unravels just as quickly and you’re back on solid ground, beaming down at him.  “Thank you.”  A gentle ruffle to his hair follows, the glide of your manicured nails across his scalp easing his cheek to rest upon your leg.  

“Any time.”  He should get up - his knees are beginning to ache - but he’s far too preoccupied with the lace beneath his still wandering hand, intricate patterns woven into a welcome sign.  They trace high across your hips, framing your ass in a way that makes his cock twitch in his suddenly too-tight jeans.  

“Baby?”  It’s indistinct, somewhere above the clouds his head is suddenly lost in.

You’re radiating heat through every limb.  He seeks it out, nosing against the material of your dress in search of more;  he wants to bury himself where you’re warmest, fall headlong into sunshine.  “Hm?”  It comes in an exhale, followed by teeth and tongue.

The clouds part, just a little.  His path is lit - a neon outline beneath your skin.  He follows it without thought, sweeping his hands higher and higher.  

You jolt when he licks a strip up your slit, lace disappearing between your folds.  The material sticks to your cunt, sodden and ruined and nearly transparent, both from your slick and his saliva.  He grins up at you as he repeats the motion over and over, dragging his tongue in measured trails.  

He hears more than sees the way your back hits the door - his grip on your leg tightening to keep you balanced - but he hears and then feels your hands in his hair, tugging gently at the roots.  “Kook.”  It’s frenzied and breathless and he’s hardly even touched you.  It drives him crazy, nails digging crescents into the meat of your ass.  

“Yeah, Pumpkin?”  Repeated verbatim with that same breakneck smile.    

“Need you.”

“Need me?”  He echoes, as if he hasn’t heard you, as if it isn’t glaringly obvious by the way you coat your own thighs, beading prettily over his fingers.  “What do you need me for, baby?”

A part of you hates when he does this.  He knows that.  You like when he’s gentle, full of love.  You like getting your way with him, knowing he needs you just as badly as you need him.  It makes you feel like a queen.  

The queen of his castle - the only woman Jungkook will ever love this way.  How could he deny you?

So he relents, just a little, sliding his thumb beneath the material of your thong.  It catches on your swollen clit and dips between your lips before he’s tugging terribly slowly, at a snail’s pace that has you tightening your grip.  He muffles a laugh when it’s halfway down your legs, caught between your knees.  You’re like Bambi on ice, impatient and shifting from foot to foot in your haste.

“Careful,”  he coos, slipping your underwear into his back pocket for safekeeping before he peers up at you, his face framed by hazy streetlights and his crown of dark hair.  

He feels the brush of your fingers against his temple, the subtle squeeze of your thighs beneath his touch.  “I love you.”

It isn’t reciprocal in words, answered instead with a kiss that leaves you panting above him.  His tongue works you open, dipping into your heat before rising to toy at your clit.  He repeats the motion until you’re shaking, tremors passing through your legs to the hands that hold you in place trapped between him and the door.  

There’s an angel’s chorus filtering into his ears - quiet little gasps that turn lewd, breathless recitals that leave him aching to bend you over and fuck you senseless. 

A single digit brushes your entrance, sliding home in a smooth press of his wrist.  You take him to the knuckle without an ounce of resistance and he grins, triumphant, against your core.  There’s nothing more intoxicating than how much you want him - need him - and he gives greedily, slotting another in alongside the first.  You mewl above him, the sound music to his ears, and he scissors them expertly, watching in rapt fascination as your pussy stretches to accommodate the width of two long fingers.  “Fuck - I love you,”  he hums, awestruck and adoring. 

Something like a laugh bounces off your tongue and descends into a wanton moan before it can right itself.  A tell-tale sign you’re almost there.  Perfect.

He zeroes in on your clit, tongue dancing over it with each drag of his fingers.  He’s curling them now, intimately familiar with the rough bundle of nerves that turns you stupid.  You’re practically dripping down his hand and he’s careful not to let a single drop go to waste, licking his way over his knuckles and back to the source in languid strokes before he returns to toying with the pearl between your legs.  “So sweet, baby.  Like pumpkin pie.”  

You’re trembling, hands like iron in his hair, pulling him closer closer closer.  

“Please,”  you beg.  You’re rutting against him, chest heaving - a world away from the mild-mannered girl-next-door.  It’s so hot he can’t help but take pause, wait just a moment so he can take in the sight.

Poor choice.  He really can’t wait any longer.

He rises in a single fluid motion - even intoxicated, he’s a work of art.  He laughs off the way you watch him, expression an intoxicating mixture of admiration and salaciousness.  “Come here, angel.”  Here, to his arms.  Here, where you belong, cradled against all five feet ten inches of him.  

You’re putty in Jungkook’s hands, far too close to the brink of release to even think of arguing when he rotates you, pressing the full, unyielding expanse of his chest to the small of your back.  

“Look how beautiful you are, baby.”  Debauched words that sound more like love, whispered adoringly into your ear.  Sweet nothings that incinerate every ounce of rationale, leaving nothing but yearning in its wake.  He presses a kiss to your cheek, broad palms heavy at your hips.  

He’s right - you are beautiful, framed within the mirror’s reflection and barely lit by the moon. 

“Pretty,”  you agree, right as one hand shifts, drops and finds a home against your core.  Two digits press, unrelenting, into your cunt and you keen, head dropping against his shoulder like he’s just cut your marionette strings with the scissor of his fingers.  The flat of his palm grinds against your clit and he snickers, the sound deposited into your hair like a gift. 

“That’s right, Pumpkin.  So pretty.”  The P’s pop off his tongue, enunciated with each curl of his knuckles, each blossom he blooms over your neck. 

He fucks you slowly, languidly, unhurriedly - even as you writhe against him, pouting and demanding.  He does it so you’re delirious with need but not so lucid he loses you;  every time you’re about to slip, he recentres your focus and drags you back from the edge - either with a gentle tweak to your clit or a particularly hard thrust of his fingers.  Anything to keep you there, eyes locked with his in the hallway mirror.

“Look at you.  You’re so perfect.”  Praise rains down and you’re smiling, a faraway, feral glint in your eye.  “So fucking sexy for me.  Do you want more?”  His fingers still within your fluttering walls, massaging tight against your g-spot as his thumb adjusts to impose the same pressure upon your throbbing clit.  “Want me to fill you up?  Fuck you silly?”  

You don’t have to speak for him to know your answer - he feels the way you clench around him, eager for something far better.  

“Relax, baby,”  he murmurs, that same messy hand making quick work of his leather belt and the button and zipper of his jeans.  It’s honestly a feat given how insistent you are, grinding your ass over his aching cock like you might die without it.  Your impatience is endearing and intoxicating;  he almost topples you both over in his haste to step out of his clothes, pile kicked aside as you begin to whine, nails digging into the arm that still rests heavy around your waist.  “Don’t worry, angel.  I’ve got you.”   

He does - and not a second too soon.

The head of his cock is glossy, leaking pre-cum over the purpled tip.  It makes it almost easy for him to slip inside you except for the fact that it’s never that easy and the stretch is undeniable, bordering on painful despite how needy you are for him and how well he’s prepared you.   

Every nerve ending is shot as he sinks into you.  He fills you entirely as a groan tumbles off his lips, your ass flush to his hips.  You’re so wet he can feel your slick over his own thighs, coating the base of his cock as you squeeze around him.  A whine of his own pitches, forms in a bite to your shoulder that has you crying out.  “Fuck.  Fuck.”

He’s mouthing over silk, over skin, fingers firm around the column of your neck;  tips press into softness, stealing your breath.  The other hand anchors you against him, slung low over your side with his palm splayed across your ribs.  It’s the only way he keeps you from jolting forward as he ruts against you, fucking into your heat at a relentless pace.  He can read the strain in your limbs, how it grows and grows and nearly snaps in two when he tightens his grip at your throat.  

“You wanna come, pretty?”  It’s heavy, hungry, hoarse - gravel beneath velvet.  You nod senselessly, swallowing thickly beneath the palm that sears heat and try to focus on the same feverish burn that claims your insides and melts your bones.  Jungkook knows exactly which buttons to push, how to light you up like a night sky.  

“Please.”  

It’s an explosion of light and colour behind your eyelids and under your skin.  You’re crying, sobbing, wailing - a wrecked mess caged against his chest as your orgasm crashes over you.  Pleasure washes over you in waves, dripping down your cheeks;  you’re spasming around his cock, gripping him so tightly he nearly chokes as he chases the same high. 

The sounds you make are so pretty, helpless and somehow still desperate for more.  They run on a loop inside his head, stuttering his rhythm as he fucks you through your sensitivity and into another high that has you clawing at his hands.  

You’re out of body, eyes rolled so far back into your head that he can see only the whites.  He squeezes harder at your neck - knuckles blown out, tense, a stark contrast to the mosaic of red that he’d painted earlier  - and you’re a rag doll doing your best, trying to meet his stare as he grins wolfishly at you.  “That’s right.  One more.  One more with me.”

It’s impossible to deny Jungkook or his near brutal pace.  Where skin meets skin, there’ll be bruises, imprints left by the hard ridges of his hips, the shape of his fingers - a reminder of tonight for days to come.  He’ll trace them with his tongue and never let you forget.

“Right there,”  he barks with a sloppy, stuttering roll of his hips.  

Your second orgasm is messy, wet, soaking the silk of your dress and his hand as he works your clit.  A million volts of electricity buzz through your body, from the tip of your ears to the balls of your feet;  he can feel it, passed between the two of you like a livewire.  It launches him over his own peak - a lit match to gasoline.

He fills you with a low groan and a last, purposeful thrust.  He holds you impossibly tight, dragging his hips in small circles as you milk him for all he’s worth, cum slipping past your swollen lips with each movement, despite how eager he is to keep it right where it is, staining your walls and reminding you you’re his.  

Always have been, always will be.

author note.  please note this is a flashback drabble (you might’ve caught the reference in chapter 3)!  this is not present day, sadly.  but did you catch any of the foreshadowing in this?  hopefully!  if not, i'm sorry.  thank you for reading anyway.  i appreciate you!

tag list.  @jalexad @aa-ronpa @kookiesbreaky @celestialflamefairy @xjoonchildx @pars-ley @seokjinssi @youwannabelostandnotbefound @patpus @dazedjjk @koozui @jinhitwhore @always-wishing-for-rain​

[certifiedskywalker]

The Unexpected - Klaus Hargreeves

Here’s a little Klaus drabble for the stressed, tired, and cuddle-needing readers out there! We all need a little love!

You and Klaus have always been close. The degree of your relationship was unnamed and, it seemed, the two of you were fine with that. Your emotions were his and his quirked were admired by you. 

Klaus had a knack for the unexpected. Whether it was tearing social norms to tatters with an eccentric choice of outfit, dealing with an abrupt change of plans, or simply surprising those closest to him, Klaus lived for the amazingly unpredictable. So it became second nature to answer the rapid knock on your door at all hours of the day and night. It was always Klaus, excited and rambling about some new happening.

Once he had nearly kicked down your door in pure elation, clad in only a speedo. Another time, Klaus was crumpled against the door of your flat, too hungover to even explain about the events of the night prior. However, even in his haze, Klaus never left you empty. He filled you up on crazy tales of his ventures and, on his more lucid morning visits, he’d bring you breakfast. You never knew what you were going to get with Klaus and his consistently random visits. Not that you minded any which way.

You didn’t care at all on one afternoon in particular. Notes and textbooks were splayed across your table as you attempted to study for future exams. Just when your scribbles of Literature analysis were beginning to blend with algebraic values from your Mathematics class, you picked up a light tapping at your door. Instantly, you pushed your chair away from the table and strode over to the sound. Without even looking through the peephole, you threw open the door for a much needed distraction.

“Wow, you look like shit,” Klaus murmured as his green eyes scanned up and down your form. You let out a huff of annoyed agreement before letting him inside. Klaus made himself at home, placing a plastic bag on your countertop before stretching his arms up to the ceiling. A bit of the skin of his tummy was exposed as his arms extended and you forced yourself to peel your eyes away.

“Yeah, well, classes have a way of making me feel like sh-”

“Shit? You had to read Shakespeare? Which play?” Klaus is already flipping through your notebook, eyeing your handwriting with such an intense, childish curiosity. His fingers traced over some of the doodles you had made in the margins. You plucked the notes away from him before he could turn the page and expose any other embarrassing drawings.

“Hamlet,” you replied, tucking your study materials away in your bag. Klaus smiled at you, taking in your comfy clothes with a tenderness you would have missed if you hadn’t look up at him. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Klaus said, turning his head away to mindlessly watch your lack-luster living room. It wasn’t much, but it was home in all of it’s cramped glory.

“It’s never nothing with you Klaus,” you pry, placing your heads on your hips. Your eyes take in his attire: a clean-looking coat slung over his shoulders and a yellow tee shirt paired with a pair of high-cut shorts. As always, he was a sight for sore eyes. Even if he was hiding something from you. Klaus turned his gaze back to you, his wide eyes softening as he did.

“I had a plan,” he starts, taking a step towards you slowly. “A plan to steal you away for the day. Take you out on the town and show you the glamor of the city’s even hours.” Klaus brushes a hand against your cheek and the tiredness you had been suppressing resurfaced.

“That sounds...nice,” you whisper, trying to keep your eyes open and focused on the man before you. Klaus smiled, head cocking to the side as he admired your facade of alert interest. It was clear all you wanted to do was rest, something Klaus hardly did himself.

“But, I do believe, that you need to stay in tonight. Yeah?” Klaus’ hands went to your slouching shoulders, thumbs rubbing the sore muscles there. You nearly melted into his touch, eyes closing on instinct as Klaus worked the stress from your body.

“Y-Yeah,” you whispered, leaning forward until your head rested, slumped against his shoulder. Klaus let out a mellow chuckle, arms shifting so he was holding you close to his body. Warmth flooded your senses, as did the scent of roses that clung to Klaus’ clothes. Roses and smoke, an earthen oder that you would forever associate with him.

Klaus, hands guiding you to your own bedroom, watched as you sank on your mattress. Your face snuggled close in your pillow as if you were a exhausted toddler come home from school. His eyes admired the curve of your back and the dips of your body as you made yourself comfortable. Unable to fight the urge any longer, Klaus found his place on the other side of your bed. The side you always saved for him.

“I’m sorry about ruining your plans,” you mumbled as you cuddled close to Klaus’ warmth once more. His arms wrapped around you as you pressed your head into the crook of his neck. Klaus hummed in response, trailing his hands up and down your arm in a soothing manner.

“Don’t be silly, Y/N,” he whispered as your breathing evened out, “you know I love the unexpected.” As your eyes fluttered close the last time, Klaus placed a feather-light kiss to your forehead. You were drifting off as Klaus lay awake holding you with his mind racing alongside his heart. However, with you in his arms, his mind forgot about the stolen bottle of wine in his bag and wandered away from the confession of love he had practiced as he knocked at your door.

[allie1804-fan]

New Beginnings (Chapter 3)

1  2 3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11  12

New Beginnings Baby Drabble

New Beginnings Baby Drabble No2

6 months later (November)

It was a Saturday morning at around 9 when Emily stirred from her slumber, easing out from under Keanu’s grasp to go to the bathroom. As she wiped herself after taking a leak, she felt the tell-tale sign that her period had started.She drew a shaky breath and tried to get herself under control but it was no good. Anger and sadness filled her with bitterness. She knew rationally that this could take a while and 6 months was nothing in the scheme of things but it was relentless having the monthly reminder that they had failed again. She decided on a hot shower to soothe her tension away and got up from the toilet to turn the water on.

“think positive thoughts” she berated herself as the water tumbled down “you have a girly lunch with Chloe today, that will cheer you up and maybe you can talk over these raging feelings with her”

As she washed the shampoo suds out of her hair she heard the shower door slide open and Keanu stepped in behind her immediately wrapping his arms around her.

“Morning sweethe…. don’t” she interrupted her greeting, yelping as his fingers had started to trail to her opening”

“What?, I thought you liked that!”

“I do, usually - sorry love, it’s just, you don’t wanna go there, I just got my period” she huffed, looking up at him over her shoulder with sad eyes”

He pulled her round to face him and hugged her close.

“Try not to worry, darling, we’ll get there, it just sometimes takes a while I guess”

Emily nodded back, a stray tear leaking out which he smoothed away with his thumb.

“Don’t you have plans today? Lunch with Chloe on the Drive right?”

“Yeah, what are you doing?”

“biking and lunch with the boys – be back around 5 I expect”

Over breakfast Chloe started on a topic she didn’t think would go down well with Keanu but she couldn’t stop herself

“Do  you think we should maybe do anything different, you know to help our chances?”

“like what?”

“Well maybe like trying to be a bit healthier?”

“We are healthy, aren’t we? – I mean we eat well. Don’t drink that much……….. oh I see where this is going. So this is my fault now because I smoke right?”

“I never said it was anyone’s fault Ke – I just want to move ahead and maybe that might help. Listen, you don’t have to give anything up. It’s just an idea is all”

Keanu stepped around the kitchen island. His face was contrite as he wrapped his arms around her gently.

“I’m sorry, I over-reacted. I know this is especially hard on you ….”

“Oh so it’s OK for you because you don’t really mind either way huh?”

“Jesus Christ woman, no that’s not what I meant. I just meant everything feels focussed on your body – if we succeed, you’ll be sick and all that and when we don’t succeed you have the reminder of your period driving you crazy, that’s all I meant! And if you recall, it was me who brought up the idea first, not you so don’t say I don’t want this!”

“God sorry, sorry – I’m just crabby. Ignore me”

He hugged her to him “take a taxi to lunch, go drink espresso martinis, champagne – whatever you want. Take my American Express card and go shopping on Rodeo Drive after!”

She laughed and hugged him back.

“Good plan Reeves – I might take you up on that”

They puttered around the house getting ready for their respective trips both looking forward to time with other people after the tension of the morning.

Emily met with Chloe at 208 Rodeo at noon hugging her tightly.

“Boy, I really, really need this” she exclaimed. I’m gonna drink myself a little bit silly then take you up to the shops on the drive and exploit my boyfriend’s credit card, deal?”

“Sure” Chloe said brightly though Emily caught the whisper of hesitation in her manner. Brushing it off, they headed in to get their table by the window.

“So how’s tricks?” Emily asked

“No, no you first, you’ve always got more interesting things going on than me” Chloe protested.

“Well if interesting is getting my period again then your life must be really dull!” Emily grimaced.

Chloe was the only person she’d trusted with the secret that she and Keanu were trying for a baby and for the first 5 months she’d sent ‘crying face’ emoji’s to Chloe each month when the bad news came.

The waitress came back just as Chloe had taken Emily’s hand in hers giving it a squeeze, a pained look on her face.

“2 espresso martinis to start us off ” Emily exclaimed.

“no no not for me Chloe exclaimed. Just a white wine spritzer. I can’t take the hard stuff at lunch.

“Spoil sport” Emily pouted.

Their drinks came and they placed their orders for lunch, settling back to their prior conversation.

“Listen, Em, you’ll get there in the end. It’s just random luck you know. It took ages, you know like well over a year for Jamie and” she paused

“and what?”

“and nothing, I just mean it can take a while. I know it’s super frustrating but, you know it can’t be so bad doing the deed with him can it”

Emily giggled and blushed

 “Ok, ok you got me there. I’ll try to chill but I guess it’s just starting to grate and then I end up looking for advice on the internet and this morning I brought up his smoking ….”

“Oh! and how did that go?”

“badly I’d say, he got real defensive, then guilty. I was just so tetchy – my period came this morning and I’d started to hope some of my now obviously pre-menstrual symptoms were, you know, symptoms!”

“It’s such a bitch that they are basically the same symptoms right?” Chloe sympathised.

“thank god I have you to talk to.  I think I’d go completely crazy without you. So, do you think I overstepped mentioning his smoking? I guess I forgot that it took you a year to get pregnant with Jamie. Did you and John ever fall out over it?”

Chloe laughed a little nervously.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry….”

“hey, no it’s OK – where shall I start. Errm yes we fell out – I got kind of obsessed you know with the optimum conditions and he felt like I only wanted sex for making a baby you know.  It’s so hard to chill and not to wonder why it’s not worked but listen, it’ll probably just fall into place when you least expect it” Chloe looked away through the restaurant window, a frown crossing her face.

“You OK hun?” Emily asked, “you seem kind of distracted today”

“I guess I am, distracted I mean”

Emily looked questioningly at Chloe

“so what’s up”

“Hun, I have something to tell you and I know it’s not going to be easy and given what we’ve been discussing, it’s going to hurt …..”

Chloe’s eyes were filled with tears as she watched the realisation slowly dawn on Emily’s face.

“You’re pregnant aren’t you?”

Chloe nodded slowly reaching out her hand to Emily’s – Emily tried to pull away at first but Chloe grasped her fingers

“you know I didn’t do this to hurt you, we only just started trying….”

“you think that fact makes me feel better!?” Emily spat back at her, snatching her hand away now, anger flashing in her eyes

“no, no I just mean I thought about how it might be if I got pregnant first but after Jamie I was just sure you’d fall first and it wouldn’t be ….like this” she gulped down a sob “please don’t hate me Em!”

Emily took a shaky hold of her drink and gulped it down then just stared at the table for what seemed like several long minutes to Chloe. Emily battled with herself, wanting to run away and die in a ditch but knowing she needed Chloe too and she still had a tiny rational voice telling her this was just bad luck for her and not a deliberate act of spite by Chloe and John. She took a deep breath and looked Chloe in the eye at last.

“Congratulations” she smiled tightly. “I’m not gonna lie, this is , err painful for me but I know it shouldn’t be. Honestly, I’m happy for you, it will be great for Jamie to have a brother or sister”

“Thanks Em … I love you, you know?”

“I know” Em sniffed.

Their lunches arrived giving them the opportunity to just digest this new change in their lives. Eventually Emily spoke, sticking to the  same theme.

“So” Emily began “do you have any top tips for how I’m gonna make it through this without going completely bat-shit crazy?”

“not sure I’m the best person to ask somehow, given the amount of times I took ovulation tests and my temperature when we were trying with Jamie.

Emily chuckled.

“I’ve been telling myself not to go there but now it’s getting very tempting. Especially as I am pretty sure we’re gonna miss some opportunities soon coz Keanu’s off on a 6 week shoot in January.

“well I can’t stop you going there and I know only too well that telling you to relax is just stupid. But maybe just try to have as much other stuff going on to think about, you know. I’m not saying that it will make conceiving more likely, but it might just stop you going bonkers! And I know this doesn’t really apply to you, but we ended up deciding to spend a bunch of our savings on a trip – do you remember when we went to Paris and stayed in the Georges V?

“yeah, yeah I do – why did you think that would help?!”

“I think we just thought screw it, we deserve something nice and maybe fate’s sense of irony would grant us a pregnancy the minute we’d run our savings down and couldn’t really afford a child!”

“And did it work?”

“yeah I guess so, I think we went on that trip in the June and we were pregnant by end July!”

“maybe I should get Keanu to donate all his money to charity then!”

“nahhh don’t do that  - but hey a holiday might be a good thing. What else do you have going on?”

“I’ve got some re-writes on a couple of movies and Keanu’s TV thing is back on the table so I’ve got some deadlines to keep me busy”

Their lunch continued and they even went and did a little shopping in the upscale stores on Rodeo Drive. Emily was back home by 5 and Keanu arrived shortly after.

“Did you have fun sweetie” he asked “looks like you got in some retail therapy too, huh?” he said noting the bags on the floor.

“yeah thanks, I did” she said quietly

“you sure, you don’t look too happy ………… is Chloe OK?”

“Yup, Chloe is fine …… Chloe is pregnant!”

“oh!”

“yes, oh”

“I don’t know what to say”

“It’s OK, we didn’t fight or anything, in fact talking to her was useful  - but I can’t deny at first I wanted to curl up and die!”

“Come ‘ere” He pulled her into a tight hug.

“It’ll be OK hun, we’ll get there ……. And if we don’t we have each other right?”

Emily nodded sadly

“you don’t have to look so thrilled at the idea of just me!” he huffed

“sorry, I know you’re right and I love you, you know I do, but I, I just really want this you know and I’m not ready to think about it not happening, not just yet OK?”

“OK, me neither”

1  2 3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11  12

New Beginnings Baby Drabble

New Beginnings Baby Drabble No2

[tastes-like-ciel]

For the drabble challenge: 55 + 73 for Datastormshipping, please. :3

Someone’s thirsty. haha Since this specifically has a “+” between them, I’m going to take that as a rule that they must be combined. So combined they shall be.

Challenge accepted.

Enjoy the soft, cuddly semi-lewds.

55. “It’s just you and me tonight. I was thinking we could have a little fun.” and 73. “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”

“Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”

Yusaku moves his bare shoulders in a light shrug. His fingers don’t stop their tirade against his laptop keys, but his eyes do flicker Ryoken’s way. He regards Ryoken carefully, head tilting slightly.

“Not particularly.” he says and Ryoken’s eyebrows raise at that. Yusaku just doesn’t do things for no reason. “Just had a shower and your sheets feel nice. I didn’t feel like putting clothes back on.”

Ryoken stares, mouth slipping open just a little. Is he…being serious?

“You’re not really trying to blame this on laziness, are you?”

There’s a twinkle in Yusaku’s eye. “Yes.”

Ryoken closes his eyes with a sigh and shakes his head. He certainly doesn’t believe a word of it, but doesn’t want to press him about it. It’s not like this is an unwelcome sight, in any case. Yusaku’s skin still glistens slightly from that shower he had and when Ryoken shuts the bedroom door and moves to join Yusaku on the bed, he can smell the scent of his favorite body wash clinging to Yusaku’s skin. It’s inviting and he can’t help but stare hungrily as few droplets of water slip from Yusaku’s hair and trickle down his chest.

“Call go okay?” Yusaku asks and Ryoken snaps out of his trace when a quick kiss is pressed to the corner of his mouth. “You were gone for a while.”

Yusaku goes back to his typing and Ryoken leans over to see what he’s working on. He recognizes the Ignis algorithm right away and wonders, briefly, if this has something to do with that event Ai wouldn’t shut up about.

“I suppose.” he says and leans in a bit closer. The flowery scent coming from Yusaku’s still damp skin is intoxicating and he can’t help pressing a kiss of his own to Yusaku’s jaw. “It was more aggravating than anything else, honestly. I really hate dealing with SOL sometimes.”

“Mm.” Yusaku hums appreciatively and leans into Ryoken’s touch. “You did volunteer to help with that program.”

“And I regret the decision immensely.” he replies, sighing heavily. He wraps his arms around Yusaku’s waist and buries his face into Yusaku’s neck. “They’re idiots. I want to go back to being a mean cyber-terrorist that does things out of spite.”

Yusaku huffs in amusement at his little whine and does a bit more typing before he closes the laptop altogether and sets it aside. Now that his hands are free, he runs his fingers through Ryoken’s hair and offers his back a little pat.

“At least you get something out of it in return.”

And Ryoken supposes that’s true. SOL is offering him the entirety of the Lost Incident files and the subsequent experiments they ran because of it on a silver platter, courtesy of their new CEO, Zaizen Akira (who is honestly the best thing to ever happen to such an otherwise trash corporation). And he plans to burn it all in a barrel of gasoline so they can never again be used to hurt the victims or anyone else ever again. It’s not something he’s told the others yet, but Yusaku seems to think they should have a little party for it, let everyone involved watch their shared past go up in flames and smoke. It’d be cathartic, in a way.

“I guess.” he mumbles and then pulls back a bit so he can grab Yusaku’s chin. “At least I have you for stress relief.”

He pulls Yusaku in for a kiss and Yusaku happily returns it. His arms wrap around Ryoken’s neck and they press against each other, both eager to be closer as hands wander and tongues touch. Yusaku’s fingers pull at Ryoken’s hair and Ryoken makes a little appreciative noise as he drags them both down onto the bed.

“So fess up.” he starts when they part for air. Yusaku is underneath him now and he darts in for a quick peck on his lips. “What’s the real reason you’re naked?”

Like this, Yusaku can’t hide the slight blush that creeps across his cheeks. “I never lied about the lazy part, but, well…”

Yusaku’s hands slip around Ryoken’s shoulders and travel down his chest. He tugs at Ryoken’s blazer a bit.

“It’s just you and me tonight.” he continues and the soft, hesitant way he says it sends a burning heat throughout Ryoken’s body. His eyes glaze over and he’s leaning in to press kisses against Yusaku’s cheeks and jawline and trailing them down his neck before Yusaku even continues speaking. “I w…was thinking we could have a little fun.”

Ryoken moves up to Yusaku’s lips and they share another heated kiss before Ryoken interjects with a teasing: “Like what~?”

“Cuddling.”

Somewhere in the distance, Ryoken can hear a record screeching to a halt.

“E…excuse me?”

Yusaku’s eyes brighten and he grabs hold of Ryoken’s blazer, determination shining in his green gaze.

“I’ve heard that presenting yourself to your lover without any clothes is key to initiating cuddles.” Yusaku continues. He sounds so matter-of-fact and technical that it has Ryoken wishing death on whoever told him this. “So take yours off now. That’s how it works, right?”

Ryoken looks exasperated. “You’re, you’re teasing me, aren’t you. You just want me to strip.”

Yusaku offers up a little shrug. “Maybe, but I am serious about those cuddles.”

Ryoken sighs and hangs his head a little. In apology, Yusaku runs fingers through his hair again and leans up to press a kiss to his lips.

“Mm, the kissing part is nice though.” Yusaku admits and drags Ryoken back down. “I like the way you touch me.”

Yusaku suddenly rolls over, switching their positions, and Ryoken finds himself letting out a soft groan when Yusaku’s hips roll over his. His hands grab hold of Yusaku’s hips and wander up his backside as they share a heated kiss. Yusaku tastes of the bland, flavorless coffee he so loves to consume, but Ryoken doesn’t mind it. Not really. He has a sweet tooth, he’s more than willing to admit, but with Yusaku’s tongue in his mouth and their lips and teeth and fingers grazing over each other like they’re starving for each other’s touch, he hardly notices the taste. It’s especially hard to concentrate on something so trivial anyway with Yusaku’s wandering hands skirting the hem of his slacks and toying with the zipper and buttons. Ryoken lets his hands wander along Yusaku’s sides and tickle at his spine in return, causing him to shiver and twitch and earn a few nips at his bottom lip in retaliation. They break for air when Yusaku finally manages to undo his slacks’ buttons and Ryoken darts out to catch both his wandering hands before they can slip underneath his underwear. Yusaku gives him a dejected look for it and it makes Ryoken’s lips twitch upward in an amused smirk.

“I thought you wanted to cuddle, not fondle, Fujiki-kun~” he teases, drawling out the honorific he never uses just for the fun of it and Yusaku’s eyes narrow down at him dangerously. “If that’s what you wanted all along, you should have just–nhh!”

Yusaku takes a dive, sinks his teeth right into the crook of Ryoken’s neck, and Ryoken lets out a little distressed noise because of it and squirms. Not because it hurts. Yusaku’s not that type of lover. His bite, while sudden and a bit forceful, barely even pinches. The nips are gentle but are hard enough to leave little hickies later on and are incessant and they tickle and Ryoken can’t stand it and damn him Yusaku knows this.

���St–!!”

A little giggly breath escapes before he can clamp down on it and he bites down on his bottom lip, struggling not to give Yusaku the satisfaction of a victory, but he can feel the satisfied smirk creeping across Yusaku’s lips and decides to retaliate. His fingers press into Yusaku’s sides, earning a light snort, and then everything goes downhill in the form of a tickle fight that neither one really win or lose. They just end up collapsed against each other, limbs like jelly, silly grins on their faces, and eyes teary from laughter.

“That’s cheating.” Yusaku complains, a bit breathless and he manages to force a glare. It’s mostly ruined by the smile still on his lips and the heat flushing his cheeks. “You still have all your clothes on. That’s not fair.”

“You started it.” comes Ryoken’s reply, something of a pout forming on his lips. A hand rubs at his neck, along the places Yusaku bit, and he shivers a little. “Sneak attacking me like that… Who’s the real cheater here?”

Yusaku’s amazing ability to become deadpan at the drop of a hat reigns supreme as his expression becomes unreadable. Even still, there’s a faint smugness in his voice that has Ryoken exasperated.

“You deserved it.”

Ryoken huffs. “Just come here.”

He reaches out to pull Yusaku to his chest and wraps his devious little boyfriend up into his arms. He has half a mind to take advantage of the situation and get back at him again, but settles for pressing a fond kiss against his forehead instead. Another day, perhaps. In response, Yusaku snuggles up to him and lets out a content sigh, pleased to finally be receiving those cuddles he set out to acquire from the start.

[gutterdreams]

From the kid's baking competition list: 19. That's my girl! with Billy?

I wrote two versions of this story....and I hope you like at least one of them / Requests are closed.

1. “That’s My Girl”

It hadn't been an easy decision forBilly even if he made it in haste. He wanted to stick out the lasttwo months of high school. It had been so important to his mom thathe graduated and you were encouraging him daily to see past the angerand stay in school. You always told him that success would be themost satisfying revenge on everyone who thought he was nothing, but astupid brute. You told him that his diploma would set him free fromthe effect of his dad's acidic words, gripping hands, and pointedside eyes. Billy felt like he was trying so hard to stick it out withhis teeth gnawing into his gums and his fists pounding into the drywall of his bedroom, but he caved. There was two months beforegraduation left, 38 days of class in total, but Billy dropped out. Hehad been eighteen for a month and he was no longer legally bound tohis father. He dropped out and took off.

He had spent the lunch hour playingwith the belt loops of your jeans, pulling you close to him with themand running the side of thumbs back and forth against the thickfabric. It didn't strike you as odd that he was being so quietbecause Billy was a man of extremes. He either had everything to sayabout a subject or he was loyal in his silence. Besides, he keptburying his face into the pocket between your neck and shoulder.There was no reason to talk when your skin was glowing under the sunand looked so delicious. One last kiss after the school bell rang tosignal that lunch was over, but he pulled you back by the waist.

“I've got to go. I can't be late forMortimer.” He was a notoriously tough teacher who wouldn't allowyou into the lesson if you were so much as a minute late. You laughedas Billy kissed you again.

“One more.” He murmured andbrought your lips back again. You took a single step back, but hewouldn't let you go. “Another.” He joked as you rolled your eyes,this time leaving a peck on your nose. You tried to leave again, butthe same thing happened. “One more. Last one.” He said and kissedyour jaw, and then your ear, and then your cheek until you pulledaway with real force.

“I've got to go.” You laughed.“You can kiss me again last period.” It was when you two would bereunited again before the end of the day, you picked up your backpackfrom the ground by his tired and took off running. Billy watchedintently, running his hands through his hair and keeping your lipbalm between his lips.

When he didn't show up for English,you weren't concerned. It wasn't strange for Billy to skip even whenyou asked him not to. When his car wasn't parked outside at the endof the day, that was when your brows slouched and you knew somethingwas the matter. You waited for five minutes before stalking acrossthe street to the junior high. Holding the straps of her backpack andwaiting by the doors, Max looked as surprised as you did. Together,asking each other questions that neither could answer, you waited fortwenty minutes before you took the bus home with her. You made sureshe was home safely before taking it backwards to your place. Maxcalled you that night to confirm that Billy was gone since you keptringing the house to no answer. She said he took most of his stuffand was probably on his way to California.

“Did he leave a letter?” In alast ditch effort to hold onto hope, you asked with a squeak in yourvoice.

Max said she would just let youknow if one came up. A nice way of saying no.

Inyour green graduation robe, standing between two long time friends,you waited to walk across the small stage set up in the Hawkins gymfor your diploma. For 38 days, you had come to school and hoped tosee that Billy had returned. You told yourself constantly that hejust needed space from his overbearing and volatile dad, eventuallyhe would come to his senses and turn around. You checked yourmailbox, but there was never a letter. After school, you startedchecking the answering machine, but the voice-mails left were alwaysfor your dad from work or from your grandparents in Tuscon.

Assoon as your name was called, you heard the same applause that hadbeen going throughout the ceremony. You crossed the stage with breathtight in your lungs, hoping you wouldn't trip. Just as you reachedfrom your diploma from Principal Mulligan, a voice erupted over theclapping hands and your exhale left your mouth in panic as your eyesburst open in a nanosecond.

“That'smy girl! Yeah! You did it! That's my fucking girl!”

Billywas screaming from the back of the gym, clapping his hands above hishead and jostling his shirt to be lifted above his waist and showingoff the small patch of hair that you always liked him to leavebehind, dubbing it his 'treasure trail'. You were staring at him fromthe stage, almost hypnotized, that Principal Mulligan had to forcethe diploma into your hand. He moved you along with a hand gentle onthe small of your back.

Onceoff the stage, you realized you had missed the moment and were stilljust staring at Billy. He looked equal parts elated and ashamed asyou walked closer and closer to him, his hands slowing down theirapplause to a stop.

“You'rehere.” In disbelief, you breathed out as you moved by a sea ofgreen graduates and parents to be near to him. “Why - How - “ 

“Iwouldn't miss this.” Billy shook his head and reached for yourhands. “I knew you could do it.” Billy said instead of confessingthat he couldn't. There was a thousand things to say, but they allfroze in your throat like a lump of ice leftover from a blizzard. Youthrew your arms around his neck and held him against you, making surehe was actually there.

“Wewere supposed to do it together.” “You could have done it, too!”“Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?”

Different optionsran through your head, but you just kept breathing in and out and letBilly hold you as if he was trying to press you into his bones. Rightnow, you were just glad to have him back.

---- 

2. “That’s My Girl” 

He found the passion very sexy. Billyhad shown dedication to very little in his life aside from feelingsorry for himself and making other people feel as miserable as hedid. The fact that you could be moaning with delight from his fingersteasing you outside of your underwear and still pull away because youhad to practice had started off as annoying, but became undeniablyattractive to him. He never wanted to actually sit around and watchyou play violin though. The idea of classic music bored him and whenhe looked at all the black notes and lines on your sheet music, hefelt his brain start to ache.

The only reason he agreed to go toyour recital was because it gave him an excuse to be out of the houseall Sunday. He had to drive from Hawkins to Mortimer, which was anhour and a half, watch the entire performance for your short sevenminute slot, eat dinner with your family at most likely a nicesteakhouse, and then drive back. It kept him away from trouble andhis old man for an entire day. Sundays seemed tailor made for Billyripping the constantly raw skin on his knuckles or earning side eyesand unkind remarks from Neil. Billy liked the excuse of having to gofor a long drive, feeling the leather of his steering wheel under hispalms, and a free meal didn't hurt either.

By the time the third performer walkedthrough the aisle and onto the stage, Billy's head was hangingbackwards with his mouth open. He had become a fidgeting bored childmuch to your mother's irritation. Billy was starting to wonder ifbeing stuck at home doing chores would actually be so bad. He didn'twant to hear another piano piece or clarinet song. Billy's handsfumbled with the paper program that he had folded into eighths andpulled it open. There was twenty performances all together and youwere the thirteenth. Billy had half a mind to just leave and dealwith your disappointment later.

He stepped out during the seventhperformance, a vocal act, for a smoke that he pulled all the way tothe bottom of his lungs until he felt a calming burn. Billy returnedwith two more acts before you and his eyes ready to shut. Your littlebrother nudged him in the ribs when he started to nod off rightbefore you were going up.

Billy sat up right away and adjustedhis back against the small theater chair. He didn't really know whatto expect when he watched you take the stage stairs, one by one, withyour instrument in one hand and bow in the other. He was certain hewasn't going to like it, but he was fond of the black dress huggingyour hips that he was so fond of. He decided this what goodboyfriends did and, privately, he really wanted you to be able tobrag to your friends that he was the best. He folded his hands overhis stomach and cleared his throat, watching as you set yourself upin a manner so poised that he couldn't believe you were the same girlwho could deep-throat him three times in a row before gagging.

You had chosen Caprice No. 24 strictlybecause your former teacher said that it was too challenging. It hadbecome something of a sticking point and you were determined to learnit now. Since Mr. Samson was in attendance, you felt like this wasthe opportune time to show him just how up to the challenge you werewith the right guidance. Resting the violin on your shoulder, youclosed your eyes a moment, took in a relaxing breath, and began.

When the song finished, you intendedto give yourself a single moment to stretch. After that, you weregoing to dive right in to the next song, your second and final piece,but when you let out the exhale of a breath you swore you had beenholding in tightly the whole time, you were overwhelmed withapplause. Looking out with a silly smile on your face, you gasped atBilly standing on his feet right next to your brother. He wasclapping over his head and sticking out his tongue at you like he wasat a rock and roll concert.

“That's my girl! That's my fuckinggirl!” He howled, pride glowing in shades of red off his facebefore your mother shushed him for cursing.”Yeah, baby!”

Once you were finished, Billy couldn'twait til the end of the recital to see you. He crept away from hisspot and found a spot behind you in the row of the other performers.He tapped your shoulder firmly and then nodded toward the nearestexit to follow him.

Trying to be polite, you moved throughthe row and then pushed the door open slowly. You excepted to findBilly out on the mezzanine, but as soon as the theater doors shutbehind you, you felt his arms pull you in. He pinned you against thesmall corridor wall, cold against your shoulders, and his mouth fullydevoured yours. He moaned into your mouth and you hummed back causinga vibration between you both.

“That was so hot, [Y/N/N].” Hechuckled and looked you over before running his hands down your sidesand up again. “You made violin so fucking sexy. I got to have youright now.”

“Here?” You laughed, watching himin a flustered state. The boy who complained the entire time in theCamaro on the drive up was now driven mad by your talent.

“Here. The washroom. The car.Wherever. God, you're incredible.” Billy didn't know what you weredoing in Hawkins, being as amazing as you were, but he felt certainnow that you had been waiting there specifically for him to find. Histalented, gorgeous, and intelligent goddess.

[grownups-are-the-real-monsters]

Classic

Summary: Spirit Day at school. ‘Dress like your favorite decade’. 

Ships: Reddie 

Tiny little drabble

Richie’s legs bounced as he sat cross-legged on the hood of his car, a cigarette hanging from his mouth that let out spiraling trails of smoke. He felt his phone vibrate in his back-pocket so he leaned back, laying over his windshield while he hovered the device just over his face, successfully blocking the minimal sun. 

The day was calm. The sky had been a dim gray and fluffy clouds were blocking the sun. It was only the beginning of the sweet cold days heading their way very soon. It put a little more weight on Richie’s shoulders knowing that he was beginning his last year of high school. But he did his usual method of ignoring impending problems, by throwing himself head first into the most useless activities. 

And today was one of those silly spirit days. ‘Dress like your favorite decade’. And Richie knew immediately that he had to do it. Most of his wardrobe fit the ticket anyway. 

In miraculous time with the crisp strike of lightening over his head, a small whistle came from a few feet away. He lolled himself up, the ringer tee that he had on clung tightly onto his arms. 

And as clear as day stood what had to be, one of Richie’s favorite get-ups of the school day. Instantly, he held out his hands in mock camera filming form. “Stan the Man, the flower child the seventies forgot, huh?” 

Stan rolled his eyes, behind his tiny round sunglasses. He only reflected the gesture back at his friend. “And Richie Tozier....wearing basically the same thing he always does.” He flopped his hands back down and started walking up to the car, bell-bottoms dragging a bit on the concrete. 

“I’m the eighties, Stanley.” Richie stretched his arms back, peeking from his leather jacket was his classic red, Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers shirt. Stan made an ‘o’ shape with his mouth and leaned on the door. “But I see, you went all out.” He teased. 

“We get extra credit, It’d be dumb not too.” Stan shrugged with a tiny smirk as he pushed up his glasses. “Bev’s the eighties too, no surprise.” 

“Great minds, think alike.” Richie shrugged with a laugh and shifted a little. He poked his tongue against his canine tooth in thought. 

“Mike is the sixties, Ben is the nineties, I made Bill do the seventies with me...” Stan trailed off, looking down at his clothes with slight embarrassment. 

“Hey, I think you look groovy, babe.” Richie chuckled and Stan rolled his eyes. 

“And Eddie is the fifties.” Stan finished and Richie took in that picture. He giggled, throwing his legs over the side of the car and swinging them slightly. 

“That, I have to see. Where is Eds, anyway?” 

Stan shrugged. “Said he’d text you at lunch, right?” 

It was then that Richie remembered that forgotten text that vibrated his phone just before Stan came over. He chuckled and unlocked the phone again. 

‘I’m gonna meet you in ten minutes’, sent ten minutes ago. 

Richie was just about to make a slick comment about that when something thumped down on the hood next to him, making him jump. 

“What’s so interesting?” Eddie laughed, looking down at Richie’s phone as Stan chuckled. 

“That was cruel.” Richie shook his head before he fully took in the sight of Eddie. The boy was decked in his look. He wore a white dress shirt and neutral colored plaid pants. Richie poked his shoulder. 

“Ohhhhh, Eddie.” He quickly pulled his hand back and shook it as if he was burned, Eddie pursed his lips. “It’s a compliment, Eds. I’m saying you’re hot....get it?” He shook his hand one last time for emphasis. 

“I got that. It’s very cheesy.” Eddie rolled his eyes. 

The real kicker of his outfit was the vintage looking Letterman’s jacket that sat perched on his shoulders. He reached out and pulled on it. “That thrift store by the theater?” 

Eddie nodded with a chuckle.

Richie grinned, unable to hold it back. “Damn, you look good.” 

Stan shoved his hands into his pockets and made a gagging sound. Eddie blushed and shoved Richie away, hopping down next to Stan. “You look awesome, Stanley.” 

Stan smirked. “Thanks. I’m thinking about wearing this stuff everyday now.” He shook his wide pant leg. 

The thing about Stan was that, no one could ever really tell his sarcasm from his truth. Either way, Eddie and Richie chuckled. 

“Eddie my boy, how’sa ‘bout I drive you home today and then maybe will go split a soda-pop at the diner?” Richie batted his eyelashes and Eddie shifted his books into his other arm. 

“I’m sorry babe. We’re about thirty years apart soooo...” Eddie whistled, gesturing from Richie’s 80′s get-up to his 50′s outfit and kicked his foot against the pebbles while Stan shook his head. 

Richie hopped off his car and went to swiped Eddie’s books to carry them for him but Eddie moved quicker, taking Richie’s books instead. “I’ll carry these for you.” He smirked. “And walk you to class?” 

Richie laughed, clapping his hands and nodding. “Thank you, Eddie my love.” 

The two boys skipped off to their class and Stan shook his head. ‘Idiots.’ 

[itsyouraveragebooklover]

Solar Eclipse

A/N: Hello everyone! Its been a little while since I’ve written something but I come with a gift. A small Nessian drabble. More specifically a solar eclipse drabble in honor of the solar eclipse which passed through the United states yesterday. Unfortunately my state didn’t get to see the full merging ;-; so sad.. but it still was super awesome! If anyone saw the full eclipse tell me your experience and what you thought about it! I would love to know. Without further ado this is a small fanfic which I hope you guys enjoy! <3 As always the characters do not belong to me. 

One line summary: Nesta and Cassian experienced their first solar eclipse together.

The cabin bore an empty silence, a sudden stillness. Something completely contrary to the usual boisterous and jubilant nature the space usually possesses.

Even the familiar routine she grown so used to felt missing. The lack of it nudged something deep within threatening to surface. But she pushed it aside and burrowed it not willing to let the small inkling of a feeling consume her already blurred thoughts.

Nesta shifted up into a sitting position, slowly pressing her bare skin into the cherry wood headboard behind. Her arms looped around her legs pulling them in close for comfort.

Her gaze lazily swept through the room in one motion. They stared towards the open window allowing a ray of golden light to filter into the area. Some specks of dust became visible while swaying in the sun, finding a place to settle. The glow continued to push through finally settling onto the bed, pawing at Nesta’s legs with warmth. Her eyes followed the path and how it dwelled on the vacant side of the mattress harboring a mess of crumpled blankets.

Her mind flipped through the moments when she awoke. How the sun lit the space behind her eyelids causing her to scrunch her face at the sudden disruption in sleep. She remembered how her grey eyes cracked open to find that Cassian wasn’t tangled up in the sheets beside her. She remembered how a plush comforter wrapped her entire body instead of the muscular arms she had grown so accustomed to. And she remembered how the smoke and sandalwood scent was faint. Fainter than usual.

On instinct she reached over to graze the indent within the mattress and find that it was chillingly cold. A frown grew as she pondered through the unsettling nature of the situation.

Though she didn’t want to admit it sometimes, she cherished each morning when they would wake together and remain in bed ensnared within each other’s arms. She cherished even the moments when he would have to slip from bed to fulfill his duties as general. On those occasions Cassian would never part with Nesta without planting kisses in the middle of her brows, on either side of her cheeks, and upon the tip of her nose and lips.

But today he slipped out and left nothing behind.

Maybe something urgent occurred from him to have rushed out of the cabin without a whisper of a goodbye. Whatever the situation was she knew he would always be safe and could handle anything that stood in his way. For many would never forget, Cassian is the Lord of Bloodshed and he should never be taken lightly.

So instead of pondering upon the what ifs, she decided to enjoy the quiet break in dawn lounging upon a velvet sofa with a novel in her lap. An ancient novel coated with a thin layer of dust and lint. A smile grew as she flipped the parchment pages one by one. For the longest time now Nesta craved to read this story since the moment she spotted it within the cabin’s library. A library built just for her by the hands of Cassian himself.

Her mind desperately needed to dive into a new world. One where you could explore and get lost in to your heart’s content.

While enjoying the moment Nesta’s ears carefully listened to the fire ablaze to her right. It was tucked into a fire pit lined with marble and gated with iron guards. Several logs within were stacked against each other further fueling the hungry flames. The original oak color that the lumber hailed burned to an orange glow for a brief moment in time until crumbling into a singed black. For added bliss the heat radiating off the flames ambushed the crisp morning air that had a tendency to nip at her bare skin.

The sight itself was alluring and awakened a power inside that wanted to play. But Nesta merely returned to her book further devouring the addicting story.

“I shouldn’t be surprised to see you curled up with a book once you finally have the time to yourself,” a husky voice sounded from behind. A voice which she had undoubtedly waited for.

She peeled her eyes away from the words below, a little at loss for not being able to continue reading. But no matter how much she loved the story and would do anything to continue on with it, she secretly loved Cassian more.

The light brown hair braided back cascaded down her collarbone as she twisted her gaze to meet the burning hazel ones of the general. His hair was clean and sun kissed apart from its usual dirt coated nature. He wore his usual Illyrian leathers which possessed not a single scratch or scrape. This told Nesta enough of what she needed to know. Apparently there wasn’t a battle in which he participated in. Or as far as she assumed, it didn’t seem like he was called into battle. 

But yet again she could never guess because his combat skills were amazing enough to defeat someone without earning a single blemish upon himself in return.

After looking him up and down she finally spoke with a brow raised, “Couldn’t resist getting my hands on this book.” She flashed the cover at him smirking while doing so and continued, “And I couldn’t resist soaking up this moment of silence for Cauldron knows how long I’ll get another one.”

A huff of air tumbled out of Cassian as he rolled his eyes. “Tell me sweetheart,” he trailed off grinning with a sly look upon his features, “that you undoubtedly missed me while I was gone.”

That comment only caused Nesta to purse her lips and squint those beautiful storm grey eyes at him.

“Because every second I was gone I felt the uneasiness, the concern,” he tapped the area of his chest where his heart lurked beneath. “Which was surprising considering how cold you could be sometimes.”

Now that comment earned him a book to his face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered stretching out of the padded sofa and towards him.

“Apology accep—”

“I was talking to the book,” she smiled while picking the book off the floor and inspected it for any indents. When she was satisfied with the lack of damage she carefully placed it upon a table nearby.

As he rubbed the soreness from his face where the book smashed into mere moments before he murmured, “Missed you too.”

Now that earned him a kiss upon his nose which took the brunt of the attack. Nesta’s arms slipped around his waist and laid her pointed ear upon his torso over the steady heartbeat beneath. Cassian gladly wrapped his arms around her small frame pulling her in tighter still whimpering as the slight pain lingering.

“Wondered where I’ve been?” He asked peering down at her.

She shifted her gaze up towards his revealing the sultry storm within. It lodged a breath within his lungs as she spoke with an alluring wicked smirk, “I did, but I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction.”

No matter how much the two bicker it brings a strange sense of happiness amongst them. The familiarity and teasing is something that keeps them on their toes. The intensity and excitement that leads to other things also was something they both heavily enjoyed.

“Well, for that stubborn curiosity I will answer your question.”

Nesta hummed unwrapping herself from him waiting for his next movement.

Cassian only gripped her hand entwining their fingers together with a little tug. Her fingers were supple and skin soft. However, they were still peppered with callouses, so stark compared to his rough battle worn skin.

Without a thought she followed after him as he led her through the corridor decorated with picture frames. As they paced one she glanced at towards it eyeing the figures. It framed Nesta along with her three sisters. Each of them wore their hair down letting the loose curls tumble down their chests. Feyre bared the brightest smile as she clutched Elain and Nesta close on either side. Elain had a petite hand covering her growing giggle, laughing at the bickering between Rhys and Cassian. While Nesta wore a small smile of her own as she gripped Feyre with equal force. The smile from what she could remember in the moment was completely genuine.

The next frames displayed the entire newly formed Inner Circle. One displayed everyone laughing uncontrollably with silly expressions while another presented them all smiling in a much formal manner. There was even one of Rhy’s and Feyre’s wedding photo. They looked beautiful. Truly happy.

The last couple of frames while the two strolled down the hall were of Nesta and Cassian. It was of them smiling, laughing and enjoying a view from on top a mountain which Mor happened to catch before they noticed.

They were all good memories. Ones she cherished. Ones she would do anything to protect.

Finally, Cassian led them out the cabin outside where he swept her off her feet already unfurling his wings.

Before anything could happen Nesta blurted, “Where are we going?”

Cassian only gripped her closer reminding her that he would keep her safe. “That’s a surprise.”

With that he bent his knees, stretched his wings out and shot up into the sky.

                                                            …

As the wind caressed Nesta’s cheeks while they flew fast through the air she noted the white bloated clouds and the trees zipping past below. It surprisingly didn’t take long until she spotted an approaching mountain range. Just in tune with her thoughts Cassian flew higher towards the peak of the mountain.

They came in at full speed until he elongated his wings out to slow their pace. The two crunched into the ground, the earth beneath groaning at the powerful landing.

Cassian gently placed Nesta down on two feet as she sighed at having solid ground beneath her. But the view before her was what really took her breath away. The land stretched out until meeting the horizon, farther than what she had ever seen before.

“Beautiful isn’t it?” He spoke still holding her fingers. Nesta could only nod lips slightly parted in awe.

“Just you wait for the main show.”

“Main show?” Her voice whispered still unable to peel away from the sight.

Cassian hummed motioning her to follow him again. He apparently had a lot of surprises up his sleeve today.

She anxiously peered around his broad shoulders to spot a blanket laid down upon the ground. Stones were tucked away in each corner to hold the sheet down against the wind. There was even a woven basket placed in the middle.

“Oh shit, its already starting!” He yelped pulling her faster to the sheet. The two quickly plopped down as he laid another spare blanket along them to block the icy bite of the atmosphere.

“Cassian what’s going on?” She questioned unable to contain the thoughts while he prepped everything around them.

But before she could get a response his smile widened and merely pointed up to the sky. To the sun.

“Today is a solar eclipse. Its rare for the path of the shadow to just pass through the Night Court but we were graced with one today. And I scouted all morning to find the best view.”

Her ears picked up a clinking of glasses until she finally peered down to spot two vials. They contained a purple liquid which continued to swivel around.

“These are for our eyes. It will protect them from the sun,” he spoke handing one to her and gulping his in one swift motion. Nesta mirrored his movements letting the liquid settle within.

A solar eclipse. She’d never seen one before. Only heard about them in stories and read about them within books.

Her gaze settled on the sun amazed at how well the potion started to work. Mere moments later the moon, a dark shape, started to overlap the sun blocking bits of its marvelous light.

He did this for her. Left early in the morning for this moment. To give her the best possible view and experience this. It overwhelmed her. She was entirely grateful for this person sitting next to her. For this man who would go above and beyond for her.

With that in mind she laid her head along his shoulder still staring up at the continuous phenomenon above. He kissed the golden brown hair on top her head before laying his head lightly against hers.

Together they watched the moon overlap with the sun casting a wave of darkness over the land. Once the two met together a flash of light burst causing her to have goosebumps. She watched the halo surrounding the shape above, shimmering in beauty. 

This was something she would never forget. A memory that will forever be tucked away into her heart and mind. Something she will cherish. And cherish with the person she could never live without. The person she wouldn’t want to have it any other way with.

“Thank you,” she gripped his hand tighter. “Thank you for this.”

[jeonminhao]

Stardust [ Woo Jiho ] - 1

BLOCK B - WOO JIHO | 1006 WORDS  | ANGST+FLUFF

Rating : PG-15  | Pairing : Woo Jiho x Reader  |  Warning : Smoking, implication of smut?

Summary: ONE DAY!AU - A series of drabble/scenarios revolving Jiho & [Y/N] ‘s relationship throughout the years. (inspired from the novel One Day)

A.N : Let me know what you think! Request are still open too so feel free to request a scenario :) not edited yet so there might be some mistakes.

• REQUEST •

2013  | 

December 20th, 2012

“Do you remember when we first met?” Woo Jiho, fellow resident of the university dorm, who happened to be her one-night-stand partner after last night’s party, asked. His voice was a lot deeper in the morning and a tad huskier. It was the kind of voice that turned her into a mush and gave her millions of butterflies in her stomach. Her eyes fluttered opened and she blinked a couple of times, trying to adjust her eyes to the bright morning light that managed to seeped through her window curtains, blush creeping up her neck and to her face when she noticed several purplish marks along Jiho’s collarbone. She quickly averted her gaze up to his face, focusing her attention on his dark circles under his eyes that miraculously didn’t make him look like death.

 He turned to her with a little smirk, gaze trailing down her bare body that was covered by a fluffy blanket. His fingers traced random patterns on her exposed shoulder as he hummed a familiar tune, his free hand picking up the abandoned cigarette from the ashtray on the nightstand.

“You tackled me.” [Y/N] replied, grabbing the cigarette from his fingers to take a huff. She flashed him a small smile as she scooted closer to his bare chest, earning a little chuckle from the music major.

 “I’m glad we met.” He said after a while. His expression softened as he stared into her eyes. “I’m glad we slept together too.” Jiho added as he took a long draw off the cigarette.

 “Oh fuck you.” She mumbled, slapping his stomach lightly to stop him from laughing his ass off.

 “How are you so adorable?” He cupped her cheeks and made a cooing noise at her. He was so warm and soft and all the things that turn [Y/N] into a mess.

 He leaned down to kiss her lips and she reveled in the way he tasted, cheap cigarette smoke and last night alcohol that now made her slightly nauseous. But her thoughts soon scattered the moment he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, hands slowly making their way down her waist to pull her closer.

 .

 Three hours and two showers later, [Y/N] found herself standing in front of her not-so-neat drawer in her underwear while Jiho sat on her bed, wrapped up in her nice blanket.

 “You’re unbelievable.” [Y/N] grumbled under her breath while she rummaged through her drawer for a decent piece of clothing. “What am I supposed to say to your parents?! What am I supposed to wear!”

 “You’re my girlfriend.” Jiho wiggled his eyebrows, clearly amused by her. He ignored the string of curses that left her mouth and took out a maroon-colored long-sleeved dress and beige long peacoat from the wardrobe next to the wooden drawer. “This is nice.” He suggested, lips quirked into a small smile when she took the clothes with an adorable glare. It took everything in him not to scoop her up and kiss her pouting lips. Later, he mused to himself, gaze still lingering on her as she changed into the clothes he picked for her.

 “You’re lucky I like you, Woo Jiho.”

 “I know.” He grinned. “I’ll buy you pizza when we got back, okay? We need to go now. We’re going to be late.” Jiho looked at his phone while he reached for her hand, oblivious to the slight flush of her cheeks. [Y/N] looked down at their intertwined hands, hearts fluttering at the warmth. This was Jiho, she reminded herself as they left her room. The Woo Jiho who tackled her down to the ground because he was late for class, the guy who greeted her every morning and gave her his share of jelly because she loved them, the guy who was nice to everyone and had slept with dozens of girls, the very Woo Jiho who she just spent the night with, who looked stunning in turtlenecks and silly colored coats, who asked her to be his girlfriend for a day because his parents were in town and he might have lied a little and told her he had one. Woo Jiho’s girlfriend. The words warmed her face and she quickly shook off the thoughts that had steer towards a dangerous course, opting to hide her face under the bulky scarf she put on earlier.

 “You look beautiful, by the way.” Jiho off-handedly commented, causing her to look up in surprise. She thought she saw a hint of blush on his cheeks and wondered if maybe he really meant the compliment.

 .

 “Are you going to go back with them, Jiho?” [Y/N] asked once his parents went back to their hotel. She let him lead her back to the dorm, ignoring the slight lump in her throat and the gnawing feelings inside her.

 “Maybe.” He shrugged, the implication not lost in her.

 “No pizza, then?” She asked, hating herself for sound so weak in front of him.

 “Yeah.”

 She felt a little proud of herself when she managed to pry her hand away from his grip, eyes bright with fresh tears the moment it came in contact with Jiho’s brown orbs. Gone was the warmth and love that she saw just a few hours earlier. No. She wasn’t going to cry over this. This was Jiho, she repeated to herself. She should have known better. She watched girls cry over him, for heaven’s sakes. And now she would be one of them. She fleetingly wondered if they made a club and if she could join them. Maybe she could get some tips on how to move on from Woo Jiho and his charms.

 He looked a little confused, the realization hitting him only a moment later when he saw the hurt in her eyes. Jiho stayed quiet as he watched her wrapped her coat around her, words of apologies stuck in his throat.

 “Have a Merry Christmas, Jiho.” She smiled and turned around, tears falling down like waterfall.

 He didn’t stop her.

[thatmudblood]

The Kübler-Ross model - drabble

The Kübler-Ross model establishes a series of emotions experienced within the prospect of death. Said stages are: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

31th of October, 1981.

After leaving her wand on the kitchen counter, she walked the few steps that separated her from the door leading to the sitting room. She opened it slightly to be graced by the purest sight of all. 

Harry, in his blue pajamas - she had spent at least half an hour trying to convince him that being dressed was not something to be ashamed of, or a matter to cry and yell -, laughed in such carefree fashion at the puffs of colored smoke James was doing with his wand, that sat on the couch. Lily didn’t fight the giggle that burst out of her; her fears didn’t weight as much since they performed the secret keeper incantation. For that same reason she wasn’t carrying her wand. Peter was the sole source of her calmness, and she had no words to thank him for that. Her son, on the other hand, had more pressuring matters to attend, as he seemed very confident that he could catch the smoke with his little hands. James was apparently having an equal share of fun with this.

She had learned, after a year of being a mother, the look on her son’s face when he was sleepy, so she leaned against the doorframe, taking a breath to point this out— but she couldn’t bring herself to do it yet. No, just another minute, she told herself, taking in the happiness and peacefulness of the moment. Warmth crept all over her, and every love song made sense now that she was gifted with the sight of her playful husband enjoying some time with his son.

“I know I’ll get my share of pouting boys when I say this, but I think it’s time for bed for the ones that can’t spell ‘bed’ yet”, she said, with a gentle voice.

James scooped up Harry and handed him to her. Her arms wrapped carefully around him, pressing the boy against her chest, yet remaining in her spot. James stretched and yawned – it looked like it was also bedtime for the ones that could spell bed, after all –, and left his wand upon the sofa. He gave her a puzzled look as he saw here still standing there, and rose to his feet. Lily, clutching her son tightly, tiptoed slightly and stared at him, trying to convey an unspoken message he understood far too well, a hand moving to tilt her chin up to place a chaste kiss on her lips.

“I love you”, she whispered, her forehead still pressed against his own, submerged in her own bubble of happiness…

Until it was popped out. Until everything grew darker.

And he had realized first. Without taking his wand, James sprinted to the hall, and the look on his eyes told the tale before the words reached his lips.

“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off!”

Harry. That was the first word that formed in her head. She followed her trail of thoughts, lowering her gaze to stare at the boy that clutched to her chest, looking at her with a puzzled expression, apparently oblivious to what was about to transpire. 

James. He looked so brave, so tall, and so beautiful, every inch of the man that she had learned to love through years of denial, the husband that showed her, truly, what love, loyalty and respect meant; that held her hand while joining her in a path to be a better person. She wanted time to freeze. She wanted to watch him until his figure was burned into her eyes like a tattoo, like a permanent reminder.. And it didn’t matter what happened that night— she had no regrets. 

Peter!

Something wrong must had happened. There was no room for mistrust, something had happened. Peter had to be dead, or in mortal danger. What about Sirius and Remus, she thought. Did he get them too?

James. James, James, James. Her love. Her one, only, true love. She wanted to yell she was going to stay there with him, until the end, but she knew she had nothing to do there, that it wasn’t her place and her time. She had to protect her son, and realization felt like a curtain that separated her from James.

Denial.

No. No, this couldn’t be happening. No, they were supposed to make it alive. All three of them: her, her husband and her son. Husband and son. She had a family! A family she couldn’t protect! No, this wasn’t happening. This was just a bad dream, a result of all her fears. Someone would feel it too, and come to their aid. She stormed the stairs up, moving furniture to cover the door. It was a stupid attempt. She wasn’t a witch, then. No, she was a mother,  a muggle raised mother bruising and hurting as she moved every chair she could get her hands on. This would help. This would, she lied to herself, keep him off until she had time to figure it out.

She felt it in her very soul, even before she heard the noise of his body falling to the floor. He was gone, and she knew it, because it felt as if part of her heart was being ripped off—a piece of her own soul. Because colors didn’t look the same. James Potter was gone, and one could think she had more pressuring matters to worry about, but for what it felt like hours, flashes of him appeared in front of her eyes. His smile. His lips. The way he hugged her. The countless times she thought him an arrogant toerag, til the point where she realized she couldn’t live without him. His body on top of hers, making love to her. The way he stared at her, cherished her, loved her.

Her thumb rubbed absentmindedly over the ring that was naught by a mere symbol of what tied them up together.

She took her son in her arms, and kissed his forehead.

“You have to be strong. I love you. I love you so much. Everything is going to be alright. Harry, you’re so loved. Mama loves you. Dada…” there was a knot in her throat, “…loves you.”

But, as the door opened, she knew her fate. She knew she would die there. She just wished it made a difference. She dropped her son into his crib, and spread her arms in front of him. She could protect him that way.

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”

Anger

“Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now.”

She shifted slightly, trying to conceal her son from his eyes again, anger flashing on her bright green eyes—because she understood she was being granted with a choice. Did he really think she would treasure her own life over her son’s? That was how Voldemort understood family and love? Her safety, on top of the person she loved the most?

Rage filled her up to the brim, hands clutching into fists at the arrogance and ignorance of the man– or whatever he was now. How was he capable of such wonders with magic, and own such little knowledge on matters of the heart? She was burning. With fear, with anger. What had happened to him that made him oblivious to the love of a mother? No, he didn’t know love, he couldn’t– He woulnd’t have freed the world of the wonder that was James Potter if he did, because if someone knew how to love unconditionaly, that was him. She could taste her bile in her mouth, as she stood face to face with the sole being that took the life of her brightest star, of her one and only sun. James. He had killed James, her James, her loving, caring husband– And, now, she knew, he was after her son.

“Not Harry, please no!”

Bargaining

“… Take me, kill me instead –“

Was that a fair trade? No, it wasn’t. She could read it the second the man lay his eyes on her child. He wanted him. Her life meant nothing to him, but what made him give her a choice? Would she live to know the reason?

“This is my last warning –“ he spoke, apparently using every bit of patience left. She could sense his thrill: he was excited about this. He had expected this for a long time. But she had to do what she could. Beg. Negotiate.

“Not Harry! Please … have mercy … have mercy … Not Harry! Not Harry!”, her eyes refused to leave his own, her body aching from how tense she was, glued to her spot as if it could protect him merely with her body as a shield, “Please — I’ll do anything …”

And she meant it. She would have done anything, but his eyes told another tale—there was no possible outcome there were her son came out alive of that.

Depression

Tears ran down her cheeks and she knew herself unable to stop them from doing so. This was it. She was going to die, unable to protect her son, unable to kiss her husband one more time. And it tasted like failure; as if everything she’ve done to protect them was naught but a circus to increase the climax on the final act. She was afraid, so afraid, legs shivering so much, almost unable to hold her weight.

She thought of her friends. Remus, with the kind spirit and the warmest smile; Sirius, with his loyalty, carefree manners and a group to call family now; Peter, that was loving and compassionate, so thankful for the love of his friends. She thought of her sister, whom she loved deeply regardless everything that happened between them. She blinked, and within the blink she saw was loopsided glasses, messy hair, and the purest smile.

Lily thought of her boy. Harry James, her own piece of heaven on earth, and about all the things he was going to have to face, if he could make it out alive. She wouldn’t be able to hold him anymore, to kiss him goodnight and cradle him into her arms, watch him grow, wave her hand at him as he left in the Hogwarts’ express to meet his destiny: the one of a wizard, a loved one.

Acceptance.

But she was going to die standing. She would die loving him, and love had to make a difference. She had to trust that. She almost didn’t hear his spell. There was no more room for fear— no, she had only room for love. She was going to die, and that’s how things were supposed to be. It all made sense now– it was as if she could almost hear the jigsaw puzzle coming together, every piece in place. She had done everything. She had lived, she had laughed, she had loved. She had so much more to live, but she had experienced life at it’s fullest, marveling on every color the world had show her— even when, now, the one that filled was bright and green.

Lily Potter embraced death, a ghost that lay upon their heads for so long, with her arms wide open, just as she had embraced life, and love.

She dropped like her husband.