#KISS KISS FALL INTO LOW EARTH ORBIT

[catiuskaa]

HEURES D’ABSENCE.

come to bed (study me instead).

sum. felix knows you have to study, but… he smells so nice too… ok, hear me out… what if, instead, he helps you... review your research material?

wc: 4.3k

cw: sun & moon metaphors, felix is so down bad, minsung is mentioned, they’re so silly, sir kink? (not explored), kisses, kisses, kisses, oral (m.rec), soft yet unprotected piv sex (don’t!), and that’s all, folks!

scent. (♡) the perfume saga.

[🔹★💤 ★🔹]

The Sun is the star at the center of the Solar System. It is a massive, nearly perfect sphere of hot plasma, heated to incandescence by nuclear fusion reactions in its core, radiating the energy from its surface mainly as visible light and infrared radiation with 10% at ultraviolet energies. It is by far the most important source of energy for life on Earth. The Sun has been an object of veneration in many cultures. It has been a central subject for astronomical research since antiquity.

It's kind of an obvious statement, I know, but Felix resembles it quite well, with a couple of exceptions. You know for a fact that he too is by far your most important source of energy for life on Earth. Still, even if Felix can’t help but giggle every time you compare him to the massive star —reason why now his friends call him Sunny, too— he doesn’t feel like he can compare.

He hopes he never gets heated to incandescence. He isn’t sure if any culture venerates him, but he’s quite sure to say that the chances are quite low. He also hopes no one calls him a ‘yellow dwarf.’ But ultimately, he knows he isn’t that massive star that the Earth orbits around because, if he were, he’d probably have a bright, nuclear solution to his silly recent troubles.

But Felix groans. He isn’t as observant as he’d like to be. Moreover, when he does eventually see it, somehow it is always a bit too late.

Hogging the blankets and hugging a pillow, he sinks his head into it again. He’s been turning in bed for what feels like hours because he can’t help but notice it now. He can’t help but wonder how it could escalate to such an extent right under his nose.

Felix blinks, sleepy, but not quite enough to fall asleep.

But hogging the blankets isn’t his thing. He feels hot, so he pushes the bedsheets off of him, just for his arms to feel cold, to which he mumbles a curse and grabs the blanket again. This is bugging him. A lot. Like, sure, it was happening under his nose, but his nose wasn’t even that big. It keeps going for a while: hot, cold, hot, cold.

It’s unfair, or so he feels. It’s gotta be, he grimaces, as he covers himself top to bottom with the stupid blanket, and sticks his foot out. Weirdly, that scares him, so he groans and finally surrenders.

Ladies and gents, it only took Felix a week to figure out and acknowledge: it’s getting harder to sleep without you by his side. The excuse his body gives him is another, however, so he rises from his bed and heads out.

If you hear the faint sounds the wood makes with each of his steps as he goes from his room to the kitchen, he does not know. Felix just stares at your room’s door in your shared apartment, and there’s not even a shy move. Nothing what-so-ever. Not even the slightest gust of wind that moves it.

Felix sighs, the hair in his arms spiky as he opens the fridge and a shiver rushes while he grabs a bottle of water, chugging it as if the answer to his troubles is at the end. Somehow, he never reaches it. He swallows, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling the cold remnants of it quickly fade away down his throat.

That refreshes him, but the light from the fridge killed every ounce of sleepiness in his eyes. He leans his elbows on the kitchen counter, passing his hands through his hair.

It’s a struggle for him, and maybe he comes to terms with it just because it’s late at night for him. Because this is as pathetic as it sounds: you have been locked up in your room on a day-to-day basis because of your exams, and even if Felix understands, cooks you breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and checks on you when it’s late just to move your sleepy body from your desk to your bed, not seeing you aside from that is getting harder and harder.

Mhhm. Damn right. Pathetic, he knows. His roommate Minho—a poor guy stuck living in a flat with a lovey-dovey couple— had laughed one day so hard that they kicked them both out of the university’s library.

“I mean, sure I might miss Jisung like that whenever he has exams, but if I lived with him?” Minho scoffs as they both get out of the library. He feels bad for the blond boy though, so he sighs, patting his back. “Maybe you guys should talk this out, Sunny. C’mon, let’s get some hot coffee.”

Minho was in Jisung's apartment tonight, so Felix couldn’t go and bother him as he usually did. The only light in the flat was the one that escapes from the underside of your door. Like a moth, he gets closer, surrendering again. He sighs as he steps towards your room. Only then, he stops.

He doesn’t want to bother you. It may sound like a stupid excuse that he makes for himself, but ultimately it’s the only truth he knows. However, he grins, thinking that chances are you’ve probably fallen asleep on the desk again, your room smelling like paper, ink, and noodles. He can lie to himself and say that he was only going to tuck you into bed like usual. And so, taking the doorknob in his hand, and breathes out before opening it.

…until, well. You’re not asleep.

The Moon is Earth's only natural satellite. It orbits at an average distance of 384,400 km (238,900 mi), about 30 times the diameter of Earth. Tidal forces between Earth and the Moon have synchronized the Moon's orbital period (lunar month) with its rotation period (lunar day) at 29.5 Earth days, causing the same side of the Moon to always face Earth. The Moon's gravitational pull is the main driver of Earth's tides.

Maybe that is why as soon as the door is open, his heart dances in his chest. Maybe your gravitational pull is insignificant compared to that of the actual grey satellite, but Felix doesn’t have it in him to care when all he wants is to melt by your side. ‘You’re awake,’ he wants to say, but he shrugs it off. That’s a stupid sentence, even for him to say at three am. It is a fact that you barely sleep and that only worsens during exams week.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t let himself dwell on how not creative his mind turns out to be in the worst moments, not while your eyes hold his. It’s then when he sees through the midst of tired, sleepy confusion in the colour of your eyes that the hours of absence, of longing, of craving, crash against you almost as strongly as they crash against him. The sun and the moon on a collision course—fiery and untouchable, yet destined to shatter the sky when they finally meet.

There are no words —no other worlds: a star, and a satellite— as he stares at you, as you sit on the floor, against the edge of your bed, your room a mess and your desk a battleground that, by the looks of it, Felix can’t help but think you’re not having the upper hand in this war you’re fighting against piles of printed put PDFs. You want to stand up and hug him as if you haven’t seen him in months, but you don’t know your right foot from your left, your mind baffled and your heart swooning as soon as the dim light of your desk lets you see some of his darkest freckles, even as far away as he stands.

And somehow, he understands, meeting you halfway. Maybe he doesn’t, but you don’t have it in you to give a damn. Not when he’s back at your side.

It’d be foolish if he tried it right away, and maybe it’s because he knows you so well, but you appreciate that he doesn’t immediately urge you to go back to bed. Felix wouldn’t know if you had been in bed to begin with, but nevertheless, he sits with you against it, the only sound in the room being the ruffle the bedsheets make as he pulls at them to settle them back on the bed, and the sound of your computer’s fan, setting the mood just right.

You would’ve made that joke out loud, but you don’t have the energy. Not when all of your remaining energy goes to pay attention to the very much welcomed presence next to you, when he cradles your face with the palm of his hand, and every bit of hopelessness of your coloured eyes hits him, unrestrained.

“My misty moon.”

It’s a whisper, one that makes your heart sink. You missed that silly nickname so much, and it’s almost ridiculous –you have seen him during the week, but still, it doesn’t feel the same.

His arm slithers its way to your waist, scooching himself closer to you. You blink, noticing your eyes are teary.

Misty, ha. So funny.

Maybe you missed him that much, because it cracks a smile out of you. You don’t dare to doubt that you did. Maybe it’s because you’re stressed because of all the sheer amount of work you still have left to do —just the thought of it makes the room spin.

He hugs you tighter. Felix doesn’t know what to do. He pulls you closer. No, closer. His soft hands move to your thigh and pick you up, sitting you on his lap. He’s never seen you look so fragile.

It was silly. It was you who had asked him to let you be while exams lasted, because you concentrated better alone. The environment chaotic, sure, because you hadn’t had a dinner before two am that wasn’t noodles in like, a week,  but still, even when you were roommates, he knew better than to approach you during exams. You had always made it clear: you just worked like that. He didn’t get it, but he also knows he’d do whatever you need. It hurt his soft little heart to see you push yourself so hard, but in the end, it always paid off.

But you had been missing him so much. So, so, so much you almost were convinced it couldn’t be normal. That you shouldn’t be. You had barely been together for a year, even if you had lived as roommates for longer. Was that even allowed? To miss someone so vividly when they are in the room next to you?

His chest feels warm against you. Oh, you missed him. Your chest gnaws at the feeling, your own heart hating you —despising you, even— from keeping it away from the warmth of this sun for so long —a little over a week— because, how could you be so cruel, your heart whines, teary and all smiley now.

You nuzzle your head in the crook of his neck, and he chuckles softly.

“You’re tickling me, moonmuffin.”

His- his voice? His laugh? Surely he’s got to be trying to murder you in cold blood and cuddles. What else could he be attempting when he feels so soft and so warm and so kissable and so… Felix.

“You smell nice,” you mumble instead, excusing yourself as you attempt to break each and every law of physics you may or may not remember as you move and fail to get even closer to him.

“What?” he giggles again, his hands traveling to thread your hair.

His fingers through your scalp feel so nice you sigh and melt against him. You agree with your heart: how dare you take this away for a week? You should be imprisoned and sentenced to mandatory cuddles for the rest of your life. Yeah. Life-sentence cuddles. You brush your nose slightly over his collarbone. You’re lucky you even remember what you had been saying.

“Not my fault. You smell nice.”

You should peach the idea. Life sentence cuddles for not having cuddles before. For attempting to even succeed in not having cuddles for a week. That? That’s fucking crazy.

“Mooncakes. How about we get you to bed, mmh?”

Maybe two life sentences. ‘Damn. You’re really sleep deprived’, a voice in your head tells you, but you ignore it, loving the thought of cuddles and Felix for life. Wait, no, even better: Felix’s cuddles for life. That way you didn’t need to worry about not having two lives. You could just cuddle. With Felix.

Meanwhile, Felix doesn’t even struggle when his hand passes behind your knees and holds your back, carefully standing up and getting you in bed, and quickly reaching for the blanket to tuck you in.

“What are you mumbling about,” he smiles, stroking your cheek.

His touch feels softer than all the blankets in your apartment combined. Like cotton and clouds, soft, mushy, effervescent. A-blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of deal. Which is a very big deal, because there is no way in hell Felix even tries to leave. You have been sentenced to cuddles for life, and the law is the law.

“Oh no, mister,” you blink, smiling softly. “You don’t get to leave now.”

His eyes are like crescent moons while you look at him as if he was crazy. As if the mere thought of him trying to leave was mindboggling, along with downright impossible. Fat chance you were going to let him go past that door tonight. Or ever, your heart snickers, rubbing hands like birdman, almost menacingly.

“The bed is cold,” he teases.

“Warm it up, Sunny.”

Your reply comes faster than he anticipated despite how sleepy you look, and Felix can’t help but smile. He missed how that nickname sounded in your voice, even if it was layered below sleepiness. “Smartass,” he grins, but he tries to keep his promise. Just in case. He wouldn’t want you to be pissed off at him in the morning. “You should sleep.”

“Haha. As if.”

Your hands travel and link behind his head, keeping him an inch from your face. You’re making this too hard for poor, weak, little Felix, but he bites his lip. His voice turns even softer, a whisper against your lips.

“But I’ll just keep you awake.”

Your eyes trail down to his lips, and he’s so close to losing it. “Somehow I still don’t see the issue,” you mumble.

His nose strokes yours as he can’t help but giggle. “You’re so gonna get all moony about it tomorrow.”

“What does that even mean,” you scrunch your nose, much to his amusement.

Felix just laughs, shaking his head sheepishly.

“We should sleep.”

“Right.”

“You’ll be mad at me if you feel tired tomorrow.”

Now that makes you giggle, letting out a sound much like a lie detector would. A strange meeh that, had he not been as tired as he was, Felix would’ve rolled his eyes at.

“Wrong.”

He sighs, the smile on his face not faltering for a millisecond. “You’re making this too hard.”

You blink at him innocently, and Felix indulges again. Maybe because it’s late, but honestly, his mind is too tired to make up an excuse as to why he lowers his head and kisses your temple.

He hears how your breath hitches, and that makes him as giddy as the first time.

“You know, I read something off the pages on the floor last night,” Felix chuckles, stroking your nose with his as you blink and blush.

“Oh?” You smile, cheekily interested.

“Oh,” he teases you. “So, philosophy major, what’s all that with kisses and their meanings?”

“Oh my god,” you laugh, the thought of taking the spare pillow on your bed and hitting him with it getting tempting.

Felix’s hands play with the ends of your hair as it rests against the pillow below your head, a mindless action that he only stops to cradle your face and press against your cheeks teasingly.

“My cute fluffy moon. A philosophy romantic.”

“Enough,” you whine, laughing. His heart does a little dance every time he gets a chuckle out of you, and this time, a win is a win. “Fine, I’ll tell you about it.”

“You know, I’m actually a visual learner?”

Felix bites his tongue when your eyebrows raise. Even he knew that was fairly smooth, which is only acknowledged when you roll your eyes.

“So, technicalities aside, because I refuse to tell the intro again or even read it within the next ten hours,” you state, making him laugh as you continue talking, “the human species has many types of kissing. And all of them have different underlining meanings.”

The look in his brown eyes remains expecting, however, so it seems that short explanation won’t do to make the suddenly-turned Professor Felix happy. Or so he makes it seem, by how he fakes pushing non-existent glasses further the bridge of his nose.

“That seems like an interesting research,” he starts, pushing the non-existent glasses again. “I see,” he snorts, because it’s late, it’s a lame joke, and he’s trying to get you to give him the kisses he’s been missing all week —and he may be close to getting some, which he celebrates silently.

“Any examples, perchance?”

And just why the hell would you refuse?

“Of course, sir,” it’s just because of his formal tone, but something in the air shifts. Maybe just the dust that gets bored and changes direction in the air, but Felix’s eyes also do something you can’t quite place. But your mind goes up to the files, seeing if you understand the topic you are researching.

“How about we do it this way— you say a body part, and I tell you its meaning?”

Oh, fuck yeah. Felix can’t believe he’s getting it this easily. He could die right now, filled with the cheeky malice of getting a plan executed successfully, but he ain’t dying without those kisses.

He ponders carefully but decides to start easy. “A kiss on the cheek?”

As your hands softly move to cradle his face, the feeling of your soft lips against his skin, soft soft soft, so soft he can’t think of a better adjective to describe it nor another by any chance, the gentle and tender press of your kiss triggers the butterflies that linger around in his system ever since he’d started liking you.

“Depending on the culture, a kiss on the cheek indicates affection or tries to portray a sense of welcoming,” you state in a calming voice filled with sleepiness that’s slowly starting to wear off.

“Forehead.” Felix grins, feeling his cheeks heat up when your hands move his head so you can reach from where you are lying down underneath him and shortly peck him.

“A deep wish for protection, with underlying affection. A way to express one’s desire for the other’s well-being.”

“I uh… may be running out of ideas,” Felix chuckles sheepishly. But please don’t stop. I don’t want you to stop. Ever.

He shuts up his heart as you start speaking. “I’ll take the microphone from here, then,” you laugh.

And Felix smiles widely as he starts being pampered to death in the form of kisses. A kiss on his earlobe, “to provoke arousal.” A kiss on his hands, “to greet with respect.” A tiny peck on his nose,  “to express care.” A slightly longer kiss on his lips, “love,” you continue as you smile at him.

Had he been standing, Felix would’ve swooned by now. He doesn’t know how his arms haven’t surrendered and finally refused to hold his weight over you, but there he remains, over you, legs tangled underneath the bedsheets, with the only light in the room —your desk light— lighting not only his face, but also his eyes as they shine brighter after every kiss.

“Now, as you so obviously know, as a thorough expert in the matter,” you joke, happy to make him laugh, “other, different kisses may share meaning with these.”

“I see. Go on, then.”

It only takes another “Of course, sir,” and there it goes again. The tension in the room spikes up, like the hair in your arms whenever you look at the mess your room is in during exams.

But you’re having fun. And you smile. “A kiss on the lips indicates love, as I stated prior,” you snicker, kissing him on the lips again, maybe to make a point, maybe because after all these kisses he’s starting to taste like the most delicious thing you could take to your mouth.

Blame the tension for that, your heart grins at you, pushing you from behind to keep going. And there you go.

“There’s also what is called French kissing.” You swear you can see the exact moment where your desk light rats him out, allowing you to see how his pupils darken when instead of lifting your head to reach him, you finally link your arms behind his head and pull him down towards you, kissing him on the lips again, deeply this time, nibbling on his lips and taking advantage of the moment he smiles to slide your tongue in.

Felix isn’t just on cloud nine. He’s on cloud nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine. He’s never been so high in the sky, and even if it is currently past midnight, had he been the actual, real Sun, not only would he be shining as much as he is now, but also make tomorrow the day with the clearest blue skies.

None of you can tell who is it that starts deepening the kiss. None of you can tell who’s the first that starts panting and gasping while both his and your hands start to map the other’s body, as if they’ve lost something and were sure the other one had it hidden somewhere.

You, however, are sure that there’s no such thing as a good night kiss anymore, because, with Felix’s knee between your thighs and his tongue in your mouth, you’re so not going to allow this alluring man who you’ve been dreaming about since the exams week started to leave you just like that.

To hell with tomorrow’s exam.

Felix, the poor boy, can’t read your mind. Maybe that’s why he gasps so heavily he lets out a moan when you roll him to his back and kiss him again before he can catch his breath. Maybe it's why he keeps letting out moans when he notices you smiling as you kiss him, your hands trailing up below his shirt.

“T-that tickles,” he smiles, panting, as your fingers trail faintly over his skin, making him feel goosebumps.

It doesn’t tickle anymore when it’s your lips that follow his happy trail, down, down, down. He takes off his shirt as if it’s burning, and if he’s honest with himself, he can’t think of a time when he has wanted this as desperately as he does now.

There’s no doubt in his mind that in your darkened eyes the same thought lingers on your head, while they stare deeply into his own, almost in a way capturing his soul, the sensation as effervescent yet not as pleasurable as the one that travels from his dick to his whole body as your hand closes around it. God, if Felix loves that sensation. He was so drunk once that he remembers thinking that if he could marry it, he probably would’ve. Somewhere in Las Vegas, too.

His head falls limp against the pillows with a thud, his hand threading into your hair as pretty little moans leave past his lips, following the sticky sweet sounds your mouth starts to make as you attempt to take him in, hollowing your cheeks and leaving your hand at the base to make up for what you can’t fit.

“F-fuck, baby, that’s so good…” he lets out over and over,” so good, baby, so good,” he almost mewls, “missed you s’much, fuck…”

He lets out a groan as he moves your head away, because he could bet money that he was a beat way from bursting, and he wouldn’t lose. Even then, losing the opportunity to fuck you for all the times he sighed pathetically this week, missing you when you were just next door, is much, much worse.

Felix’s soft hands travel, stroking every square inch of surface he can at a time, passing your thighs, your stretch marks and your hip dips —ones he has been a devout worshiper for God knows how long, dedicating entire nights (and days, if it had been only for him) to the both of them— bending to press soft kisses from your tummy up to your cleavage, his hands playing with your nipples just to hear your whines as he helps you lean your back down softly on the bed.

Felix whispers soft and tender nothings in your ear, mixed with silly sentences just because he’s missed having you below him so stupidly, stupidly because you’ve missed him just as much. He too kisses you everywhere after he slides in, only because he’s pretty sure that if he starts moving right away, he might not last as long as he wants.

Your cheek, your forehead, your temple, on the palm of your hand before linking his fingers with it, on your nose just so he can smile at you when you scrunch it.

“Sunny, don’t tease,” you pout cutely, moving your hips.

Finally, Felix giggles as he dives for your lips deeply. And when he kisses you, you smile, reeling in the feeling of his lips against your lips.

A solar eclipse.

[🔹★💤 ★🔹]

~kats, who’s genuinely tweaking bc why do i feel like this wouldn’t work if i hadn’t sneaked astronomical stuff in it?

catiuskaa, february 2025 ©

I AM??? SO SORRY?? I HAVEN'T POSTED IN?? SO LONG?? MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR??? LIKE ??'?'?'?' I MISSED SO MUCH??

[emmiesoverthemoon]

clay stains

pairing: hwang hyunjin x reader

word count: 3.1k

summary: hyunjin enjoys it when you let him take the lead. in more situations that just a pottery class.

tags: tension, teasing, flirting. oral (f receiving). enjoy

The studio had fallen quiet, save for the low hum of the pottery wheel and the soft scuff of your shoes across the worn concrete floor. Light poured in through the tall, arched windows—molten gold cascading in long, lazy beams that stirred the floating dust into glitter. The scent of damp earth and spinning clay filled the air, grounding and ancient, as though time itself had thickened around you.

And he was already there.

Hyunjin.

Bent over the wheel with his sleeves pushed up and his fingers coaxing grace from chaos. A smudge of pale gray streaked across his forearm, another just beneath his jaw, another on his forehead, threatning to mix with the short hairs of his buzzcut. The white of his shirt clung in places where sweat had kissed the fabric, tracing the planes of his chest, the crest of his bicep, the dip of his spine. He looked almost unreal—like something sculpted from alabaster and warmth.

You paused in the doorway, suspended. Caught between the instinct to retreat and the ache to step into his orbit. To belong in that still, golden moment that smelled like summer storms and felt like something slow and blooming.

Then he looked up.

The grin that unfurled across his lips was dangerous. Too knowing. Too soft.

"There you are," he said, his voice a low thrum in the quiet, as if he’d been waiting for you all morning and had enjoyed every second of the wait.

You tilted your head, arching a brow. "Thought this was a group class."

"It was." He stood, wiping his hands on a towel, then letting it fall aside without ceremony. "Then I asked if I could have you to myself."

Your breath caught somewhere high in your throat, and he noticed. Of course he did. He crossed the space between you with that same deliberate ease he wore on stage—like time bent itself to his rhythm. Sunlight gilded the angles of his jaw, caught on the sheen of sweat along his collarbone.

He stopped just shy of touch. Close enough that the air felt charged.

"You ready?" he asked, coaxing, velvet-toned.

You nodded—too fast.

The wheel spun, quiet and steady as you settled before it. Hyunjin stepped behind you, his presence unmistakable, magnetic. Then his hands brushed up your arms, fingertips dragging softly against your skin before curling around your wrists. He guided them forward, slow, reverent, until your palms hovered above the clay.

His touch lingered.

"Hands here," he murmured, wrapping his fingers around yours. His breath warmed the shell of your ear, his voice sinking into your bones. You leaned back, unthinking, into the space he offered, into the heat of his body aligning with yours.

His chest brushed your back. His hips aligned behind you. And when he guided your hands to cup the spinning clay, his fingers slid between yours, pressing in—not just to instruct, but to feel.

Your breath hitched.

"Good," he whispered. "Steady now… let the clay move through you."

It sounded like a ritual, like prayer.

The clay spun, slick and warm beneath your touch, and he molded it with you—pressing down, coaxing upward, shaping something new from your combined intent. His voice murmured praise, soft and slow, threading into your veins like smoke.

"You’re tense," he said, brushing his lips just above your temple. "Relax. Trust me."

And so you did.

He let go. Only for a breath.

Then his hands shifted lower, framing your hips, anchoring you. "There," he murmured. "Don’t move."

His touch ghosted across your skin every time he adjusted your fingers, each graze more deliberate than the last. The heat built between you—quiet, relentless—as if the wheel itself pulsed with want.

“I thought this was a pottery lesson,” you murmured, though your voice barely qualified as sound. It trembled at the edges, fragile beneath the weight of his nearness.

Hyunjin chose not to answer right away. His eyes flicked to yours, dark and gleaming with something far too wicked to be innocent.

“It is,” he said, the corners of his mouth curling into a knowing smirk. “I’m a very… hands-on teacher.”

The air between you thickened. Heavy. Charged.

You turned slowly, gaze catching his—too long, too deep. The moment stretched, trembling like a string pulled taut. One breath and it might have snapped.

“You’re a natural,” he whispered, the words low and smooth, his breath fanning across your cheek. He was close enough that if you tilted your head just a fraction, your lips might have brushed.

You remained still.

“Or maybe,” he added, voice slipping lower, the syllables velvet-soft and dangerous, “you’re just letting me take control.”

A sound left your throat—half laugh, half gasp—but it came out thin, breathless. “Is that… a problem?”

He hummed, the sound slow and deliberate, vibrating through the warmth of his chest against your back. “Not at all,” he murmured near your ear. “I like when you let me take the lead.”

You were unsure if he meant with the pottery anymore.

And when you glanced over your shoulder to meet his eyes—those endless, dark pools gleaming just above your skin—you knew he didn’t mean it in that context either.

His gaze dropped. First to your mouth, lingering there with bold, deliberate slowness. Then, just as slowly, his eyes lifted again, his smile returning—but softer now. Less teasing. More intent.

His hand slid around your waist. The touch was unfirm, but it was not fleeting either. His thumb rested against your side, unmoving. As if he was anchoring himself. As if you were the thing grounding him.

“You’ve got clay on your cheek,” he murmured, his voice a little rougher now, quieter. His thumb reached up to brush the spot, tender and slow. But it made no move to pull away. It hovered—just a breath too long. “Want me to get it off for you?”

The air crackled around you, silent and electric.

You nodded. A small gesture. And you hated how breathless it made you feel.

But instead of wiping it away, he dipped his thumb back into the bowl of wet clay—and with a mischievous glint in his eye, tapped it gently against the tip of your nose.

You gasped, blinking. “Hyunjin!”

He was already laughing, the sound bright and boyish, the kind of laugh that pulled heat to your chest even as you narrowed your eyes.

“You should’ve seen your face,” he grinned, utterly pleased with himself.

You moved to flick a smudge of clay at him in retaliation, fingers swiping through the bowl, but he caught your wrist mid-motion—fast and fluid. And suddenly, without meaning to, your hand was splayed against his chest.

The laughter stilled.

Your palm pressed over the soft fabric of his shirt, right where his heartbeat pulsed strong and steady. He didn’t let go. And neither did you.

For one suspended breath, you just stood like that—your hand on his heart, his fingers curled gently around your wrist, eyes locked like the world had narrowed to just this.

And then, low and wrecked and barely a whisper, he said, “You’re making it really hard to behave.”

Your breath hitched. Soundless. Helpless.

He stepped back, but only by a pace, only just enough to let the air return between you, though the heat remained. That maddening smirk curved across his lips again as he caught your fingers and tugged lightly.

“Come on,” he said, voice smoother now but no less rich. “Let’s clean up. I’ve got… other ideas.”

You followed, your skin flushed, your heart thundering wild and erratic, the clay still warm beneath your nails. And you already knew—every nerve in your body knew—that this night was nowhere near its end.

The car was quiet. Too quiet.

Outside, the sun had dissolved into dusk, painting the city in soft amber hues and the blue hush of approaching night. Shadows stretched long across the pavement, and the streetlights had begun to flicker to life—warm halos blurred against the glass, like the world had been dipped in honey and left to glow. Inside, the silence settled thick between you, intimate and brimming with unspoken weight.

The hum of the engine purred low beneath you, each gentle vibration a tether to the moment. You sat still in the passenger seat, hands clasped too tightly in your lap, knuckles pale from the strain. And yet it wasn’t tension you felt—it was anticipation. The phantom heat of Hyunjin’s hands still lingered on your skin like a ghost, a memory, something molten and stubborn that refused to fade.

He drove one-handed, fingers draped with casual elegance over the wheel, while the other hovered on the gearshift—too close. Painfully close. So close that each bump in the road felt like a provocation, like the universe itself conspired to close the distance between skin and skin. Every shift of the car was a question. Every silence, a dare.

You swallowed against the tightness in your throat, eyes flicking toward him in a stolen glance.

He didn’t speak. Just glanced back, slow and knowing, the corner of his lips curving in a way that made your pulse stutter. Like he knew. Of course he knew. Like he was content to let you simmer, to let the echo of his touch drive you quietly mad while he sat cool as dusk beside you.

“Didn’t expect you to be so good with your hands,” you said at last, voice pitched low—an attempt at nonchalance that failed miserably beneath the softness that had crept in.

Hyunjin’s laugh was a low, velvet thing in his throat. “You liked that, didn’t you?”

Your gaze dropped to the blur of passing lights outside, but your mouth curved in spite of yourself. “I didn’t not like it.”

He shifted gears, and the back of his hand grazed your thigh—an accident, maybe. Or maybe not. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just kept his gaze on the road while the corner of his mouth twitched upward in subtle satisfaction.

The silence returned, thicker now. Tighter. It thrummed like a string stretched to its limit, vibrating between you both.

He tapped the steering wheel lightly with his fingertips. Then, like the thought had just occurred to him, he said, “You looked cute concentrating like that.”

You turned your head, slow and measured, unsure whether you wanted to challenge or indulge him. “Cute?”

“Mmh.” His smile deepened. “All serious and focused. Tongue caught between your teeth. Your eyes kept darting between the clay and me—like you couldn’t decide if I was about to help you or kiss your neck.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“You were watching me?” you asked, the words falling quiet, fragile.

He glanced at you again—this time longer. This time slower. That lingering look that undressed without touching, that made you feel warm and bare under your clothes.

“You were hard not to watch,” he said.

The world tilted slightly.

You shifted in your seat, knees grazing his, the contact small but seismic. He didn’t pull away. And neither did you.

“So…” you murmured, the word curling at the edges with the faintest smile, “was this your plan all along?”

“To seduce you with clay?” he asked, laughing softly. The sound was warm, indulgent, wicked. “Maybe.”

You looked at him through lowered lashes. “And what now?”

He eased the car to a slower glide as the light ahead turned gold. The moment stretched—long enough for his gaze to slide back to you, for his hand to slip, finally, fully, onto your thigh. His touch was slow. Deliberate. The weight of it was nothing short of electric.

“Now,” he murmured, voice like silk unraveling, “I take you home.”

A beat of silence followed—sharp, suspended.

Then, softer: “But not before making you admit you wanted my hands on you the whole time.”

Your breath tangled in your chest, heart knocking against your ribs.

And as the light turned green, he drove on—one hand steering you through the city, the other anchored to your thigh like a promise.

By the time you crossed the threshold of his home, you were already unraveling—every thought threadbare, every breath half-formed.

Flecks of clay still clung to your arms like phantom fingerprints, a soft reminder of where he had touched you. Your shoes lay forgotten by the door. You turned instinctively, not even sure what you were reaching for—an answer, a reprieve, maybe him—and found him already there, close and silent, his presence like a tide cresting toward you.

The door whispered shut behind you, sealing you in. The sound echoed louder in your chest than it did in the room.

He didn't kiss you.

Not yet.

He only watched you—his gaze slow, deliberate, dragging over every inch of you with the kind of reverence that felt heavier than hands. He saw more than your shape. He saw the shiver running along your spine, the rise and fall of your breath, the heat you had been carrying all night like a secret you could no longer keep.

Hyunjin stepped closer, and it felt less like movement and more like gravity tilting toward your skin. His fingers found your hair, brushing it back from your face with an aching tenderness that made your pulse stutter. Then down—his hands ghosted over your arms, featherlight, until they reached your wrists.

He curled his fingers around them gently and tugged, coaxing you backward until your spine kissed the wood of the door. It was a barely-there pressure, a coaxing rather than a command, and yet it held you still.

“You were such a mess earlier,” he murmured, his voice a velvet coil wrapping slow around your ribs. “Didn’t know what to do with your hands. Just let me touch you… guide you…”

His gaze dropped to your mouth—hungry, soft, certain. “You like letting me guide you, don’t you?”

You nodded. Just a flicker of movement. You were unsure if you were breathing.

A smile bloomed; slow and dangerous across his lips.

“Good,” he whispered. “Then don’t move.”

Then he sank to his knees at your feet.

Your breath caught like a gasp left half-born. He settled before you with the reverence of a man kneeling before something holy. The crown of his head brushed your thighs, and his hands found the backs of them, tracing slow, possessive lines as though committing the shape of you to memory.

“Look at you,” he murmured, the words devout, almost in awe. His thumbs stroked lazy circles into your skin. “Standing here all quiet… all sweet… like you don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

You could barely make a sound. Your lips parted, but nothing came.

He looked up at you, eyes burning with something quiet and consuming. “You gonna let me take my time?” he asked, his voice like honey trickling over heat. “Or are you already aching for me?”

The tremor in your legs gave you away. That made him smile.

“Hmm. I thought so.”

And then—slow as moonlight melting over dark water—he pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just a single, awed kiss, soft and devastating. Then another. Higher. His hands slid beneath your skirt with the patience of a man who knew he had earned every second, and his thumbs hooked around the waistband of your underwear.

“You wore these to pottery class?” he teased, lips brushing skin just above where your thigh met your hip. His breath made your knees buckle. “Sweetheart… you wanted to be touched.”

You whimpered.

“Still pretending you don’t? I see how it is.”

He pulled your panties down slowly, watching the fabric stretch, watching the wetness already glistening there like a secret too loud to ignore. He groaned softly, the sound raw and low, like he was restraining himself by the thinnest thread. Holding your gaze, he let the underwear fall to the floor, but his attention never wavered—not from you.

Then he leaned forward—and kissed you, right where you needed him most.

A slow, delicate stroke of his tongue between your folds that stole the air from your lungs. Your hands flew to the door behind you, clawing for something solid, something real, as your moan broke open against the hush of the room.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, voice muffled against your skin. “Already this wet, and I haven’t even started? Baby.”

You tried to breathe. Tried to answer. But your hips jerked forward, and he caught you effortlessly, wrapping his arms around your thighs, anchoring you to his mouth.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured, tongue sliding against you again—firmer now, slower. “You stand there and take it. You asked for this the second you leaned into me like that at the wheel.”

A strangled sound escaped you, high and desperate, and he grinned against your heat.

“You remember that?” he whispered, his lips ghosting along your inner thigh. “How you were squirming while I held your hands… made you press down slow and hard?” His mouth found your clit and sucked—gently, terribly, perfectly.

“You were panting like I was already inside you.”

You cried out, hips jerking forward again, your body entirely out of your own control.

He pressed you to the door harder, his tongue flicking with new purpose, his fingers now sliding between your folds, pressing slow and sure where you needed him most.

“I’m not gonna stop,” he said, voice ragged and reverent, “until your legs give out.”

His mouth worked you with aching precision, tongue circling, lips sealing around you like he was learning you by taste.

“I want you to remember this every time you see a ball of clay,” he murmured, and then sucked again, relentless, skilled, perfect.

You shattered with his name on your lips—your back arching, your hands clawing at the door frame as your climax crashed over you in waves, messy and sudden and breath-stealing.

You didn't fall—only because he held you up. Even as your legs trembled. Even as your voice failed.

His mouth gentled, his tongue drawing softer circles now, slower kisses against your overstimulated skin as he brought you back to earth. Then one last kiss—low, tender, possessive—before he stood.

He rose like the tide returning, slow and inevitable. His eyes burned. His hands cradled your waist.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and then he leaned in close enough that his breath ghosted over your lips.

“I’m not done.”

im gonna get the pottery video tattooed on my inner eyelids so i can see it when i close my eyes

taglist (ask to be added here): @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @burlesquerade @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

sunshine personified

one-shot

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Sweetheart!Reader

Summary: Golden mornings and pressed flowers, whispered words between pages, laughter drifting through warm summer air. You talk, and Sam listens—always listens, always watches, always loves. Every little thing you do fills him with light, and by the end of the day, he’s sure of one thing: you are his sunshine.

Warnings: Absolute and utter tooth-rotting fluff, kissing, implied/mild reference of cunnilingus/oral, I believe that is all.

Word Count: 4,556

A/N: PHEW. That was too sweet (heh, get it? Hozier?) for me... seriously, I think I need to brush my teeth after writing and proofreading this because the gum-disease is real. I got the idea for this yesterday, and I know... believe me, guys, I KNOW I should be working on the final instalment of "exhibitionism", but I genuinely couldn't help myself. It's been a very fluffy day for me today, and I needed a break from all that intensity. So I started it and it ran all the way away from me. ALSO... how's everyone feeling about the three pic/gif layout? I don't know, I'm trying something new. If we wanna go back to just one gif, let me know. As always, if you feel like it, please give me your feedback. <3 Signing off, until the next one. All the love.

"'Cause my baby's sweet as can be She'd give me toothaches just from kissin' me

When my time comes around Lay me gently in the cold dark earth No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her"

Work Song - Hozier

The morning was slow, syrup-thick, stretching out in ribbons of gold that pooled across the sheets. Somewhere in the haze of waking, you registered the warmth beneath you—steady, unshifting, the rise and fall of breath beneath your cheek.

Sam.

You had fallen asleep against him again.

The realisation curled at the edges of your consciousness, soft and familiar, blooming like warmth in your chest. His sweater—because of course you were wearing one of his sweaters—smelled like cedarwood and coffee, the fabric slightly rumpled from sleep. You stirred, shifting slightly, and the broad, steady palm on your back flexed, fingers pressing idly against the dip of your spine.

There was a quiet chuckle—low, indulgent, so unmistakably him.

"Morning, Sweetheart."

His voice was warm and sleep-rough, that perfect blend of affectionate and teasing, still thick from the weight of rest. You hummed in response, nose scrunching against his chest as you tried to burrow back into the comfort of him.

"Y’know you’ve got a little something—" He paused, his thumb grazing along your cheek, featherlight, tracing the small indent pressed into your skin. His voice dipped, fond amusement laced through every syllable. "—right here. Cute."

You groaned, half-heartedly swatting at him as you rubbed at your face, but the damage was already done—he was grinning now. You didn’t even have to look up to know it. He had that look—the one he always got when he caught you soft and sleep-rumpled, still tangled in the remnants of dreams, your cheek creased from where you’d been pressed against him.

And God, he loved it.

Loved the way you always curled into him in your sleep, loved the way you reached for him without thinking. Loved that you always found your way back.

He shifted, the mattress dipping slightly as he propped himself up on one elbow. His hand—those big, careful hands—slid up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering just a second longer than necessary.

"You drooled on me again," he mused, ever the menace, his grin widening when you gasped in outrage.

"I did not—!"

"Mhm." He nodded, all mock solemnity. "Right here. Think I might have to start charging rent for all the real estate you take up on my chest every night."

You shoved at him, but you were laughing now, and that was all that mattered.

He caught your wrist before you could retreat too far, tugging you effortlessly back into his orbit. His fingers were gentle, curling loosely around yours, his thumb tracing absent patterns over your knuckles.

"Don’t run off just yet," he murmured, quieter this time, softer. His voice was a slow, sweet thing, unspooling in the golden hush of morning.

And maybe it was the way the sunlight hit him just right, casting soft amber halos at the edges of his hair. Maybe it was the way his gaze never wavered, locked onto you like he was memorising every inch, every little sleep-creased detail. Or maybe it was just him—just Sam, looking at you like you were the best part of waking up.

Either way, you stayed.

Of course you stayed.

You let yourself sink back against him, let yourself be gathered up into his warmth as he exhaled slow and content. His hand found its way back to your spine, splaying firm and steady, right where it belonged.

And when you started yapping about the song stuck in your head—something about Hozier, something about a lyric you’d been turning over in your mind—he just smiled, dimples deep, and listened.

Because, God help him—he would listen to you talk about anything forever.

"Here—put it on."

Sam reached for your phone on the nightstand, fingers brushing over the worn book that had been resting there overnight—your latest read, pages softened from where you’d thumbed through them. He handed you the phone without taking his eyes off you, that lazy, morning-soft smile still tugging at his lips.

You blinked, momentarily distracted, still caught between the warmth of sleep and the weight of him beneath you.

"Which one?"

"The one that's already stuck in your head." He said it like it was obvious. Like it was the only answer.

So you pressed play.

The soft, aching pull of strings filled the space between you first, gentle and familiar, before the melody swelled—Hozier’s voice sinking through the room like honey dissolving into tea.

"I still watch you when you're groovin'..."

The moment it started, Sam closed his eyes and smiled.

Not just any smile. That smile. The slow, easy one that started deep—the kind that dimpled, the kind that wasn’t just on his lips but in the way his breath hitched, in the way his shoulders softened.

He let the first few lines roll through him, sinking back into the pillows, completely in it. And when he finally looked at you again, eyes half-lidded, warm like the first spill of sunlight over sheets, he murmured, "Oh, this is a good one."

Like you didn’t already know.

You grinned, shifting so you could stretch out next to him properly, one arm draped lazily over his chest.

"Alright, professor," you teased, voice still scratchy from sleep. "What do you think? What’s he saying?"

Sam huffed a laugh, rubbing a hand over his face before exhaling slow.

"It’s about movement, obviously—"

"Oh, wow, brilliant analysis, Sam. Stunning insight. Absolutely revelatory—"

"Shut up," he laughed, grinning even wider now, reaching out to poke at your side. You squirmed, swatting his hand away. "Just listen."

You did.

"You are a call to motion... There, all of you a verb in perfect view..."

Sam hummed low in his throat. "See that? The phrasing of it? He’s not just watching someone move—he’s saying they are movement. They’re the thing itself."

Your fingers twisted into the fabric of his shirt, considering. "Like… a force of nature."

"Exactly." His fingers tapped absently against your hip, mind already unraveling the meaning. "He’s not describing them as graceful, or powerful, or fluid—he’s saying they’re all of it. He’s saying the way they move… moves him."

Your breath caught.

Because of course that’s what Sam took from it. Of course he understood.

"I can recall something that’s gone from me... When you move, honey, I’m put in awe of something so flawed and free..."

You sat up a little, brows knitting together as you chewed on that line. "That part always gets me. Like—why? Why ‘flawed and free’?"

Sam’s lips pressed together, thoughtful. His thumb traced slow, absent-minded circles against your arm as he considered.

"Because it’s human," he said finally, voice low, reverent. "Because perfection isn’t what moves people. It’s the cracks, the imperfections, the things that make someone real. That’s what sticks with you."

Your chest ached at that.

Because that was him. That was so Sam. Finding beauty in the messy, imperfect parts.

"Shake like the bough of a willow tree... You do it naturally..."

"God, the imagery," you sighed, your hand curling into his shirt like it would help you hold onto the feeling. "Willow trees don’t break, Sam. They bend."

His fingers stilled against your skin.

And for a second, he just looked at you. Like you’d just said something that shifted the whole earth beneath him.

His lips parted, like he was about to say something, but—

He didn’t.

Instead, he reached for you.

One sure, steady hand found its way to your jaw, tilting your face up as his thumb brushed your cheek, slow and deliberate. And before you could even think, before you could catch your breath, he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just deep, slow, and aching.

Like the song. Like he couldn’t help it. Like you moved him.

The kiss stretched long and slow, a sunrise in itself.

His lips moved against yours with aching patience, deep and sure, like he had all the time in the world—because he did. Because there was no rush, no urgency, just this moment, this warmth, this slow-drifting love.

The sunlight spilling through the window turned everything golden, brushing soft against your skin, catching in his hair, pooling over the sheets. It was thick like honey, wrapping around the two of you, holding you in its glow.

Warm. Sweet. Slow.

Sam’s hand—big, steady, reverent—cradled the back of your head, his thumb stroking lazy arcs along the curve of your cheekbone. He kissed you like you were something sacred, like he was memorising the way you felt beneath his mouth.

And God, you could’ve stayed there forever.

But then—

"Come on, or we’ll never get up," he murmured, lips still brushing against yours.

You huffed against him, reluctant.

Sam smiled. Not just with his mouth, but with his whole face—dimples deep, eyes soft with affection, his expression bathed in that early-morning glow.

Then, before you could protest, he sat up, stretching his long limbs, tugging you effortlessly with him.

"C’mon, Sweetheart."

He reached for your nightstand as he stood, grabbing the book you’d been reading the night before, his fingers curling around the worn cover like it was familiar. Then, without letting go of your hand, he led you out into the hall, the book tucked in one hand, your fingers laced through the other.

And that was how you made your way to the kitchen. Hand in hand, words and warmth between you.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and old wood, warm from the soft morning light filtering through the windows. The golden hues stretched long over the floorboards, catching on the vase of sunflowers sitting in the centre of the table.

You settled into your usual seat, curling your legs beneath you, thumbing idly through the book Sam had carried in. Soft pages, familiar creases, a world waiting between the covers.

Across the kitchen, Sam moved effortlessly, grabbing the coffee mugs, setting the pot to drip.

The quiet was comfortable. Soft radio static, birds beyond the window, the rhythmic shuffle of Sam moving around the space you shared.

You flipped to your bookmark—except…

You frowned, because it wasn’t a bookmark at all. Just a folded piece of paper, carefully tucked between the pages. Curious, you pulled it free. Unfolded it.

Your breath hitched.

Sam’s handwriting.

Small, slightly slanted, scrawled in blue ink that had settled deep into the fibres of the paper.

Sweetheart,

You fell asleep with the page open again. I figured I’d save your place before you lost it completely. But since I’m already writing, I might as well tell you something else. I love the way you read. Not just the books, but the world. The way you look at things, the way you take them apart and put them back together with wonder, with softness. The way you see me. I don’t know if I’ve ever been looked at the way you look at me. I don’t know if I’ve ever deserved it. But God, do I love you for it.

—Sam

You brushed your thumb over the words, tracing the ink, lingering on them, like touching them would help you absorb them completely. Warmth bloomed in your chest, soft and full and almost too much. And then, as you sat there, heart soaked in sunlight and love, Sam placed a coffee mug in front of you.

When you looked up, he was already smiling.

"I couldn’t help it," he murmured, dipping his head slightly, sheepish but unapologetic.

Your throat tightened.

"Sam."

That was all you could say. Just his name, just that, because there were too many things sitting heavy in your chest, too much feeling, too much warmth.

Sam’s gaze softened even more—like it was possible for him to look at you any softer. Then, gently, he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered at your jaw, thumb brushing over the place his words had already touched.

He didn’t need you to say anything. He already knew.

"Drink your coffee," he said, voice low and fond. "Read a little."

He picked up his own mug, nodding toward the window, toward the golden morning stretching beyond it.

"I wanna go for a walk while it’s nice out."

Like it was nothing. Like this—slow mornings, coffee and notes tucked between book pages, easy affection and golden-hour love—was just what you did.

And really, it was.

Because he loved you. And he wanted you to know it.

Sam left you to read while he went to get dressed, pressing a soft kiss to your temple before disappearing down the hall.

You curled deeper into your chair, your fingers idly brushing over the edge of his note as you sipped the last of your coffee. The morning was still quiet, golden light spilling warm through the window, stretching in soft bands over the table, the sunflowers, the slow swirl of steam lifting from Sam's mug.

By the time Sam returned, sleeves pushed up, hair still a little sleep-mussed, he ruffled a hand through it and nodded toward the hall.

"You should get changed too, Sweetheart," he said, voice low, warm. "We should get going before it gets too hot out."

You hummed in agreement, slipping from your seat, setting your mug in the sink before making your way toward the bedroom.

And the moment you stepped inside, you noticed it. His sweater. Folded neatly on the bed. It hadn’t been there when you’d gotten up. He’d left it for you. On purpose.

A slow, deep warmth unfurled in your chest, soft and golden and so very Sam.

You picked it up, running your fingers over the thick fabric—worn soft, smelling like him, cedar and coffee and something you couldn’t quite name but always recognised as home.

So, of course, you put it on. It drowned you immediately, the sleeves falling well past your hands, the hem brushing against your thighs, the collar loose at your neck. Perfect. You pressed your nose into the fabric for a second, smiling, warmth thrumming through your bones.

And then—you remembered.

The flowers.

You stepped toward your nightstand, bending down to grab the book tucked beneath it—a well-loved copy of something you’d read a thousand times, pages softened with time, spine lined with creases.

You flipped it open carefully, fingers achingly gentle. And there they were. Buttercups, lavender sprigs, tiny forget-me-nots. Pressed flat, perfectly dried.

A fresh rush of warmth bloomed in your chest. This meant you could pick more while you were out.

But for now? For now, you had something else to do.

Stepping toward Sam’s nightstand, you reached for the book he’d left there—one of the thick classics he always lost himself in, pages dog-eared despite his careful nature. You flipped to his bookmark, fingers brushing over the paper before slipping your pressed flowers inside, tucking them right between the pages.

He’d find them later.

And when he did? He’d know. Because this—this was how you loved each other. Bookmarks and buttercups, coffee and handwritten notes. The quiet, careful things.

When you stepped back into the kitchen, Sam turned. And he froze. His lips parted slightly, brows flicking up, and oh. Oh.

That look.

That wrecked, undone, absolutely gone look. His eyes dragged over you slowly, taking in every inch, every soft fold of fabric drowning you, every too-long sleeve swallowing your hands.

He swallowed.

"Jesus, Sweetheart," he murmured, low and wrecked, voice like slow thunder before a storm. "You trying to kill me?"

You blinked at him, wide-eyed, innocent. "What?"

He exhaled sharply. Ran a hand over his jaw. And then, without warning, he was on you.

You barely had time to react before his hands were on you—one firm and broad against your back, the other sliding up to your jaw, thumb swiping slow beneath your eye.

And then he kissed you. Hard. Desperate. Deep. Tongue sweeping into your mouth, pulling a noise from you that he swallowed whole.

His grip tightened, fingers pressing into your back, like he was anchoring himself to you. The edge of the counter bit into your lower back, but you didn’t care—not when he was kissing you like this.

Like he couldn’t help himself. Like you wearing his sweater had flipped some switch in his brain. Like you had ruined him entirely.

You fisted your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer, tilting into him as his teeth nipped lightly at your lower lip, sucking it between his own before chasing it with his tongue.

God. God.

Sam kissed like he read—deep, slow, intentional. Like he needed to feel every letter, every syllable, every ache. And for a second, just a second, you thought—

Maybe we never go on that walk.

But then he pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes—dark, warm, drowning in something so deep you swore you could fall in. His thumb swiped under your eye again, softer this time.

He swallowed, voice wrecked and low.

"I love when you wear my stuff," he murmured, and it wasn’t just words, it was a confession. A truth laid bare.

Your chest ached at it.

And then, just like that, he took a steady breath, eased back, though his hands lingered on you—like he couldn’t quite let go.

"Come on, Sweetheart," he murmured, still breathless, still looking at you like you’d done something irreparable to his heart. "Let’s go pick some flowers."

The morning air was crisp, but not cold, the kind of cool that would burn off by midday, leaving nothing but blue sky behind. The trees swayed slow and drowsy in the breeze, their leaves casting gentle shadows across the dirt path.

And you? You talked.

God, you talked.

About a dream you half-remembered from last night, about how you thought you saw a shooting star the other night but weren’t sure if it was just a plane. About the books on your nightstand you needed to finish, about the theories you had for the ending of one of them, about how you weren’t sure if you’d ever actually seen a real four-leaf clover before, but you were determined to find one someday.

And Sam?

He listened. Listened the way he always did. Fully, deeply, like there was nothing else in the world.

Because it wasn’t just the things you said—it was the way you said them. The way your eyes twinkled when you got excited, the way you sometimes didn’t even finish a thought, just barrelled headfirst into the next one, already lit up with something new. The way you gestured when you spoke, flitting between topics like a hummingbird, full of boundless, unstoppable energy.

And every now and then—you’d scamper off.

You’d veer slightly off the path, darting toward the tall grass and kneeling to gather a bunch of wildflowers that looked too perfect to leave behind.

Sam already knew why.

You wanted to press them. You wanted them frozen forever, just the way they were. And God, if that wasn’t the sweetest, most you thing.

After a while, things fell into a natural quiet. The kind of soft, comfortable silence that only existed between people who knew each other down to their bones.

You reached for more flowers, and without a word, Sam shifted the ones you’d already picked into his free hand.

Letting you keep going. Letting you gather all the pieces of beauty you wanted to hold onto.

He smiled to himself.

And then you started humming. Soft at first, just under your breath. A melody he recognised instantly.

Nobody’s Soldier.

A slow grin tugged at Sam’s lips. And before he could even stop himself, he joined in—singing, terribly, but still singing.

"If I tell you this is drowning, you'd tell me I'm walking on water."

You gasped, delighted, laughing as you glanced up at him. “Sam, you’re so off-key—”

"I know," he grinned, "but I’m committed now."

And you just shook your head, laughing, before launching back into the next verse, your voice clear and warm and lovely.

By the time the chorus came around, you were both singing. Him, off-key. You, beautiful.

Him, watching you. Completely, utterly, unconditionally in love.

When the song finally ended, you exhaled deeply, content, stretching your arms toward the sky.

"God, that song is so good," you sighed, brushing your fingers over the petals of a buttercup before gently plucking it.

Sam hummed, watching you, thoughtful.

"You ever think about that one line?" He asked, shifting his grip on your hand. “I don’t wanna choose between being a salesman or a soldier.”

You glanced up, intrigued. "Yeah? What about it?"

He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking toward the tree line as he turned the words over in his mind.

"It’s about choice. About… refusing to fit into someone else’s definition. Someone else’s idea of what you should be."

You blinked at him, then looked down at the flowers in your hand.

Pressed flowers. The ones you chose to keep, to freeze, to make last. Like pieces of a world that was constantly shifting, constantly moving too fast for anyone to hold onto.

And suddenly, you saw the parallel.

You smiled softly.

"You mean like how I keep trying to hold onto flowers?"

Sam huffed a laugh, tilting his head. "Maybe."

"But I don’t keep all of them," you pointed out, glancing at the wildflowers still standing untouched in the field. "Just the ones that feel right. Just the ones I love enough to want to keep."

Sam’s steps slowed. His fingers tightened slightly around yours.

Because, God.

That was so you. Choosing what to hold onto, what to keep, what to love.

Not because someone told you to. Not because you had to. Just because you wanted to.

And maybe, just maybe—that’s how you loved him, too. Just because you wanted to. Just because you looked at him, in all his flaws, in all his cracks, and still—you stayed.

Sam swallowed, lips parting slightly, eyes tracing your face in the golden light. But he didn’t say anything. Not yet. He just squeezed your hand. And you? You squeezed back. And together, with wildflowers in one hand and each other in the other, you walked on.

By the time you made it back, the air had begun to thicken with warmth, the kind that came with the promise of midday heat. The world outside had turned brighter, louder, more golden, but inside—inside was still soft.

Sam followed you to the bedroom, watching as you carefully spread parchment across the surface of the bed, delicately laying each flower across its surface. Lavender sprigs, daisies, baby's breath. Tiny pieces of nature, frozen in time.

And he helped. Of course he helped.

Handing you each bloom as you pressed them between the pages of your book, flattening them so the weight could do its job—like it had so many times before. The process was careful, deliberate, something sacred between you.

"Few weeks from now, these’ll be perfect," you murmured, smoothing a hand over the book’s cover before tucking it beneath your nightstand.

Sam just smiled.

Because you always said that. Every time, like it was the first time. Like it was magic. Like you never stopped being amazed that the world could give you something so beautiful, and let you keep it.

God, he loved you.

Lunch was simple—leftovers warmed up, easy conversation, sunshine spilling through the windows, pooling on the kitchen floor.

And, as always, you talked.

About how the colour yellow made you think of summer, how you liked the way baby’s breath dried out all delicate and airy, how you were thinking about collecting leaves too, because the reds and oranges always looked so pretty in scrapbooks.

And Sam? He just watched you. Watched you the way he always did—soft, steady, drinking in every part of you like it was the last time he’d ever get the chance.

Because the thing about you was, you weren’t just talking. You were feeling. You were seeing the world in colours, in textures, in meaning, and you weren’t just keeping it to yourself—you were giving it to him, too. Letting him into your world, into the way you saw things, into all the little pieces of beauty you chose to keep.

And God, you were beautiful.

Not just your face. Not just the curve of your smile, or the way your eyes brightened when you got excited. But all of you. The way you felt things so deeply. The way you never stopped collecting pieces of the world that made you happy. The way you spoke about the little things like they mattered—because to you, they did.

And Sam—Sam had never loved anything the way he loved you.

You were his Sweetheart. His sunshine. The only thing in the world he wanted to press between the pages of time and keep forever.

That night, when you both curled into bed, he didn’t want to sleep yet.

Not when he could touch you. Not when he could taste you. Not when he could spend the last moments of the day pressed between your thighs, dragging his tongue across your skin, pulling the softest, sweetest sounds from your lips.

Because the truth was, you were made of sunlight. Warmth and light, golden and soft.

And Sam had spent his whole life standing in the shadows. Drenched in cold, lost in dark places, hands stained with things he tried not to remember.

But you? You were a sunrise, an eclipse, a miracle. And he wanted to drown in you.

So he took his time. Let his hands map the length of you, broad and reverent, tracing slow circles into your skin as he kissed his way down, down, down—until his mouth was on you, and you were falling apart beneath him.

Your fingers knotted into his hair, pulling, breath catching, voice breaking on his name.

And Sam—Sam savoured it. Savoured every whimper, every stuttered inhale, every breathless plea. He soaked in your pleasure like it was liquid gold, like it was something divine.

Because, in truth?

It was. You were. And he would worship at the altar of you forever.

The night settled around you like a slow exhale, soft and warm, the air humming with the last remnants of the day. The bedroom was dim, lit only by the golden glow of the bedside lamp, throwing long shadows across the walls, casting everything in honey and hush.

Sam pulled you into his chest, the way he did every night. Like ritual, like devotion. Like he wouldn’t know how to sleep without you curled against him.

His arms wrapped firm and steady around you, one broad hand splayed across your back, thumb tracing slow, absent-minded circles through the fabric of his sweater—the same one you’d put on that morning, the same one you were still drowning in now.

His heartbeat was slow, solid.

And you—you were exactly where you belonged. You felt him shift slightly, reaching for his book on the nightstand.

"You still awake?" He murmured, voice low, all sleep-soft and sweet.

You hummed, nuzzling against his chest. "Mhm. Read to me."

He smiled, because of course you were. You always fell asleep to the sound of his voice, let yourself be lulled by the low, steady cadence of it, the weight of words spilling soft and slow into the dark.

So he cracked the book open—

And suddenly—

A handful of flowers tumbled out, scattering across his chest, landing in the mess of your hair where you lay against him.

Sam froze. Blinking, breath hitching slightly as his eyes tracked the tiny pieces of pressed perfection. Buttercups. Lavender sprigs. Forget-me-nots.

His chest went tight. And then—he felt you move. Felt you tip your head back against him, grinning up at him, wide-eyed, caught between excitement and mischief.

Sam let out a slow, breathless laugh.

God.

You were everything.

His throat worked around a swallow as he set the book aside, fingers grazing over the flowers, gathering a few between his fingertips. And then he was looking at you—really looking at you. Eyes tracing the golden glow along your cheekbones, the way your hair spread like a halo against him, the tiny little pressed petals caught in the strands.

He lifted one hand, tucking a piece of lavender behind your ear, thumb brushing the side of your face.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, so soft it was almost reverent. "You are sunshine personified."

Your breath caught.

Sam watched the way your expression softened, the way your fingers curled against his chest, the way you looked at him like he was something precious.

"I love you," he said.

And it wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t fleeting. It was weighty, steady, deeply felt. It was the kind of thing that would linger in the marrow of your bones long after the words were gone.

Your lips parted, eyes gleaming, smile stretching slow and full and golden.

And when you whispered, "I love you too,"

Sam felt it everywhere.

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @nevercameraready <3

[ahqueinfortunio]

Heatwave in Capri

The Mediterranean air is thick with salt and promise. It’s the kind of night that sticks to your skin, hot and velvet-soft, as the sky fades from honeyed gold to deep indigo. You’re in Capri, wrapped in the lazy luxury of a group vacation—friends, sunshine, boats, late dinners that stretch into the early hours.

Luke has been hovering in your orbit all week.

It’s been playful—eyelash glances over Aperol spritzes, sun-warmed shoulder brushes on the yacht, his voice always finding yours in the crowd. He’s golden in this light: tan skin, tousled curls, that crooked smile that tells you he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

Tonight, the villa is loud with laughter, music pouring out of the open windows. But you’ve slipped away. So has he.

You find each other on the balcony, alone now, Capri glowing in the distance behind him. He’s leaning against the stone rail, white linen shirt undone just enough to make your pulse flicker. He hands you a drink—something cold, citrusy, and strong—and his fingers graze yours a little too long.

“You always disappear when the night gets good,” he says, voice low, teasing.

“Maybe I was waiting for you to follow,” you reply, just as soft.

The tension stretches—thick, molten, magnetic. He steps closer, his free hand finding your hip like it belongs there. You swear the air itself shivers. The wine and heat and want swirl in your veins.

“Then I’m here,” he murmurs, eyes burning into yours. “Now what?”

You don’t answer. You just pull him in.

The kiss is slow at first—testing, tasting. But it builds fast, his mouth warm and hungry on yours, hands slipping over bare skin, tracing the edge of your sundress like he’s memorizing it. The sound he makes when you tug at his shirt sends a jolt through you, everything growing sharper, more desperate.

The balcony isn't enough. He breaks the kiss to press his forehead to yours, breath ragged.

“My room,” he says, voice hoarse. “Now.”

You nod, already moving, his hand catching yours.

Inside, the room is dim and cool, but the second the door shuts, the heat crashes over you again. Luke kisses you like it’s the last night on earth—slow and deep, then rough and full of need. Clothes fall away in a blur, the night outside forgotten. His hands are everywhere, pulling you close, anchoring you while your bodies move like they were always meant to fit together.

He takes his time, makes you feel every moment. The windows stay open, the sounds of the sea drifting in as the hours slip by in gasps, in tangled limbs and whispered names.

Later—when the world is quiet, when sweat has cooled and his arm is heavy around your waist—you lie in that hazy space between sleep and afterglow. He presses a kiss to your bare shoulder.

“Still glad you disappeared?”

You smile, eyes closed, heart full. “Best decision I made all week.”

Extra:

The first thing you notice is the sun warming your legs through the thin linen sheets. The second is the way Luke's arm is still wrapped around your waist, holding you like the night never ended.

His breathing is slow against the back of your neck, the curve of his chest pressed flush against your spine. You’re not sure how long you lie there like that, your fingers trailing lazy patterns over his forearm, soaking in the stillness before the rest of the villa wakes up.

It should feel awkward, maybe. A one-night thing. A moment too beautiful to last.

But then he stirs, sleep-rough voice murmuring, “You’re still here.”

You smile, still facing the window. “Was I supposed to sneak out?”

He shifts closer, lips brushing your bare shoulder. “No. I just didn’t expect to like this so much.”

You turn to face him. His hair’s a mess, curls sticking up, and there’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow. Still, somehow, he looks better than he did last night. There’s a softness in his eyes that catches you off guard.

Before you can say anything, he kisses you again—slow, easy, morning-warm.

You let it deepen, your fingers curling at the nape of his neck, pulling him back on top of you as the sheets fall away. This time it’s different. Unhurried. A low burn instead of a wildfire. His hands explore you like he’s learning your body from scratch, like he wants to remember every sound you make when he touches you just right.

After, when you’re tangled together again, the scent of salt still clinging to your skin, you hear movement downstairs. Voices. The clatter of breakfast being made.

You sit up slowly. “They’re gonna know.”

Luke doesn’t even blink. “Let them.”

You raise a brow.

He smirks. “What? You think I spent all week pretending not to want you just to keep it a secret?”

Your heart stutters. You weren’t expecting that.

“I thought this was just a one-night thing,” you say quietly.

He reaches up, tucking your hair behind your ear. “So did I. Then you stayed.”

There’s a pause, heavy and delicate.

You could still brush it off. Laugh. Pretend it was just vacation heat.

But instead, you lean in, kiss him again—slow and meaningful. Like maybe Capri wasn’t just a fling. Like maybe this summer night had a morning after worth remembering.

[nowoyas]

koi no yokan 47: kasumi (nishinoya yuu/reader)

First - Prev - Next (coming 5/3?) - M.list 1-30 - M.list 30-60 - Ao3

A/N: sorry for the delay! fell in love, fucked him, got told he's not looking for a relationship right now, spent most of the day hungover and crying over him. he's got good reasons and I don't hold any ill will towards him but I did need to cry that shit out. in case you missed my previous announcement, koi no yokan is officially going to be biweekly updates for about 2 more updates so that I can better balance fic with school. I'm not really happy about the chapter quality recently, so this is also a measure to hopefully counteract things and start turning out chapters I'm happy with again.

Summary: Kasumi and a celebration dinner.

Warnings and Tags: eh

Words: 2100+

Hijiri Kasumi⁶⁹ had everything you never did.

With hindsight, it's easy to see how she drew you in—she skipped the awkward tween stage, looked perfect and poised from the start. You'd orbited around her, always ending up in the same homeroom from your second year of primary school until high school separated you. You'd hoped it was permanent, but here she is, standing a few meters away, smiling nervously while you clutch paper towels to your dripping nose and wait for the bleeding to stop.

She had perfect hair, flawless skin, a bottomless allowance. She was the first in your year to get a phone, get her period, get every new trendy thing. You'd later learned, in an uncomfortable evening sitting in her bedroom that was the size of your entire living room, that it was because her parents were some of the richest people you'll probably meet in your lifetime. Money didn't mean things to them the way it meant things to your family—your mother coming home from work only to sit at the table and budget while you worked on your homework, your father working as late as he could stand. Enough to breathe, not much more.

You wonder, sometimes, if this is the pattern of your life—falling for people who have everything you don't. Noya with his loving, tight-knit family, with people who are willing to look at him, with his alive mother. Kasumi with her dog, her balcony, her canopy bed.

When she kissed you for the first time, it had been as a joke, but you'd thought you were being blessed by an angel, and she'd stared at you wide-eyed afterwards, like she couldn't believe she'd done it. Then, she'd kissed you again, and a third time.

It feels like so long ago now.

"What are you doing here?" you ask her. Your throat feels horribly dry, for reasons you couldn't begin to fathom. "You hate sports."

She holds up her hands in surrender. "Guilty. I, uh, I heard who our volleyball team was playing. Last I checked, you also hated sports, but I got hopeful. Expected to see you in their cheering section, though. Not, you know…" A vague gesture to you, to your manager's jacket, to Noya. "I hoped we'd get to talk."

"To talk."

"Yeah. You just kinda… dropped off the face of the earth last time."

The anger hits you so fast that you feel nauseous. "Dropped off the face of—my mom died. I watched it happen. It was my fault. Did you not think that maybe I needed a minute?"

She pouts. "I wanted to be there for you. I was trying to. You wouldn't let me."

Right. You wouldn't let her. It had nothing to do with the friend she was cozying up to, the guy her friends were gossiping about. You weren't the only one she was kissing, and when things got hard for you, she was happy to turn her attention elsewhere.

"I really don't think there's anything to talk about," you grit out.

She sighs. "I think there is. You never even said anything to me until you just dropped on me that we weren't going to Shiratorizawa together. I know you got in. You're the one who broke your promise."

A hand on your shoulder, comforting, familiar. "Hey," Noya says in a low voice. He's adopted the protective tone he takes when a guy pays you too much attention. "We need to get going. Gotta get ready for awards."

You have more time. You know you do. But you're more than happy to let him give you this out. "Yeah. Let's head back."

"[name], wait. Please. This isn't how I wanted this to go."

"I'm glad you're doing well, Hijiri-san, but I have to—"

"Just—I'll let you go, but do you still have my number saved?"

You do.

"Will you text me? I wanna work this out."

"It's not going to be the way it was again. You know that, right?"

A hopeful smile. "But it could be something?"

Noya lets out a quiet growl of a noise. He's getting possessive. To you, he whispers: "You know how you got mad last time I tried to chase off someone you knew?"

A nod.

"Please let me chase her off."

Your eyes flick back to Kasumi. She's your problem, really. Noya should never even have met her, never seen her. He shouldn't be the one to solve this. You shake your head. "I have to go, Hijiri-san."

"Stop calling me that," she replies weakly.

"I don't know if I'll text you," you continue. "But I still have your number. I guess it's possible I might reach out. I have to think about it, but right now I have to go."

You don't look at her. You don't need to to picture the crushed look on her face as you turn, as you let Noya's hand on your back guide you back towards the others.

"You okay?" he asks, when you've put some distance between you.

"No." Then: "Sorry. I don't wanna bring down the mood."

"Anyone who knew the situation wouldn't blame you."

"But I'm gonna blame me."

"Don't, then," he shrugs.

"If I could be like you, I would," you grumble.

He frowns, but he doesn't respond—maybe because you're reaching the others with a pocketful of paper towels and a face full of blood. You watch him navigate the return with an ease you're simply incapable of—you're pretty sure your nose is running with poorly held-back tears more than it is with blood at this point, but he passes it all off as the nosebleed, celebrates with the others in a way that lets you blend in, quiet, until the awards ceremony.

So you pack away the sick roiling in your stomach. You put on a smile for the cameras—awards is televised, meaning you have to at least try to look presentable—and you pile into frame for a victory photo with the others. The guys pushed all three managers towards the center, let the three of you be the ones to hold the trophy up for the cameras.

You should have expected something to happen, honestly—Noya standing beside you, Tanaka on Yachi's other side, sharing looks that you should have known were more like Looks.

Three pictures are taken in celebration—the first looks almost tame, and nothing like the Karasuno you know. Everyone in neat little rows, you and Yachi holding either side of the trophy, pleasant smiles for the camera. Yours is strained, obviously, and it'll take a while yet for you to get over the flecks of dried blood above your lip where no one bothered to tell you you still had blood on your face, but altogether, it's a nice, polite, quiet sort of victory photo.

The second photo prompted an immediate re-take—Yachi mid-scream, hefted onto Tanaka's shoulder like she weighed nothing. You're not faring much better, with Noya attempting to do the same to you. Kiyoko is turned away from the camera, looking up at her screaming co-managers, and the rest of the guys are in varying states of surprise or amusement—you suppose depending on whether or not they knew what was happening.

The final—the one that would become your favorite, that would fade in the front of your journal and sit in a frame on your desk for years to come—was taken after allowing you all a moment to settle. You and Yachi on the guys' shoulders, supporting the trophy between you. Ennoshita had taken it upon himself to walk around and support the both of you, not trusting the disaster duo to not drop one of you, and the smiles here are much more real—you're laughing, despite the blood, despite Kasumi, despite everything.

~

"I think my relative's one year-old was doing just the same thing the other day."

Your eyes flick up from your phone screen, hidden poorly beneath the table. Victory dinner is quieter than expected—the usual balls of energy are too tired to bring the party, as evidenced by the fact that they're now slumped directly onto the table, chewing with their eyes closed. In a restaurant. In public.

Back to your phone, to Kasumi's contact, to the last message you sent her. I don't have to explain myself to you. Hers: I would really fucking like it if you'd try.

Maybe you should have tried, but that was then, and this is now, and right now, Takeda is shooting you a pleading look to the tune of help.

You sigh and pocket your phone. "Hinata. Kageyama-san. Can you both look at me for a second?"

"But I'm tired," Hinata whines. "I can't."

"Please? It's only for a moment. Just gotta pick your heads up and look at me."

Hinata picks up his head. Kageyama picks up his head.

"Wonderful, thank you. First one to let his head hit the table loses. Competition ends when you're back on the bus. Any attempts to sabotage via contact is an instant disqualification. Have fun."

There's a beat of silence. They meet each other's eyes. Their postures straighten.

"You might as well eat properly. I'm sure it'll be easier to stay awake and upright if you distract yourselves."

…and there they go, scarfing down food. Two down.

"Tanaka-senpai."

"Mrrrgh."

"Do you think you're going to impress Shimizu-senpai by sleeping at the dinner table like a toddler?"

He sits up so quickly that the table jolts a little, looking at you with tears in his eyes. "[name]-san?"

"I'm not trying to be mean. Just hold on until the bus, yeah?"

"I'm cool! I'm impressive!"

"Yeah. Just not like that."

Three down.

Your eyes settle on Noya. He's still got his head on the table, but you can see a tension in his shoulders. He's waiting for you to break out whatever gambit you have to get him to stay up for the rest of dinner.

You take a moment to consider it. It's not like you don't know how to get him to do what you want in this situation—you have plenty of options. You could tell him you won't stay over tonight if he doesn't sit up now. You could threaten to dock some proposals off his quota if he doesn't act right in public. Hell, you could probably just address him as Nishinoya and watch him straighten up before you said another word.

There's so many options that you just let autopilot take over.

You reach out, nudge his cheek with one hand. "I need you to wake up and talk some sense into me before I text my ex-girlfriend."

Man, you could have led with that and saved the trouble. Not only does Noya respond—sitting straight up, looking at you with wide eyes and a whispered you just said that out loud—but you feel multiple sets of eyes snap to you as your words set in.

And yet, no one says anything about it. Yachi coughs, has to let you thump her back until she stops choking, and hush-whispers to you in a panic, but you barely catch the words. You're focused on talking to Noya, on getting him to focus long enough to forget the exhaustion. That, and on not throwing up or having a panic attack at the table.

"I mean, why would you—you really obviously didn't wanna talk to her earlier. Why would you now?"

You shrug. "The therapist and I haven't quite hammered out the self-destructing every time I get stressed."

"Okay, well, you're not texting her. Not until you've spent some time actually thinking about it."

You snort. "There we go. Weird Noya's back."

"Weird Noya?"

"Responsible is the term I think you'd prefer," you tease. "Do you want some of my food? I don't have much appetite right now."

"What, are you not gonna eat? You're letting her get to you that much?"

"I'm not letting her get to me—"

"You're totally letting her get to you. You gotta eat!"

"I'm not gonna—"

He raises a bite of food, raising a threatening eyebrow. "You gotta eat or I'm putting my head right back on this table."

"You do that and I swear—"

"I'll make a scene," he lilts.

You take a bite of food before he can make you, rolling your eyes. "Anyways, got 'em all handled, Sensei. Senpai, if you put your head back on that table, I'll set you back ten."

He shoots a pout your way. You nudge him, let him summon the pure chaotic energy required to fully move the others on from your casual outing. He does so expertly, moves everyone on from your ex-girlfriend before anyone gets the chance to ask any questions.

You're not sure what you'd ever do without him.

69. Written 日退霞. Kanji meaning something along the lines of reject-sun and mist. Surname chosen in a poll on tumblr an Amount of time ago. I tried to dig up the poll, but I forgot to save it, so I can't remember what the other options were for her, lmao.

Tags: @deeplightgarden @idonthaveanameideayet @dusstory @kazunish

[jofdiamonds]

For @airi-of-hearts

Darling tarot heart At the mercy of each other, we are I'll be the pit to your pendulum Para to your normal Come hear a teardrop Heartful of ghosts Hurt full of hope Heartful of ghosts Cry out to the wendigo moon in Scorpio (...)

Valedictory valentines to an extrasensory sorrow A game of catch-a-tear to my heartstrings trembling low

-

Writing love songs came easy to Aki, as a person whose feelings were like roots; digging deep into the earth, being the only thing connecting him to an otherwise mundane world. The joy of being alive he had found in developing relationships with others, in falling in love with a different person each night, be it man or woman. It didn't matter, all of them had endless qualities and things he could find charming, bewitching, inspiring.

As a teenager, he saw himself like the main character of a book, or a movie, or a poem. Now, perhaps, he was the villain. Because while he returned those feelings, after a while, it got tedious and he did so automatically, his lips moving against theirs with painful parsimony, the smiles not reaching his eyes, his hands caressing their bodies, looking for something that he may or may not find, with a lack of interest that didn't match the ferocity of his acts.

It was almost as if he was daring himself to feel something. A constant heated dialogue between his rationality and his emotions. Why are you doing this? said one side. Why not? Said the other, I need inspiration for my songs, there has to be some way for me to get me out of this numbness...

It turned out, there was a way. A way that had a name and a surname, pretty brown eyes and honey-blonde hair. A way that he needed to keep away from, but was constantly attracted to. Like a magnet, like a satellite orbiting a cold, dead planet. Only this planet was warm and nice and loving and caring and made the rest universe seem... almost like a home. A place you wanted to be in.

But he had promised it to himself; my fortress won't fall, were the words he had written in his notebook. The words he whispered to himself after seeing her smile and knowing very well he was the cause of it, after feeling her tender touch, after hugging her goodbye, after craving a kiss so much he would have gone to Hell and back to get it, crossing the river Styx anyway he could.

A tired sigh, another sleepless night. What was there left of his fortress? Nothing but a few stones. Positioned in a strategic matter, but Aki knew the truth. They were weak, and with the right word from Airi, they would be knocked over. Willingly, even. Like soldiers tired of fighting. Giving up the kingdom they were supposed to defend.

A simple hello whispered the next morning at breakfast did the trick. The need to get on raw knees from so much begging, from so much pleading. He would have cried if he knew how. He would have screamed could he speak. A simple nod of the head as an answer, but inside of him, a hurricane.

I cannot bear this world without you any longer became enjoy your meal.

But Aki knew the truth.

The fortress had fallen. The city was in flames.

[we-rule-the-kingdom-inside]

because it’s gravity (keeping you with me)

5147 words, 5 illustrations read on AO3 here!!

Of all the things to come in between talented astrobotanist Kageyama Tobio and his petty, infuriating, ridiculously attractive senpai, he didn't quite expect space lettuce, even more space lettuce, and the very forces of gravity.

Or: five times Kageyama and Oikawa almost kiss in space, and the one time they actually do.

We’re back at our usual nonsense with 🌸 A FULL 🌸 SHOUJO 🌸 TROPE FLAVOURED 🌸 ILLUSTRATED FIC 🌸 written by chronology and sumaru, and art by the ever wonderful @hachibani -- we hope you enjoy our little space romance! Happy KageOi Day!! 💚💙

[lovingdilfs]

The backstage encounter (smut)

Requested by: @lyssaxoxoelvis

Warnings: 18+ content, sex, fingering,BJ, alcohol.

As the melody to "Can't Help Falling in Love" began to play, Elvis seemed to snap out of the trance you had left him in. He launched into his routine, moving effortlessly through the crowd, his charisma and charm on full display. You watched with a mixture of awe and envy as he kissed women, making them feel like the most important person in the world for just a moment.

As Elvis walked closer and closer to you, his eyes fixed on your form, you felt your heart racing with anticipation. He had no shame in staring at you, and you couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement at the attention. His gaze was intense, like he was trying to see right through you, and you couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking.

As he approached, you could feel the heat of his body, smell the scent of his cologne, and you felt like you were in a dream. His eyes never left yours, and you felt like he was reading your soul, seeing all your deepest desires and secrets. You couldn't help but be drawn in by his magnetic presence, like he was the sun and you were just a tiny planet caught in his orbit.

Elvis held out his hand, and you took it without hesitation, letting him help you to your feet. As you stood up, he didn't let go, his hand still firmly grasping yours. He pulled you closer, and you could feel his breath on your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

Without a word, he gently laid his hand along your jaw, his fingers tracing the contours of your face. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, your breath coming in short gasps. And then, without warning, he kissed you.

It was a passionate kiss, but also tender and gentle, like he was trying to convey all his emotions through that one gesture. His lips were soft and warm, and you felt like you were melting into him. “Meet me after the show baby” he whispered against your lips as he left you there standing empty.

You sat down, trying to comprehend what just happened. All you could think about was the feel of his lips on yours, and the way he had looked at you.

"What the hell was that?" you finally managed to say, still in a state of shock.

"I have no idea," your friend replied, her eyes wide with surprise.

As the show went on, Elvis's eyes kept gazing at you. You were lost in the moment, the music washing over you, when suddenly a hand gently laid on your shoulder, bringing you back to reality. You looked up to see a warm smile looking down at you, and your heart skipped a beat. "Honey, will you come with me?" the man asked. Without hesitation, you took his hand, letting him lead you away from the crowded concert hall. “If you just go down to end and wait, Mr. Presley will you see when the shows over” he said and let you there alone, wandering the backstage halls.

You turned around to see Elvis himself, dressed in his signature jumpsuit, walking towards you with a smile on his face. "Well, hello there," he said, his voice smooth and low.

Your heart was racing as you stood there, trying to find the words to say. "Hi," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Elvis chuckled. "Don't be nervous, honey," he said, taking your hand in his. "I'm just a regular guy, like anyone else."

You felt a surge of warmth in your chest at his words. He was so down-to-earth and charming, it was impossible not to like him. “You wanna come in?” He pointed at the door with the name Elvis upon it, there was something in his eyes that told you he was sincere. The room was surprisingly cozy, with soft lighting and comfortable chairs. Elvis motioned for you to take a seat, and disappeared into another room.

You could hear him rustling around, and a few moments later, he emerged with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.

"Hope you don't mind a little drink," he said, pouring you a glass. "I find it helps me relax after a show."

You took a sip, feeling the warmth of the alcohol spread through your body, a small cough left your mouth. Elvis sat back in his chair, sipping his own drink and watching you with a look of amusement. "You're not much of a drinker, are you?" he asked.

You shook your head, feeling a little embarrassed. "No, not really," you admitted.

Elvis chuckled. "Well, don't worry, darlin'," he said. "I won't make you drink more than you're comfortable with. I just thought it might help take the edge off a bit." Elvis's eyes sparkled as he looked at you, and he took another sip of whiskey, his gaze never leaving yours. He shook his head slightly and a small smile played on his lips. "What?" you asked, leaning forward to get a better look at him. He set his glass down on the table and leaned closer to you, his eyes intense. "Nothing, darlin', it's just that you are absolutely stunning," he said in a low, husky voice. You felt a shiver run down your spine as he moved even closer, and you could smell the whiskey on his breath. Suddenly, the silence was shattered by Elvis's deep voice, He leaned in close to your ear and whispered, "Have you ever been touched before, baby?" His warm breath on your skin made you gasp and your heart race as you looked into his intense eyes, not knowing what to say, He traced patterns on your skin with his finger, his touch making your stomach turn, you down bad for this man and he knew it. Slowly, he moved his hand closer and closer to the hem of your dress, his gaze fixed on you. "Huh baby? Have a man ever touched you?" he asked in a low and husky voice. “O-once” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against your neck. You felt a shiver run down your spine as he nibbled on your skin, making you throw your head back in pleasure. His hand trailed up your thigh, inching closer and closer to the heat between your legs. Teasingly tapping against the wet fabric, he pulled away from your neck and looked into your eyes. His gaze was intense, and you could see the desire burning in them. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked, his voice husky and low.

You shook your head, unable to form words. The sensations coursing through your body were too much for you to handle. You wanted him, needed him, more than anything.

He smiled, running his hand up your thigh and under the fabric of your panties. His fingers were skilled and confident as he explored your folds, finding the spot that made you gasp with pleasure. He circled it slowly, building up the pressure until you were moaning his name.

“Elvis”, your hands reaching up to tangle in his hair. He kissed you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth as his hand continued to pleasure you. You moaned into his mouth, completely lost in the pleasure he was giving you. His fingers moved expertly, finding all the right spots and driving you wild with desire. You felt yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, and he seemed to sense it too. He broke the kiss and looked at you with dark, intense eyes.

"You want to come for me, baby?" he asked, his voice husky with desire.

You could only nod, your body aching for release. He continued to touch you, his fingers moving faster and harder until you couldn't hold back any longer. With a cry, you reached your peak, your body shaking with pleasure.

You looked down at his lap, seeing the his erection growing under his pants, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. He looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "Do you want to touch me, baby?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

your fingers stroked him through his pants. His breaths were ragged as he let out a low groan, his hips thrusting into your hand. "That's it, baby," he murmured, his eyes closed in pleasure. His hand moved to your hair, tangling in it as he guided your mouth towards his. You eagerly took his lips, kissing him deeply as you continued to stroke him. He thrusted his hips up, meeting your hand with every stroke. “I want your mouth on me” he whispered Against your lips. You felt a rush of heat between your legs again as he thrust his hips up, meeting your hand with every stroke. You placed your on your knees in front of him, you reached up to undo the button and zipper of his jumpsuit, pulling it down to reveal his hard length. Your mouth watered at the sight of him, and you couldn't resist leaning in to give him a teasing lick. He moaned, his hand tangling in your hair as you took him into your mouth.

You swirled your tongue around the head of his cock, relishing the taste of him on your tongue. You took him deeper into your mouth, using your hand to stroke the parts of him that wouldn't fit. His breathing grew ragged as you sucked and licked, and you could feel his hips bucking towards you.

He groaned in pleasure as you worked your mouth over him, his hand tightening in your hair. Suddenly, he pulled away and looked down at you, his eyes dark with desire. "Take your clothes off, baby," he said, his voice low and husky.

You stood up, feeling a little nervous but also incredibly turned on. You slowly removed your dress, letting it fall to the floor as you stood before him in nothing but your underwear. He took in the sight of you, his eyes roaming over your body hungrily.

"Come here," he said, pulling you back down onto his lap. His hands roamed over your curves, his lips seeking yours as he kissed you deeply. You moaned into his mouth, feeling his hands slide down to remove your panties.

He broke the kiss and pulled back to admire your body, his eyes dark with desire. He leaned in to press kisses down your neck, his hands trailing down to your core. He teased you with his fingers, circling your entrance before pushing two inside. You gasped, arching your back as he fingered you expertly.

"Fuck, you're so wet, already" he growled, his fingers pumping in and out of you. "I need to taste you."

With that, he lifted you up and laid you down on the couch, spreading your legs wide open. He moved in between your thighs, his tongue flicking against your clit as he ate you out. You moaned loudly, your hands tangling in his hair as he brought you to the brink of orgasm.

Just when you thought you couldn't take it anymore, he stopped and looked up at you with a wicked grin. "Are you ready for me?" he asked, his eyes smoldering with desire. “Elvis I need you!” You moaned out. Elvis chuckled at your words, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "I love it when girls get eager," he said, his voice low and husky. He positioned himself at your entrance, teasingly rubbing against you before slowly sliding inside. You gasped at the sensation, feeling full and stretched around him.

He started moving slowly at first, his hands gripping your hips as he set a steady rhythm. But soon his pace quickened, his thrusts becoming harder and more urgent. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper as you met him thrust for thrust.

You moaned out his name, your body on fire with pleasure. He leaned in to kiss you again, his lips capturing yours in a deep, passionate kiss. Elvis continued to thrust into you, his movements becoming more urgent and desperate as he approached his own climax. You could feel your own peak building once again, and you tightened your legs around his waist, urging him on. With a final groan, he came undone, his body shuddering with pleasure as he spilled himself inside of you. You followed soon after, your body wracked with waves of ecstasy. Elvis collapsed on top of you, his breaths coming in short pants as he tried to catch his breath.

[nobodyeverasked]

cities in the sky; hwang hyunjin

(4,677 words) - large

summary ➣

“I’d punch you, but that’d ruin that pretty little face of yours.”

A day before their English exam and now Hyunjin decides to make up for lost cuddle time... Y/N’s goal to study in earnest is instantly brought to a screeching halt as he faces off with a gorgeous and needy boyfriend who can never keep his hands to himself.

genre ➣ fluff

requested - 👍

.・゜-: ✧ :- .・゜-: ✧ :-   -: ✧ :-゜・. -: ✧ :-゜・．

A coral flush from the early evening skies draped across the room, the entwined fingers dangling from the edge of the mattress stilling as the sunlight nearly flickered - wavering under the weight of the wistful sighs that clung to every surface. Two bookbags rested slung against a post of a bed’s footboard, untouched, and a tangle of limbs stretched out across sheets, unfurling in a massive breath of relief.

All Hyunjin could hear as he leaned his head against Y/N’s chest was the low stutter of his heartbeat with every time he let his kisses trace the palm he brought to his lips. Only a year together and he’s memorized it all, the echoes in Y/N’s chuckles, the melodies of his heartbeat, the divots in his spine as he’d draw shapes into it with the faded moonlight as his guide. Setting Y/N’s heart alight was just second nature now.

He knew he couldn’t totally distract Y/N from his attempts to study for their exam tomorrow, but a little stammer in Y/N’s steady, peaceful breaths, setting a few flecks of sunlight ablaze every now and then as he kneaded his hands into the thighs that framed his waist was good enough to curb his desire’s wanderlust… For now… 

Hyunjin’s yearning could only be sated for so long until he couldn't hold himself back from diving into Y/N’s waters and sailing across his waistline.

Y/N peeked under the textbook he was totally paying attention to, and watched twines of the sunlight thread itself between Hyunjin’s hair, dancing across his skin in a joyful parade of gold and silver. It made sticking to the words and diagrams on those pages really hard, seeing that brilliance play along Hyunjin’s shoulders and holding himself back from having his lips take its place. He shuffled further up the bed, causing a whine from Hyunjin to flutter up into the air and be taken away by the swaying of the curtains.

Hyunjin only nestled himself further into Y/N’s chest, pressing his cheek to Y/N’s stomach and staring vacantly out the bay window on the other side of the bedroom. That window was a looking glass into a world they vowed would be theirs one day to conquer, an ivory painted gateway to their safe haven. 

These four walls - or anywhere above the clouds or between horizons that Hyunjin’s melodic voice and bright smile would take them - is their space. The grounds in which they’ve tread upon the most, where they’ve planted their roots and watched them blossom into the moon-stained tulips Hyunjin always sticks in Y/N’s hair whenever they trip too hard on the bliss they pass between their teeth and use the forest path behind Y/N’s house to regain their footing. They’ve carved so many memories into these walls, light grey paint stained by the rose-tinted haze that clouds Hyunjin’s vision and sends him careening out of orbit whenever Y/N’s beautiful, radiant laughter weaves into the air.

Here, this room, is where they’ve shed their insecurities like the violet hummer of twilight against their skin. Every morning they spent together, Y/N could feel it flee from Hyunjin’s lips as they danced upon the curves of his sun-sculpted silhouette. The aurora blues of the broken dawn never tasted so sweet.

With Hyunjin, the thorns in Y/N’s sides always seemed to bloom into the most beautiful flowers. And the way Hyunjin would tug so delicately on their petals - Y/N’s waist in Hyunjin’s hands like pieces into place - it made Y/N feel weightless. As if the salty sea spray of their favourite place on earth could just carry him across the strawberry sands of that shoreline and leave him falling helplessly into the warm, gentle tides of Hyunjin’s embrace.

“I think it’s time for a study break…” Hyunjin fell face-first through the silence and left it in a heap at the foot of the bed, lifting himself up from between Y/N’s legs and turning around to straddle him, legs seizing his waist in the same way the charming sparkle in Y/N’s smile and that coy glimmer that’d catch itself in Y/N’s eyes when their sunsets settles upon them just right caught Hyunjin speechless. 

He reached up to bring down Y/N’s textbook from in front of his face to get a better look at the canopy of stars Y/N always held in his tired gaze. No matter how many times Hyunjin makes excuses to steal a few more glances at those flurry of lights, frozen in time, that rush he feels swelling in his heart, the desire that rose to his throat and left him nothing but a bumbling mess of incoherent thought feels just like the first time it happened…

It was a school trip to a few historical sites in Rome, but the beautiful decay in the stone that was almost poetic, and the wonder of the cloudless sky pierced by spires of marble were the least of his concerns as he was granted the opportunity - with a few pulled strings and pleads to Y/N’s friends - to sit across from Y/N at a class-wide dinner. 

The way those dimmed lights hung suspended across Y/N’s upturned lips in this entrancing, hypnotic glow; the gentle pulse of the music in the floor beneath them making him feel as if they were the only ones there; how Y/N said his name in this low, lilting melody that practically made him melt into his seat. Hyunjin was surprised he managed to stumble his way through the night without succumbing to the joy that burst through his veins and made him weak in the knees.

He was lost and treading in a sea of clouds. Those eyes, the touch that wound around his shoulders as they began to lag behind the group getting to know each other, the scattered cobbles that held all of Hyunjin’s fumbled words as they fell from between his teeth. He was lost in all of it.

If he was being honest, he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to be found...

Y/N brought the book down into his lap to see Hyunjin postured up, leaning forward to steal a curious chuckle from between Y/N’s lips with a kiss. “Just a few more pages… Then I’m all yours, babe.” Y/N said as he soaked in the warmth of the smiles that framed their kisses. His voice, wrung out, low and hoarse, scratching at the surface of Hyunjin’s cheeky smile.

“Really?!” Hyunjin’s lips pursed and contorted into a pout, feigning an annoyance he knew he couldn’t maintain as the hands dangling on the edges of his waist brought the corners of his mouth straight up. “This dumb English book’s been more of a cockblock tonight than Changbin at junior prom!” The words left Hyunjin with a shiver as they both tried to conceal a disgusted shudder at the mere thought of that night.

“That’s giving way too much credit to this book.” Y/N leaned into the hands that cradled his cheeks, meeting Hyunjin’s lips halfway once more and passing a gentle hum between their melding tongues. He closed his eyes under the weight of Hyunjin’s touch, a blissful groan rising out of him as tender kisses began to make their way down his neck. Y/N tried to think of anything except for the evening Changbin basically spent hanging from Y/N’s arm, he - and practically everyone else - found a way to weave themselves into every memory Y/N and Hyunjin were trying to weave into that glorious night sky that they swore was made just for them. 

That ivory moonlight and the way it spilled against Y/N’s frame, sapphire specks of light caught flickering in Hyunjin’s eyes, the temptation lit between their slowly entwining hands. All there was to remember that night, now, were the wilted daisies of the sunrise after, with Y/N and Hyunjin looking after their gaggle of misfits who they call friends, weathered stars in their eyes still waiting for that dance in the middle of that gymnasium floor. They’ve made up for it a thousand times over, dressed in matching sweaters and the cool glow in the refrigerator light as they carved circles into the creaks in the floorboards of Y/N’s kitchen. It was no prom, it was no parade of sunset stained tulips and cherry tinted promises whisked away in breathless frenzies, but it was theirs. 

If only Changbin listened to them when the entire school was talking about how someone was going to spike the punch.

“You’re not worried about this exam, like, at all?” Y/N said, a slight whine in his voice as he kneaded his fingers tenderly into the back of Hyunjin’s head. Something made his knuckles tighten as Hyunjin practically gave out under the fires in his touch and leaned into Y/N’s shoulder, a gentle groan biting deeper into Y/N’s skin.

“Nope.” Hyunjin lifted his face from the curve of Y/N’s neck to cut with a curt response, but it was dragged out with a delighted drawl as Y/N stroked his hair back and tucked some behind his ear.

Hyunjin cut in instantly, kissing the fingertips that idled against his cheeks and hung lazily from his neck

“Not even a little bit…?” Y/N wanted to be surprised, he wanted to roll his eyes out of annoyance, but he didn’t know what else he could have been expecting from Hyunjin. He remembered watching Hyunjin bid his integrity and his GPA farewell a long time ago with a sigh of cynical acceptance in their school cafeteria. Kissing the fingertips that idled against his neck and hung lazily from the tattered collar of a sweatshirt that was probably Hyunjin’s, Y/N attempted to steel himself with a sharp breath and brought his attention back to his textbook.

Resisting the gravity of Hyunjin’s eyes has always been difficult, but not as difficult as right now. The shine in Hyunjin’s tired eyes, ones he knew always stayed lit with this captivating shimmer no matter if they were bright and jovial as the morning sun - like their walks to school hand-in-hand in attempts to shake off the blues of the early dawn - or as worn out as an autumn afternoon - like those coffee-stained Sundays hidden away in Hyunjin’s old bed, Y/N on his chest as they watched the rain carve shapes of silver into his windows. It was one of the many things that made Y/N feel as if he never had much breath to spare.

“Noop.”

“Why am I surprised? We literally spent our last study session for our history class unironically watching all the Disney princess movies.” Y/N threw his book down to his side and finally gave in to the wishes of Hyunjin’s pleading gaze. How the shattered starlight was scattered between Hyunjin’s eyes, and how Hyunjin always knew how to use it, Y/N wanted to hate it so badly. Hyunjin let a smile peak through his pursed lips the moment Y/N craned his neck over and let it mold a couple kisses to Y/N’s cheeks.

“They were historical, were they not?” Hyunjin retorted, a joy pooling in him as Y/N whipped his head back with a scoff. A nestle into his side was all Y/N earned from that, Hyunjin taking Y/N’s free arm and pulling it tighter around his own shoulders.

He always sought such pleasure in distracting Y/N, it’s as if as soon as they stride through Y/N’s doorway with a goal in mind, he assures them that they will take as many steps to get there as possible. He’ll touch, prod and tease Y/N until he crumbles, caves in and takes Hyunjin down into the grey and white ocean of Y/N’s sheets and turns another day of weathering sunlight and half-assed plans etched into the air into nothing but history. A memory to bloom in the kisses that’d drape from their necks like diamonds.

They make darkening horizons yet another blurred line between their faded breaths, another harmony in their chorus as they sing their vows of affection to the canopies of stars that hung frozen in time above them. The ridge of Y/N’s roof is the top of their world. Y/N between Hyunjin’s thighs as they watched the afternoon sun bleed black; their endless conversations that even made the moon grow tired breathed life into those barren, night skies when  these two love-struck assholes had better things to do than to let the indigos that settled between their hands relax and settle in its midnight haze.

The scars of their sleepless nights and restless mornings run deep beneath their fingers, and the blush that flourishes under Y/N’s cheeks whenever they rekindle that admiration seared into their skin runs deeper.

“You need some serious help…” A twitch flickered across Y/N’s lips as his deadpanned voice trudged through the room, and he let his eyes lazily follow Hyunjin as he straightened himself and smoothly slinked back in between Y/N’s legs, their interlocked stares never breaking for even the slightest of breaths for the dim desk lamp on Y/N’s bedside table. The radiance in Hyunjin’s coy smile made all lights pale in comparison, the axis that sends Y/N spinning.

“Yeah, I would like some serious help with getting you to stop thinking about your exam worth half your grade tomorrow.” Hyunjin cocked his head and stole a pointed glare toward the menace that was the study of classic Russian literature by Y/N’s side - five-hundred pages of it resting beneath Y/N’s heavy hand. All Hyunjin wanted to do was to steal the spotlight and thread his fingers between Y/N’s, he wants it more and more with every time they untangle as they split off in the first period.

Y/N tried not to let his mouth gape for too long, Hyunjin might latch onto his annoyance and make it his plaything. “You really are a man of the people, having all my best interests at heart.” A sarcastic hand to his heart and a mock fondness taking over the glow on Y/N’s face, it was Hyunjin’s turn to pout. The triumph ran so sweet on Y/N’s tongue, and he could see longing stir in Hyunjin’s loosening frown. He wanted to plunge into Y/N’s waters and wipe that smug look right off his face. 

Y/N was the most beautiful person ever to Hyunjin - the grace in his hands as they rested on his waist, that shimmer in his eyes, those brash and snarky smiles that he’d shine whenever he finally gets confident enough to say that he loves himself almost as much as Hyunjin loves him - but Hyunjin knew that he rocked the victorious smirk the best. He tried to ignore the sparks of pride that lapped at his heart when he saw Y/N’s chest swell, and focused harder on stealing it back - meeting Y/N’s words halfway with a tongue between his teeth.

“I’m a man of honour and chivalry, what can I say?” Hyunjin shrugged before resting his hands by Y/N’s sides and leaning in, pressing his forehead to Y/N’s. He reveled in the soft murmur he received and let his lips hover a hair’s breadth from Y/N’s for the most excruciating few moments of both of their lives. Y/N dared not look down, it’d just make it worse. And Hyunjin tried not to falter over his own attempts to torment the love of his life, a growing weakness settling in the grooves of his heart where Y/N’s fire has singed a thousand times over. “You are my people, baby…” Hyunjin smoothed a hand over Y/N’s cheek. The burn of his scarlet blush that ran under his fingertips, Hyunjin didn’t feel a thing, as all he was focusing on bringing himself closer, closer-

“You just got sentimental on me to try and scrounge up extra cuddle time…” Y/N pulled back just as their stars were about to align, leaving Hyunjin frozen in space, absent from reality with a mouth hung open in pure disgust, agony and shock as he was nudged away from Y/N with his shoulders. “Nice try...”

“YOU DID NOT JUST-” Hyunjin shot straight up, his voice tore through the walls and whipped up stray papers like a whirlwind. He balanced himself between Y/N’s legs once more as he tried to center himself in his dazed, awestruck state. Did Y/N really just- no… He didn’t, he couldn’t… There was no evidence of this suave and sadistic Y/N anywhere in his database, one that left him stumbling, scrambling for air. The only attempts at smoothness that his Y/N ever made left them both face-first in a terrible inside joke neither of them actually remember or with the night catching his tongue, leaving Hyunjin to fill in the blanks and kiss it better. It was painful to experience, yet it was the most adorable thing ever. 

This, though… This was unacceptable… 

“This is sacrilege! Slander! Pure villainy and treachery!” Hyunjin beat lightly against Y/N’s legs, whatever strength he had wearing down in an instant as the echoes of Y/N’s hearty laughter took flight.

“You really had to pull out the entire thesaurus, huh?” The small smile on Y/N’s face only shone even brighter as he heard Hyunjin whine and collapse into him, arms wrapping around Y/N and rubbing anxiously down his spine. “You do it to me all the time~” The little whine that trickled from Y/N’s lips really didn’t help Hyunjin fuel the flames of his anger, they shrunk away and withered to ash the moment he locked eyes with Y/N again. Hyunjin can never, ever withstand the power of the stars suspended in Y/N’s eyes. He doesn’t know why he still tries when he knows he’s going to get swept off his feet by Y/N’s summer breeze and carried into the clouds.

Hyunjin lifted his pressed cheek from Y/N’s shoulder and draped his hands in the curves of his neck - his second home whenever he wasn’t under this roof.

“I’ve lived long enough to see myself become the villain.” Their intertwined chuckles set the air alight between them, but as soon as it eased between Hyunjin’s teeth, an exasperated pout made its way back onto his face. Y/N just shook his head, trying his hardest not to give in and reached back over to his textbook that hung for dear life on the bed - not forgetting to brush his lips against Hyunjin’s hand and wrist as he bent down. “No cuddles yet, I really need to study so no dirty tricks.”

”“Please~” Hyunjin shook Y/N by the shoulders as his gaze dropped down to the words on the textbook pages, but they were nothing but a blur as he was being jostled around. “You look so soft and huggable today~” Tipping Y/N’s chin up to get a better look at that endearing blush that bloomed across his cheeks like the patches of hydrangeas that line his daydreams, he could feel the air being sapped out of him, Y/N’s brilliance beating him senseless. “Why TODAY OF ALL DAYS do you have to look this hot!?” 

Hyunjin eyed Y/N’s frayed head of hair, still singed by Hyunjin’s merciless caresses from the walk home; the way Hyunjin’s sweater left Y/N in swathes of thick, gray fabric and how he made it look better than Hyunjin ever could by just sitting there with a tired smile whose glow is probably from the chapstick they share between kisses. His hands, the way they sculpt him and seize him, as if every one of his curves and edges, every inch of his skin was meant to be appraised by the sparks that follow in Y/N’s delicate touch. The way Y/N’s gaze even held him like a treasure - the gold that Y/N always caught in his eyes whenever his glance fell upon Hyunjin, it always made him feel like the only person he’ll ever see.

Daybreak in an endless night, that's what Y/N is to him, and all he wants to do is to pierce the dawn and submerge it in their shared heaven as he takes Y/N by his waist and makes the rest a blur of dancing light.

“Because the universe is plotting our downfall by making soulmates out of a horny lunatic and a guy who just wants to pass his English class.”

Hyunjin tried to hide his smile when the word ‘soulmates’ escaped Y/N’s lips in such a haphazard way, it nearly made him melt in the hands that caressed his sides. “Which one am I?” 

“You-”

Y/N’s grasp fastened onto Hyunjin’s hips and with a twist of his body, he rolled them over, Hyunjin’s world for a split second was a gyrating blur that ripped a piercing shriek from his throat. Hyunjin was pressed into the bed, Y/N’s thighs molding his waist as he held their hands in a knot above Hyunjin’s head, and tides of ivory and silver that rippled around them nearly submerging their gleeful giggles. Y/N leaned down with a teasing smirk plastered onto his face - one that Hyunjin couldn’t even be mad at , and a triumphant glow lit in his cheeks as he watched Hyunjin struggle to ease a shaken breath from his shy smile.

“I’d punch you, but that’d ruin that pretty little face of yours...” Y/N’s voice settled beneath the waves of their sheets, a low rumble rolling from his tongue. It almost almost made the cocky glimmer in Hyunjin’s eyes falter - that never happens.

Hyunjin shakily smoothed his fingers against the ones entwined with his, letting out a deep sigh before Y/N let his hands go. “Fine, you win…” Hyunjin’s quiet chuckle barely breached the surface, his chest still practically hollow, empty as he was still soaking in the light of Y/N’s devilishly bold gaze. Admitting defeat isn’t really Hyunjin’s thing, but maybe letting Y/N focus on his studies for a little bit isn’t the worst idea. “You may have won the battle,” Hyunjin’s snark overtook him as he rolled to the side with an accusatory finger pointed toward Y/N’s textbook, which sat in mock innocence on his bedside table. “But I’ll win the war, just you watch.”

Y/N couldn’t believe that Hyunjin was actively glaring at a piece of homework… “You’re talking to a textbook, I think you need a little more sleep…” Y/N nudged Hyunjin’s stomach, earning another little squeal that was like music to his ears before he postured up and off Hyunjin’s thighs. He pressed himself back against the headboard, taking his textbook with one arm and opening the other for Hyunjin.

“And you’re reading a textbook, so I think you’re just as crazy.” Hyunjin grimaced at the very prospect of having to crack open one of those dusty books, but a pointed look from Y/N snapped him back into reality. “I’ll just take a small nap, I guess. If you’re really worried about the exam then I’m not gonna stop you for too much longer.” He took Y/N’s offer and clung to his side, his leg strewn across both of Y/N’s as he fed into his temptation to burrow deeper into Y/N’s inviting, comforting warmth.

“Really…? Where’d you put the old Hyunjin?” Y/N’s hand absent-mindedly made its way to Hyunjin's messy, dark hair, threading his fingers through it slowly, tenderly, taking on the rhythm of the pulse on the evening horizon. 

Hyunjin tried to speak between groans of satisfaction as Y/N began to massage into his scalp, words leaving his mouth languished, clumsy, but he meant every one he said. “I really care about you, baby, I’m sure you’re aware of that fact. You care about your grades, so I will too.” Looking up to meet Y/N’s gaze, he shone a grin as the light in his eyes was waiting right there for him. “But don’t expect this kind of mercy ever again… Ya hear?”

“Affirmative, love.” Y/N nodded, a giggle overtaking his words and billowing into a calm, attentive quiet that submerged the light and stilled the drapes at the window.

“So… You wanna cuddle when you’re done?” Hyunjin stepped carefully through the silence, his breath soaking into Y/N’s chest. His voice was so soft, yet clear. It cuts through him like a ship through the rolling tide, but it’s as tender as the shimmer of the pearls on Y/N’s shore where they spread their reckless abandon thin and carve circles with their sunset-lit slow dances. 

Painting all Y/N’s lonely nights gold with his joyful light, draping against his body like honey whenever they’d sing into each other’s skin, it’s all Y/N ever wanted but never thought he deserved.

“Of course, big spoon or little spoon?”

“Knife.”

Hyunjin shifted to assume his position, slotted between Y/N’s legs. The shape they etched into the worn night sky as they fell asleep to the songs strung between their chests always happened to be the same, and Hyunjin - shuffling up on Y/N’s chest to play with the glowing twines of the moonlight that settled against their skin - decided to finally give a name to it. 

It was a routine they’d fall into with every dull moment that yearned for their shine, as soon as waves of bedsheets crashed against them. Like puppets on strings of sunlight, the days were theirs to waste away. Hyunjin wrapped his arms around Y/N’s torso, stifling a breathy giggle in one of the many sweatshirts he lent to Y/N and suspiciously ‘lost’ as Y/N brought his book down to rest on top of Hyunjin’s head.

“I love you, Jinnie.” Y/N’s words were like molten gold as Hyunjin felt them melt on his back and course through him.

“I love you more, Y/N…” Hyunjin’s still curious touch hung on the edge of Y/N’s skin, sketching tentative circles and hearts into Y/N’s thighs. Just like the ones they’ve etched into countless summer sunsets when the rolling hills on the border of their town, the railroad that cut their favourite forest in two, the streets starved of their sapphire lit parades under street lights - when it was all a canvas for them to colour with their freedom and carelessness. “I know you’re gonna do great on the exam, please don’t be too nervous… Okay?”

“Okay, I won't be…” Y/N’s gentle voice barely stirred the coppers of the evening sunlight as he scratched gingerly at Hyunjin’s nape. Seeing Hyunjin’s smile slowly rise to Y/N’s response, it nearly made his veins burst.

“That’s my man…”

 The tides of greater expectations than to meet on the dewy fields at noon rolled in quicker than they ever thought -a summer break passing in a fleeting beat of a butterfly’s wings - the butterflies that ambled about in Y/N’s stomach whenever Hyunjin would lean in to kiss away some ice cream that Y/N would always get on the tip of his nose. But they would be hard pressed to find anyone who’s made his trudge through senior year easier than each other. 

They would be hard pressed, though, to find anyone who’s made this trudge through senior year easier than each other. Hand in hand, they’re sure that the long, winding roads that their future has in store for them will just be another whisper in the wind, a rumor passed between trees.

Together, they’ll make the sunlight bend to their will, wrap the wind around their entwined fingers. The colours dancing on the horizon are theirs for the taking.

[tarousprettybaby]

Look at me Sweets (Day 2)

Day 2 for Kinktober: Gojo Satoru

Kink: Mirror Sex

Word Count: 999

Warning(s): Uhh MINORS DNI, smexy times, afab reader, biting, blood kink if you squint, mirror sexxx, uhm past-tense cunnilingus (I don't know how to refer to this lol), creampie (wrap it before you tap it folks), I think that's it, lemme know if I should add something.

Notes from the Author: Second day of kinktober, that I initially missed. My goal is to post this in the morning and post the actual day 3 story later today. I guess these are all gonna be around drabble size, but that might change for the last story ngl.

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“Awww, don’t tell me you’re tired already, sweets. I’m nowhere done with you~.” A mischievous Gojo Satoru mumbles into your inner thigh.

He had just finished bringing you to your second high of the night, and it had only been around 35 minutes. As your brain barely made it back to Earth from orbit, you’re pulled to your feet by the man, and borderline dragged to the end of the bed.

When did he take off his clothes, you think to yourself. You wouldn’t know, so out of it that you barely registered when you were brought into his arms and your lips connected with his.

The words, “Look over there sweets,” cuts through your shared kiss, and as you do as he says, your breath hitches. It’s a mirror, large and perfectly centered on the bed. That must be new… is your thought. “I wanna see you, sweets, see you come undone for me. Can you do that for me?”

Your first thought is to roll your eyes at his cockiness; even if he was correct about how this would end, did he have to say it so plainly? But before you can reply positively, his teeth are at your neck. Gently nipping and biting at it, never breaking the skin like you wish he would do.

He pulls away suddenly before taking a seat on the edge, legs spread wide and blue eyes looking at you expectantly. You know what Satoru wants, after all… he’s a sucker for you riding him,

It happens quickly. You backing into Satoru and sinking yourself down onto his cock, but your eyes don’t view it in the mirror, which apparently, Satoru doesn’t like.

“Ah, ah, ah sweets. Pretty girl, you need to look in the mirror, look at me while you fuck yourself on my cock, yeah?” his hand wraps around your neck in time with his words, roughly taking your jaw in it and forcing your gaze to the mirror. Your whimpers are low as you look at the mirror, seeing the remnants of your past orgasms gushing out.

As you start to move, setting a relatively quick pace, his grip on your jaw only tightens, soon tilting your head to the side as his face nuzzles into the nape of your neck. Your shared moans and whines of pleasure fill the room as Satoru begins matching your pace, thrusting upwards into your cunt.

“Fuck sweets, you’re clenching around me so hard. Gonna cum around me, shit, cum around this cock?” his words still have a teasing lilt, as if he thinks you should be embarrassed by how quickly you’re reaching your next high.

That’s when you take notice. Somehow his grip is different on you. The hand on your hip is tighter, and the one on your jaw holds you more steadily. If you could see his face, you’re sure you’d see that hungry look he had that first time you’d met. The one where he looks five seconds away from going insane, a few seconds away from giving you the sweetest high and his everything.

Your thoughts of anticipation seem to be one of the last factors pushing you into ecstasy and the hard press of his fangs on your neck. Your breath hitches and the world seems to slow as you wait for the feeling of him piercing into your skin. And when it happens, your body instantly arches against his, unable to continue bouncing on his cock as you fall into the abyss.

His own deep moans fill the room around you as well, though they seem far away and not of this world.

“Mmm, ~ fuck sweets taste so good, always so delicious for me, only for me.” He groans out, teeth plunging once again into your neck, unable to get enough. His hips don’t stop rutting into you either, so close to reaching his high that when it hits him, he barely comprehends what’s happening. He doesn’t stop feeding on you, though.

A fact that somewhere in the back of your cloudy mind starts to concern you.

“Satoruuu, need to stop. Can’t think, getting light-headed..” is all you can bear to voice out. But he hears you loud and clear, and reluctantly he stops, panting. His arms wrap around you and hold you close to his chest as he begins murmuring sweet nothings into your eye, both of you slowly working down from your respective highs. When your senses come back to you, you look back to the mirror, expecting to see him before you scoff.

“Satoru, why the fuck did you put me in front of this mirror?” you question, a teasing and sarcastic tone on your tongue.

He huffs out before stating, “Cause I wanted to see you, and for you to see meeee, duh. Wanted to get a better view of me fucking your br-”

“Satoru. You aren’t visible in the mirror.”

“…”

The silence is deafening as you hold back your giggles at the man’s apparent forgetfulness of his condition.

He quickly sits up, looking in the mirror himself, before groaning.

“Fuck, I forgot that was a thing.” He says, in a rare moment of embarrassment, an embarrassment that only you are privy to seeing. A fact that always makes your heart warm.

“Yeah, I can tell,” you laugh out, “I could barely register the fact that I couldn’t see you through, so I won’t tell if you won’t” your gaze is now directed directly at him.

He smiles at that, leaning down and capturing your lips in a sweet kiss, the metallic taste of your blood still on his tongue.

“Sounds like a deal to me, Sweets,” he says, arms now wrapping tightly around you, pinning you underneath him as you both enjoy the other’s presence.

“Satoru, I need to go clean myself off.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I swear, let me go.”

“No.”

A sigh leaves your lips before murmuring, “Damn, who knew vampires were so clingy.”

“AM NOT!”

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©Tarousprettybaby 2021-2022. please don't repost work.

[nautiscarader]

phinbella ferbnessa canderemy Inappropriate location Morning sex Cum swallowing

Phinbella - cum swallowing

Isabella knows how important is for Phineas to keep his workstation clean, and so, if she decides to destress her boyfriend, she ensures that no drop of his cum stains the designs nor falls onto electornics.

Ferbnessa - inappropriate location

Both Ferb and Vanessa have a thing for trying it in odd locations. They have done it in almost empty parking lots on the hood of his car, they have joined the mile high club, and the low-Earth orbit one...

Canderemy - morning sex

From gente morning butterfly kisses, to equally subtle caresses of her breasts, to finally worshipping her sex - Jeremy knows how to wake Candace up and make sure she gets a truly royal treatment every day - though it becomes complete with a cup of strong coffee.

[disgruntledspacedad]

The Din Djarin Biker AU that nobody needs

@reluctantlyresponsibleadult​, this is for you, babe.

Bendura is one of four small moons orbiting a gas giant nestled in the far corner of the galaxy. It’s a desert - water is scarce, and resources are finite, as nobody wants to spend the credits required on fuel just to trade with these backwater biker rats. 

The Clubs rule the moon.

Bikes are a way of life on Bendura. They aren’t exactly low maintenance, but tech is scarce, and they’re relatively easy to service, if you know what you’re doing.

Resources like water, food, shelter, spice - these are heavily guarded by the Clubs. 

There are two Clubs to watch for on Bendura. To the west, the Fugitives. To the east, the Damned. The barren desert that sprawls through the center of the moon is called the Warzone, and you’ve got to be either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid to enter the ‘zone.

Din Djarin is a Fugitive. Of course, he goes by Mando - identities are heavily protected on Bendura, and if you’re associated with a Club, you can guarantee that there’s a hit out for you. So, Din goes by Mando. He’s been with the Fugitives since he was little more than a kid, and now, he’s their muscle, their enforcer, and he’s got a hell of a reputation as an assassin. Mando keeps his face covered at all times. Rumor out east is, if you ever get close enough to see the color of Mando’s eyes, you won’t live to tell the tale.

Deep down, though, Din wonders about the things he has to do for the Fugitives. Sometimes it bothers him, all the blood and killing, and for what? Seems to him that there’s plenty of water to go around if folks would just share. It’s spice that’s the problem. 

But try telling that to a spicer.

So Din grits his teeth and does his job. He’s a lifer, he’s in deep. There’s no way out for him. You don’t just quit the Clubs, not after what he’s done.

Mando rides an old, beat up Sportster that he inherited from his folks. It’s iconic, but it needs a lot of work to keep running, and the guys like to give him shit for it. Mando is constantly working on this bike because it’s constantly breaking down beneath him, but he loves it.  

One day, after a particularly gnarly job at the edge of the ‘zone, Mando meets you on the road. You stop and help him fix up his bike, which would annoy him and also kind of intrigue him.  You introduce yourself as Beta. You’re traveling alone and you’re headed through the western border, out east, straight into the heart of the ‘zone. You seem component, but you’re small and kind of pretty from what Din can tell, and the ‘zone is no place for a nomad, especially a lady. So Din decides to tag along with you under the guise of needing to complete some business, just because he doesn't want you to run into any trouble. There’s always trouble in the ‘zone.

In the interest of self preservation, Din opts against using his biker name. “Mando” has a hell of a reputation on the moon, and for some reason, Din can’t stand the thought of seeing the spark dim in your eyes when you learn his true identity. There’s blood on his hands, and you’d be right to be afraid of him. 

So he introduces himself as Din, a nomad, keeping his colors wound up tightly in his pack. It’s suicide to wear colors in the ‘zone, anyway.

It’s several days of travel, and just your presence alone is forcing Din to confront some deep-seated beliefs - sexism, the moral gray area that he has to ignore to do his job, his loyalty to the Club, also, falling for this random, very mysterious girl who knows her way around a bike just as well as she seems to know her way around the ‘zone... 

You’re driving Din crazy.

Anyway, Din escorts you through the ‘zone. It’s barren and empty. Depressing. Things happen. Din’s oil pan is busted and he’s leaking oil everywhere, but Din is a little leery of stopping somewhere this close to rival territory. You force him to follow you to this old beat up mobile home in the middle of the desert, and y’all find this old ass biker dude named Slim. Who, in my head, is not slim. Go figure.

Slim seems to know you. “Beta!” he greets with a toothless grin, and the two of you have this very cryptic conversation in front of Din that basically amounts to, “yeah, girl, you can have whatever the fuck you want here, and your friend, too.” Din gets his bike fixed up free of charge, new oil and all.

You stop at a bar for the evening and things get pretty tense with a pack of nomads. Din gets all hot and bothered and jealous. You tell him you can take care of yourself, but you’re secretly flattered by his attention. The nomads start following you, and you and Din take them out in true enforcer fashion. This is a whole ass scene in my head, guys, with explosions and lots of sexy ‘look how good we are at killing’ type of flirting.

The closer you get to enemy territory, the more antsy Din gets. Like what the fuck are you thinking, going into the Damned’s turf? You aren’t scared but you should be. Hell, Din is scared and he knows he can take care of himself. What business could you possibly have out here anyway? You’ve been pretty tight lipped about that.

A small scene under the stars. Din has yet to take his bandana off, but you notice that his eyes are a deep, dark brown. Like rich, fertile earth, the type that’s rarely seen in the desert. He tells you a story about his parents, and you think his voice is beautiful, all raspy and deep and sand-coated. You wonder what his body is like beneath all that leather, how it would feel to shed him of his armor and press your cheek into his chest, feel the vibration of his voice as he speaks, the heat of his skin against your own.

You finally make it through the ‘zone, and Din realizes that you are headed straight into Damned territory. He flips shit on you.

He’s worried.  

You have a big fight, and Din can’t quite understand why you’re so insistent on sending him away, telling him you don't need him now, that you’d never needed him, that he should head back west where he belongs. You storm away, and he follows you at a distance, heartbroken, confused, terrified, wishing he’d have kissed you on those smart-ass lips just once, wondering how you’d taste on his tongue, sick to his stomach at the idea of you alone in the most dangerous area of the moon.

So Din follows you. He follows you right up to the Damned’s clubhouse. 

He doesn’t realize where he’s headed until he’s there. You unwrap your leathers from your sissy bar as a bunch of well armed men greet you with smiles and backslaps. Din’s heart sinks in his chest as he sees the colors you’re wearing. “PRESIDENT” the bottom rocker of your leather screams.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The guys have spotted him now, are making advances, threatening with their guns, and Din realizes just how deeply he’s fucked up. He’s escorted the rival Club’s president across the ‘zone, had acted as her body guard and protector for a week. Even if he could escape here - and there��s no way in hell - Din can never go home, not after this.

His life is literally over. 

You call of the guys with a sharp whistle. "He’s with me,” you say to them, and they relax immediately. They don’t seem to recognize Din, and it’s a very good thing. 

You walk over to Din, killing his bike, and pull him to his feet. “Come on, Mando,” you hiss his biker name in his ear, and Din freezes, dread sending a sharp shiver down his spine. “We need to talk.”

[foxpaws10]

Don’t Forget Me When I Let The Water Take Me

It was the red hair which had done him in. His eye had latched on and for the first time in a very long time he felt his chest lift with hope. But the man had turned, eyes deadened and brown, not blue, and hope had been squashed under disappointment.

He should know by now that he wouldn’t ever see him again. Kept pushing it down down down. There were more important things to focus on than the ghost of a boy.

But as Andrew sat in the trenches, clothes soaked with mud, rain and the blood of his men, his mind conjured up old memories. Perhaps the memories were the only thing keeping him sane. Giving him a reprieve from the constant onslaught of bombs and gunfire, of men screaming and crying, of rats and lice and flies.

He held tightly to the image of the boy - because that’s what they had been, boys - and he closed his eyes against the fireworks of shrapnel in the otherwise dark sky.

He thought of nights spent on rooftops, smoking stolen cigarettes and making up stories about the bright stars above.

He thought of Nathaniel, and Nate, and Abram and Junior - of Neil.

Neil, always Neil to Andrew.

How his mother cursed them and threatened them and warned them. That boy was the son of the devil, the women of the village swore. They weren’t wrong. Neils father was the devil, with his burning temper and iron fists raining blows down on his son, painting him crimson and lilac.

But Neil, he was mischief. He wasn’t the fire and brimstone his parents raised him to be. He was sneaky and sly and a liar right down to his toes. He was a thief and he burned, oh how he burned, but it was life which coursed through him. Life which lit him up brighter than any star in the sky and drew Andrew into orbit.

He remembered the first time he saw him; galloping a chestnut mare across the fields which separated Andrew’s house from the Laird’s. They were both shiny as copper, Neils hair a fiery crown of curls, the horse dipped in blood - all but her muzzle which was a bright white.

Devils son? Well he looked the part. He took joy in the twin curls which curved like horns by his temples when his hair was wet; a consequence of either being caught in a downpour or Andrew dunking him in the river.

The river. They spent most of their days by it. Stealing the Laird Hingston’s fish, swimming in the clear depths, skimming rocks across the surface of the smoother, deeper pools.

The first time they swam, Neil had stripped naked as the day he was born. No shame in his nudity, though cautious about the scars and bruises littering his freckled skin. By the second week, Andrew was down to his underwear and then nothing at all.

They spent hours floating down the flow. Settling in shallow areas where the riverbed pushed up to the surface, keeping them locked in place despite the rushing water. Jumping off the high banks into pools, or swinging off overhanging tree branches.

They’d begun to ride Fox, Neils glorious chestnut mare, down to the river together. She would graze the lush grass along the banks, and Andrew swore she flicked them dissapointed looks every now and again when they were being particularly rowdy. Occasionally she would travel into the water with them, cooling down in the shimmering summer sun. Once, Neil had backflipped off her rear end and nearly had his skull caved in by her hoof.

She was a birthday present from Neils uncle, a Londoner by the name of Stuart Hartford. A strong Irish breed, she was to be used for hunting; covering vast stretches of land and jumping wooden gates and stone walls and deep gulleys. She had a temper worse than Neils some days; her ears would lie flat back against her skull, her nostrils would flare and she’d bare her teeth like a savage while stomping her hooves. Neil had worked through the anger with patience and persistence, and Andrew with a pocket full of sugar cubes.

Despite her bloodline boasting impressive abilities, she was just as happy pottering down country lanes and cobbled streets, loose and relaxed with the two boys riding atop her bareback.

Neil had taught Andrew how to trot, canter and pop a small jump on her. Just in case, he’d said, with a shifty look in his eye.

Andrew liked the speed of her, feeling the unbridled power in her muscles as he pushed her on until her strides swallowed the ground beneath them. Some days it felt like flying, most days it felt like freedom.

Andrew had been tucked into the corner of her stall late one evening, sharing an apple with both Fox and Neil, when he met Stuart Hatford. A man of high class and strange fashion, he was abrupt and rude but entirely harmless. Harmless to the two boys, that is.

Andrew grew to like him, enjoyed listening to him tear apart Nathan Wesninski with whip quick words. Enjoyed even better the day he’d threatened Nathan with his cane, a deadly look in his eye that Andrew had caught Neil mimicking once before.

After that incident they hadn’t seen much of Hatford, but when they did, he was sure to sneak money into pockets and biting remarks into ears.

The last time Andrew had seen Stuart, he’d been sat upon an impressive dark horse. A coat like midnight, shining like stars under a low autumn sun. He had passed Andrew, taking a shortcut through the fields, on the way to peruse the sweets of the bakery. Pulling up beside him, Stuart had made Andrew promise that he would take care of Neil, keep him out of trouble. And had warned that they needed to leave, the sooner the better.

If Andrew knew then what he did now, he would have left that very same day. But he had a brother to look after, one who confessed not long after that he’d knocked up the baker's daughter.

Their mother had been livid, and Andrew had taken the abuse in place for his brother. God only knew what the woman would have done had she found out about Andrew’s own inclinations.

He’d never understood the fascination with girls. Their curves and their high pitched giggles, their swishy skirts and small frames and sweet perfumes. He’d always been drawn to men, their deep voices and strong hands, the lingering musk of sweat and what lay between their legs.

He’d seen two men kiss behind the pub one late evening, when it was safer out in the cold night than their house. Had been fascinated with the hard press of lips and teeth and tongue, how their hands had gripped and tugged and pulled. It was a memory that wreaked havoc in his sleep, leaving him with damp undergarments in the morning and which haunted him on the days he did slide his hand between his legs.

Neil was the first male he ever kissed. Sitting in the corner of Fox’s stall, a puddle of kittens between them. Neils father had ordered him to drown them, but Neil had stowed them away in one of the outbuildings instead. They mewled and tottered between them on stumpy legs, claws digging through their trousers as they climbed into their laps.

Andrew had been sat on his window ledge smoking and watching the last dim light of the sun dipping below the horizon when Neil had stopped below him, wheels of his bike skidding in the loose gravel and dirt. His eyes had been alight with defiance and mischief as he coaxed Andrew to join him. Andrew had learnt early on he wasn’t capable of saying no to that look. It promised mischief and adventure and danger.

Andrew had mounted the bike with Neil balanced on the handlebars, telling him all about his precious find. One of his mothers exotic felines had been caught by a barn cat and given birth to five small kittens. She had hidden them away in a closet to protect them from Nathan and his hounds, but they soon found their voices and she’d been exposed.

They were a grey-blue colour with dark stripes and squashed faces. Andrew marvelled at how small they were, so soft and warm in his hands, with needle sharp claws and teeth. Despite only being a few weeks old they were strong and bold.

He dared a glance at Neil and felt his chest tighten. A bruise was splattered across his jaw, and a half circle of black skin hugged his left eye, but neither could take away from the soft smile curving his lips.

In the flickering lamp light, with the soothing sound of Fox’s heavy breathing and the grinding of her teeth as she grazed from her hay, he looked soft and melting like butter. Andrew wanted to dip his hands into him, to sip from his mouth and feel the steady pulse of his heart.

Neil came from old money produced through blood. He was the heir to the Wesninski estate, but also the Hatford’s. He had wardrobes packed with silks and chiffon, fancy coats and stiff trousers and hard boots. He had a mansion hung with exquisite portraits and oil paintings, curtains which cost more than Andrew’s house, furniture which dated back centuries yet was polished so bright it could have been made yesterday. He had a bed larger than Andrew’s and Aaron’s shared room. He had prospects and future betrothals and a list of universities just waiting to snap him up.

Yet he sat in the dirt of a horse stall, with mud splattered overalls coated in horse hair, a shirt which once might have been white but was perpetually stained yellow from hard work and sweat, boots gone soft and falling apart at the seams. His hair was an unruly uncombed mess atop his head, bright like the sunrise, and his eyes were blue as a summer sky. He smelt like sweat and horse and the Earth. His fingernails were perpetually dirty, no matter what time of day it was. He spent nights walking dark streets or sitting atop rooftops with Andrew, a bastard boy coated in poverty.

Their lives were miles apart, and yet they fit together perfectly. They had the same blase attitude about most of life, a dark humour others shyed away from, and a belief that there had always been something… missing. They had dark days and sharp days and quiet days. But together, they were learning ways to chase away the dark clouds and foreboding shadows.

Neil had been the one bright spark lighting up Andrew’s life from the first day. Everything was on fire, every atom of his being burned and yearned to be swallowed within Neils own blaze.

Andrew could remember, as clear as if it were yesterday, how his stomach had tied itself in knots. How his palms had dampened with sweat, catching the fine hairs of the soft kittens. How dry his mouth had gotten, all the moisture whisked away by nerves.

He could remember the wrinkle of Neils brow as he glanced at him, concern tightening his eyes as he realised something was wrong. The soft murmur of his name, slipping between smooth lips.

Andrew had asked, because he couldn’t bare to be pushed away once he leant in. He didn’t know what he would do if he lost Neil, if Neil looked at him with disgust and swore to never see him again.

But Neil had merely smiled, eyes gone soft and dewy as he set aside a kitten and leant in. His lips were even softer than Andrew had imagined. They were both inexperienced, and yet somehow it was perfect. The fumbling movement of their mouths as they tried to slit together in an even rhythm; the heavy gusts of breath as they tried to breathe and then forgot how to and almost choked on lack of oxygen; the first quick swipe of tongue to dampen the dry stickiness which suddenly turned the quiet kisses loud and sucking; the gut tightening sound Neil made when Andrew lifted a hand to his jaw, careful of the bruising, and tilted him down into the kiss; how they kept trying to get closer, ignoring the mewling and sharp claws of the kittens between them; Fox’s snort as hay dust swirled in her nostrils and she splattered them with wet droplets; how Andrew opened his mouth to breathe and suddenly Neils tongue was on his and it was like the beginning of a universe.

He could remember it all like it was yesterday. As another whizz-bang exploded overhead, he struggled to decide if it was a blessing or a curse. The memories were a warm blanket, a honey soaked film trying to cover the worst memories he’d occurred over the last few years. Where once everything had been bright and golden and beautiful, everything was dark and cold and horrid, leaking blood and guts everywhere. He could slip away for a second, a minute, an hour, and remember the boy he had cherished above all else. But it never lasted.

He didn’t know what happened to Neil. One day he was there, the next he was gone. Slipped out from under his fingertips, stolen on the wind as more bad news about the war blew in.

Andrew had tried to write to him once, but he’d never gotten a reply. He’d tried to find him, but so far there had been no news of a Wesninski or a Hatford in their ranks. Every glance of red hair was a beacon of hope, yet they left nothing but dark disappointment behind.

When the horses passed them, mud splattered and skeletal, he looked for red with a white muzzle. He dreaded the day he’d find it, abandoned on no-mans-land.

A whistle blew further down the line and he heaved a heavy breath before standing, so used to the feel of his clothes stiff and ridged and mud soaked he knew it shouldn’t bother him anymore, yet somehow it still did. He had a team of men to lead, he couldn’t dwell on the past. His brother, a medic now, among them.

Perhaps one day, the war would be over. Today wasn’t yet that day.

They had an advancement planned, a move to gain back what had been taken. A move closer to the enemy. It would be another week before he heard more than whispers travelling down the lines. They had a new battalion joining them in the meantime, due some time tomorrow evening.

Among them, a new translator. Andrew hoped Private Josten would be more help than their last one had been.

{READ ON AO3}

[zet-sway]

Spiritual Shrios Summer Fill - “Caress"

My third fill for @rosenkow's Spiritual Shrios Summer! I wanted a happy ending for these lovebirds, so pardon my AU. I slammed down the rough draft while vibing hard to Hozier and Ed Sheeran.

PROMPT WORD: CARESS | WORDS: 2246 Rated: "S" for "Soft & Spicy" AO3 Link: "Safe, Warm, and Whole" Pairing: Thane / FemShep Setting: Recently Post-War, Thane Survives AU Summary: "I can't sleep," she mumbled. "If you aren't too tired..." Her voice trailed off, her statement finishing with telling hand trailing across his hip, straying close to the sensitive scales below his abdomen.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The soft chill of night air filtered through the open window in their shared flat as Shepard stepped out of the bathroom on sore, aching feet. Fresh from a cold shower, shoulders dropped with fatigue, she managed a smile at him across the room. Thane looked up from his reading. "Siha, how are you feeling?" "Exhausted." She looked it, too. Ever since the war had ended, combat seemed to always take a heavier toll on her body. Her armor powered her through the field, but in their private quarters, she carried herself on tired legs, fresh bruises peeking out from beneath her shirtsleeves. He would kiss them away if he could. Thane stood and guided her into his arms. "Come to bed with me. I think you've earned a good rest." Their flat - if it could even be called a flat - was barebones, no better than any military dormitory she's ever stayed in. White walls, cold floor tiles, and almost no décor to speak of. It was clean, at least. Six months since the war had ended, humanity had made little to no progress reclaiming the comforts they'd enjoyed before the reapers. Still, some inspired soldier had managed to requisition an old bed that was bigger than the standard issue Alliance bunk size - a gift for the legend herself, and her partner. He eased her down onto the sheets with steady arms. "It's too quiet in here," Shepard groaned as she laid down. "I'm sure the Alliance would be willing to relocate us to one of the orbital stations," he said, undressing before joining her in bed. She made an annoyed sound. "They need me here." It was mostly true. The alliance was still uncovering disorganized pockets of reaper forces, most of them in the underground byways of urban centers. It's what she spent her days doing. Strapping on the same old armor and delving into close quarters to fight cannibals, brutes, and whatever other monsters lurked in the dark. He wanted so badly for her to rest, but she wouldn't have it. The three months she spent held up in the field hospital were agony for her, and not simply because she was in pain. That restless mind, her patchwork cybernetic body giving her inhuman reserves of energy that her organic parts simply couldn't keep pace with. Even the Alliance had tried to offer her diplomatic work - something she had laughed off. "Come back when you're ready to let me do my job." Still, Shepard found planetside silence deafening. Sleep was harder to claim without the white noise of a cruiser. She talked often of the thrumming of engines on ships she'd lived on for most of her life. Thane himself rather enjoyed the quiet sounds of Earth, but it didn't much matter to him where they were. As long as she came home to him at night. "What will you do once the ground work is complete?" he said, settling in beside her. "I can't fucking wait," came her muffled response, face stuffed into a pillow. "Maybe then we can get back into space. Help with the Citadel reclamation." She turned to look at him then, squinting against the light on his nightstand. "If that's okay with you." "My love," he said, switching off the light and kissing her forehead, "I would follow you to the edge of the world if you'll have me." She swatted at him weakly. "You're sickeningly sweet." Thane's face contorted in an exaggerated frown, but his voice betrayed his mirth. "I make you sick?" She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean." "I love you too, Siha," he chuckled, and gathered her into his arms. Indeed it had taken him a little while to get used to living with humans and their ample use of sarcasm, but he did understand her. By now he had long since stopped using his translator. Earth was becoming more familiar to him by the day, and he was surprised to find so many humans eager for his help. That he wasn't Alliance didn't seem important when so much needed doing. When he refused to leave her hospital bedside, they busied him with menial tasks around the infirmary and he was surprised to find he enjoyed the small role he had in healing the injured. Most of all, he thanked Arashu each and every day for her unbelievable

blessing, to have Shepard here, curling into his chest, safe, warm, and whole. She wriggled against him, humming quietly as she found a more favorable position with her knee over his and her face in the warm velvety frill of his neck. Soft breaths rolled over him and he trilled in response, the sound vibrating in his chest. They fit together so seamlessly that he could never be sure if she teased him like this deliberately or simply out of comfort, but warmth of her breath over his throat made his body stir in irresponsible ways, considering her state of fatigue. With some amount of guilt, he shifted away from her. She reacted, her arm tightened about his waist to press him close and this time she did it on purpose, gentle lips kissing his throat once, then twice with an open mouth, with a small hum of satisfaction. Her intentions were loud and clear. "I thought you were exhausted," he mused into her hair. Ambient light from outside spilled through their open window and illuminated her in the dreamy shades of nighttime. Her eyes were closed, body tucked tight against him. Like holding the entire world in his arms, he swelled with adoration. "I can't sleep," she mumbled. "If you aren't too tired..." Her voice trailed off, her statement finishing with telling hand trailing across his hip, straying close to the sensitive scales below his abdomen. "Mm," he pretended to consider, knowing exactly what she wanted. "I may be able to help. What do you require?" It would be a cold day in hell when he was too tired for her. She kissed his neck again, her palm flattening against the small of his back and dragging it slowly over his backside. "Touch me," she whispered. Warmth bloomed in his chest, the heat of desire washing over him. "It would be my pleasure," he rumbled. Slowly, he pushed her shorts off her hips and eased her on to her back. Eyes closed, licking her lips in contented anticipation, he watched her chest rise and fall with each contented breath. Hands slid across her belly, easing her t-shirt up over her head and she accommodated him, rising just enough to pull it off and flicking it lazily on to the other side of the bed. Relaxed as he'd ever seen, her undressed body laid before him, dotted with scars and stories he knew so well. He pulled himself over her, meeting her lips in an unhurried kiss. She stretched against him, warming beneath his body, hands wandering across the defined lines of his shoulders and spine as though she knew his stripes by memory alone. He gathered her breasts together from where they rolled to her sides and gazed up at her face as he kissed the deliciously soft valley between them. Thumbs running over each hardening peak, he watched her expression as he teased her if only just to see the gleaming edges of her teeth drawing her lower lip into her mouth. Her eyelashes fluttered as he squeezed her flesh gently, closing his lips over first one nipple, then the other. She arched up to meet his eager tongue, heavy breaths rushing from her lungs as though the pressure of his hands drove the air from her body. Beneath him, he could feel her core flex with each flick of his tongue and twist of his fingers "Fuck," she moaned. He couldn't help but watch her, eyes closed, lips parted, chest heaving against his hands as he stoked her lust from a smolder to an irresistible flame. His gentle mouth began to work its way down across the hard plane of her abdomen. Beneath the scent of standard issue soap, he could smell the salt of her skin, pausing to place an appreciative kiss atop her mound before his hands curled around the juncture of her hips. Her breathing was ragged as his thumbs parted her eager, heated flesh for his appreciation. The first time they'd done this he'd had to talk her down from her insecurities. The memory made him feel possessive, nearly angered by the notion that some other man had turned down privilege of knowing her this way. Thane let his breath ghost over her glistening center, thumbs dragging firmly up and down her folds just to hear her moan for him. The urge

to tease her was irresistible. It was with a knowing smirk that he finally bent his mouth to her, tasting her earthy, salty flesh - her hitched gasps like music to his ears. She told him once that he put human lovers to shame, and he was proud - perhaps the only man in existence who pried the secrets of her pleasure straight from her lips. He knew exactly how to touch her simply because he'd asked. The sounds she made when he laved his tongue over her clit were low and resounding reminders of how painfully hard he was in his shorts. Her fingertips trailed along his sensitive jaw, feeling him work as he ate her greedily. "Don't stop," she whispered. He grinned against her sex, teasing her entrance with two fused fingers, pushing slowly inside her heat only to brush against her center and slip out, again and again. Patiently, he devoured her, walking her closer to the edge one searing second at a time until her head was thrown back, her spine arched off the bed, fingers trembling against his scalp. He loved this. Every time he went down on her his mind trailed over every single time previous - recalling the exact intonation of her voice, the press of her hands, the way she tensed her thighs as she neared the peak of her pleasure. By now, he could tell precisely when to set her off. He edged her for a few seconds longer. She was close, so close. She came with a shout, her clutching fingers carefully telegraphing how long he could continue to draw out her climax before she trembled and sagged, clenching her oversensitive flesh away from his hungry mouth. "Holy shit, Thane," she gasped, heaving for breath and sprawling against the mattress. He climbed atop her and she kissed him without hesitation and he growled - he couldn't deny he found it irrefutably erotic how she cleaned the taste of herself off his lips. Clumsy hands fumbled at his shorts, stroking his burning length, urging him to bring it to her lips. Maybe another night - he thought. Right now he burned to bury himself inside her. He felt her tense in anticipation, her eyes cracked open and gleaming in the moonlight, slowly blinking up at him with a look so unguarded he could have wept. She guided him to her slick entrance and he slowly pushed inside, groaning as her hungry, supple flesh tempted him into her scorching depths and at last, he hilted inside her. He set a languid pace, cradling her hips in his hands, searching for the perfect angle to make her see the stars she missed so dearly behind her closed eyes. With her core hypersensitive in the glow of her climax, she clutched at him desperately, nails digging into the scales of his back with such force he thought for sure they would be discolored before long. He didn't care. Becoming one with her, seeing her completely blissed out by each roll of his hips and knowing he could make her feel this way made him shake with wanting. He covered her with his body, ravishing her lips against pleasured cries that came so resoundingly he was sure to hear "who was getting lucky last night?" in the morning. He belonged to her - this night and as many nights as she wanted him. She made him delirious in her pleasure. Her body demanded his release. Held within her wanting arms, he finally succumbed with a hoarse, drawn out cry. For seconds he was infinite, a whirlwind of white hot ecstasy fraying him apart until he found his sweetest end in her embrace. And then there was nothing but her and the caress of crisp, evening air wafting over him. A gift from the earth to bless their joining. He shivered with the aftershocks. Soft hands trailed down his back. He didn't know how long they remained before separating. In the afterglow, memories overtook him easily. Vivid remembrances of Irikah and Shepard tumbled together and he slipped in and out of them like the rolling of coastal waters. It was difficult to rationalize how he could deserve either of them, what he could have done to earn the love of the fierce and cosmic women who touched his heart. But as Shepard's breathing slowed from heavy to peaceful beside him,

his doubts were pushed aside. Arashu herself had sent him a divine protector, and he would not refuse her gifts. "You're the best," she murmured against him, and he could hear the daze of sleep trailing her gentle voice. Just a sigh of breath as she tucked her head against his chest and whispered:

"I love you." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Thanks for reading!

If you like creating shrios content, you're welcome to hop on board the challenge! My previous fills [AO3]:

Secrets in the Steam [Prompt: Wet]

Your Gods are My Gods [Prompt: Pray]

[baby-impalas]

everything ever | jacob barber

pairing: jacob barber x reader

word count: 2806

warnings: swearing, angst, pining, unedited, probably some spelling errors, drinking, mentions of drugs.

-

normally, jacob would be a smiley mess watching you dance. you’re so carefree and in the moment when dancing he thinks it might be one of the only true releases you have. however, watching you dance up against your boyfriend (who isn’t him), doesn’t exactly bode the same. 

it breaks his heart, in fact. 

derek (or ‘little bitch’ as jacob refers to him in his mind and around sarah) has his hands on your waist and his mouth pressed against your neck. you’re swooning completely for whatever he’s whispering in your ear, smiling and giggling like you couldn’t be happier. 

until you look over and see jacob watching you, breaking out into a smile he swears could power the city. you immediately turn to derek and say something, giving him your drink to hold before running over to him and practically jumping into his arms for a hug. 

“haven’t seen you in forever,” you say into his ear. the music is loud, but he could pick your voice out of any crowd. 

“since friday. yesterday,” he chuckles, setting you down and smiling at you. your eyes are bright and so full of spirit. fuck he has it bad. 

“yeah but it always seems like a long time when I'm away from you,” you say, knocking his shoulder playfully with your fist. 

you have no idea, he thinks. 

about an hour later you guys are sitting on a couch, your head leaned against his shoulder with your nose in your phone as jacob observes the party scene in front of him. it’s some kid he doesn’t really know that threw the party for the fourth of july. everyone’s drunk off their ass and a few people are really feeling the holiday, chanting ‘u.s.a.’ a couple rooms over. in the corner, jacob spot a girl he knows to be named aubrey. she’s dancing with mike greyson, possibly the dumbest college freshman jacob’s ever met. he doesn’t even know how the kid got in, to be quite honest. jacob doesn’t understand why aubrey, who’s quite smart, would waste her time on someone like mike. same as he doesn’t understand why you would wast your time with someone like derek. 

jacob knows he isn’t exactly a catch. he’s decently attractive, but he does have a bit of an anger problem. it’s something he’s gotten better at controlling over the years, and something he would never even think about taking out on anyone. he knows now better than when he was younger that it’s his problem, and he has to deal with it on his own. death seemed better than even thinking about taking his anger on you, and that’s where he and derek differed, it seemed. 

derek definitely didn’t hit you (no way in hell would you stand for that), he’s just raised his voice at you one too many unnecessary times. you talked to jacob about what he said to you and how it made you feel. 

how he called you an ‘uptight bitch’ for not wanting to get high before class. 

he’s right I should loosen up a little, you’d said. 

how he called you stupid for asking a simple question about some homework. 

I really should pay attention more, you’d said. 

fuck that. you shouldn’t have to make excuses for your shitty boyfriend being an asshole to you just because he thinks he can. if jacob’s ever been confident in one thing about himself, it’s that he should be the one holding you in his arms and whispering sweet things in your ear. 

he glances down at you, seeing that you were texting derek. 

shithead. 

you: i wanna go

derek : i’m having fun tho

you: I'm tired

derek: you can go

you: derekkk

derek: what?

you: please?

derek: are u always gonna be so nagging?

“hey,” jacob says, nudging his shoulder. you look up to him and set your phone in your lap. “i'm gettin’ kinda tired. you wanna go?” 

you basically snort. “yes please,” you say. 

jacob stands and takes your hand in his to help you stand as well. you’re a bit wobbly and hold onto him for balance. and even in the sweaty crowd all jacob can smell is your sweet vanilla perfume. 

once outside, you say, “I don’t even know why I came. I hate these parties.” 

“me too.” 

“then why’d you come?” you ask with a bubbly laugh. 

“cause you did,” jacob answers truthfully. you pause for a moment, nearly making him trip. “you okay?” 

you’re watching him carefully, the same way he watches people when they’re doing something particularly interesting. 

“yeah,” you say a little late. “I have to tell you something.” 

jacob’s heart hammers in his chest, and he swears his legs go a little numb. but he plays it cool, asking, “what’s up?” 

you don’t respond right away, instead brushing his tousled hair away from his eyes. he remembers a couple weeks after you guys had met, you’d said he had some of the prettiest eyes you’d ever seen. and shit if that wasn’t fuel for his fire. 

“you’re so pretty, jake,” you say, seemingly just remembering that you thought that about him. “and so smart. god you are so smart and you don’t even have to try.” 

jacob feels his cheeks heat up and thanks anyone listening that it’s dark outside so you can’t see. he opts to look at some trees over your shoulder, knowing that staring into your twinkling eyes will only make it worse. but you place a hand on his cheek and turn his head back to you. 

being so close he swears he might pass out. 

“you’re everything to me,” you say. “you’re just everything there every was. do you know that?” 

he tilts his head slightly to the right as his eyebrows knit together.

“I don’t think you know what you’re saying,” he smiles a little and you smile right back, immediately falling into a fit of giggles. 

“I'm trying to be serious,” you say with a pout and shit you look so cute. he’d let you break his heart over and over and over if you wanted to. 

“be serious, then.” 

you take a deep breath for dramatic and comedic effect. 

“I, uh...” you’re staring into his eyes with a sudden intensity that nearly knocks him off his feat. he can practically see the gears turning in your head, though one seems to stop and suddenly that intensity is gone and you’re looking at the ground. “I'm tired.” 

maybe his heart aches just a little. 

“let’s get you home, then.” 

you don’t lean on him anymore, seemingly so balanced you may as well be sober. 

the drive home is mainly silent. the radio plays everybody wants to rule the world at a low volume, and you rest your head against he window the whole time. you really weren’t lying about being tired. 

when you arrive at your house, jacob helps you inside because it’s very hard for you to walk half asleep and intoxicated. he helps you into bed, removing your shoes and covering you up. then, because he can’t help himself, he brushes your messy hair back from your eyes, and suddenly you’re staring up at him in a way that has him panicking. because you’re looking at him the way sally looked at harry. 

“jake,” you say, your voice thick with sleep. 

“i’ll see you tomorrow, yn.” 

what’s one more impulsive romantic gesture? he kisses you on the head. 

“jake,” you say again. “want you to kiss me.” he almost doesn’t hear it, you’re so quiet. 

“what?” he murmurs, his heart picking up in his chest as he looks down at you. he’s still bent over, so when you sit up you’re only inches away from each other. 

“I want you to kiss me again,” your hand comes up from under the covers and you rest your index finger on your bottom lip. “here.”  

fuck. your cheeks are lit with a blush and your sparkling y/e/c eyes are boreing into his. you smell so good and he’s sure you taste like everything wonderful in the world. 

“no,” but you’re not his girlfriend. “you’re drunk.” you’re derek’s girlfriend. 

“doesn’t matter,” you say, grabbing his shirt and not breaking eye contact. 

“matters a lot,” he says, wishing he had the will power to remove your hand and just leave. but he doesn’t. because it’s you. you’re his first love and right now you’re looking at him like he carries the universe, the way he’s always wanted you to look at him. 

“not if I think about it sober, too,” you say. 

oh. 

“well-” what the fuck does he say? you still have a boyfriend, he can’t kiss you. he can’t kiss you. he can’t kiss you. your lips are alluring and your gaze is honest in love. but he can’t kiss you. 

he can’t. 

“please,” you say. and shit now you’re begging. “jacob, I need you to kiss me right now or I may explode.” 

fuck. he doesn’t know what to do, so he does the only logical thing. he shuts off his emotions. ever since he was a kid, jacob’s been very in charge of his feelings. he’s not sure it’s a good thing, but it’s a thing that comes in handy in moments like this. 

“get some sleep, yn,” he says, finally standing up and pulling himself out of the spell you seemed to have him in. 

he knew you were pouting without even looking at you, for you’d made a big huffy sort of sound that he knows you do when something doesn’t go your way. you make a noise like you’re about to speak, but nothing comes out. jacob smiles down at you, and you lay back down, looking very tired again. 

he walks out, making sure to turn your night light on and lock your front door. he seems okay. anyone looking at him would think he’s completely fine. but in the safety of his car, the switch for his emotions seems to turn back on, and he feels his breathing pick up like he might cry. but jacob doesn’t cry. he hasn’t since ben rifken. so he just sits and feels the anger begin to spread. 

why the fuck didn’t he kiss you? because you have a boyfriend. but he hates the son of a bitch and if you like him so much why would you try and kiss jacob? what’s the point of being a good guy if you always get hurt in the end? isn’t there a point where his own happiness should come first? 

jacob hits his steering wheel, so conflicted with what the right answer is he feels his head practically swimming like he might be drunk. he’s not drunk. he’s sober and in pain. but who wouldn’t be? you’re y/n y/l/n. you're a four leafed clover and probably the reason the earth orbits the sun. anyone who wouldn’t move mountains for you is a fucking idiot. 

jacob drives home and doesn’t think about anything anymore. sometimes thinking hurts too much. 

-

you text him the next morning and ask if you can come over. he says sure and makes breakfast for you guys. eggs, bacon, toast, the whole nine yards. he’s assuming you don’t remember what happened last night, but he’s sure you felt like shit this morning. 

you arrive and greet him with a smile and a hug. your hair’s pulled up into a bun and you’re wearing the sweater he gave you last year after a late night in the city. it used to be his own, but it looks so much cuter on you. 

“hey,” you say. “did you make breakfast? smells good.” 

he nods, ushering you into the kitchen where he’d already prepared two plates. you give him a sweet, adoring smile like you can’t believe what he’d done. 

“you’re so sweet,” you say, jutting your bottom lip out. 

everything seems to stop for a moment when he looks at you. it hits him then just how head over ass he is for you and how he’d do just about anything to make sure that gorgeous smile stays on your face forever. 

he shrugs, sitting down next to you. “just doin’ what my dad taught me.” 

andy was always drilling into jacob’s head that if you want to get a nice girl under your arm, chivalry is the key. 

“ah, yes, I'm sure andy barber was quite the catch in his day. still kind of is, actually.” 

jacob’s jaw drops. “you’re hitting on my dad? my married dad?”

you laugh, nearly choking on orange juice. “not hitting on, just complimenting the barber genes. obviously good looks run in the family,” you say, nudging his shoulder. 

jacob turns away so you won’t see him blush. he’s surprised things aren’t awkward between you two after last night. seems you really don’t remember what happened. 

“okay, but the y/l/n genes are clearly one of god’s favorites.” 

“aww, you think I'm pretty?” you say, turning to him after taking a bite of bacon and batting your eyelashes at him. 

“you’re ethereal,” he says, almost to himself, as he looks at you. 

suddenly the energy in the room shifts, and you’re not looking at him so playfully anymore. he tries to think of something to shrug it off, but nothing comes to mind. all he can think about is how pretty you are. and how kind, and loving. 

“why didn’t you kiss me last night?” you ask. 

fucking what?

“what? are you serious? you were drunk.” and I'm an idiot. 

“well I stand by what I said.” 

it’s silent as you watch him, waiting for a reaction. anyone looking at you might think you’re confident as hell right now, but really you’re practically begging inside that jacob doesn’t kick you out for crossing a line. 

“well you have a boyfriend,” he says almost spitefully. 

then you’re pulling out your phone and clicking some buttons, and jacob’s scared for a moment you may be deleting his number or something. but instead, you put the phone on speaker and begin calling someone. jacob doesn’t see who it is, only barely recognizes the voice of the little bitch on the other end of the line. 

“sup, babe?” derek says though the phone. 

“hey. i think we need to break up.” you’re picking at a loose strand of fabric on your jeans, seemingly not phased at all by the fact that you’re breaking up with your boyfriend. almost bored, even. 

“what? you’re serious?” 

“yup.” 

holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit-

“how come?” 

then you lock eyes with jacob, and his heart skips a beat. 

“I'm in love with someone else.” 

derek starts to say something, but you hang up on him. jacob almost laughs at the cold gesture, but he can’t, because next thing he knows you’re pressing your lips against his and he can’t do anything except kiss back and think, this is happening. I'm kissing yn. and she tastes so sweet, like orange juice. 

his hands are slipping from your cheeks to your arms to your waist because he can finally touch you. he can fucking finally feel your soft skin under his fingertips, and your lips against his own. it feels right, like you fit together in a way that’s bigger than either of you.

you pull away and look at him, gauging his reaction. as far as jacob’s concerned, you’re the only one who’s ever really been able to read him. you know exactly how he’s feeling and how to react to it. it impresses him more than anything else because he considers himself extremely hard to read. 

right now, though, he’s not hard to read at all. his eyes are twinkling with adoration and there’s a blush on his cheeks that’s even spreading to his neck. he’s dopey and so in love he can’t contain it. 

“you’re everything there ever was,” he says, repeating your drunken words from last night. you giggle and just holy fuck he can’t believe you love him. you.

“jacob-”

“I love you,” he says, moving his hand to your thigh. “always have.” 

that has you blushing and avoiding his gaze, and you look so goddamn cute. 

“I love you too,” you say, trying your best to look him in the eye. “I never loved derek. I just didn’t think you’d want me like that, so I tried to move on... long story short it didn’t work.” 

he laughs, though he’s in major disbelief that he wasn’t obnoxiously obvious with his feelings for you. he’s good at controlling how he appears to people, but loving you was something he could never really contain. 

and now, thank fuck, he doesn’t have to anymore. because you’re all his. 

[war-of-the-words]

A December Night

A very merry Christmas and happy holidays to my @dcmkkaishinevents giftee, Clef! I sincerely hope this gift makes you smile! -Two

Kaito hated wearing heels. They weren’t any problem for him now, he could wear them for hours if he had to, but that doesn’t mean he enjoyed them. And when you’re disguised as an attractive young woman at a private auction for high-priced items, heels were practically mandatory. Plus, heels made his legs look fantastic.

He hadn’t sent an advance notice this time. He just wanted it to be a quick in and out kind of deal. The majority of this decision was because Nakamori finally got time off and he promised Aoko that he would spend the day holiday shopping together. Aoko had been so excited to hear it, and Kaito thought that they both deserved some father-daughter time.

Unfortunately, that meant that Kaito had to spend more time than he liked weaseling an invitation for his disguise from the organizers. It never ceased to amaze him how sleazy “high class” people could be. But he was there now, circling the buffet table like a shark and eating his fill of the pretentious mini desserts. 

“Excuse me?” a voice said from behind him. An incredibly familiar voice that made Kaito’s blood run cold.

“Hm?” he hummed, turning around and giving the intruder a warm smile. The face wasn’t one he wanted to see. Kudou Shinichi stood there, looking incredibly handsome in a fitted charcoal suit, a smile on his face. Kaito hated how he couldn’t help but notice the way one side of his lip always pulled a little higher than the other.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you babe.” What did he just say? 

“Um, I think you’ve-” Kudou tilted his head ever so slightly, a sharp look in his eyes. Kaito slid his gaze to where Kudou indicated and noticed one of the more sleazy organizers orbiting a little too close for comfort. It clicked, Kudou had seen a woman in potential danger and stepped in like a knight in shining armor. “-got the wrong idea about why we came here, dear. The jewelry is great and all, but you know I can’t resist a good dessert table!” Kudou laughed, it made Kaito’s heart do backflips. Why, of all the people that could materialize at a secret KID heist it had to be him.

“How did you think I knew to find you here?” Kaito was about to respond, but the organizer finally decided to make his move.

“Miss Yamagi!” He said, walking over from where he was not so subtly eavesdropping. “I didn’t know you knew Kudou Shinichi!” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, he thought he was catching Kaito in a lie here, whether for leverage to get Kaito alone or to make a fool of him like the rich often like to do.

“Of course I do.” Kaito said, pushing as much honey into his voice as possible. He ran a hand through his long blonde wig. Yamagi was an aspiring model after all, a good cover for being taller than average, and a wonderful opportunity to use one of his favorite wigs, but she was best for winning over unruly men. Kaito watched the way the organizer followed Kaito’s hand as he played with his hair, winding the soft locks around his finger. How easy this would be. “We’ve been seeing one another for a while now, but its a secret.” Kaito pushed out his bottom lip into an adorable pout.

“Her modeling career hasn’t taken off yet, and my darling refuses any help from my family. She’s determined to get there on her own terms; that’s why she insisted on getting her own invitation to this event instead of being my plus one.” Kudou said, moving closer to Kaito’s side and smoothly wrapping his arm around Kaito. Kaito didn’t want to think about how easy it was to lean into Kudou’s side. 

“Is- is that so?” The organizer looked like he was trying very hard to refrain from mentioning the PDA. “Well, be careful that the press here doesn’t see you.”

“We will,” Kudou said with a cold smile, letting the organizer know his intentions were known, “We’ll just be on our way, excuse us.” And with that Kudou guided Kaito out towards the balcony, which was devoid of people thanks to the chilly weather.

“Thank you,” Kaito said once they were out of earshot of the rest of the guests. He could’ve easel handled it himself, but it was nice to be given help.

“You’re welcome, although I have to admit I had ulterior motives.” Kudou shimmed off his suit jacket and wordlessly placed it around Kaito’s bare shoulders. Suddenly, Kaito was very thankful he had worn a strapless dress.

“Oh, and what might those be?” Kudou probably didn’t know he was KID, he hadn’t even sent a notice so there should be no reason to even suspect that KID would be here.

“I just wanted to know why such a beautiful girl would look so lost.” He gave Kaito another killer smile and Kaito could feel his face flush. This man is criminal. 

“I have no idea what you mean.” Kaito averted his gaze out to the clear night sky. The moon wasn’t even half full but the winter night was bright.

“Hm, my hunches usually aren’t wrong.”

“Well, this one was.”

“If you say so.”

Kaito was about to say, ‘I do say so’, but something made him stop. He chanced a glance at Kudou; he was staring at the sky too. His face was soft in the moonlight, the usual tension eased. Kaito never got to see him like this, and he was usually the reason why. He found himself playing with his hair again, he found it soothing. He called Kudou the “Great Detective” for a reason.

“You promise not to tell anyone?” Kaito cringed out how quiet it came out, how obviously nervous.

“Cross my heart.” The words hung in the air for a while, Kaito desperately trying to regain control of the pounding of his heart. It was so loud he was sure that Kudou could hear it.

 “I guess I’ve just been overthinking a lot of things lately.” The words felt thick in his mouth, and they fought to stay in his throat. “I know everyone acts differently in front of others, but sometimes I feel like I’m an extreme case.” The irony that Kaito was saying this in a voice that was not his own was not lost on him. “My jobs requires me to be someone else, but all of those people are me in one way or another. So when I’m alone I guess I don’t really know who I am. Which one of those masks are actually my real face, you know?”

“Probably, not to the same extent as you, but yeah, I think I do. You would be amazed out how often.” Kudou let out a low chuckle. Kaito laughed too. It was sweet that Kudou was trying, but he highly doubted Kudou could understand this gnawing feeling Kaito had been trying to ignore for months.

He had been changing faces as KID for so long that when he was “himself” it started to feel like an act too. Especially in front of Aoko. The amount of times he wanted to tell Aoko about his plans for a heist, a trick he was developing for KID, were piling up. Not to mention all the times Aoko dragged him shopping but he found himself shopping for his different personas instead of his best friend. He’s caught her casting suspicious glances at him when he’s spent a little too long looking at clothes Aoko would never wear. But Yamagi would, although at this point that’s the same as saying that Kaito would. His appearance had become completely detached from who he actually was. Even as the faceless Kaitou KID he put on a mask.

“It’s harder when you have no one to lean on.” Kudou interrupted his thoughts. He was still facing forward, eyes to the sky, a soft smile on his lips. “But it’s hard to find someone to lean on when what you feel feels so earth-shattering. No one can carry the weight of the world but Atlas after all.” Kudou turned to look at him, still wearing a smile Kaito never had the privilege of seeing before. He reached out and tucked a loose strand of Kaito’s hair behind his ear, and Kaito shivered but not from the cold. Kudou let his hand linger on Kaito’s cheek, it’s warmth a stark contrast to the night chill. Kaito was sure now that Kudou could feel his racing pulse, and the sound of it nearly made Kaito miss the announcement that the auction was about to begin. It was a chance to escape, to slip away from this dreamlike moment and return to his reality.

“Kudou, I really appreciate what you did for me tonight, but I-”

“Of course, this is an auction after all. But what did you come here for?” Kaito contemplated it, it couldn't hurt to tell him, right? Kudou just thought he was an attractive young model-

He never told Kudou he was a model. He never had a chance, Kudou just said he was a model to the organizer. Did he just guess? He was a detective after all, and considering Yamagi’s height it wouldn’t be that big of a stretch… “A necklace,” Kaito said tentatively.

“I thought so,” Kudou was still so close to Kaito, he could feel the detective’s hot breath on his face as he breathed out a laugh. 

 “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but this is the first time we’re meeting, isn’t it?” Kaito tilted his head in the way that made most men swoon and gave Kudou a pretty little smile. If Kudou had suspicions he had to dissuade them as quickly as possible.

“Mmm, no. It isn’t.” Kudou’s lip pulled up into that smirk that made Kaito want to simultaneously flee and kiss him senseless. He reached into his pants pocket, and Kaito had to physically fight the urge to run as fast as possible. He did not need to make a scene. Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. Stupid crush, making him act all stupid. He should have just thanked Kudou as quickly as possible and ran. He hadn’t made any announcements on purpose. And why had Kudou said ‘I thought so?’.

His thoughts were cut short as he felt hands brush the side of his neck and a weight fall onto his chest. Startled, he opened his eyes and took a step back. “What?” Kaito stammered, confused. Glancing down, he saw his target, glimmering in the moonlight. “What?” Kaito said again, searching Kudou’s eyes for answers.

“It really suits you, KID.” And Kaito probably would have run if Kudou’s voice hadn’t been so damn gentle. “I knew it would suit you as soon as I saw it.”

“Okay Meitantei, you’re going to have to break this one down for me.” Kaito said, with his own voice this time. It didn’t seem to faze Kudou.

“I knew it was you as soon as I saw you walk in. Your presence fills the room, KID, even if you don’t mean it too.”

“I think you’re the only person with that problem, Meitantei.”

“I would never call that a problem, KID. But after I saw you, I was sure you were here for something from the auction.”

“But I didn’t send a notice, how did you know I wasn’t just here for fun?”

“And free dessert? Just call it a hunch. And the knowledge that Nakamori was very excited to have some time off to spend with his daughter.” Kaito let out a sigh.

“I hate how much you know about me.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Oh, cocky now, aren’t we? So, what’s the catch, you’ve got me collared,” Kaito gestured at the very expensive piece of jewelry around his neck, “are you going to turn me in?”

“What, I can’t just get you a Christmas present?”

“Seriously? Shinichi, I know what the starting price for this was going to be, and I don’t want to know how much you paid to buy it before it could even be put on sale. This isn’t something you just give to your favorite rival.”

“Hmm, I suppose it isn’t. But rivals also don’t call each other by their first names.”

“I, um, well-”

“Look, KID, I like you. A lot. I’m drawn to you like a moth to a flame. I’ve come to terms with that now, and if the way you’ve reacted to me tonight was anything to go by, I might have a chance.”

“You haven’t been flirting with me all night because you think I’m a hot supermodel?”

“I’ve been flirting with you all night because you’re Kaitou KID. It’s just a bonus that I got to see you looking like a hot supermodel.”

“But that whole thing I said about-”

“I told you, KID, it’s so much easier to share it with someone, and I desperately want to be that someone. You’re not Atlas, and even if you were, I’d carry the world for you.”

“So you don’t care that I’m-”

“KID, you could fill in that blank with anything and my answer would be the same.”

“I’m the magician here,” Kaito laughed, “I’m supposed to be the one to leave you speechless.”

“I might know a way you could shut me up.” And there was that smirk again, but it no longer made him want to run. And so he kissed him senseless, underneath the bright December sky, where it felt like it was only the two of them in the entire world.