#shortest drabble ever

[tmntxthings]

一∑From the Start・゜・。

author���s notes: scurries in from the darkness, throws this > 💣 < out into the light, and runs back for cover 💥

warnings: unedited, angst, drabble, unrequited love, pining, daydreams, cliffhanger

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When Leo invited you down to the lair to hang out, you had thought maybe it would be a movie thing. Or perhaps even going to the ramp room, chatting while he practiced skateboarding tricks that almost always ended badly with bruises. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he had dragged you into the kitchen to whip up something to eat or just snack on whatever the two of you could find.

But no, instead, he led you to his room, with a skip in his step. When you questioned why it had to be just the two of you. Why all of his brothers were rolling their eyes in Leo’s direction. He just shook his head, “I can’t tell anyone else! You’re the only one I can trust!” It was then, that you had a sinking feeling.

This scenario had happened before. Many times actually. You glanced back at the bros, exasperated already and you hadn’t even heard anything yet. But you knew.

Once in his room, Leo let go of you, and jumped face first into his bed. He let out a dramatic screech, kicking to boot before he turned to the ceiling and announced, “I’ve got a crush,”

You held back a sigh as you walked over to the only chair in his room. Pulled it out from under the desk, and sat, getting ready for the long haul. “Who and how?”

He really hadn’t even needed the question. He was off to the races explaining exactly how he had met ~them~ and all the moments after, from whence his heart first skipped a beat, the beauty that they hold, how they laugh at all his jokes. Your eyes clouded over.

This was pure torture. As your eyes unfocused, you let your train of thought wander away from Leo’s babbling fancies. Truly you’d lost count of how many times this had happened before. It was always the same things that made his heart flutter. That made him go crazy, so much so, that he’d tire out his brothers from all the lovesick shenanigans and bring you into the mix.

Which was like listening to chalk squeak against a chalkboard. Shrill and grating. If you didn’t tune it out, you’d go crazy yourself. Because it was despicable to listen to your own crush, talk about how much they wanted someone else.

For a second, you could just blink, look over at him, and pretend he wasn’t saying anything of consequence. “Blah blah blah,” his mouth moved, but you weren’t listening. That was better. It was unfair how pretty he could be. Especially when he was happy, especially when he was falling hard. The way he smiled, how his eyes shined. His hands couldn’t stop moving, he just had to animate with his whole body about how he felt. Your knee started to bounce. He was being cruel and he didn’t even realize it.

It wasn’t fair. But then again, how would he ever know unless you told him? You imagined what it would be like. To interrupt him. To confess your love. He’d probably laugh in your face. Ha what a great joke Y/n, now get real and back to my love crisis. That’s what he’d say. Or something along the lines of it.

But sometimes you could imagine him pausing completely. Getting taken so off guard that he no longer had the words to respond. That maybe he’d look at you with a different light. So maybe that was why you did it. On the off chance that, maybe, Leo had always harbored something for you too. Just deep down! So deep that he felt the need to hide it with all of these other so called crushes.

“Leo!”

He blinked and sat up from where he had been laying, interrupting his tangent.

“What?!”

Straightforward. That would be the best route.

“I like you.” Your eyes were steady, yet your heart raced. It was thundering in your chest as you watched one of his brow bones raise.

“I like you too Y/n” he said so as if it was obvious. Which meant he was misunderstanding.

“No no, not like that. I like you.” You strained with the emphasis as you willed his thick skull to understand. And it must’ve gotten through because his eyes widened just a bit.

“You like me?” He questioned, sitting up even straighter than before. Now you had his attention. And you could feel sweat building up in your palms as you nodded seriously.

“But, we’re best friends..” and you could’ve let that shoot you down. But you continued on. Getting up from your spot, from the single chair, and making your way over to him. Despite how every step made you second guess yourself. Despite thinking maybe it was a better idea to just run out of his room. Or to just settle for the friendship you thought you had wanted.

But you pushed through it all as you sat down next to him. “We are. You’re my best friend Leo. And I, maybe I’m greedy, but I can’t help it. I’ve liked you for so long now. And I don’t think I can just sit idly by anymore.”

You took a breath, palms closing into fists. Eyes closing because if he was going to reject you, it’d be better to not see the pity on his face. You piped up once more before he could say anything, “Every time you talk about your crushes, I can’t help but think, but wish, that it were me! And every time you get over one, I get ahead of myself, I hope that maybe, one day, you’ll look at me differently!”

There was so much you could say. So many different ways to say it. But that was the gist. “That… you’ll like me like that. That you’ll return the feelings I’ve felt for you,” you blew out a breath. Then looked into his eyes.

Leo was rarely ever serious but he was now. “I never knew…” he said softly after a moment of silence. Of taking in all that you had revealed. You nodded not knowing what that meant for your relationship with him now. And the fear of losing him forever leaked onto your face. His eyes softened, a green hand going out to cup your cheek.

“I wish I’d known sooner,” and with that he brushed a finger against your skin. He looked down at your lips as they parted with a shocked breath. He smirked, as only Leo could, and leaned down with a silent question that had you tilting your head to give him better access to your lips.

“Y/n are you even listening to me?”

You blinked.

“Huh?”

You were in the single chair.

“Hello! Earth to Y/n, this is like the biggest moment of my life, I’m telling you I think they may be the one!! Come on focus!!”

Right. You straightened up, crossing a leg over the knee that wouldn’t stop bouncing.

“Sorry, go on,”

And he blinded you with that smile as he retold all of the sickening things that made him so endeared to his crush. If only it wasn’t so endearing to you.

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This ↓ is why this ↑ came about :D

[saladscream]

I spy with my little eye...

(drabble for my "Short and Simple" February Bonus Badge @merlinbingo)

“Is it maggots?” Merlin asked.

“No.” Arthur’s tone was flat, bored and as tolerant as one could expect it to be after two days of mind-numbing captivity.

“Is it mould?”

“No.”

“Motes?”

“No.”

“Hmmm… Something beginning with ‘m’...”

Arthur stretched a leg and chewed on his bit of straw.

“Got it!” Merlin suddenly exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “It’s ‘Merlin’!”

“No. It’s magic,” Arthur said, ruining the game.

“Oh.” Then, “Wait, you spy magic?”

“Every time your eyes shine pink,” Arthur taunted.

“What? They don’t shine pink, they shine g… Oh. Crap.”

“Exactly. Now get us out of here, you nitwit.”

[muzzlemouths]

Day 1 — "Best friend"

"Alright, I've got one. How do you make a tissue dance?"

You stifle a snort, smiling ahead of the punchline. "How?"

"You put a little boogie in it!" Sun slaps his knee with a metallic clang that echoes, shoulders bouncing with laughter that mirrors your own. "Get it?"

"Very funny," you answer. "Did you hear about the guy who stole all that soap?"

The kiddie chair groans under his weight as Sun leans closer, his laughter momentarily forgotten. Suddenly he's very, very serious. "I haven't heard a thing," his rays dance a little, shrinking inward. "Did they catch him?"

Humming, your hand digs idly into the tub of pony beads sitting between you, dragging the answer out as long as you can. A theatrically deep sigh escapes you. "I'm afraid not," you tell him. "They say he made a clean getaway."

A smirk slowly creeps onto your face as he twitches in your peripheral vision. The wall clock ticks once. Twice.

"Oh, you sneaky little—" He breaks for laughter, wheezing with an automated grind of rusty levers deep within his chassis that sounds more akin to a deflating balloon. "The set up, the punch line, the drama," his palm lands with a humored thump against the table, bouncing the beads in their tub. "That was a good one. You're going to beat me at my own game, at this rate!"

"Oh, hardly." Your hand swims through the rainbow sea of beads in search of a specific shade of blue. "I'm just repeating what I remember out of my jokes book."

Sun threads a letter bead onto the elastic cord pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "A whole book full of jokes?" His faceplate spins with excitement. "Oh, pinch me! What a thrill!"

"Yeah, it was pretty cool, I guess. The library billed me for its hospital stay, though."

"Hospital—huh?"

"Well I had it so long, I broke the spine," you curb your laughter behind a façade of seriousness, not allowing him enough time to process the first punch line before decking him with the second. "I tried getting an appointment with a good doctor, but they were all booked!"

Sun is doubled over before the last of it is even out of your mouth, having evidently picked up on where the joke was headed, already, and still it has him entirely consumed by glee. He's going to break the kid's table between you if he slams his fist into it any harder.

Having successfully located the correct shade of blue, you slide the last bead to sit beside the rest and finally tie the cord off with a knot, neat and tidy. It's nothing special as far as kandi bracelets go, but you're proud of the effort behind it, regardless. After all, you weren't prepared to do any crafting today in the first place. Sun had asked you to help him sort the new shipment of beads before you went home for the night — one thing led to another and, well, here you are.

"All finished!" Sun quells his laughter enough that he can tie off his own bracelet; a parade of pastels in every color with the letter's "BFF" at the center. It hangs on a single finger, dwarfed by his massive hand, as he offers it to you with a big, cheesy grin. "Well? What d'ya think?"

The bracelet slips over your palm and comes to a rest just below the joint like a slipper made to fit. "BFF?"

"Best friends forever!"

"I love it," you tell him, feeling warmed by the notion. "Want to see mine?"

Too impatient to wait for an answer, you hand over your second bracelet of the night — a string of midnight blue with chunky yellow stars in between — and watch as his eyes light up and his voicebox crackles with a certain gravel that isn't quite his.

"Pretty," he says. Too short of a remark to have come from Sun. He slides it along his own wrist to sit above the yellow bracelet already there.

"Well, I should get home." The miniscule chair topples backwards as you stand, hands bracing against the table. "Sorry I couldn't stay longer tonight. There's a concert opening downtown and I want to get back before the traffic gets too bad."

Sun follows your lead and awkwardly squirms his way out of the kid's chair. "You could always stay the night," he says. The giggle in his voice is the only way to know for sure that he's joking. "Let me walk you out, at least."

These moments are your favorite. When the world is quiet, and you can enjoy each other's company without worrying about what tomorrow brings. It makes every goodbye feel like it will last forever. Who would have known that a friend could ever feel so much like home.

Sun opens the door for you, but stands in its path, shifting the weight between his feet with a metallic ring of his bells and a doting expression like he has a thousand things he wishes to say to you. Ultimately, he settles for something simple, yet no less fond.

"See you in the morning."

[tmntxthings]

Of course Navi!!!! Anything for youuuu 🧡🐢🧡

So, @tmntxthings wrote me this because I have been having a tough time lately, and I was in need of some turtle-comfort, and I love it. 💕

Thank you again, sweet Grace, I really appreciate it. 🫶

[iid-smile]

click. click. click.

that's what you've been hearing for some time. your eyes threatened to close, drifting in and out of sleep, and you felt comfort resting your back against kiryu, the fullness of his mattress adding onto that.

"what're you doing?" you lazily murmur, hearing another click. somehow, you manage to pick up on his fingers grazing against your hair, some sort of heaviness adding weight onto your head.

"putting accessories in your hair." kiryu responds, and you hear a light clatter of plastic and metal beside you on the bed. "you look really cute~" click.

as expected... more than a few times has he covered you up in his pins, clips and hairbands. "and how many, hm?"

he hums, and takes a beat to answer. "i'm not counting?" he clearly feigns innocence in his tone.

"mhm... sure." with a sigh, you close your eyes completely, just enjoying his presence and letting him do whatever he wants.

tags: @yuuyeonie

[enluv]

standing under the mistletoe

pairing: any idol x gn!reader

genre: just some really short and quick fluff for the holidays!

holiday music plays softly throughout the dimly lit party as red and green lights shine in every corner.

people laugh and sing along to the music, the atmosphere is calm, bringing everyone closer together today.

his eyes scan the crowd of people in the room over, but there’s only one person he’s looking for tonight.

the music drowns out as his gaze meets yours, time slows when you send him a smile, and his heart beats faster watching as you make your way through the crowd and to him, before he can even think about what’s happening you’re already standing in front of him.

you gesture for him to lean in closer to you, and place a soft kiss to his lips. immediately he’s at loss for words.

a look of confusion flashes across his face, but you’re quick to give him an answer before he can even ask, softly pointing up at the doorframe.

“the mistletoe, it’s up there.”

he gazes up at the plant hanging above your heads, then back down to your lips, bringing you closer once more for a proper kiss.

coco’s <3 note: something quick for any idol your heart desires! happy holidays to all of you who celebrate <3

[corazondebeskar-reads]

let's all go to the lobby

joel miller x gn!reader

words: 157

summary: a date night with joel miller

warnings: none, this is just a handful of fluff. no outbreak. happy valentine's day!

dividers by @saradika-graphics

There are thick, heavy blankets in the back of the truck. He stole the cushions off the couch to prop up against. You’re tucked into the crook of his arm, snuggled up to his gray tee, soft against your cheek. You can hear the huffs of laughter rumble through his chest, your fingers entwined in the fabric over his heartbeat. 

Joel starts to ask if you want another coke from concessions, but you lightly smack his chest with the back of your hand, knocking popcorn loose onto the blanket. 

“Shh,” you hiss. “This is my favorite one.”

He watches the grin, goofy and giddy and gorgeous, take over your face while the cartoon hot dog does flips. 

You look over at him to see if he’s properly enjoying the intermission, eyes crinkling at the corner in delight. It hits him then, like you’re a semi with your floods on, and he’s a witless deer. 

He loves you. 

(just in case you haven't seen the intermission cartoons: please enjoy. i fucking love the drive in.)

[fortune-maiden]

FX Week Day 2: Mt Tonglu

Second @fxweek drabble for Day 2

I am Committed to this!

He hadn’t checked Mt. Tonglu yet. The day the kiln opens, Feng Xin rushes ahead, cutting through swathes of ghosts in hopes of finding his prince. He doesn’t know how vicious the place is. He doesn’t know a freshly ascended god who doesn’t hide his aura is the favorite target for those frenzied manic ghosts. There’s no fight left in him when he encounters the man in red who holds a silver scimitar with a blood-red eye to his neck. “Get these people home,” he demands and disappears, and Feng Xin’s first trip to Mt. Tonglu comes to an end.

i struggled so much with this prompt. I hope this is okay ;w;

[jaaklops]

Trusting is one of many things that is easier said than done. 

Nancy knows better than anyone that trust isn’t something that can be easily found when it’s lost, like how it isn’t easy to fix a vase when it’s broken. 

And trust means many things. Nancy thinks of it as a chameleon, its definition changing depending on the situation. 

It can mean setting your entire being into someone else’s hands, like a religion. If their hands falter for even a moment, everything can crumble and fall apart, and then nobody’s happy. It can mean a whispered secret into someone’s ear. Something that wasn’t supposed to be said, and hoping they keep it a secret.

The guardian of the joyful heart is hopeful. Idealistic. It always hopes for the best in a situation, no matter the situation. It feels deeply and laughs wholly and it is whole. Nancy silently envies. 

And the guardian of the untrusting heart is the most ruthless of all. 

It’s battered and broken and bleeding from all the times that it’s been fooled. Whether it be ten, or five, or one time. It doesn’t hope. It wishes it could. Its laugh carries like a cracked egg—the people on the outside never know when the cover will break apart. 

Nancy doesn’t know what, or who to trust. She hasn’t for a long time. 

But Robin’s heart is wanting to be the outlier. 

Robin, who will always be the weird runner, and a theorist, and a fast talker and a good listener and the best sympathizer, and the one who flinches at loud noises, and anything she wants to be. Robin, who wouldn’t look at her the way everyone else would. Robin, who is as close as a guardian angel that Nancy will ever get.

Robin, who Nancy prays she never loses.

[tmntxthings]

Author’s notes: short lil drabble ish cause i don’t ever remember writing leo as a yandere, have i only ever done donnie???

Warnings: yandere tendencies, stalking, implied murder, intimidation, gaslighting, manipulation, unedited

Song: House of Balloons/Glass Table Girls by The Weeknd

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Yandere!Leonardo who is tired of watching you. He’s itching to talk to you. To have your eyes finally recognize the shadow that follows after you. For that attention you give so freely to be his. No one else should matter, you’re his whole world. It’s only fair if he becomes yours in return.

Yandere!Leonardo who seamlessly enters your life like it wasn’t pre-meditated. Like he hadn’t planned every minute detail. He was meticulous when it came to you. Think of him as your knight in shining armor. Come to him with all your troubles.

Yandere!Leonardo who fixes all of those issues that you have. Your neighbors in the apartment aren’t as loud anymore, actually you haven’t heard them fighting for a couple nights now. They must’ve made up or maybe even broke up! Either way it didn’t matter to you, finally you could get a good nights rest.

Yandere!Leonardo who starts draping himself over you. You guys are friends now. Friends touch! It takes some getting used to, but don’t worry it’ll be second nature soon. Don’t think too much about it. His frame leaning into yours, his arms going over your shoulders. He’s tired, he stayed up too late again. Won’t you let him rest against you for a little while? He’ll even close his eyes.

Yandere!Leonardo who thought he had taken care of all your little love interests. But he portals over unannounced only to hear you gushing about this new guy, someone from your finance class. He creeps closer to your bedroom door, it’s cracked open, just a sliver. He peers through to see you bouncing around, jumping on your bed to kick your feet out happily.

Yandere!Leonardo whose eyes grow cold as the phone call hangs up. Words of encouragement were given to you. To finally go after a crush since the last couple had gone so horribly. He thinks this kind of puppy love isn’t good for you. Why can’t you just catch on already? Does he have to spell it out for you?

The door creaks open.

You lurch up, smile disappearing from your face.

So does your flush. You look ashen now.

Maybe it was because he had a sword out.

He’d never pointed one towards you.

Despite his weapon now facing you, he tilts his head and tries for a smile. It’s strained, his eyes looking at you with barely restrained mania. It’s been hard keeping his true self hidden from you. The side that wants to whisk you away and keep you from the rest of the world. No one else deserves you. Your happiness. Your smiles. Your attention, that was all his.

“You belong to me.”

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[equinoxbloom]

Salt and Shade

[FFXIV Write 2024 | Day 21 | Shade]

The salted breeze combed through the long grass and the sound blurred with the distant rush of the tide against the cliffs. The pulse of the land, slow and rhythmic exhalation, the sun warming the back of her neck. She plucked another handful of rolanberries and let them roll from her fingertips into her basket. Simple tasks had become hypnotic.

The wind rushed through the field. The bushes rustled. She picked another berry. She was a stranger sight now than she’d been a few years ago, when she’d been an unknown adventurer offering a hand in the field. Her name did not linger in too many more minds now, by her own estimation, but who in Eorzea did not now know the Warrior of Light? The ordained bearer of a legacy she’d had no part in. The berries stained her fingers a fine shade of red.

She paused to pop one of the small morsels onto her tongue, crushed it between her sharp teeth and felt the juice run down her throat. Across the field, a small figure paused to wave in her direction. She smiled. It was kind of them, to let her return here and fade into the landscape, to exist as wind and sea salt and a silhouette in the bright sunlight. It wasn’t an anonymity she’d ever thought she’d need. She was grateful for it now.

Sweat slithered down her shoulders. Basket slung on her arm, she picked her way toward the shade of the trees along the fence line. They didn’t need her here, which was somehow a comfort. Beneath the swaying boughs, she watched the sunlight dance dappled across her feet.

[the-travelling-witch]

HAPPY NEW YEAR!! Any goals for 2024!

happy new year!! i do have some goals for 2024 actually, some more serious than others

learn to play the (electric) guitar

write more multi-chapter/ longer fics

write more “beautifully”

improve quality of my writing overall

perhaps work on original fiction (this year fr)

be more patient with myself

be more vocally feral about haikyuu

graduate and do sth with my life lol

i think that is the core of what’s going on

[honeyryewhiskey]

⋆｡°✩ no mini-skirts allowed

synopsis ✩ teasing older!dean has become your favorite pass time here comes trouble intro page for more age gap drabbles

warnings ✩ 18+ descriptions of dean being horny, skimpy outfits, undressing, flaunting/teasing, restraint 1.8k words

Dean’s pushing fifty, he’s seen every kind of mini-skirt a woman could wear—denim, snakeskin, pleated, painted-on tight. And you—you’ve got one of each.

Every damn day, it’s something new. One morning, it’s a little plaid number, all flirty and preppy, barely covering a damn thing as you lounge on the couch. The next, it’s tight denim, hugging every curve as you bend over the Impala’s hood, pretending to be interested in whatever he’s fixing. Then there’s the snakeskin one—hell, that one nearly did him in. Slinking around the bunker like some kind of walking temptation, flashing him that wicked little smirk every time you caught him looking.

But today—it’s the black one.

The shortest, clingiest, most offensive thing you’ve ever worn. And it’s been a problem all day.

Maybe it’s because you’re practically flaunting it in his face. Maybe you damn well know what you’re doing. Maybe it’s because Dean knows if he was his younger self, he’d have spent the whole day with his hips locked between your thighs—but you’re a case. A spritely little thing he swore to protect, not defile. Either way, Dean’s been fighting a losing battle, his patience wearing thinner with every step you take.

And you’re enjoying every second of it.

This morning, when he stepped out of the gas station, he damn near dropped the bag in his hand at the sight of you bent over the Impala’s vinyl seat, half inside the car, digging around the floorboards. The fabric was stretched to its absolute limit, clinging to every dip and curve, and that little triangle of pink lace peeking out from between your thighs was down right offensive to his resolve.

Dean stopped dead, heat crawling up the back of his neck, his grip tightening on the plastic bag until the rustling of it was the only sound he could process. That sliver of lingerie was a goddamn bullseye, branding itself into his brain. His stomach clenched, jeans tightening around his cock far too much for a man standing in a parking lot at eight in the morning.

He ripped his gaze away, clearing his throat like that might dislodge the image from his brain. “You lose somethin’?”

You wiggled. Hips twitching as you hummed back, “mhm. My phone.”

Dean turned on his heel so fast it nearly gave him whiplash, muttering something about being careful as he yanked open the driver’s side door and tossed the bag on the dash. No way in hell was he standing behind you. Instead, he slid into the seat, reaching under the passenger side until his fingers curled around the cool, smooth shape of your phone.

“Here,” he grumbled, practically shoving it into your hand without looking at you.

You only smiled, sweet and cunning—like you knew just how much you’d wrecked his entire damn morning.

Later, while Dean was working on Baby in the garage, he was trying—really trying—to focus on the engine in front of him, but that damn skirt was making it impossible.

You’d perched yourself on a barstool a few feet away, flipping lazily through some magazine like you had no care about what you were doing to him. Legs crossed just enough to hike the fabric higher, teasing the soft skin of your thighs.

He forced himself to keep his eyes on his work, tightening a bolt with more force than necessary. But his resolve slipped when your legs parted—slowly—before crossing again, like you were stretching just for the hell of it.

Dean caught the flicker of a smirk on your lips.

Son of a bitch.

He gritted his teeth, wrench working double time to keep his hands occupied. The garage was warm, but it wasn’t the heat making sweat gather at his collar. He knew better than to look again—knew damn well that every glance was just giving you ammunition.

But then you hopped down from the stool, the movement making the hem of that tiny excuse for a skirt ride up just enough to give him a peek at the curves of your ass. The little top you have on doesn’t help, the hem doesn’t even cover past your belly button. The plush skin of your stomach pokes out between the two pieces, another taunt. Another image burned into his brain that’ll creep back into his mind when he’s alone in his bedroom at night. 

Dean muttered a curse under his breath, dragging a hand over his stubbled jaw. You didn’t adjust the fabric, didn’t even pretend to be modest as you strutted past him like you hadn’t just shortened his lifespan by a couple years.

“That skirt’s a safety hazard,” he grumbled, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

You didn’t even glance his way, just laughed, light and teasing, as you bent over to grab a drink from the cooler. The motion made the back of your skirt ride up again, and Dean had to snap his gaze to the ceiling before his self-control completely crumbled.

“Right,” you chided, cracking open a bottle of water. “You worried about my safety, big guy?”

Dean exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders like that might shake the tension out. “Yeah,” he muttered, wrench clanking against the metal. “Somethin’ like that.”

But you heard the strain in his voice. And from the way you licked a stray drop of water off your lip, eyes meeting his like a damn challenge—you knew you had him closer to where you wanted him.

The breaking point comes when you crouch in front of a bookshelf in the bunker’s library, back to him, that godforsaken skirt dipping low. The waistband sliding down your back enough for the strings of your panties to come fully into view. Slung around your hips, material so thin Dean figures it’d take one pull to tear the lacey pink from your skin. 

Dean’s hands clench at his sides. His jaw locks. His restraint is hanging by a damn thread, and he’s too tired to keep up his composure.

“All right, that’s it,” he announces, voice gruff, decisive. “No more skirts.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder, blinking wide, innocent eyes. “No more skirts?”

His stare is locked onto you like a man staring down a loaded gun, like he’s already taken the hit but is too damn stubborn to go down. “You heard me.”

Slowly, deliberately, you rise to your feet, turning to face him, that little smirk playing at the corners of your lips. “I don’t know what you mean, Dean,” you say sweetly, approaching him with your hands behind your back. “It’s just a skirt.”

Dean exhales sharply through his nose, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Your head tilts, mischief gleaming in your eyes, and then—without breaking eye contact—you take another slow, deliberate step into his space. Close enough that the air between you turns thick. Close enough that he can smell the vanilla in your shampoo, feel the heat radiating off your skin.

“Take it off me, then.”

The words go straight to his growing bulge, all the heat in his body coursing to his core. He prays you don’t glance down, because he knows that triumphant little smirk will come back and he can’t do anything about it. 

Dean stills. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the instinct to grab. His gaze flickers over your face, lingering on your lips for a beat too long, before dropping—just for a second—to the hem of that damn skirt. At the lace still peeking over the waistband because you, apparently, are refusing to adjust it today. 

For half a second, you think he might actually do it.

His hand lifts—just an inch, just enough for his fingers to graze across your hip and naval, the heat of his fingertips burning against the soft exposed skin of your stomach. A touch so fleeting, so barely-there, but enough to make your breath hitch.

Dean hears it. His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring.

And then—just as quickly—his fingers curl into a fist, like he’s physically snatching his own control back.

With a rough exhale, Dean steps back, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it, like he's some damn teenager again, knocked flat by the first girl who ever looked at him like she wanted more. His restraint is hanging by a thread, fraying fast. “Go to your room,” he mutters, voice like gravel.

You laugh, soft and teasing, the sound sliding down his spine like a warm hand.  “Go to my room?”

Dean’s jaw clenches, fingers flexing at his sides. “Before I do something stupid,” he grits out. “This—” he motions between you, frustration rolling off him in waves, “can’t happen.”

His voice is strained, rough-edged, but his eyes—the heat in them, the way they drink you in like you’re something dangerous tells you that there's hardly any grit behind those words.

He’s not giving in yet, fine, but can't happen and won't happen are two different things. And besides, you’re sure as hell not done toying with him for the day. You tilt your head, all wide eyes and faux innocence, “Fine. I’ll take it off.”

Dean doesn’t even have time to process the words before your hands are slipping under the waistband, pushing the little black scrap of fabric down your thighs. The air in the room shifts, charged, like a storm gathering on the horizon.

Dean’s throat works as he swallows hard, pulse hammering in his ears as the skirt pools at your feet. His gaze—traitorous, desperate—flickers downward before he can stop it.

Pink lace. Thin. Damn near sinful.

Heat licks up his spine, tightens his stomach, makes his skin prickle like he’s seventeen again, fumbling through the backseat of a car with a girl he has no business touching. Only this is worse. Because he’s not some dumb kid—he knows better. And yet, he still can’t look away.

Then you turn your back to him and bend at the waist. Slow. Deliberate.

Dean grips the back of the chair beside him like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity, fingers digging into the worn wood. His jaw flexes so tight it aches. His eyes watch shamelessly as you give him full view of everything he's craving. Skin he can't let himself touch, hips he wants to grip onto while he fucks some of that attitude out of you.

And you—like you don’t even feel the heat radiating off him, like you didn’t just wreck him beyond repair—saunter toward the door in nothing but that little top and pink panties.

At the threshold, you pause. With a wicked little smile, you toss the discarded skirt over your shoulder.

It smacks Dean square in the chest.

He catches it on instinct, fingers fisting in the fabric, knuckles going white. The soft material, still warm from your body, feels like a brand against his skin, like evidence of the war he’s losing.

“You are gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, voice low, wrecked.

You glance back at him over your shoulder, a smirk playing at your lips. “What a way to go, huh?”

Dean doesn’t answer. He just stands there, burning, watching you disappear down the hall, still gripping that damn skirt like it might be the only thing keeping him from chasing after you.

You never got that black mini-skirt back. 

tags ✩ @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @daylighted @jollyhunter @soldiersgirl @bejeweledinterludes @bluemerakis @cowboysandcigarettes @littlesoulshine @couturewinx @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @snowluvvie

[mingi-s-dimples]

Shortest drabble I've ever written but..enjoy. This video single-handedly ruined me.

pairing: no pairing, just mingi thoughts.

genre: 18+

wc: 427

summary: let's say this video inspired me some of the unholiest thoughts of this man..

warnings: mingi's cock i guess

The stage lights burn hot, casting a sheen of sweat along Mingi’s throat, his chest rising and falling with every breath. The music thrums through his body, deep and insistent, matching the slow, steady pulse of heat pooling between his legs. It’s been building for too long—the adrenaline, the grind of the bass, the way his body moves in sync with every beat.  

And fuck, it’s making him hard.  

His slacks cling to his thighs, the fabric stiff and heavy, pressing too tight against his cock, reminding him of the weight of it, thick and straining against the zipper. Every move, every roll of his hips, sends a dull, aching pressure through him. It’s maddening. Unbearable.  

The first time he tries to adjust, it’s quick—fingers flexing before sliding into his pocket, like it’s nothing. Like it’s casual. Like he’s not seconds away from pressing down just to relieve the pressure. But the second his knuckles brush against himself, a slow, teasing drag over the outline of his cock, his breath catches. Fuck. He can feel the heat of it, the sheer weight, stiff and aching, twitching at even the barest pressure. His fingers tighten, shifting himself just slightly—just enough to make the fit of his slacks a little more bearable—but the friction only makes it worse. The fabric drags over sensitive skin, and he clenches his jaw to keep from reacting.  

It doesn’t help.  

The discomfort lingers, a dull throb refusing to ease, and fuck, he needs more. So he tries again, this time with more pressure, more control—fingers pressing deeper into his pocket, gripping himself just enough to move things into a better position. The shift sends a slow ripple of pleasure through him, and he has to exhale sharply through his nose to keep from groaning outright. It’s still not enough, but it’ll have to do.  

He should stop. He knows that. The cameras are rolling, the stage is packed, the crowd is watching. But the problem is—so are you.  

And you see everything.  

The flicker of realization in your eyes when you notice what he’s doing. The way your thighs press together, the way your breath stutters, lips parting just slightly—like you know.  

Like you want.  

His fingers twitch. Another slow drag. His cock pulses against his palm, thick and needy, and when he looks up again—when he sees the way you swallow hard, the way your gaze flickers down and back up, heat pooling in your expression—he knows.  

You’re just as wrecked as he is.  

And fuck, that makes it so much worse.

NETWORKS:

@blossomnet @illusionnet @mirohs-aurora-society

[ase-trollplays]

>> You really should be asking more questions. How do they even know Corali? How do they know she killed a fleet official? How do they know where she is? However, finding your moirail before a legislacerator does takes priority. She's going to have to disappear for a while.

...thank you... ...danny... le-- *SQUEAK!?*

>> Your matesprit doesn't even let you finish talking before scooping you up in his arms and taking off in a sprint toward the clothing store. After all, she's also his kismesis; the fact that he's been so much more held together than you ought to be commended.

>> He could have at least let you say goodbye, though.

>> You don't seem remotely bothered by the taller troll moving towards you. Your gaze flicks to him, that's all.

>> Slowly exhaling the smoke, you consider your answer for a moment.

"...sh= was aliv= and r=lativ=ly unharm=d last i saw."

>> You don't exactly want to reveal that you were the one who knocked her unconscious and left her in the street. You take your own phone out of your pocket and pull up the public information for the clothing shop you dragged her out of, and turn the screen around to show Thiomi.

"...n=ar h=r=."

>> Still kind of incriminating yourself, but whatever. As long as no one attacks you again, you don't care.

[dsudis]

Ao3 meme taken from a friend on Dreamwidth!

1. Most Hits: The Boy and the Beast Good old wolf!Derek/Stiles, and ye gods this story will be twelve years old next month!

2. Second most kudos: Break the Lock If It Don't Fit The one where Derek dislocates Stiles' shoulder but it's a sign of affection really. (Really!)

3. Third most comments: Born in the Blood The one where Bucky and Steve have a baby, and Steve and Sam get married, and it's all heading for happy domestic OT3 eventually, I swear.

4. Fourth most bookmarks: There Is No Shortage of Blood The Bucky's Broken Dick saga, which finished posting more than six years ago now, what is time even?

5. Fifth most words: Sell Your Body to the Night The Derek/Stiles underage sex work fic. Still my favorite watersports scene I've ever written. And also 115,000 words of other stuff.

6. Fic With Second Fewest Words (That's Not a Drabble): Incoming at 150 words, probably the shortest of the little fics I wrote to create moments where two women spoke to each other during and around various Stargate SG-1 episodes, after I spent a lot of time tallying up how often SG-1 failed the Bechdel test. (A lot.)

Other randomness that only works if you have X number of stories and drabbles with which to filter:

7. Seventh most common relationship*: Aral Vorkosigan/Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan with 13 works, awww.

*Go to your works --> sort and filter --> include (or exclude) --> relationships

8. Eighth drabble posted: (Going by posting date on AO3, not original posting date, because who knows) Taken In, posted to AO3 December 28, 2009, and featuring John and Rodney and accidental child acquisition taken to absurd lengths. :D

9. Ninth Most Common Character*: Derek Hale, with 23 works. Awww, Derek.

*Go to your works --> sort and filter --> include (or exclude) --> characters

10. Tenth Mature and/or Explicit Fic: Beans on Toast (Explicit), truly one of my Dreamling masterpieces, in which Hob teaches Dream the joys of doing a half-assed job. In bed.

11. Eleventh Most Recent Completed Fic When You Exclude Your Ten Most Frequent Fandoms*: What Just Happened, featuring my darling bewildered aro/ace Caduceus Clay.

*Go to your works --> sort and filter --> exclude --> fandoms

12. Twelfth Most Recent Story in Your Sixth Most Common Tag*: Another Day, a Reign of Fire story in my Kid Fic tag. Honestly surprised I only have 18 fics with that tag, not sure that's quite right.

*Go to your works --> sort and filter --> include --> tags

13. Favorite Title That Isn't from a Poem or Song or Shakespeare or The West Wing: ...do I have any?? Uhhhhh let's say Texting of a Sexual Nature, which I had to go back two years to find!