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gyrabanian · 7 years

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❣❣❣❣ for ko'a and amha and ❣ for upa and oko pls ty ily

Send in a ❣ for a random kiss.

a cheek kiss. for oko & upa

Through most of her training thus far, Oko had been.. unconfident. Her poor view of herself lead to a poor execution of most spells, and it was this that lead to, well, more frustrations. Yet, that hardly did anything to deter Upa from teaching her, which the younger Miqo’te would never, ever take for granted. In fact, Oko respected the woman far more than she ever respected anyone else who wasn’t family - perhaps it was her nurturing personality that made it so easy for the girl to look up to her. Whatever it was, Oko had come to truly care for Upa in the time since they’d met, brief as their meetings could be.

And so that’s why Oko makes a surprise visit to her mentor, holding a small box in her hands that she offers to her as she slips into her office after knocking. Setting it down upon her desk, the Keeper would smile warmly at her, bidding her to open it - and when she did, there would be a single orange inside it, a very shiny one, and underneath it a book. Upon opening it, it would be a blank grimoire, its leather bindings dyed a pretty blue and flecked with stars. It wasn’t much, but she knew that Upa would like it the moment she saw it.

Then, to top it off, Oko would lean in to very gently press a kiss to her teacher’s cheek - a chaste, fast one, but it was there. Having grown up in a family where actions spoke louder than words, this was entirely normal for her, and she could only hope Upa wouldn’t mind.

“I wanted to say thank you, for being my teacher, and being so kind. So… an orange to replace the one I destroyed, a book as thanks for letting me borrow yours.. and a kiss! Because I appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

a crying kiss. for ko’a and amha.

What was it about him? Gods, nothing was ever simple with him. Never. No matter how she wished to understand the complex web of emotions that spidered across her heart each time she thought of him, or saw him, she never could. It was beginning to grow tiresome. Yet there she was, sitting there pulled into his arms, chest bumping against his, his lips running the length of purple flowers underneath the skin of her arm where someone had grabbed her much too tight. Each time she has new ones, he asks the same question - it never changes. “Do you want me to kill him?” And every time she has to say no, and see that frown tug at his lips.

Each time, it makes her chest tighten.

As he lays his lines of kisses, soft little ones as if she were some fragile glass sculpture, it makes that tight feeling in her chest only grow. How she hated him for this, for making her feel like something special, something important. How dare he. As if he knew her well, what she was, where she came from, what she had done and what she was willing to do. He knew some things, but the whole of it? Would he look at her the same?

She hates his ignorance.

And it makes her cry. And those tears drip onto him, drawing his attention from her skin to her face, his thumb streaking across her cheeks to catch those little tears and pull them away. She hates this, too. The way she allowed herself to be weak for him. She hates how he looks at her with concern, and how he leans in to press his lips to hers, and…

how she lets himdo it.

a neck kiss.

Laying in bed, blankets strewn over them, their bodies close to one another, Amha can’t help but let her eyes wander. The sun filters in lightly from outside, a window shining light across his tanned skin like a spotlight, showing him off. Even in his sleep did he put on airs, somehow still managing to be perfectly disgusting when not even trying. Or perhaps was she growing attached, that she found something in him even when nothing was to be found? The thought scares her, should send her fleeing out the door, but her folly keeps her where she is.

Her hand splays across his skin, the stark difference in their tones accented by the light, tiny specs of dust floating in and out of her field of vision, and she admires him. Wholeheartedly. Because in this moment, he was asleep and she was awake - a rare occurrence, he was so guarded in his everything that rarely was there a time she could look at him without his ever watchful gaze. She lets her touch lightly trace the slight curves of his chest, brushing fingertips along the dip of his collarbone, thumb running the length of his jawline, stubbled and strong, a work of horrid art that she was growing ever more accustomed to.

She can see the little scars peeking over his shoulder, ugly things, a story she had not yet been told (one she believes she might never hear.) Not once has she touched them, she knows better.

Vision moves from them to his neck, somewhere so vulnerable. Intrusive thoughts ebb at her, tell her there was so much she could do - he was at her mercy, here in this moment, wasn’t he? A voice in her mind sings that she could tear his throat out there, a voice all too familiar reminding her she has fangs that can be used for more than intimidation.

And she leans in, but only just, as if considering,to lay instead a small kiss upon the skin.When she does it, she swears she hears him chuckle.

a bloody kiss.

This inn room had seen many things, of this she was sure. Within this city, this realm, this wretched Hydaelyn, so much happened that no one was around to truly witness, save for memories etched in walls, energies absorbed and left behind like traces of a murder. Unfortunately (or, perhaps, fortunately,) they do not speak of these things, keeping them locked inside, mysteries to be found when wallpaper peels away to reveal scuffs in the wood, dark spots, holes.

In this instance, it would be fortunate that walls do not speak. Upon the couch, seeping blood from a wound incurred of his own folly, Lehko’a sat unspeaking as Amha fussed about him, cursing at him for being an idiot, for letting such a thing happen. It concerned her, truthfully, that he did not speak; for a man with so many words lodged in his mind, a silver eloquence that she so hated most often, to be so silent? It made her wonder if this was worse than he let on.

But she does not stop to heckle him on his choices, on what he does - because she knows. Not the long or whole of it, but she has an idea. And so instead she busies her hands stopping the blood oozing from the knife-wound, red staining her fingers, the gauze she has bundled into her hands to sop up the brunt of it all while making sure he remains awake. He was lucid, but barely, and it frustrated her to no end since when he’d arrived he’d had that grin on his face, holding his hands over the wound, careful to express to her that he was totally fine, that he’d had worse. And now here he was. What a child.

As she straightens up, to look him in the face, he seemed bleary - her bloodied hands smack at his face, nothing too hard, just to jostle him; he blinks languidly, eyes on her as it seems he’d been elsewhere entirely for the time being. He knits his brows, apparently mouth cotton-dry as he tries to say something, and before he can even form half a word she leans in to press her lips to his, a swift thing, the taste of copper upon them as she backs away.

“Don’t say a word, in exchange for that. Just.. stay awake, you fool.”

#kenipls #KELSEY IM REALLY SORRY BUT I LITERALLY HAVE RUN OUT OF JUICE #THAT FOURTH ONE ILL DO FOR YOU ANOTHER TIME #PLEASE FORGIVE ME #opo-opos #amha maraksh #lehko'a nhali #oko kaprei #upa zuvhe #daddy issues #drabbles

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