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@redhairedmichaelonrainydays
MASTERLIST
OkaY i know this is super long overdue but Iāve finally sat down and done the much requested masterlist of my writing (how it is set up is the link of the story first and then a small little preview of it below it) (and the most recent ones are at the top). Iām only going to do the oneshots for now, Iāll save the blurbs for a rainy day, but here it is and I hope this is of use to yāall!
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Kisses I want to write about:
Goodbye kisses: Lingering and hard for longer times apart. Ones that curve Aās body against Bās and cause hands to splay against backs. Or short pecks, maybe not even completely on the mouth for short trips to the grocery store. Hello kisses: After long periods apart, these can include A picking up B and spinning them around. Fingers pressing into cheeks, palms cupping necks, and breathless laughs when they finally come up for air. Breathless kisses: A series of short pecks because they need the closeness but they also need air, so. Sometimes smiles come in between, or sometimes its just breath, gasping for the sole purpose of being able to kiss again. Heated kisses: Breath huffing into mouths, angrily or passionately. Hands grabbing at clothing and pulling each other closer. First kisses: Hesitant and nervous. Lips hover inches from each other for a few seconds before they just barely brush. Itās just a soft press, but it ignites their entire bodies. Pinkies link afterwards, still wanting to be close, and each looks down, smiling softly. After sex kisses: Lazy, slow presses. Limbs pressed together, chests heaving. Soft murmurs about what to do for dinner later, fingers trailing down backs, tracing lazy patterns. B rolling onto their back and A trailing their lips down their neck, kissing their shoulder, their chest, anywhere they can think of, memorizing B. Morning kisses: Barely awake kisses that usually end up on jaws or cheeks because A is too tired to land it properly. B makes a sleepy sound and rolls into A, nuzzling their face into their neck, ankles hooking together, while A drapes their arms around B and they fall back asleep for a while. Post-break up kisses: Soft and slow. Hands on each otherās arms in a way that neither can tell if the other is pushing away or pulling closer. The kiss ends with their foreheads pressed together, neither wanting it to be true that this is happening. Christmas kisses: More smile than actual kiss. A holds mistletoe above their heads while B rolls their eyes, but pulls A down by the collar of their ugly Christmas sweater for a heated kiss. A takes B by the waist and walks forward until they are around the corner, away from the prying eyes and hoots of the rest of their friends and family. Comforting kisses: B walks into find A sitting on the bed, shoulders shaking, cheeks wet. A looks up, face looking stricken for a moment. B is shocked, and quietly says Aās name. At this, A breaks, face crumpling, and only barely has time to reach both hands out for B before B is there, kneeling at Aās feet. B takes Aās hands first, kissing their knuckles and palms. Then B reaches up to hold Aās face, pressing soft kisses around their cheeks, their lips, murmuring āitās okayā and āyouāre alrightā and āIām hereā in between. āI thought I lost youā kisses: The breath is knocked out of both of them with the force that they collide with. Hands grip the back of t-shirts and palms are pressed up and under shirts, holding them close, feeling the warmth of their skin. Palms are pressed to cheeks, thumbs swiping away tears until their mouths collide messily, the world seeming to disappear around them. āWe canāt do thisā kisses: Fists clenched, hands shoved into pockets. Brows low or brought together, jaws clenched. A feeling like a magnetic pull between them. Their foreheads press together, their lips brush, just barely, until B pulls away with a shaking exhale, forehead dropping into Aās neck. āCome to bedā kisses: A has their hands on Bās neck, murmuring the phrase softly. Aās hands slide down Bās arms to their hands, lacing their fingers together and slowly starting to pull B towards their bedroom. A continues to pepper B with kisses all the while, trailing them down their jaw and neck. āYou look beautifulā kisses: Just a soft press of lips to the temple, resting them there for a moment, then smiling down and telling them as much. āIāll be right backā kisses: A puts their hands on Bās shoulders from behind them, where they are sat on the couch. He leans down and around, while B turns his head a little, accepting the quick peck. āI missed youā kisses: Long and relentless, holding their body close, arms wrapped completely around their waist. A burying their head in Bās neck and pressing kisses there too. Angry kisses: Hard, gripping. Fists in clothes, shoving each other against walls. Fingers digging into hips. But the kisses always melt away from that. They turn into brushes of lips between shaking breaths, until theyāre out of energy and are left just standing there, holding each other, fingers carding through hair. Sad kisses: Almost not a kiss at all. Just holding onto each other tightly, Aās lips pressed to Bās temple, whispering soft words, desperately trying to provide whatever comfort they can. In the dark kisses: The movie plays in the background, but A and B are hardly paying attention from the back row. They kiss soundlessly, long and soft, fingers locked. Aās arm is thrown behind Bās seat, wrist bent to curl their fingers into Bās hair. Dying kisses: A holds B in their arms, panicked, crying. Murmurs of āno, no, no.ā Salt on their lips from tears. Voice cracking. Holding on tightly to their shirt, their shoulder, their hand, roughly pulling them against their body, anything to try and keep them tethered to this earth. Kissing them as they die (āno. No, stay awakeāā), Kissing them once more even with the life has left their body (No. God, come back. Please, come back. Please, look at me, Iām right hereā).
someone send me one of these and Iāll write it
me: ugh ew i hate clichƩs
fanfic: *person a to person b before they kiss* i've wanted to do this for so long
me, crying: THEY'VE WANTED TO DO THIS FOR SO LONG
The Many Pages of Ashton Irwin
Warnings: swearing, marijuana
Authorās Note: hey this is bad but hiatus ā¦ over?Ā
Word Count: 3.6k
He wondered how many specs fit in the ceiling tiles above him. The hazy fluorescent lights no longer caused a perpetual ache behind his eyesāā he had rigged his brain to no longer feel unnecessary pains such as bright lights or loud, spine-tingling scrapes. Ashton thoroughly hated the sickly white interior of the doctorās office. He had memorized every square inch of the niche business space, and he even knew the name of the fake plant situated by the magazines.
His head rolled forward and backward again. Meanwhile, his fingers tapped along with the soft tick, tick, tickāing of the clock. Ashtonās heart didnāt tick like that. The red hand of the clock stopped, and a few moments later, it caught itself back up again. Ashtonās heart ticked like that. This was his train of thought every time. And two minutes later, it was always interrupted with, āAshton, Dr. Heim is ready for you.ā
āNothing new, nothing worse,ā Ashton said to his doctor at the beginning of every appointment. It felt like a ritual. If he chose not to say those words, then there would be something newāā something worse.
So, he said the truth. Nothing new, nothing worse, but in two weeks, it would always be a different story.
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fucking RUDE
Boys w curly hair and brown eyesā¦ā¦.R u kidding
iām so tired of the AU where your soulmateās name is on your wrist. i want my enemyās name on my wrist. i wanna know who iām going to have to physically fight eventually. turn on your fucking location
your enemyās name on one wrist and your soulmate the another. no clue which is which. hope itās not the same name on both wrists.Ā
@secretlytwoface
WHAT ARE WE?!
WRITERS!!!
WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO?!
WRITE!!!!!
WHEN ARE WE GONNA DO IT?!
((Disgruntled muttering))
āYouāre a set of teeth and tainted claws of old days. Youāre the end of me.ā
ā Lukas W. // The end of me (via somepiecesofmyheartandsoul)
Girls will say they busy and be in their bed relaxin or sleep
Sounds busy to me
Calvinās valentine
Luke knows the day will be insufferable the minute he walks in school and sees red.
Everything red.
The once pale and dull hallways, with the orange salmon-tinted lockers and bone-white walls, littered with red glittery heart-shaped cardboards covering almost every inch, are nowhere to be found under valentineās arrangements. Most lockers have roses taped to the door, tangled with love letters, with the occasional teddy bear, and the end of the hallway hidden between the large crowd of loud teenagers with screamed banter and obnoxious laughter. He has never liked Valentineās Day.
Maybe it is because he has been single for his 21 years of living, not having a proper girlfriend has taken a toll on him, or maybe because he does not like the excitement of such a superfluous celebration. He likes been kind to his friends, and he does not look for an excuse to show his fondness. He buys a soy latte for Calum almost on every morning coffee run, and he wonāt hesitate to get Vaderās merchandise if he comes across anything he knows Michael would like; heās gotten at least 15 seeds packages for Ashtonās garden. He just does not like Valentineās Day.
He is greeted by a mass of people blocking the way to his locker, so once he releases a long sight, he starts making his way through the throng of people, avoiding the effusive hugs and the endless display of pda. The chatter is loud and Luke finds himself avoiding the stumped roses, probably forgotten after a love confession, and the glittery mess of decorations that have fallen onto the floor, sticking to the sole of his all-black chucks.
He opens his lockerās door, almost hitting a giggling girl in the process, and fumbles with his books in hand. The air is clogged with sweetness and Luke is not reluctant to love, but god does he feel suffocated. The 600-page book is trapped between his ribcage and the metal door while he tries to get his backpack inside, and god does he want to leave already. With the word around him almost glitching, he barely notices the white little paper that floats onto the floor, with a little red dot in the middle of the page.
His curls are falling onto his forehead, while he maneuvers to keep both his book in hand and his backpack stuck in his locker, and just right after he closes the door, he picks the little paper from the floor. He does not pay much attention to it as he thinks it could only be a cheesy flier with Valentineās Day offers or some other cheesy mumbo jumbo that he puts in the massive book he carries all the way to first period.
He does not feel safe until he finds himself in his wooden chair, in the front corner of the classroom, far from the obnoxious giggles, admiring a bouquet of flowers that was placed on the desk of the smallest one of them. The noises coming from the hallways simmer down as soon as he puts on his earphones, submerged in poetic melodies, and he starts to feel like a blinking light, ethereal, muffling the noises from the outside. Focused on the words that drench his ears ā he murmurs the lyrics and blinks without a second thought- without a care and the world, immersed in ever flowing words, and for some reason he starts to listen to melancholic notes- the mournful words echo in his mind, creating a hollow chest.
He takes a bite of his chocolate granola bar, and catches a glimpse of the girl with the wild hair when she makes her way in the classroom. He has noticed how she always sits behind him, but does not utter a word. She strolls in like a hurricane and sends a swirling wave of CK and shampoo to his nostrils ad now when he is at home on Sunday mornings he finds himself missing that smell. He has forgotten what it feels like to have a quiet morning without her silent presence and enticing smell. She has dark wandering eyes, always observing everything, but at the same time nothing at all. She is attentive, but he does not think she notices him. Their eyes cross, but she looks so unaltered that he doubts she feels the same electric shock through her chest like he does.
Its not until he hears her sipping on her coffee that he remembers the note snuck in his book. He goes through the pages with the sole resolution of getting rid of the polluting propaganda when a messy scribble catches his eye. He was not expecting the messy but poised handwriting, or the kind words.
āyou donāt know me, but happy valentineās dayā
A smile creeps up to his pink lips, and his eyes drift back to the messy girl. His smile only widens.
She sits in her wooden chair, and feels the draft of cologne that radiates from him, but she fights herself and keeps her attention on her steaming mug of Chewbaccaās Americano. She wants to stare, but she will not.
She has spent her whole life depriving herself from the desires of her heart, and when she likes something to much, for some reason, she finds herself backing away. Maybe when her father lectured her about the meaning of hedonism he meant something different, but all her 8-year-old mind could grasp was that everything joyful was too good to be good. Her stubborn mind was not changed. Malleable was a concept she knew but would never apply to anything but the erasers she used while drawing. 21 years running away from all the real joys life could offer; she would just look away.
The problem was she never found it so hard to run away as she does with this cherub-like boy.
It was not meant to be sinful, but it went from the simple adoration of some abnormally pretty phalanges to the thought of the raptured coloration of his strained knuckles while meddling your waist to his handsome phalanges wrapped around your limbs and the tender cafune his hands could perform on you.
It went from the admiration of the length and poised way his fingers joined his metatarsus, to the constellations you found scattered on the left side of his face, spread from his cheekbones to the edge of his jawline. Fifteen stars you found yourself lost in ā Sartreās thoughts will remain unknown to you now that you lost Mr. Grunās seminar, too lost in the galaxies you found hidden under his left cheek- lost in the cartilages that trespassed the flesh at the summit of his nose, and the uneven pigment that underlined the edge of his cupid bow. You found yourself lost in him.
Words were never really exchanged. The fresh smell of pomegranates always drifted to you, floating with the warm drafts of Februaryās air, through his light hair and making a home in your nostrils; having him at arm length always left you uneasy, depriving you of the courage of being your argumentative self, with a clenching heart hollowing your chest. Your voice was a funny rumble, like a throng of words that could never exit your mouth, as you wanted them to. your thoughts always rushed to your lips, and while lacking of an exit big enough to let all of your jumbled thoughts out evenly, they piled up, one over the other, and your mouth emitted a cacophony of stumbling words. He radiated beauty, with his presence, your heartstrings were kept tight, and your voice turned into a quiet rumble in the back of your throat that would barely leave your mouth.
The shallow days in the black and white classroom turned into an art display, and luckily, you had snatched a place at the front line. He was a marble sculpture with buffered edges, an oil painting with powerful strokes and hyper realistic glimmering eyes, a powerful carving with strong limbs, and a photograph with motion effect. You tried to be discreet, but your eyes always drifted back to him: your stray eyes had found a shelter.
Maybe he would be good, she thinks. He has a kind soul. She knows from the flapping motion of his lashes, and the ghost of a smirk that draws itself on his face when you stutter while answering a question, and he throws a brief glance at you with kind eyes. Glances have been constantly exchanged and every time his oceanic orbs cross yours you swear you feel your heart stuttering. He just wonders if he has ever seen eyes that dark.
Luke observes everything, as he also does observe her: details fill him with joy and he cannot fathom a perfect being, as he seeks for rawness, and gushy spots, like analyzing pixels of a maximized picture. He tries to join the dots to create an even line that traces from your temple to the sole of your black leather chucks, maybe that could help him understand the reason behind your constant lip biting and hair grooming, and why you cannot seem to looking him in the eye.
He has seen how she enters the classroom at least half an hour before it actually starts, and she carries a coffee mug, Chewbaccaās themed, filled with an unaltered Americano, bitter to no end. He sees her face contract into a sourly wrinkled nose and pouty mouth, but relaxes the second the bitterness wear out, only to take another sip a second after. Her hair curls undecidedly as if an argument took place on every morning with the direction of the day as the matter of the quarrel and she carries a Leviās jacket instead of a purse or bag. She keeps her belongings stuffed in the inner pockets of the jacket while she carries her binder by hand, switching it from one hand to the other, struggling to keeps it from falling to the ground.
She never talked to him, and even though whenever she intervenes in class itās all mumbled whispers, he swears he has heard her outlandish laughter sometimes when she passes down the Hall. He can almost picture a pentagram with the notes of her laugh; he can only imagine a proper smile showing on her face. He has never actually seen her smile, just a small lifting of her cheekbones and muffled joy. He can hardly believe himself when he hears a soft āhiā coming from the chair behind him.
soo, its not finished, im gonna work later on this, but i would like the feedback very much.
Can you say it without genius?
go to school kids
Iām still shaking from this and itās been almost 10 years
