Okay. I am 100% aware Koogi uses a 3D modelling program for her backgrounds and pastes textures in to save time but PLEASE TELL ME I’M NOT THE ONLY TO NOTICE THIS BECAUSE I CANNOT STOP LAUGHING. NICE CARS HOW DID THEY GET INSIDE? Can I just clarify that I KNOW it’s the damn wallpaper but it still looks hilarious.
Minho is fluttering in and out of sleep as he lays with his cheek pressed against Kibum’s chest. The living room is warm and dimly lit, and he’s curled catlike on the couch, his arms around Kibum’s lower torso and head pressed against him at an angle that allows him to clearly hear the slow, steady rhythm of Kibum’s heart. The blanket covering his body and Kibum’s gentle stroking of his fine black hair are also lulling him to sleep; the quiet sounds of the TV are all that is keeping him from completely falling asleep.
Suddenly, the soothing sensation of having his scalp rubbed and hair stroked is interrupted by a tugging pain. Minho winces and Kibum offers a soft apology.
“Sorry Bambi,” he says. “One of my fingers snagged your hair a little.”
“’S okay,” Minho murmurs sleepily, nuzzling his cheek against the soft fabric of Kibum’s sweater. As he continues to listen to the soothing rhythm of Kibum’s heart, however, Minho cannot help but notice that Kibum has stopped stroking his hair.
“Babe,” he pouts. “Why’d you stop?”
Feigning ignorance, Kibum replies, “Stop what?”
Minho rolls his eyes at his fiancé in spite of the fact that he knows Kibum can’t see him doing so. “I know you, Bummie. That’s your guilty voice.”
Kibum looks away from Minho’s scalp sheepishly, not wanting to focus too much on the scene of the crime.
“Did you get your ring stuck in my hair?” Minho prods knowingly, no trace of malice in the question.
Faced with no other options, Kibum returns his gaze to the crown of Minho’s head. The gorgeous diamond engagement ring that Kibum wore as a symbol of their love normally glittered beautifully in the light, but now it was trapped, entangled in soft, black hair.
Minho laughs. “Come on, we gotta get up and get it off then.”
Kibum groans his protest. “Don’t wanna,” he grumbles. “You feel so comfy all curled on me like this.”
Minho sits up slowly, and Kibum’s hand, still attached to the top of Minho’s head, follows him as he does.
“Walk with me to the sink,” Minho prompts. “If we pour warm water and use a little dish soap, it should come out.”
“Water?” Kibum echoes. “Wouldn’t that get your shirt wet?”
Minho thinks about that for a moment. “I can’t exactly take it off with you attached to me,” he reasons, “plus, if it gets wet, you can take it off for me-”
Minho leads them into the kitchen, giggling at how quickly the proposition had willed his partner int getting up. “That’s gay,” he chuckles.
“You got me there,” Kibum replies with a shrug. “Does it hurt? Your scalp?”
Minho touches the crown of his head gingerly, feeling Kibum’s fingers and the hair knotted in his ring. “Not so much,” he answers honestly. “Now come on, help me get out of this!”
“Out from the ring or out of your shirt?”
Minho turns around and makes a show of considering it before kissing Kibum softly on the cheek. It would have been more romantic were Kibum’s hand not trapped atop Minho’s head, but it gets the job done.
“Ring first, shirt second. I promise.”
“Oh you promise, do you?” Kibum teases, a big grin forming on his handsome face.
So, people (cough cough @sanerontheinside) were wanting more of THIS ObiQui flash fic, because apparently I am not allowed to leave them unhappy. Which, fair enough. So here we go, another 1400+ words of Qui-Gon POV. Enjoy!
is uncharacteristically quiet on their way back to the rooms they have been
given. It’s not his silence that catches Qui-Gon’s attention however; rather,
it’s the quiet in his head. Their bond is fully blocked, the solid wall of
Obi-Wan’s shield’s at odds with the way he leans into Qui-Gon’s side as they
walk together, eyes half closed. He’s radiating exhaustion in a way Qui-Gon has
not seen in a while; what he can sense of their bond is fuzzy with it.
was the alcohol. The drinks here are incredibly potent, a fact Obi-Wan had
apparently forgotten tonight. Qui-Gon huffs a soft laugh. ‘He’ll be feeling that in the morning, I think.’
A tournament is held where the prize is the hand in marriage of a young noble.
Dean, the son of a disgraced noble man, enters the competition hoping to win and regain his family’s standing in society. The marriage, coming as it hopefully does with money and lands as well, will help him to do that. Dean has no marriage prospects otherwise. No one of good standing out entrust their son or daughter to him, but if Dean wins the tournament then no one can deny him.
On the first day of the tournament the prize, Castiel, is presented to the knights. The moment Dean lays eyes on him, he swears to himself that he must win - not for his family name and honour, but for Castiel. He cannot imagine that beautiful man being married to anyone else.
And Castiel, who promised himself that he would not care about the tournament, that he would not pick a favorite or feel anything until the winner is decided, notices Dean in the competitors and cannot stop staring at him. His resolve to stay detached ends in that very moment. He does not want anyone else to win.
okay but think about lydia getting pregnant DURING college and telling stiles I NEED YOU TO WRITE THIS CONVERSATION BECAUSE I AM A NICE FUCKING PERSON
There is probably a version of the universe in which Stiles isn’t obsessed with yearly doctor’s visits, but it’s not this one. Lydia knows that it’s because of his dad; because of his mom; because of her. Because Stiles Stilinski tries so hard to keep the people he loves alive. The least she can do is go to the doctor’s office once a year and have a checkup. It keeps him sane. After all they’ve been through, Lydia isn’t going to contest sanity.
She goes to the doctor for Stiles, and nothing comes of it until she is twenty-one years old and gets a phone call between classes, the voice on the other end saying her blood test had come back positive for pregnancy.
Lydia takes a cab home and doesn’t see anything out the window; doesn’t even hear anything aside from her thundering heart. She is hyperaware of every one of her senses, suddenly– her tongue in her mouth, the sweat on her palms, and the fact that she’s got Stiles Stilinski’s baby inside of her body.
She can feel panic everywhere. It is almost like anxiety but it is sizzling too painfully to be something so usual. It is all she can concentrate on as she climbs the stairs to their apartment, every movement like led. Her key shakes as she presses it against the doorknob, hitting it loudly, and she is almost about to give up when Stiles swings the door open, frowning.
“You okay?” he asks, concerned. Lydia stares at him. Stares.
She feels like she hasn’t ever really looked at him before, which is ridiculous. She knows every single one of his faces– has them lined up in her mind like the pages of a catalogue. She knows all of his nuances, she has seen every bit and piece of him, yet he opens the door and he is totally new to her.
There is a part of Lydia that is afraid of him, and she doesn’t know why. She doesn’t know why his face suddenly doesn’t quite belong to him anymore.
Or maybe it feels like he doesn’t belong to her.
“Stiles,” she says, trying to see if he responds, if this is really him, and his eyebrows suddenly curve up, confused as Lydia continues to rake her eyes over his face, trying to find familiarity in it.
“What’s wrong?” he says, catching her wrist and gripping a bit too hard as he pulls her into the apartment and shuts the door behind them. “Lydia, what’s going on?”
“I have to… to sit down.”
She wants to sit on the couch, but then she peers into their bedroom and finds that it looks the same as it had when she’d left for work earlier, when she had kissed him on the forehead before smacking his cheek to try to get him to wake up. His boxers are still on the floor, and his towel, and Lydia stumbles towards them, needing to fix, needing to solve, but Stiles wraps his hand around her elbow and practically drags her over to the bed. His touch is the catalyst for her, and Lydia’s body begins to heave even as her eyes remain dry.
“You’re scaring the shit out of me,” Stiles says as he sits next to her on their bed, ducking slightly so that he can see her face. “Lydia.”
There he is. She found him.
“Oh.” His face freezes, suddenly becoming shadowed and aged as he stares at her. “God.” For a moment, she feels like she’s going to crumple, and then he cups his hand around her cheek and presses his lips to her temple, then his forehead. “Okay. Breathe. Just breathe for me, okay Lyds?”
She stops thinking about what she is about to lose and starts thinking about the boy who is sitting next to her, who has not left and who wouldn’t leave her, not ever.
“I don’t want–”
“I know,” he says, voice soothing. “Lydia, I know, okay? Just breathe. It’s gonna be okay.”
“It’s not going to be okay!” she shoots back, edging away from him slightly. His hand slides onto their bedspread and he just watches her, wordless. Lydia grips onto the anger and holds to it tightly. “This is you. This is us.”
“We’re still gonna be us.” His voice is so terrified. She wants to go back. Take it all back and shield him from it, because haven’t they hurt each other enough? “Even if… well. No matter what happens, I’m gonna love you, and we’re gonna be us.”
She squeezes her eyes shut, unable to look into the tenderness within his. It’s not soft. It is afraid and desperate, and he is clinging to her face just as she has been trying to find him within his. Lydia’s breaths slow down, and she tilts her head to Stiles’ shoulder, resting it there.
“You know me. You know what happens now.”
It’s a whisper, but he picks it up anyways.
“You’re okay with that?”
He stares at her for a second.
“This wasn’t supposed to be it.” It’s not an answer. Lydia wants a real answer. She needs one. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“Stiles,” she pleads.
He blinks rapidly, and suddenly she cannot stop noticing how hunched over he is. How quickly, effortlessly broken Stiles’ body has become.
“I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“You’re not going without me.”
For the first time, he sounds angry, and that’s really what shuts Lydia up.
“Thank you,” she says, and he nods, jaw tightening as he stares at his hands. “You know… you know it’s not because of you, right?”
Stiles looks up.
“Stiles, if I was ever… If I was going to do that with anyone… god, I would want it to be you. I would want it to be you so much. Sometimes I see you around kids and it stabs me somewhere and I can’t stop thinking about it for days afterwards.”
“But we don’t want–?”
“I know. I know. But I need you to know that if I was ever going to bring a person into the world with someone, I would do that with you. And I would want that kid to have so much of you, Stiles. All the stupid things that I’m in love with… I would want that for our baby. This isn’t you.”
He takes her hand in his.
“It’s just… we’re twenty-one and I don’t want this. Not now. Possibly not ever.”
For a few moments, he’s silent.
“I used to think about it. In high school.” Stiles’ eyes suddenly are dodging away from Lydia’s face, and there’s a part of her that thinks that his words aren’t for her. But then she remembers– he does so much for her. Everything is for her. It always has been. “I used to think that we might never be safe. And what if I wanted something… what if I needed to be safe?” He squints at the floor. “I used to picture a strawberry blond kid because I was scared it would never be possible for me to have that.”
“And then you were lying bleeding out on the floor and I just wanted you. You were put in Eichen and I just wanted you. You were telling me to kiss you because you would kiss me back and I realized that all I wanted was to love you in the most selfish way possible.”
This time, when she moves closer to him, she offers him her whole body. Lydia curls all the way around him in a way that should feel too intimate, too vulnerable, but she has everything with this boy. What they are is her everything.
Stiles pulls her as closely and as tightly as possible and stares at the wall over the black TV. His hands grip at her, making sure she doesn’t slip away, and she nudges herself closer to him just to make sure he knows that she would never run from him. Not Stiles.
“We’re going to be losing something,” she says, voice strained. “We’re not going to be able to get it back.”
MEET & GREET! Submit your meet-and-greet stories to email@example.com. They are posted throughout the week.
I met Pierce The Veil and Sleeping With Sirens on 12/01/14. I listened to King For a Day for the first time in December of 2013. It was the first song that introduced me to bands and PTV and SWS. I became obsessed after that. You see, I bought merch, listen to their music non-stop, and don’t even mention the times I’ve cried because I never would even get the chance to thank them. I could thank them for a lot of things but I knew I wouldn’t be able too; however, one faithful day I was on my secret instagram that I kept from my parents and BAM. It was The announcement! I was shocked. I had been listening to them for about half a year and I see this? I run to my mom and tell her instantly about it. The tickets were only $75 so she allowed but I need my dad’s permission and my sisters help, she had to take me. I called my father but he never answered! Why? Well he was in court for a teenage thing. You see parents got a divorce and yeah. I waited four hours for him to call back but by time he did, it was too late. Millwaukee, WI had sold out and I was left in tears at the news. But do not fret! My father called back and said he placed an order for two VIP tickets in Iowa. The next closet place. It was six hours away but it was worth it. I waited almost two hundred days and it finally came.
There we were, my sister and I, waking at the crack of dawn. She drove to get me from my moms. We sat in a car for seven hours, driving down to Des Moines, Iowa. We got lost so it was longer then we needed. Anyways, we arrive at our old motel we rented for the night and got ready. I waited in thirty degree whether in holey jeans and a t-shirt that was ripped down the back. My sister and I made friends there and we stuck with them. My joy couldn’t be broken, although it was tainted by thirty year old ladies yelling at us for cutting in line. Old people, am I right? So we get inside and its almost four o’clock. The guys should be coming right? Wrong, they were forty five minutes late. My happiness didn’t waver once though. I was about to meet the people who got me through self harm and yelling and my parents divorce. Everything was perfect because they were there. It was my turn. I entered terrified out of my mind until Kellin said I had cool hair. It was relaxing although I needed to dye it back badly but the thought counts right? I was scared I would kill him if I touched him but soon enough I worked up the nerve and my arm sat on his lower back. I was touching one of my idols! The boys didn’t converse with me besides a few hellos but I was okay with that because the silence was golden.
Then came PTV, my all time favorite band. You see Victor and I have the same birthday and I really wanted to impress Jamie by saying his name by Hime but it came out as a stuttered Hi. Embarrassment was all I felt. I soon found my way in between Victor and Mike. Vic slung his arm firmly around my shoulders and I knew right then that this was the happiest I could ever be. I placed my hand on his back and politely talked in a nervous sort of way. “Um,” I started shakily as he peered down at me “I just wanted to say we have the same birthday.” I shook so much. He smiled his award winning smile and said “Oh, cool really, February 10th?” it was so smooth. I knew I wouldn’t be remembered but in that moment we were all that existed.” I gave a shaky yes and he spoke again “oh nice give me some.” he held out his hand as a lower high five. I gently slapped it and as I was taking my hand back slowly he cupped it. We were sitting there holding hands and I couldn’t help but smile. Everything was happy and right in that moment! “You know this will be our prom picture,” Vic said looking at the camera. I just smiled up at him and turned to take the pictures. I could help but smile. Nothing could stop this. However soon it was time to leave and I had to go. I got my VIP pass holder and a poster and off to the show I went. People pushed up in front where I was and I ended up with a few bruised ribs and not knowing anyone because I got separated from my new friends and sister. However I got a pick licked by Jack and Justin of SWS and I also had a chance at Mike’s drum stick but two thirty year olds, yes the ones from the beginning, ganged up and took it from me. Lets just say I wrestled one for it one handed on her back. Although her friend elbowed my shoulder and I had to let go. They left before SWS could start and honestly that pissed me off that they only came for PTV but fair is fair. I enjoyed my time and as soon as it began it was over. I enjoyed it so much and to this day I cannot stop smiling. Although I want to make Vic notice me just so I can wish him a happy birthday. I guess I will bug the shit out of him on twitter. haha. Anyways we had a long drive back. I wasn’t in Des Moines for more then fourteen hours. Plus it was on a Monday and Tuesday so welcome back to homework and reality. My dreams came true and I cant help to smile as I type this.
for the winter kisses meme, can i have 7 for e/R? thank you!
(Absolutely! :D )
The apartment smells like butter and vanilla and chocolate and cinnamon, and the kitchen is a disaster. They’ve got dozens of cookies laid out on every cooling rack they own, as well as additions they’ve begged, borrowed, or outright stolen from friends. Dozens of dozens of cookies, and a myriad of varieties. Snickerdoodles and sugar cookies and gingerbread people-of-undetermined-gender, as well as the building blocks of a truly epic gingerbread house. There’s flour on every horizontal surface and some of the vertical ones, a pile of cinnamon on the counter where the cap came off the bottle at an inopportune moment, and Enjolras is in the middle of it all like a dervish, his hair tied haphazardly back and a fierce glint in his eyes.
Enjolras is serious about his holiday baking and Grantaire cannot stop fucking grinning.
Enjolras notices, eventually. Probably because Grantaire is supposed to be making royal icing and Enjolras noticed that the sounds of him stirring weren’t coming fast enough, or something. He turns around, frowning. When he sees Grantaire beaming at him, his frown turns to consternation. “What?”
“I never would’ve figured you to be all gung-ho about Christmas,” Grantaire says, and gives the royal icing a stir so Enjolras doesn’t decide to exile him from the kitchen. “What with the religious overtones and all.”
Enjolras’s frown deepens, turns thoughtful. “It’s the holidays,” he says at length. “It’s about family, and love.”
And there is just no way that Grantaire can do anything at that but set the icing aside and come toward him. Enjolras looks like he’s going to protest, but Grantaire catches him by the edges of his apron and pulls him in close with a firm jerk. “Is it, now,” he breathes, tilting his face up to Enjolras’s.
Enjolras seems to get the idea. His expression softens, goes wanting. He lifts his hands, then aborts the gesture as his face twists with frustration. “I’m covered in flour,” he says plaintively. “I can’t touch you.”
Grantaire hums in the back of his throat, his lips curving. “Well, then. I’ll have to touch for the both of us,” he says. He unties Enjolras’s apron strings with a quick tug and slips his hands underneath as he leans in, pressing his lips to Enjolras’s.
He tastes like butter, and vanilla and chocolate and cinnamon, and warmth and family and home. He makes a sound against Grantaire’s mouth and leans in, his hands hovering.
Grantaire grins into the kiss. He pulls the tie in Enjolras’s hair free, grabs handfuls of it as it falls loose around his face, and pins him back against the edge of the counter.
There’s another batch of cookies in the oven, but there’s plenty of time left on the timer. Grantaire tightens his hands in Enjolras’s hair, presses in even tighter, and kisses away any protests he might intend to voice.