#short and sappy

[shyamanuensis]

Fireworks - Ominis Gaunt

A sappy little snap for NYE. I hope 2025 brings nothing but joy, love and happiness to all. xo Enjoy xo.

Unlike the rest of the town, as the clock struck midnight – you did little more than shuffle in closer against your boyfriends’ chest on the couch as your eyes flickered by soft candlelight at the pages of the book you’d been recently obsessed with. As cheers and booms began to rattle through your apartment windows from outside, you felt your boyfriend sigh heavily as he shifted his arm up to wrap tightly at your waist. Something about this caught you off guard; perhaps the depth of his breath or the impartialness of words unsaid. Half turning to gaze up at him; you watched with intent as he gingerly nipped at his now suddenly swollen bottom lip; an expression of bother evident across his features.

“Something wrong Omi?”

Although your voice was reassuring and your tone unprejudiced; it still took a moment for Ominis to collectively review his thoughts and be selective with the words he chose to address to you.

“Could you describe fireworks to me?”

The question wasn’t one you’d been expecting but given the new years eve celebrations roaring across the town, you could understand why he’d be asking. Closing your book with a quick snap of the cover, you dropped it down beside the couch and sat up to fix your attention to him. A furrow of your brow as you thought; you wondered how you’d even begin to explain something so visual. You had been silent for some time as his voice lingered through the apartment, informing you to not concern yourself if you couldn’t.

“No, no it’s fine Omi – I’m just thinking.” “All I ever hear is the sounds they make – that booming racket that makes my skin crawl.” “I know sweetheart”, you chuckled casually, “That’s why I’m always happy to stay home in the comfort of just us two.” “But I feel like you’re missing out – that you could be celebrating if it weren’t for… me.”

Your heart suffered a jolt of bitterness and despair hearing his confession and it took every fibre in you to not copiously apologise for the insecurity he had that you knew all too well. Your hands scooping up his own; it was the rough callouses printed across his palms from constantly gripping at his wand handle that finally settled you on an idea.

“Well. Fireworks – they’re sort of magic”, you began with a smile to your voice, “Warm like a fireplace but with the intensity of a well-cast confringo charm.”

As his expression began to change from meek to eager; you decided to continue your best efforts of a definition.

“Some travel up through the air”, you explained; fingertips dancing up his arms with a gentle graze, “before mulling for a moment and then bursting into a kaleidoscope of colours.” You let your nails rasp into circles across his chest with a chuckle. “While others crackle against the sky”, you elucidated with a flutter of fingertips tapping beneath his collarbones, “before fading off softly as if their colours were barely there.”

“And their colours?”, Ominis asked appreciative of your attempt at clarifying his curiosity.

“The pinks are soft; like a nifflers fur that’s just been washed, while yellows feel like the sun does against your skin in the middle of July. Purples are like that time between the sunset and the evening when the days are cooling off and blues are like a soft breeze blowing in from across a stormy sea. Greens feel like the meadows we sometimes picnic within during spring, you know the ones near Costal Cavern? They’re calm and inviting and make you not want to ever leave. But red; the red fireworks are most definitely my favourite….”

You find yourself pausing for a moment.

“And why is this?”

Now this is a question you were expecting and had the perfect answer to. Leaning in closer, you allowed your hands wrap around the back of Ominis’ neck, letting your lips caress across his own with the gentlest of lingers you could manage as your giddy, excited self, captured the delicate breath he’d just blown.

“Because every time I see them – they remind me and make me feel like we’re sharing again our very first kiss. Over and over and over again. Like the perfect fairytale. Red fireworks are absolute bliss.”

[b-u-g-g-y]

Just a little sumthin sumthin (as my dad would say) that I found sitting around in a google doc from nearly a year ago.

Sirius doesn’t know why now is the time that he’s chosen to do this, but somehow, it seems right. They’re sitting on the small window sill in their dorm, window open enough to let the smoke from their shared cigarette escape. It’s much too small a space for two almost full grown boys, but they make it work. Their legs tangle between them, bent knees brushing and ankles intertwined.

Sirius watches as Remus exhales, smoke pouring from his parted lips. He’s looking out the window, face lax and eyelids heavy. Sirius thinks he can see reflections of the stars in his eyes. 

“Moony,” he starts quietly, because it’s now or never. 

Remus turns to face him when he doesn’t continue, features pulled together in concern. “Everything okay?”

Sirius fiddles with the cuffs of his sleeves. He feels the sudden urge to book it out of the dorm, he can almost feel the motion in his legs. Right out the door, down the stairs and away. Away from what he wants to say, no, needs to say. Away from Remus. It would be so much easier.

But, no, he can’t do that. He’s not a fucking coward. So he continues, voice barely even loud enough to reach his own ears.

“I need to tell you something.”

The cigarette lays forgotten between Remus’ fingers now, slowly burning away. Sirius watches as the smoke travels out the window, avoiding facing the other boy.

“What’s wrong?” Remus asks and bumps his knee against Sirius’. “You’re kind of worrying me here, Sirius.”

“Sorry.”

The words are stuck in his throat. A tangle of letters spreading down and into his chest, taking hold of his lungs and threatening to choke him. 

“Sirius?”

He takes as deep of a breath as his body will let him, and finally says, “I like you.”

Remus freezes for a second, before chuckling breathlessly. “Well, I’d hope so, Padfoot. Considering we’ve been friends for the better part of six years.” He finally returns his attention to the cigarette, but his hands shake slightly as he brings it to his lips.

“No, Remus. Not like that,” Sirius says frustratingly. He has the fabric of his sleeves wound tightly around his thumbs now. He’s surely going to rip them. “I mean that I have feelings for you. Like, um, romantic feelings.” His voice quiets as he speaks, ending in no more than an embarrassed whisper. 

Remus is staring at him. Mouth open and eyes wide and– fuck, he shouldn't have said anything. 

“Sorry,” he mutters as he gets up with shaky legs, ignoring the heat behind his eyes. “Sorry…just– forget I said anything.”

“Wait,” Remus chokes out, grabbing his wrist before he can leave. He quickly stubs out the cigarette in their little ash tray and takes Sirius’ other wrist in his now free hand. “Are you being serious?”

Sirius laughs, a little deliriously, as he answers with a soft, “Yes. Of course.”

Something softens in Remus’ gaze before he’s suddenly pulling Sirius forward– to him. 

They’re mere inches apart now, and Sirius is sure he can see the stars in his golden eyes. 

“Sirius,” he says softly. He places one hand on his cheek, the other still wrapped around his wrist. “Kiss me? Please?”

The lump in his throat dissipates, the nerves alight throughout his body settle, and his heart begins to race– not in nervousness, but in anticipation. 

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yes.”

They lean in simultaneously, quickly crashing together. Remus’s lips are chapped against his own, and he can faintly taste the bitter smoke on his tongue, but Merlin, it’s perfect.

“You know,” Remus whispers against his mouth once they break for air, breath hot against Sirius’ face. He’s smiling, and Sirius can’t help but join him. “I have feelings for you too.”

[turtletoria]

the krampus incident from the book of bill if it was out of character and stupid

[disgustingtwitches]

MDNI

Working at a restaurant with 141! (pt. 3)

"All of us under one roof? Have you lost the plot?"

Gaz snorts, all of you sitting at the bar. You shake your head. The thought alone makes you dizzy.

"Just me and you is hectic enough."

Gaz stares at Soap. John laughs, sipping his scotch. You think for a moment before taking your shot. Wait a fucking second. You joke about how they have decided to make your flat nothing short of a base, and if they're gonna be at your place more than theirs they should at least pay some of your bills. They freeze. Johnny nearly jumps for joy, grabbing your face and kissing you,

"Smart fuckin girl. 'N' if we're paying 'er bills, might as weel move in aye?"

That is not what you meant.

"Who knows, maybe it'll stop them from trying to drag 'er in the walk-in."

John shrugs. They cannot be entertaining this bullshit.

"Doubt it."

Simon shoots back his glass. There's a pause. They look at each other. Oh my God they are entertaining this bullshit.

"I'll think about it."

Price finishes his drink. They talk like you're not even there. You're horrified. Four men and you. One apartment. Not just any men, them. Maybe this is all some sick joke.

"You can always say no."

Simon kisses you before you hop out his car. You're not sure if you believe that. Your phone buzzed in the middle of the night, it's the group chat. Soap sends a link to a three bedroom flat,

Thoughts?

Three dots pop up.

Ok.

Simon replies. That's the only they blessing needed to move forward.

Hectic does not describe the move-in process, there are arguments on who's furniture gets moved in, who sleeps where, who gets to use which bathroom. Eventually there was a vote held (not that it mattered, John always had final say).

Anything big enough to accommodate the five of you was moved in. There would be a bed rotation, making sure no one slept with Ghost and Soap at the same time (and if everyone got tired of their shit, there's three beds for a reason.) Gaz and Soap shared a bathroom upstairs, you shared the one downstairs with Ghost and Price (this made sure you and Kyle had enough space for both your skincare products.)

You barely wore your own clothes anymore; with a closet full of clothes that were comfy and looked good on you, why bother? All your love languages included physical touch, so at any given moment, someone was touching somebody in the house. Lots of shared showers to "save water". Simon mostly cooks with the occasional help of you or Johnny. Sunday roast meant the kitchen was off limits for everyone except Simon, God help anyone who even tries to step foot in his territory.

Holidays are chaotic, always loud with a lot of drinking. And sex. Your first Christmas together was particularly memorable. Of course everyone got gifts that they treasured, including you. But you didn't know what to get Simon. Of course he was the type to say he didn't want anything but, that wasn't right. He opened his gift from you, he stared at it, said a simple thank you and slid it into his pocket. There's a game of poker being played in the living room after gifts are opened. Simon leaves to the bedroom,

"M tired."

Everyone else says goodnight, too enraptured by the game. While there's an argument about Johnny's shuffling, you walk to the bedroom. There he is, cranking the little handle on the wooden music box you gave him; it played Danny boy, wasn't bigger than the palm of your hand, and had an engraving on the inside lid.

"It's the words on the first hoodie you gave me."

"Mhm. Didn't have to get me anything."

He says, still turning the handle. Avoiding eye contact. You sit next to him.

"Don't know if you know how much you mean to me, promise I'll show you though."

His voice the softest you've ever heard. He tucks the box back into his pocket. A quick kiss to your forehead before walking back to the living room with you. This was one of the many holidays Simon didn't have to spend alone anymore.

[windydrawallday]

NOT OKAY TODAY / WORTHY

The comic I wanted to post was the last art of 2024, but because of a sudden power outage, it is now a hybrid that started the "past year" and finished on New Year's Day. The text is not mine! This beautiful poem belongs to the author Jarod K. Anderson, who writes about themes such as mental illness and how one can cope with the aid of nature's lessons. I found this poem on Pinterest when I was trying to distract myself from recent awful moments, and it resonated with me deeply. It reminded me how GOOD I felt when helping people I care about by listening to their doubts, when I treated them well, or when we shared ideas together etc. And it became MORE meaningful when I was the one in need of that help... and these people reached without hesitation 💝. You really get what you give! This poem reminded me my kindness is always worthy to be shared. I wished to portray it in the form of art for everyone who needed to read it too!

I hope this New Year brings more kindness to everyone 💞

Special mention to these peeps who brought me so many sweet moments, who let me be silly, who let me babble about art or vent together about adulting stuff: LUV U ALL TO THE MOON AND BACK AAA 🐾

@grinningghoulie @novalizinpeace @sildrae @ghostbulb @skullydrawsstuff @sug4r-melon @emisatea @frosty-tian @cometchasinglove @mariequitecontrary @spashahoney @nepetacataria-art @spiritshaydra @goobygnarp @ballpitbee @soothedcerberus @ninjakarkki @electricpez @akapen011 @lecanel @joonisstrange @tundra-tiger @lets-try-some-writing @myrablurple @ivycorp @confluencechimera @cerebrocentric-bullet @gelu-the-babosa-multiversal

IF I FORGOT SOMEONE SORRY! (... At which moment did this list grow? Life is made of many surprises)

[chibinasuu]

Sanji treasures his hands. 

He never uses them for violence, or for destruction. Instead, Sanji uses his hands to create.

From a humble onigiri to a hearty beef bourguignon, to a fancy cocktail or a fluffy soufflé. There is nothing that those hands couldn’t whip up instantly on any of the crew’s whim. 

But most of all, Sanji uses his hands to love.

His hand holds yours so gently, other times interlocking tightly as if never wanting to let go.

His hands knead and rub your tight shoulders, your tired feet, your aching back.

His hands pour fragrant shampoo upon your hair, massaging your scalp as you relax in the hot waters of the tub.

His hand stays at the small of your back whenever you were walking together, keeping you near in a sea of strangers.

His hands tickle your sides playfully, coaxing sweet, joyful laughter out of you.

His hand stroke your hair to a hummed lullaby as you fall asleep.

His hands grip your waist so tenderly as you slow dance around the kitchen, the moonlight streaming in through the window.

His hands roam up and down your back as he holds you in a warm embrace, your heart racing in time with his.

His hands cup your face, caressing your cheeks as he gazes lovingly into your eyes.

His hands worship your body, featherlight touches on your skin leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. 

Sanji treasures his hands, and he uses them to treasure you.

↳ masterlist

[chilschuck]

Not sure how to put this into words (again) but... Chilchuck with a very affectionate reader, one that's always wanting to hug him and hold his hand. Hopeless romantic falls in love with divorced man in his midlife???

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ WAHHH ANOTHER ADORABLE REQUEST FROM YOU ANON!!! i hope i did it justice!! i wrote this cozy in bed half asleep so it may be more sappy than usual…. Hshkshsjshksj. i hope you enjoy!! <333

— INTERTWINED: chilchuck x gn!reader.

꒰ warnings: ꒱ none, fluffy + sfw!!

꒰ wc: ꒱ 988. short but sweet!

✦ decided to give you a drabble instead of hcs this time, hope that’s okay!! this was super fun and i would love to elaborate more on the idea, hehe. <333

Physical touch was your love language, that much was clear. With the other party members, you found yourself patting their shoulder or back as you passed. Maybe even offering a hug here and there when you felt it was needed. Yet, with Chilchuck, you discovered your love language really stood out.

When he offered a hand to you to help with your balance, you would take it, giving it a light squeeze in return. Even when you were fine on your feet again, you still didn’t want to let go. You craved his touch so much that even in darker parts of the dungeon, you intertwined your fingers with his. The first time you did it, you could practically hear the sound of his head turning to give you a look. If he was uncomfortable with your touch, he didn’t verbalize it. Instead, he understood what you were seeking, and helped to give you a bit of that comfort.

Hand holding was easy to hide your true intent with, but you began craving even more. Your bravery would shine through when you’d feel his hand in yours long enough, and pretty soon you were setting up your bedroll beside his.

Chilchuck blinked, looking up from situating under his blanket to raise a brow towards you. “What are you doing?”

Biting back a laugh at his oblivious question, you decided to give a light grin instead. “Wanted to sleep beside you tonight. Heard you were warm.” That caused his face to heat up, as he fussed and grumbled about Izutsumi under his breath. Not able to hold back that laugh any longer, you giggled at his behavior before getting cozy in your own covers.

“Goodnight, Chilchuck.” You spoke softly, reaching out a hand to rub his back for a moment. Your touch was soft, cautious, and full of a need to feel him under your palms. Instead of complaining about your affections, you noticed his eyes begin to grow heavy. Stifling a yawn, he ran his fingers through his hair before saying your name. “‘Night.”

You’d willingly call yourself a hopeless romantic. Enjoying the time you spent by his side and the small touches you managed to give, of course you’d begin to crave more. It was no longer enough just to give his hand an occasional squeeze or a reassuring pat on his shoulder. You noticed you’d often daydream about what it’d be like to hold him, and soon enough, you couldn’t take it anymore.

One night, the half-foot seemed to be lost in thought. He stared at his hands in his lap, tuning out any voices chatting around him. Except, of course, your own.

“Chilchuck?” You called in that sweet tune that always made an appearance when it came to him. “You okay? You seem preoccupied.”

Sitting beside him, you waited until he gave a reply in that tired tone you had grown used to. “Just thinking.”

Before you could stop yourself, you wrapped an arm around him, pulling him gently to you. The hug was brief, but enough to knock him out of his stupor and widen his eyes. When you let him go, you made sure that every little detail of his chest pressed against yours would remain in your memory.

“You looked like you needed a hug.”

And he did. He always did when it came to you. It was strange, but he began waiting for your touches, your hands intertwining with his, your gentle caresses when he struggled to sleep. Chilchuck cleared his throat, trying once again to ignore the slight feeling of pink rising in his cheeks. “…Thanks.”

It was strange just how much you were doing to him. It was obvious what your intentions were, yet he couldn’t seem to make himself turn you down. He wondered, with a small smile, just what you’d pull him into next.

“You seem to let them do anything, huh?” Marcille questioned him one day, the two of them walking ahead of the rest of the party. Chilchuck gave a light scoff in response, his hands resting behind his head as they usually did. At least, when they weren’t intertwined with yours.

“That’s not true and you know it.” It was Marcille’s turn to make a sound, a huff of unconvinced laughter leaving her lips. Rolling her eyes, she thought about all she could throw in his face to tell him otherwise.

The constant hand holding, the sleeping next to each other, the soft hugs you would give him anytime you could. You’d even offer to rub his back for him to help him get sleepy again, something he was growing more and more tempted to accept. Counting on her fingers as she listed all the offenses, Chilchuck grew increasingly more embarrassed. He managed to somehow hide into his neckwarmer, before barking out, “Ok, ok, enough! Alright, I get it. No need to be a smartass.”

Marcille was definitely proud of herself, wondering just how much of this would end up like one of her romance novels. Maybe what he needed was someone much more romantic then he was, a foil to his cynical character.

She felt herself grin.

Chilchuck could deny it, but many things about you made him soft. Your smile, the way it crinkled your eyes, the way it lit up a room like some sort of magic. It was almost too much to bear, yet like a moth to a flame, he couldn’t help but gravitate towards it.

Maybe your hopeless romanticism was beginning to rub off on him or something. Especially, as he finally tucked himself in for the night next to you, he still longed for your affection. You had somehow managed to captivate a man who felt he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, seek love again. You proved him wrong on countless occasions, and even as he felt his eyes begin to succumb to sleep, your voice called him home.

“Goodnight, Chilchuck.”

— dividers by @/cafekitsune! <33

[laswells-ashtray]

Mum's I have a need for Dadler and Graves again. Any crumbs 🙏🥺

Alien isn't his movie of choice but the remote is on the coffee table and if he moves he risks disrupting the sleeping four-year-old who's using his chest as a pillow.

Phillip had wandered out of his room, rubbing at his tired eyes with a little fist and claiming his inability to fall asleep. He wasn't going to turn down the company but the credits of Jaws had long since rolled by and now he was stuck watching a critter force its way out of John Hurt's chest.

He absentmindedly rubs a hand over Phil's back, chin resting on his head as his son snores softly into his shirt, soft fabric held tightly in a clenched fist.

The first time he had fallen asleep with his son on his chest, it had been a baby drooling on his chest. He had woken up paranoid that he had accidentally smothered his infant child only to find a content little boy, curled up on him and making those quiet little murmurs newborns do when they sleep.

Soon, Phil would get too big to lie on him and fall asleep. He wouldn't fit tucked under Russell's chin anymore and a hand splayed out over his back wouldn't cut it anymore.

He'd enjoy the feeling while he still had it. A pointy elbow digging into his ribs and little toes jammed into his thighs. The inevitable crusty patch on his shirt from drool that had dried overnight.

He resigns himself to the crick in his neck tomorrow morning and the aching that would spread from his shoulders down to his lower back whenever he makes the mistake of leaning down to pick up a toy car from the floor, injuries that accompany sleeping on the couch.

One hand keeps Phil pressed tightly to his chest as he carefully leans over, putting an end to the suffering of those upon the Nostromo as he hits the power off button on the TV remote. He could spend another day watching Sigourney Weaver remain the only intelligent person in her team, a familiar plight.

He's quick to shush the grumble of awakening as he disrupts Phil, the young boy disgruntled by his father's attempt to sleep in a way that would bring them both the most comfort available on such a worn couch.

Lying back with a four-year-old on his chest is far from the least comfortable situation that he's found himself in, it's a blessing of sorts to watch the rise and fall of his son's chest as he settles back into a world of sleep.

"Night, kiddo."

The quiet huff of breathe he receives in response is an invitation to join Phil in a blissful sleep.

[dreamgirljune]

sometimes walking down the street is almost too much for me. there are children laughing and moms watching them clinging to this fleeting moment and elderly women telling each other to take it easy and praying they will both be gentle to themselves and teenagers going out and learning who they are and young couples looking for their first home together and older couples holding hands leaving what will be their last home together. the world is full of love and all of it is precious. the world is full of people and all of them are precious. what a beautiful thing it is to be a person

[dailythreeofthem]

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

Ok but that ask about Reader and Foul Legacy watching the stars gave me an idea:

Sparkly moth deserves an astronomer/astrologist Reader, who's completely in awe with the stars that cover the abyss and it's denizens, and loves the patterns they form, like constellations they don't know but want to comprehend. Imagine them mentioning that if they discover a new constellation or star, they'd name it after Foul Legacy.

Also, this quote is really sappy but "my fate written in the stars" sounds like a super endearing way they'd describe Foul Legacy at some point

listen listen LISTEN, you're part of the Rtawahist Darshan at the Akademiya, too

the Sages certainly don't agree with your study of the Abyss- too dangerous, they say. it's against everything the Archon of Dendro stands for! and yet, they can't exactly stop you. it's an area of knowledge that needs expanding on, now perhaps more than ever, and technically you are still studying the stars. even more irritating is just how wonderfully all of your papers are written, so they reluctantly oblige and allow you to continue your investigations. of course, you're not telling them everything. while some of your fellow scholars might scold you for it, you know it's best to keep a few things secret- such as the lovely creature you found while exploring, this curious Foul Legacy who seems so monstrous yet acts so sweet. no no, you couldn't possibly inform the Sages and send him off to be tormented and experimented on, and Legacy seems to think the same

so for now, he's your special secret

you spend a lot of nights awake together, trying to scale the grand tree that holds up the Akademiya. you can see the stars best from that position, of course, all the way at the top, perched upon the highest branch. if you're too tired that day, Legacy scoops you into his arms and flies, delicate wings glimmering just like the stars as he gently sets you down on the branch. here, you can point out everything you know, then ask him if the Abyss has them, too. some stay constant, others are mirrored, and more still are completely new. you promise to chart them all with him, making the first ever rough map of the Abyss based on the patterns he tells you, the speckles of light flecked across his wings

sometimes, if you tilt your head enough and think sideways, you can almost see your fate written out across them

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

. if i post something sappy (like SICKENINGLY sappy) will you all be chill or will you bully me off the app….

[ryuusea]

good morning ☀️☀️☀️❤️🍳

I also wrote a little bit, some sappy lad behavior just get married already!!!

“Liam! Ah- And your nose is cold…”

Despite that, heat prickles on the back of his neck where Liam’s lips were pressed seconds ago. His ears feel hot too.

Sherlock turns just enough, his side pressed closer into Liam’s chest, that Liam’s hand slips from his shoulder down to his elbow.

“You were sitting up in bed with the windows wide open again weren’t you.”

The other doesn’t answer, he doesn’t have to, it’s obvious; there’s the smell of a crisp breeze and morning dew radiating off of Liam; Sherlock twists around fully now. One hand presses firmly to Liam’s right cheek, lets the cold seep away into his palm. Meanwhile the touch to the other side of Liam’s face is delicate, feather-light, skimming just below the bandages while his gaze follows along to confirm the white fabric is still neatly tucked in place from helping to change them hours before.

This close, he can feel the warmth of Liam’s breath against his lips with every exhale; he searches that single red eye that stares back at him, unfaltering, yet molten with a tenderness he has yet a name for.

Sherlock leans in closer. Ah, his nose is still so cold—

“Not burnt.”

“What—“

“Not burnt,” Liam repeats, words brushing into Sherlock’s lips, “The eggs. Any way is fine, just not burnt.” A pointed nudge to his elbow to bring his attention at the stove.

“Gah!” Sherlock whips back around and flips the eggs out of the pan onto a plate before they brown any further.

The laugh and the smile pressed to the back of his neck is worth it, he’ll eat burnt eggs happily every morning in exchange for that.

[peargreen-jellybean]

this is so stupid but i wanted something soft and angsty and more in Wade’s pov and i’m such a fucking sappy loser

so instead of being productive i wrote 4k words of Wade taking care Logan. christ

Rated E for Everyone Buckle Up It’s Wade’s Train of Thought (he is horny and swears and he gets stabbed)

[nonranghaes]

"kim mingyu, i will kick you out of this bed if you don't stop."

mingyu lets out a giggle as he only slides closer to you, apparently deciding that he's part koala now since he won't stop trying to cuddle. normally, you love cuddling with him, but his feet are freezing tonight and every single time you feel the cold skin brush against you, you jolt. he watches you jerk as he tries to cuddle in again, he giggles, and you debate replacing him with a big plush toy of a puppy.

"if you stop pushing me away, i'll warm up--"

"go put on socks or something!" you whine, "then we can cuddle."

he pouts at you, "i don't want to... i wanna cuddle with you to get warm."

"then stop putting your cold feet on me!" it earns a laugh from him, and you move in closer to cuddle into his chest, trying to find the most comfortable way to cuddle with him. "i'm telling seungkwan. he'll never let you hear the end of it."

a fate worse than death, perhaps. but mingyu doesn't seem to care as he giggles again, leaning into pepper kisses on your face. "but you still loooove me."

you intertwine your legs with his, bracing yourself for the feeling of his cold skin against yours, and settle in. yeah... you do loooove him. "you looooooved me first, dork."

he smiles as he plants another kiss against your skin. "yeah," he murmurs against it. "i did."

and you better love me last, too, you want to say: be my final love in life. and when he cuddles in closer, eyes falling shut as he lets out a blissful sigh... you think he will be.

[autisticlancemcclain]

“Hey,” Lance whispers, brushing his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair. “Keith, baby. You up?” There’s no response. Not even a twitch. Keith remains completely out, mouth open and snoring, mumbling something every so often with a twitch of his hands.

Lance smiles softly. He runs gentle hands over Keith’s forehead, for a long time, just gently stroking the skin. Then he trails his fingertips over the bridge of his strong nose, thumb brushing over his cheekbones, memorizing the path of his faint, barely-there freckles.

“You’re my everything,” he whispers, completely awed. Keith is no more beautiful in sleep. There is crust on the corner of his eyelids, his hair’s a rat’s nest, and a trail of drool has just started to drip from the corner of his mouth.

He is every star in Lance’s sky. He is the sun cresting quietly over the horizon. He is the anticipation of the inhale, the relief of the exhale, the bubbling exhilaration of laughter and the burning feeling of a gentle touch.

He is everything.

Slowly Lance settles back onto the pillows. He’s not sure what woke him up, what dragged him awake, what compelled him to twist out of Keith’s hold and prop himself up on his elbows to stare.

He’s glad he did. He doesn’t always have the time to sit and watch, to caress rough and calloused skin, to sit with the stuttered beat of his heart and realise, startlingly, as if for the first time, that he has the unbelievable fortune to have Keith in his bed, in his arms, in his heart.

He’s startled, although he shouldn’t be, at the drip of tears down his cheeks. He lets the salty water blaze a hot trail down his skin, dripping onto their duvet, onto the pillows, onto Keith’s face.

“L’nce?” Keith mumbles, dragged from his slumber by the steady drip of Lance’s tears. “Y’good?”

“Yes,” Lance mumbles, hoarse, smile stretching his mouth almost painfully. He feels his love bubbling up through him, almost painful, choking in its hugeness. “Go back to sleep, mi alma.”

“‘Kay,” Keith says. He cracks one eye open, beautiful and indigo and dark, just as warm as it is bleary. “C’mere.” He opens his arms, wide and welcoming, and Lance doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t even pause. He falls into them easily, back to Keith’s chest, legs tangled together. Keith’s arms tighten around him immediately, even though he’s asleep again, easily cradling Lance like it’s reflex, like it’s automatic.

Like Lance is precious to him.

“Sleep,” Keith mumbles, pressing his lips to the back of Lance’s next and keeping them there.

“Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”