too much fluff lately

He’s The Bomb

Yes hello I wrote this for you all instead of writing the three papers I need to write for my university. I hope you enjoy.

In which Dean and Cas go on a shopping trip seeking warmth and find the greatest pleasures of all the world (AKA Lush)

Word Count: 1552

Keep reading

The Kiss

The first thing Sherlock notices is that John’s fingers are not soft. They stutter across his cheek, roughened callouses catching on evening stubble as John’s thumb grazes across his cheek.

The next thing is that John’s hands are warm. So much warmer than he could have imagined, radiating heat that he is certain isn’t actually being emitted from his skin, but rather must be a combination of his own anticipation and the proximity of John’s entire body to his own transmitted through the one place they’ve come in contact.

John’s eyes are soft, wondering, a little dazed. Guilt creeps into Sherlock’s spine. A burning reminder of all the time wasted where he had done nothing but push John away with his own misunderstandings, only to have had made it all the worse with the walls he built and the lies he told. But that’s over now, Sherlock reminds himself. John is here, staring up at him with a small, crooked smile and soft navy eyes that are so full of affection it’s difficult to breathe.

It is impossible, later, to untangle the moment. It seems as if in one instant they are staring at each other, laid bare, words they’ve never said hanging from their lips, and the next John’s mouth is on Sherlock’s, with no in-between moment of hesitation or awkward slide of noses.

Fire and lightning and something that reminds Sherlock of soda water, all fizzy and expansive, rockets from his lips into his stomach. It is so forceful that he almost pulls away, but John’s hand is there, now, at the back of his neck, fingers toying with the curls there, and he stays, and the fire and the lighting and the fizzy something becomes manageable, if only just.

He wants to categorize John’s lips, how they are slightly chapped and slightly dry and very firm. He wants to hold the reality up to his imagination and say ‘see? This is so much better,’ but he cannot because John’s other hand has slid around to the small of his back and is slowly moving down over the rise of his arse. Not squeezing so much as palming, massaging, and Sherlock cannot focus on more than one thing right now, so he chooses John’s lips because they’ve opened slightly and John’s running his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip, and oh.

He thought it would be very strange, to have someone else’s tongue in his mouth, but it is not strange, it is marvelous, all wet velvet heat. John groans, a small noise, but the reverberations in his mouth are exquisite, and Sherlock presses more firmly against John, trying to get him to do it again. He does, louder, and the sound goes straight to Sherlock’s cock, the heat pooling below his stomach, coiling in his spine.

But that is not for now. For now Sherlock takes a tentative lick, tasting, exploring, and John opens to allow it, tongues twining together, and a small, needy noise escapes into John’s mouth. A tiny huff of amusement ghosts across Sherlock’s cheek, and then both of John’s hands are on his arse, pulling him flush, John’s erection pressing into his thigh, and the small, needy noise grows deeper.

John pulls away. No, wait, where -

“Sherlock,” John breathes into Sherlock’s still open mouth. “Christ, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s tongue ceases functioning for speech. He stares dumbly down at John, his mind flipping through all the things he wants to say, all the things he should, perhaps, say, and settling on none of them. He says simply, “John,” and burdens that one syllable with everything he cannot find words to express.

John smiles, really smiles, that brilliant, thousand-watt smile that lights Sherlock’s heart and pulls his own lips up in response. Sherlock leans his forehead against John’s, their noses brushing, breathing each other’s air, existing in this same shared space for a heartbeat that seems to stretch and contract around them.

There is a knock on the door, and a familiar sing-song call, and they both giggle together before John takes pity on the poor landlady and lets her in.


This is a thank-you ficlet for @inevitably-johnlocked for their invaluable assistance in finding me links! Thanks so much!

Don’t imagine your bias trying to get over you. Don’t imagine him pacing back in forth in the dorm, trying to talk himself out of texting you while his bandmates look on with concern for his sanity. Don’t imagine him throwing himself into his work, exhausting himself every day only to fall into bed and dream of you each night. Don’t imagine him showing up at your doorstep at three in the morning, completely and totally wasted, with tears in his eyes as he confesses, “I messed up, jagiya, and I miss you so, so much. This is torture for me, being without you is the hardest thing I’ve ever tried to do. I’m losing my mind, you’re all I can think about anymore. Please, please take me back.”

What Future?

Group/Member: Shownu/Monsta X

Genre: Angst

Word Count: 641

Summary: With the nodding of her head, she made it clear that she never once shared the same thoughts of a future - the idea of a future that made him happy. 

Requested: Yes! Anonymous requested: “Can you do a Shownu Angst where his girlfriend doesn’t want to carry his child? Like she REFUSES to have any children but he’s always dreamed of wanting a child”

Author’s Note: Eh, my angst is a little rusty.

- Admin Sonsee

Originally posted by sonhyunu

Keep reading

Jonghyun/Taemin; Toaster; PG

the one were nothin rly happens but its cute uwu

Keep reading

alright you know what, i’m just going to put this random starter call here for those interested. no capping this time, like to your hearts content.

A small drabble for feylen because she and I spent so much time before Inquisition came out thinking about Cullen singing to the Inquisitor. Takes place after Corypheus’ attack on Haven.

Finally the yelling and accusations stopped, not because anything had been resolved, but simply because there was nothing else to say, and each of the Inquisition’s advisors retreated to be alone with their doubts and their fears.

Cullen should have been thinking of his men, of the lost and the injured. He should be thinking of how to prepare for the next attack from …whatever that creature had been. He should be strategizing, planning how to protect them, protect all of them, soldiers and refugees alike, of how in Andraste’s name they would be able to shelter everyone and feed them and keep them safe.

Maker knew he was doing all that, but that wasn’t his uppermost thought.

She had survived.  Ardith Trevelyan was alive; bruised and battered from the fight with Corypheus and the blizzard both, but she was alive.

He’d stood there helplessly in Haven’s Chantry earlier that night, as they’d both realized what had to be done. They’d exchanged a look that said everything they were feeling, containing every hope and dream that they hadn’t yet acted on, and that in all likelihood they would now never act on, a look that lasted only seconds long but seemed to go on forever. 

And then they’d both moved at once, spoken at once, said what had to be said.

Keep reading