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gojos-sidepiece-69 · 3 years

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Tokyo Tech Training- Chapter 6

By the time you woke up on Wednesday, you were still seething with rage. Who does that little shit think he is? Was he still a little boy? He was 28, for Christ’s sake, when was he going to grow up??! You shoved the microscopic train of thought that you found Gojo Satoru’s immaturity charming deep into the depths of your subconsciousness. You felt an unwanted warmth spread upwards and inwards from your thighs when you opened your phone and saw the inappropriate picture Gojo had sent you last night, dangling your lacy pink underwear from his index finger. You were still angry, but your heat pulsed at the thought of your panties in his hands. You shook the thought away when you felt drool shamelessly pooling at the sides of your mouth.

What you hated to dwell on even more was the growing realization that the more Gojo touched you with those long fingers of his, the more his tongue and his overly moisturized, glistening lips ghosted across your skin, the more you felt deprived of the sensation when he was gone. The hunger was only growing. You realized that you had only taken his dick inside of you once, just once...you felt empty. No, you thought to yourself. This was selfish and pathetic on both of your ends; your little schoolgirl crush had gone way too far. You needed to stop fucking him, even if he made your body tremble your throat moan in ways no one else could even dream of doing.

The past five days had been such a chaotic blur that you hadn’t processed the fact that tomorrow was your...your birthday. How had you not realized it when Sukuna first proposed his deal that day at the mall? “The Itadori boy’s room on Thursday at 11 PM. If you’re late, you’ll be punished however I see fit.” You could still hear his deep, demonic voice. So that was how you were going to be spending your birthday evening tomorrow: being tossed around like a plaything by a 1,000 year old curse. You sighed deeply and put your head into your hands, not even surprised anymore at the absurdity of the situation. What the hell were you doing with your life? You came to Tokyo Tech to train to become a Jujutsu Sorcerer, not practice your Kegel techniques with your teacher every other day. Just take things one day at a time, you reminded yourself, as you begrudgingly dragged yourself out of your bed.

Today was your second day filled with exerting and harsh training, but at least it wasn’t as traumatizing as your earlier Field Training expedition. When you got to the grassy training field on campus, you looked around for Gojo, feeling a tiny sliver of disappointment when Maki told you, “He’s out for the day. He’ll be back tomorrow, but us second-years are overlooking your training today.” Damn, you thought. You couldn’t resist how delicious the thought of showing off was for your cocky....fuck, stop thinking about him. It was as if his stupid, dimpled smile was permanently branded to the right side of your brain. You turned around to watch Nobara and Panda goofing around, swinging each other in circles and getting thrown around like frisbees. Track-star Yuji and a stubborn Megumi were racing each other up and down the track like their first names were Usain.

Your friends all looked so cute in their blue tracksuits, you smiled. Toge was yelling, “Salmon! Tuna-salmon!” as Maki practiced her new, crisp cursed-tool technique on him with her incredible agility. “Wait up!” You yelled after Yuji and Megumi, challenging the two boys to a quick hundred-meter dash. “Loser buys us all drinks for my birthday tomorrow!”

Somehow, Megumi lost the race but promised to buy you all drinks tomorrow; you smiled inwardly, thinking about something he once said about having a strong moral compass that couldn’t easily be shaken. At least you knew of two good guys you could rely on, even if they were a spiky sea urchin and an extra large pink cupcake. “Hold on, hold on. Why didn’t you tell us tomorrow was your birthday?! Explain yourself,” Nobara demanded, crossing her arms at you. “I guess I just forgot...” you started, but she wasn’t having it. “I love birthdays, and we’re using yours as a chance to celebrate. I think we all deserve some more sweets and drinks, right? And I can go shopping to get you a present!" She gushed, and before you told her it wasn’t a big deal, she tutted at you. “No ifs and buts. I’ll decorate my dorm and we can all meet there tomorrow at 9 PM. No excuses,” she pointed a finger in your face. “Okay, okay,” you smiled, before wickedly challenging Yuji and Megumi to a rematch.

The rest of your day was filled with arduous exercise and training with your second-years, and it was soon time for bed. You woke up the next day sore again, but thought to yourself that you might as well get used to the muscle ache - it was only going to get worse from here. You were going to have the bones of an 80-year-old soon, if you kept this up. You laughed darkly and nervously at the thought of having arthritis as a teenager, before a spirited Yuji and Nobara bursted into your room yelling, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! :)” You thanked them, head ringing slightly from their yelling at 8 in the morning. They jumped onto your bed with you, tackling you with warm hugs and tickling you.

Yuji slapped a birthday cake sticker against your cheek, insisting that you must keep it on all day. “Guys, guys, stop,” you laughed, eyes watering from laughing. Megumi stood at the doorway and nodded your way before wishing you a happy birthday. Yuji got up and dragged him into the group hug, Megumi’s face smashing against Yuji’s stomach. Your dark haired friend groaned as the rest of you poked fun at him. This was the best birthday morning you had in a very long time.

You peeled the cake sticker off of your face and stuck it onto your mirror. “Let’s go out again today and hit every good Ramen shop in the damn city! And then go shopping in Harajuku!” Nobara ordered rather than suggested, and you both reeled from excitement. She knew how much you loved food. She grabbed you by the wrists and pulled you all the way to the front of the school, not even giving you time to change. So the four of you stood in front of Tokyo Tech in your pajamas, hailing a cab to get downtown. You spent all day with your friends, and the three of you loved teasing Megumi for his seriousness. You could’ve sworn you saw him smile once, when a waiter at one Ramen restaurant placed a big steaming bowl in front of him. Everyone ate out of each other’s dishes greedily, snatching and stealing.

After that, you headed to shops selling outrageously expensive clothing, including one dedicated to just selling corsets. You all pushed inside, trying on ones that you could never afford. You laughed as Yuji tried on a pink frilly corset, making Megumi wear a deep blue one. Nobara tried to talk you into a plan for shoplifting a set for the both of you to share, but you were too afraid you’d get caught. “Oh my god! Is that Nanami?” Nobara whispered too loudly, and the blonde man turned towards the four of you. He had a lacy set of undergarments in his hands, and Yuji hooted. “Who’s that for, Nanami-Sensei?” He jumped up and down. “I told you not to call me that. And that’s none of your business. Tch.”The man answered in his slightly-flustered deep voice, adjusting his leopard-print tie. He quickly walked over to the cash register to avoid dealing with you four. You all laughed it off, making jokes the whole way out.

“HAHA-and what if he’s into some super weird kinky stuff, too?!” Nobara asked. “I can see it! He’s totally a Fifty Shades of Grey type-man...he’s probably secretly a sadist or something,” Yuji said spookily, waving his arms around.

Before you knew it, you were back in your dorm and it was almost 9 PM, time for your little party. You tugged open your closet doors, wondering what you should wear for the occasion. Since it was your birthday, you decided you could afford to show some skin and let loose for the night. Nobara had even warned you and the boys earlier that if you didn’t wear something nice she would “use the straw doll ritual technique on you.” So you settled on a short black dress with spaghetti straps, still an avid supporter of the Bloutfit. You knocked on Nobara’s door and entered, and seeing all your classmates in there dressed nicely for you warmed your heart: Megumi, Toge, and Yuji wore cute slacks and button-down long sleeve shirts, Nobara wore a pink skirt and a white top, and Maki dressed up in a power suit. Panda was panda.

Your stomach did three consecutive backflips when your eyes landed on none other than Gojo Satoru, leaning back against a wall and smiling at you. Oh, so he was back from his trip already, huh? This try-not-to-stare game was getting really hard when he, too, was wearing nice slacks and a crisp button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He wore his dumb sunglasses, and damn, did this man look expensive.

Megumi shoved two bottles of fancy-looking wine into your hands, keeping his promise. Everyone passed the bottles around, laughing and swaying to music (which Yuji was again in charge of, starting the night off with Walk Down by FNF Chop). You played a couple of intense rounds of charades, and you would never forget Yuji’s impersonation of John Cena. Ever. Because you now had a permanent stain on your dress where you had spat out your wine. See, this is why we wear black, though! You felt someone grab your wrist and lead you outside of the room and into the dimly lit hallway.

Before you could even process it, a certain 6’ 3” tree bent into your ear and whispered, “Happy birthday, princess,” while shoving a small box into your hands. He pulled back up and leaned against the wall, nodding at you with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. You opened your mouth to angrily argue with him, but he put a finger to your mouth and shushed you. “Just open it.” You narrowed your eyes as you popped the lid of the box open, heat instantly rising to your cheeks. You stared down at a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs. “What the fuck is this?” You asked him bluntly, and he stupidly replied, “Handcuffs, dummy. I was thinking we could use them soon during one of our training sessions. Trust me, you’ll like them,” he winked at you through his sunglasses. Before you could scoff and tell him you weren’t the type of girl who was into bright pink sex toys, he said, “Oh, and one more thing before I forget.”

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the panties he had stolen from your pile of clothes in the shed last night. He took a step toward you and pulled the top of your dress out, slipping your underwear inside. His hand lingered on your chest longer than it should have, until he pulled it back out and placed his hand on the back of his neck. “Well, you’d better get going. Yuji knows about the deal, blah blah blah, so meet Sukuna at his room at 11, okay?” You froze and your stomach dropped. How could you have forgotten? What time was it? You glanced at your phone frantically. “It’s 11:27, you moron! Why didn’t you remind me earlier??” You panicked. “Oh shit, sorry about that. Well, you better get going now, then.” Gojo called after you “Have fun!” And “Be safe!” And “Use protection!” As you scrambled down the hallway to meet your impending doom.

🌹

#saturo gojo #gojo x reader #fanfic #x y/n #jjk smut #fluff #jujutsu kaisen #jjk anime #jjk #anime #chapter 6 #fanfiction

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hookedonapirate · 3 years

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Book Sneak Peek

A/N: For those of you who don’t know, I’ve been converting A Helping Hand to an original novel. After months of frustration from not knowing what to leave and what to take out because of the ridiculous length of this story, I’m finally close to being finished with it. It’s currently in the process of being edited and polished. This is a sneak peek of my new book. Unlike my first novel, this one is set in "The Big Apple” just like AHH. It features Harper and Audrey (Emma and Elsa in AHH) from Follow My Lead, and Derrick, Elisa and their daughter, Gracie, make an appearance at the end.

I also wanted to let everyone know I will most likely be taking A Helping Hand down, even though I’ll be self-publishing. I know I said I wouldn’t, and actually I’m really sad about it, but after going through it, I realized it’s completely full of errors, misspellings and whatnot. Plus, I didn’t just change the names of characters and remove ouat elements; even though it’s the same story and the scenes pretty much follow the same sequence, apart from what I took out or added, I’ve made A LOT of changes to it, and I don't really want another version of my book out there. I encourage you to download A Helping Hand while you still can. But I will definitely let everyone know before that happens.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy another sneak peek!

I groan into the fluffy pillow my face is burrowed in. My head’s pounding, I feel like someone drilled a hole through my skull, my throat is dry and nausea lingers in my stomach. Slowly dragging my arm away from under my face, I open my eyes to a dim room, the curtains shielding any sunlight trying to burst through.

I take a minute to roll over, my eyes adjusting to the room as I lift my head slowly, taking in my surroundings.

Nothing seems familiar.

Granted, the guest room in my brother’s apartment is not very familiar either, but at least it reminds me of Brady. This room does not. It’s too pink and girly.

“Where the hell am I?” I grumble hoarsely.

I’m surrounded by pale pink walls and white furniture—a chair decorated with pink, frilly pillows, a bookcase lined with romance novels, a vanity and a nightstand with a pink, furry lamp. The curtains are made of white lace and there’s a large wall hanging that reads in large, cursive writing, Be your own kind of beautiful.

My eyes scan the comforter, which is also pink, along with more frilly pillows.

This is definitely not my brother’s guestroom.

This is definitely a chick’s room.

My eyes widen in horror at the revelation.

This cannot be happening.

Gathering further evidence to solve the mystery as to how I ended up in some woman’s bed, I sharply lift the covers and peer underneath them, seeing that, yep, I’m bare-ass naked.

“Fuck.”

I let my head sink back into the pillow as I drag my hands over my face. I can’t believe my first night in New York, I hooked up with some random woman.

I went to the bar with those intentions in my dispirited condition, but I don’t recall picking up anyone. In fact, I have no recollection of last night beyond the bar. Which means I was way too smashed to hook up with anyone.

I need to leave. I’m not the type of guy to fuck someone and run off the next morning without at least buying her coffee or getting her phone number. To be honest, I’m not the type of guy who does one-night stands, but I’m in no shape to be involved in anything resembling a relationship.

Judging by the breakfast she’s making, this woman has other plans. The door is closed but I can hear dishes clanking around in the kitchen. And as I spot my clothes across the room, I doubt a woman expecting nothing more than a one-night stand would go to the trouble of picking up my clothes from the floor, folding them neatly and setting them in the chair. She certainly wouldn’t be making me breakfast.

I sit up slowly and place my feet on the floor, hoping this will stop the room from spinning around me. I drop my face in my hands and groan. I haven’t felt this hungover in years. I eventually stand up and grab the knitted blanket I’ve been sleeping on, securing it around my waist. I go to the window and pull back the curtain.

I’m on the third floor, judging by the number of windows beneath her unit. I remember little about the surroundings, but I do remember seeing the pancake house directly across the street and I remember thinking about how much I missed my mom’s chocolate chip pancakes. I also remember the bar I went to last night and seeing the barbershop next to it and thinking how badly I need a haircut. The names of the establishments are all the same. Which means only one thing.

The woman I slept with last night lives in the same building and floor as my brother.

Fuck.

I have a feeling this won’t end well. I let the curtain fall into place and turn around when I hear a gentle knock on the door.

Shit.

I swallow thickly as the door opens. Panic flares inside me as I try to think up a way to get out of the pickle I’m in. I scramble toward the chair which holds my clothes.

“Owen, you awake?”

I whirl around until I’m face to face with the most beautiful green eyes and golden hair I’ve ever seen in my life. I drag a hand through my disheveled hair, my eyes traveling down her body. She’s wearing a thin, pink bathrobe, exposing a pair of long, sexy legs that go on for days.

Legs I can definitely imagine wrapped around me.

Damn, I hit the jackpot last night.

She’s beautiful, which is either a relief or extremely dangerous; I can’t decide which one.

She strides over to me, bearing a glass of water and a cheerful smile. I’m still stunned by how beautiful she is. “Morning, sunshine. Sleep well?”

She’s teasing me and I like it.

How in the hell did I forget a night with a woman like her? I must’ve been out of it. “I have a splitting headache and the room is still spinning.” I press my fingertips against my temples, feeling them pounding underneath my touch, “Other than that, I’m perfect.”

“I can imagine,” she says with a giggle.

Her giggle is the most delightful sound I’ve ever heard in my entire life, even with a splitting headache.

“Here, I got you something that might help with that.” She offers me a glass of water and some aspirin.

“Thank you.” I graciously accept the aspirin and water, deciding this isn’t so bad.

“What, no ‘thank you, beautiful’? Guess you’re really not feeling well,” she says playfully.

Fuck. I even called her beautiful, which means I was laying on the charm pretty thick last night. I offer a frail smile, despite feeling terrible. Not only because of the alcohol. I feel terrible for getting her into bed while I was inebriated and miserable from my breakup. And she was probably drunk too, which makes me feel even worse. Although, she doesn’t appear to have a hangover. Maybe she’s one of those people who doesn’t get hangovers after they get drunk. If she is, she’s pretty lucky.

I swallow the pills, and as I wash them down with water, I know the right thing to do is tell her I’m not ready for a relationship or a woman in my life, but how can I? I don’t really want to see her smile dissipate, especially since she turned out to be so nice and sweet and beautiful.

I lower the glass and close my eyes briefly, the coolness of the liquid feeling quite soothing against my cracked lips and dry throat. Damn, if only I could remember exactly what I did to this woman with my mouth as my tongue slashes along my lips. If only I could remember what she did to me with that lush mouth of hers. A shiver skates down my spine. I try to shake the thoughts from my mind and try to speak but struggle to find the words. It’s difficult when this woman is staring at me with those intense green eyes. I desperately want to scoop her into my arms and kiss her senselessly, creating new memories of having her in bed, but I know that would only end very badly. Even more so than it’s already going to. The last thing I want to do is lead her on.

Somehow, I manage to refrain from kissing her. “Listen...I don’t remember much about last night and you’re…” My hand makes a grand, sweeping gesture down her form, “drop-dead gorgeous...and I’m sure last night was incredible...but my girlfriend just dumped me and my head’s a mess right now, so, I...” she eyeballs me in confusion as I will myself to continue, “I think we should just be friends.” At the same time, I reason with myself that we’ve already done God knows what, so there’s no harm in a quick kiss on the cheek, right? Besides, I may not be ready for a relationship, but I’m still a gentleman.

I step into her space and casually lean in to kiss her cheek. She smells like strawberries and cream and I can hear her breath hitch as my lips brush along her skin.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” She places her hands on my chest to push me away.

I quickly pull back to give her space, apologies leaving my lips. “Sorry, I just figured since we had sex—”

Her eyes practically pop out of her head. “Wait, you think we had sex?!”

Well, duh. I shrug. Why else would I have slept naked in her bed and why else wouldn’t she be fazed by my nakedness underneath the blanket? “Didn’t we?”

She dissolves into laughter, to my complete and utter humiliation. “Oh no, no, no, no! We did not have sex.”

Please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the tag list for future updates and sneak peeks.

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#original novel #self promo #romance book #sneak peek #my book

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sinkix · 4 years

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~ Haikyuu!! Boys baking with reader - Ft. Ushijima, Tendou, Oikawa, Hinata & Nishinoya ~

YO! SO UHHHH... I’M BACK??? I GUESS?? MAYBE??? After a little break I had this in my drafts for a while and realllyyy wanted to complete it since it’s such a cute concept. Honestly at this point my posting frequencies are so sporadic and random pls forgive me lmao.

@deathcab4daddy gave me the inspo to include Ushi and it was so funny coming up with ideas for him, he is no.1 country boi chef

Dude I’m listening to the Mario Kart soundtrack ‘Coconut Mall’ while I continue writing this someone save me. Like u think I’m joking. UR WRONG.

Ushijima:

The most straightforward yet idiotic baker you will ever come across.

Before you even THINK about performing step 1, he will read the entire fucking leaflet like it’s a Shakesperean monologue.

INGREDIENTS INCLUDED.

LIKE SIS I DIDN’T NEED TO KNOW IT CONTAINS MONOCALCIUM PHOSPHATE THANK YOU.

I’m surprised he doesn’t count every single particle in the brownie mix.

You bought him a frilly cupcake-printed apron stating ‘best wife’ not expecting him to actually wear it

But since he’s secretly a big softie and treasures anything you buy he wears it proudly.

His stoic and dignified disposition is a comical contrast to the words printed on the front lmao.

Ushi best wifey bro.

The tight fit of the apron is pretty hot since it outlines every ridge of his pecs and tightly toned torso.

Gotta resist groping your mans while stirring the brownie batter.

tbh he’s more likely to grope you, he can’t resist that a$$.

And let’s face it he’s def an ass/thigh kinda guy.

Can and will try to casually initiate some form of unholy activities by lifting you up onto the kitchen counter, goading you to slowly lick the spoon and locking gazes before pulling you in for a deep, open-mouthed kiss to get a taste of the incomplete creation himself.

Ushi’s lips and brownie batter are a knock-out combo js.

Literally has the most serious face when he’s cracking the eggs into the bowl

The amount of concentration is equivalent to that of when he’s performing a serve at match-point.

HAS to set the temperature to the EXACT degree stated on the box

Everything is done by the book if you do one thing out of place he will pull you up on it lol.

“(Y/N) you were supposed to stir it for 5 minutes, not 7.”

When its done you feed him some and he can’t help but smile its so ADORBALE AHHH.

You end up eating most of it since Ushi doesn’t strike me as much of a chocolate/junk food lover.

STILL A VERY FUN BUT F R U S T R A T I N G EXPERIENCE.

Tendou:

The complete opposite of Ushi

Does everything wrong and the unconventional way.

Absolute disaster but doesn’t even sweat it since Tendou basically thrives in chaos and the disorderly.

To him instructions are purely equivocal, will read them for five seconds then toss them away.

Step aside Gordon Ramsey, Chef Tendou is here.

Despite doing everything the unorthodox way it still comes out amazing.

Like??? how???

Will cheekily place a dollop batter on your nose then lick it off fh3jkeffefds

Or if he’s feelin’ a lil freaky, he’ll swipe it off with his long ass finger and make you suck it clean, smirking at your submission as you coat his finger with your saliva.

oop-

Constantly cracking jokes and shitty food puns, pretending to drop the bowl to make you go into preemptive cardiac arrest before you can swat him with the spatula.

While you’re waiting for the timer to ping, Satori being the schemer he is will use this as an opportunity to pull some fuckery and tease you in any way he can.

u better be praying like bodhisattva TanaNoya rn because he is MERCILESS.

Suggestive comments, the brush of his fingers against your thigh, it’ll leave you A C H I N G in frustration by the end of it.

Unholy activities aside, once your baking session is completed you finish it off by feeding PHAT forkfuls of brownie to each other and giggling like dorks when it gets all over your mouth.

The jackass actually got a fingerful and SMEARED it over your cheek and forehead, drawing a little cross and snickering when the crumbs fall onto your nose.

Tendou was smart to draw a cross bc he gonna need jesus with the ATTACK you launch on him after that, which promptly leads to an all out food war in your kitchen that neither of you want to clean up after ward.

Don’t worry though it’s Tendou, he’ll somehow find a way to make such a mundane activity fun.

Nishinoya:

stirs WAY TOO VIOLENTLY

IT’S LIKE AN ELECTRIC WHISK ON OVERDRIVE.

IT WILL SPLATTER OVER THE COUNTER, CUPBOARDS AND EVERYTHING YOU HOLD DEAR WITHIN A 1 MILE RADIUS.

You best believe he will try and eat some of the batter and you have to swat the spoon away from his mouth since he has NO REGARD FOR THE FACT HE COULD GET SALMONELLA.

Plus you know what Noya’s like once he starts eating something the whole thing will be gone in a matter of milliseconds.

He somehow managed to get Baking powder EVERYWHERE and even gave him self a little moustache with it.

The white substance kinda looked like something else but you didn’t really wanna say lmaooo.

could explain why he has so much energy all the time oK ILL STOP-

While you’re putting the mix on the tray he is SO extra and will do fancy lil swirls and over extend his arm like a swan to gracefully spread the batter

until he nearly fucking knocks it over.

During processing time since he is so excitable and impatient you best believe he’s gonna suggest a game of ping pong or something because my guy can well and truly never sit still.

ping pong match with the spatulas, kitchen island and a hard boiled egg.

Pls be careful he will rolling thunder that egg and pimp slap it so hard with the spatula it’ll damn near give you a concussion, not intentionally, but like protect your noggin. Wear a helmet.

For the remaining 5 minutes of baking time y’all just sit like kids in front of the oven and watching it rise like starved hyena’s observing it’s pray before demolishing it into sad particles of cocoa.

And lemme tell u, once the timer pings, that baking tray is free real estate for Noya. Half of your creation will be devoured before you can even put it on a plate and marvel at your handiwork.

He kicked your ass at spatula ping pong btw I’m sorry sweaty but short kings stay winning.

Oikawa:

Such a dramatic bitch like he got the whole she-bang going on.

Strapped with a pink apron, a whisk at his side and standing proudly with both hands on his hips.He is prepared like a greek gladiator going into battle.

You better believe he gonna make some snarky remarks and tease your method of doing things.

“Ah-ah-ahhh (Y/N)-chan you’re doing it all wrong, let me show you how a PRO does it.”

Proceeds to drop entire bowl on his foot and yelp like a little girl in pain.

Well and truly embarrassed with himself, you put a band-aid on his toe and he piped down after that.

Shattered big toe and mixing bowl aside, actually a really good baker??

He is a PRO at decorating, y’all decided on cupcakes since its literally his forte to make them look aesthetic and pretty.

You almost don’t wanna eat them from how good they look.

jk almost

You take it in turns breaking bits off and placing pieces into each others mouth with a loud “aaaaaahhh!”

Places a piece in your mouth, leans forward and locks lips with you in a soft, passionate kiss before pulling away and uttering the words “It tastes even better coming from your mouth ;)”

hnnnNNGGGGGGggGg.

You both whine and bicker over who cleans up after.

“You cleaaannnnn!”

“no Toru YOU clean!”

“but I made the cupcakes look pretty :(”

“not as pretty as you <3″

He did the cleaning after that.

Like just stroke his ego with some compliments and he’s whipped with a smug grin on his face for the next 30 minutes.

You decide to save the rest and bring them to his next practise.

Literally on the verge of tears when he sees you beaming and holding the platter of treats, Kiyotani mauls half of them in a matter of seconds to which Oiks gets salty over LMAO.

Hinata:

So excited oh my god he’s so precious please protect him I will CRY-

Has a little sunflower apron on and JBJKNDDDKDW IM SMILING JUST IMAGINING HIM FIDGETING IN EXCITEMENT OVER THE THOUGHT OF BAKING COOKIES.

Yes you decided on cookies bc he goes rabid for some choc chip biccies.

You have to guide him v carefully because of how easily confused and clumsy he is.

Cannot for the life of him crack the eggs without getting a quarter of the shell in the bowl so you have to do it instead.

Has a surprising amount of strength and forearm power bc holy shit boy can stir FAST.

Hums a little tune while he does it and bobs up and down with a wide grin on his face it’s so adorable, he has such a gentle singing voice I can’t-

Attempts different shapes with the batter when pouring it onto the tray but fails pretty miserably lol.

he tried ok???

Once they’re done he takes the tray out of the oven and since it was heavy, subconsciously propped it with his knee and nearly dropped the entire tray from the pain. (I’ve actually done this before when making chicken nuggets I do not advise being that brain dead)

Had to put some burn cream on the bbies knee :’((

When you decided to dig in, he handed you a cookie that looked like a crooked circle and said he tried to make that one a heart and insisted he feed it to you.

Blushed VERY hard at the moment of silence and intense eye contact while he fed it to you.

Nearly short circuited when his fingers brushed against your lips.

Moe moe x100000000000000000000000000000

You offer to do the cleaning after because he hurt himself and you didn’t wanna make him do any work, but he still offered to wipe the surfaces for you bc he’s an angel <333

literally just wanna marry him.

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muertawrites · 4 years

Text

The Lovers of Ba Sing Se - Part 1 (Zuko x Reader) [Modern Au]

Summary: Zuko isn’t used to being around people who aren’t afraid to share their every emotion. Meeting you during his time in Ba Sing Se changes that, and changes him for the better.

Word Count: 4,000

Author’s Note: Lmao the only person I’m writing this for is myself. Sorry not sorry. I usually try really hard to keep specifics to a minimum in my self-insert works, but this time I didn’t; I wrote about myself because, honestly, this fic is my love letter to me. I relate to Zuko so much and a huge part of the reason I love him is because he reminds me of myself - this fic is about me learning to love myself again after the people I loved and trusted most betrayed me, and saying a gigantic “fuck you” everyone who ever did anything to destroy my self worth. Part 2 is when I finally live out my fantasy of curb stomping Mai - tomorrow, same bat-time, same bat-channel.

Also, shameless plug, but I’m about 100 followers away from 1k, and I have some really fun stuff planned for when we get there so if you like this fic or any of my others, please follow! I love doing this and my goal is to devote as much effort as possible to it as I can, and I truly wouldn’t be able to do it without your support. Thank you so much for all of it. I’m so excited for the future of this blog and everyone who makes it possible ♥

~ Muerta

Of all the things Zuko thought might kill him, falling dishware was the last thing he would have ever considered a possibility.

He was sitting in the alley behind the Jasmine Dragon, making the most of his smoke break, when a ceramic cooking pot rained onto the pavement in front of him, shattering into trillions of pieces. Startled, he jumped back, dropping his cigarette as he craned his neck upwards; he spotted a head of brightly dyed hair staring down at him from the third floor balcony above.

“Oh shit,” you cried.

Within a minute, you burst through the back door of the neighboring building, panting and looking just as terrified as the young man you'd almost killed. Zuko stared at you, mouth slightly agape.

“Oh my god I'm so sorry,” you gushed. “Are you okay?? I didn't see you standing there, oh my god, oh my fucking god please tell me you're okay.”

Zuko was taken aback, unable to do anything for a moment but gaze at you in confusion, almost wonder. People in the Fire Nation were never this publicly expressive, even when barely avoiding manslaughter - he didn't quite know what to do with you, other than mutter that he was alright.

“I'm so, so sorry,” you blurted again. “You're sure you're okay? You don't have any glass on you or anything? Or need to be treated for shock?”

“No, I'm fine,” Zuko flatly replied. He nodded towards the trash bins across the alley. “You do know your building has those, though. You don't need to throw your old stuff off your balcony.”

You blushed, smiling sheepishly.

“It wasn't old,” you confessed. “It was a birthday gift from my best friend. Well… ex-best friend.”

Zuko huffed, pulling another cigarette from the pocket of his jeans and lighting it, looking down at his hands.

“Never had a breakup, huh?” he guessed.

“Oh, I've had plenty,” you told him. “They just don't get any easier.”

Zuko looked up at you, taking a long drag from his smoke. Your eyes were cast into the middle of the alley, settled on the shards of what once had been a reasonably nice piece of cookware. The shock and terror had faded from your expression, falling into one that was pained, anger and despair shadowing your features; you may as well have roundhouse kicked him in the chest, the look on your face mirroring the ache between his ribs. You hadn't revealed anything to him, but he knew instantly that your pain was the same as his.

He slid another cigarette from the box, offering it to you. You shook your head, lowering yourself onto the back stoop of the Jasmine Dragon; he found himself doing the same without thinking.

“I'm sorry about your pot,” he said, clumsily attempting to lighten the atmosphere. “It looked nice.”

You smiled faintly, pulling your knees to your chest and letting your chin rest atop them.

“I don't cook much, so it wasn't a huge loss,” you replied. “It was kind of cathartic, actually. I feel better.”

Zuko chuckled, tapping a bit of ash onto the ground between his feet.

“Good. Maybe feeling better will keep you from accidentally killing someone.”

You laughed, covering your face in embarrassment.

“Have I mentioned I'm sorry about that?” you winced.

“Hey, no sweat,” Zuko assured you. “It's not the first time. I've had people try to kill me on purpose before.”

He stood, stubbing out his half-smoked cigarette and pocketing it. He offered a hand to help you up, which you took, finding comfort in the strength of his palm as it wrapped around your forearm.

“I've gotta get back to work,” he told you. “You don't have any other gifts from your ex-best friend laying around, do you?”

You giggled, shaking your head.

“No,” you promised, “just that one. Thank you. For not threatening to press charges.”

Zuko laughed, realizing he was doing so for the first time in what had probably been years. The light feeling in his chest got even lighter when he noticed he was still holding your arm.

“Will I see you around?” he asked, the words escaping before they were even fully formed in his head.

You nodded, finally letting go of his hand.

“Yeah,” you said. “I'll see you around …?”

“Lee,” he told you. “I'm Lee.”

You smiled.

“Cool. I'll see you around, Lee.”

You saw Lee again a few days later, but not in a way you really wanted to. You were at work, standing outside the bar on the district high street with a coworker, attempting to attract some business during the weeknight lull; Lee spotted you while on his way to the nearby market, seeing you from a block or two away but doing his best to approach you as if he was bumping into you completely by accident.

Of course, this would be perfectly normal and not at all a weird way to run into a new acquaintance, if only the bar you worked in wasn’t catered towards men with a lolita fetish. You were dressed head to toe in pink and white, corseted in a risque bustier and frocked with a poofy, frilly mini skirt that was purposely too short, revealing the bum of your equally as ruffled panties; when you turned around and came face to face with the cute guy from the tea shop next door, you hoped someone would throw a cooking pot on top of you, death seeming like a much better option than attempting to explain yourself to someone who’d already had the privilege of meeting you during an emotional breakdown.

Lee blushed as pink as your costume, smiling coyly.

“We did say we’d see each other around,” he greeted you.

You grinned, relaxing a little.

“You’re not here to have a drink, are you?” you teased him. He laughed, his face turning redder as he reached up to rub the back of his neck.

“No,” he assured you, “I’m actually on my way to get some groceries. Figured I’d say hey.”

“Oh!” you exclaimed, “My break is in about fifteen minutes! If you don’t mind waiting I could go with you? I’ll buy you dinner to make up for almost killing you the other day.”

Lee chuckled, nodding.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind that,” he agreed. “... I don’t have to wait inside though, do I?”

“I mean, my boss would like it,” you told him, “but it’s so dead in there I don’t think she’d let you leave if you did.”

“Noted,” Lee replied. “I’ll wait in the coffee shop across the street, then.”

Not long after, you tossed a hoodie and a pair of jeans over your bustier and undies, meeting him outside the cafe he was stationed at and making your way to the market. You bustled alongside each other in a fray of other people, rubbing shoulders or hips as you were jostled along with the current.

“So,” Lee blurted, attempting to break the silence between you (although it wasn’t nearly as awkward as it probably should have been), “how’d you end up working in a fetish bar?”

Your simpered, cheeks going ever so slightly rosy.

“How do you think?” you jabbed sarcastically. “I needed money and they pay really well. It’s nice knowing I’ll be able to afford rent every month. What about you? How’d you end up at the tea shop?”

“My uncle owns it,” Lee explained. “We’re the only family we have left, so… we stick together.”

You nodded, understanding and not pushing the question any further.

“It’s not so bad,” he went on. “At least I don’t have to wear pigtails to work.”

You huffed with laughter, leaning over so that your shoulder purposely, playfully shoved his.

“Honestly, my job isn’t awful,” you admitted. “My coworkers are cool, and my boss is really kind. It’s also pretty fun getting to dress up in costume every day; it's like Halloween, except I get to do it whenever I want to.”

Suddenly, you paused, gasping.

“Look!”

You grabbed hold of his arm, startling him a bit but too excited to care. You pointed towards a nearby stand, in which an elderly man was frying pieces of dough. He twisted each in an elaborate knot, every order getting a different design. They were like miniature sculptures, too ornate to even think about eating, but the smell of rich spices and molten sugar was too tempting to ignore.

“I love this stand!” you cried. “He isn't always here, but I get something every time he is. Come on, I'll get us some to split!”

With your hand still curled around his elbow, you dragged Lee through the market throng. As he watched you order, making friendly conversation with the old man, he found himself feeling perplexed; he'd never met someone so comfortable with their emotions, so willing to let every part of them be seen. He wondered how you got so fearless, or if you even had to put effort into being so candid.

He found himself thinking about Mai, how cold and empty she was. He was reminded of the chill he felt around her, the bitter sting she often left in his chest, even during tender moments. Being around you was different; even having just met you, you made him feel invigorated but at ease, the tension in his muscles loosening naturally just from the energy of your presence. It was strange, but refreshing - he found himself grinning along with you as you left the stand, finding a place to sit and enjoy your pastry.

“I got us one with curry, and one with cream filling,” you told him, ripping each serving in half to share. “This guy is an artist, I swear. You're not going to be the same person after this.”

You looked up as you took a bite of the savory half of your meal, halting when you noticed the strange look Lee was giving you.

“What?” you asked him.

He shrugged, fixing his eyes on the pastry in his hand.

“You're just different,” he answered. “Where I'm from, people aren't open like you are. You're really… yourself. It's nice.”

You smiled, unable to help but blush. Bubbles fizzed in your chest, making you feel lightheaded and giddy.

“I think it's because so many people told me not to be when I was a kid,” you mused. “They tried to make me hide the parts of myself I really liked, so I made them show even more, just to show them that they couldn't change me. That I was stronger than their cruelty.”

Zuko felt as if he'd been hit by lightning. He didn't know what it was, but something about you terrified him - it was the same thing that made him want to latch onto you and not let go. Despite having met you just days ago, he already felt as if he'd known you a lifetime - unbeknownst to him, you felt exactly the same way.

“Do you want to hang out tomorrow night?” he asked, stuttering the words.

“Yeah,” you replied, so excited you felt like shrieking so the whole market could hear. “I have the day off tomorrow. Think your uncle would let you swing that?”

“Yeah,” Lee assured you. “I think he would.”

You finished your meal together, sharing your favorite things about the neighborhood you lived in and simply enjoying each other’s company, as comfortable as if you were old friends. Instead of parting with you, Lee walked you back to the bar at the end of your break, stating that it was no trouble going back to the market to get the groceries he skipped to spend time with you.

When he left, you hugged him, and for the first time in a long time, you felt as if you'd truly made a friend.

On your date the next day, Lee took you to the local art museum - he remembered you expressing an interest in art history, and per his uncle’s suggestion, decided it would be the perfect place to take you. He loved seeing the awe on your face when met with a piece that captivated you, was drawn in by the impassioned way you spoke about cultures and myths from ages so long passed they felt as if they came from different worlds entirely. You spent the whole day together, ending the evening crashed on your couch with a pizza and a marathon of true crime documentaries.

From that day onward, you and Lee were connected at the hip. You spent every available moment you had either in the alley behind your building with him or having a cup of tea at the Jasmine Dragon, often staying long after closing with him and his uncle, Mushi, and feeling as if you'd finally found a family in your adopted city.

You learned that Lee was a skilled martial artist, asking him to teach you a little of what he knew and amazed at just how good he really was. He moved more like a dancer than a fighter, his comfort and ability with his body and a weapon captivating you. You learned that he also had an affinity for theater and had grown up completely cut off from modern music and pop culture, spending many of your nights together at local play houses and bars, introducing him to your favorite bands and shows. He learned that you were fascinated by literature and history - anything that had significant, profound meaning and beauty - and often found himself wandering museums and historic neighborhoods with you, loving nothing more than to listen to you talk about what inspired you. You also made him laugh, your sense of humor at times dark, but set into a personality that saw the world with childlike wonder, able to find immense beauty and value in things that seemed frivolous to the naked eye. You were kind, unwavering - everything his family and past lover weren't.

Zuko loved being around you because of how free you made him feel. The unbridled way you expressed your emotions encouraged him to face his own, following your lead in being unafraid of just how intensely the heart within his chest was prone to beat. You loved being with him because he made you feel safe, never judging you for anything and understanding the trauma of your past in a way nobody else had done before. You opened up to him about how the ones you loved did you the most harm, never giving themselves as fully to you as you did them, treating you as a means to take out their own pain and insecurities and convincing you that that was just the way love worked. Eventually, he confided in you the truth about his identity, confessing the horrors he fled in coming to Ba Sing Se. You never once blamed him for anything he'd done, knowing exactly what it felt like to have to read between the lines and give everything for those who gave you little in return. You fit together easily, never having to guess what the other was thinking; for once you both felt content, secure in the safety of your heart within the other’s hands.

One of your favorite places to go with Zuko was a cat cafe a few blocks over from where you worked, spending many a slow weekday off shift with fresh lattes, croissants, and cuddles from friendly, adoptable kitties. At first, Zuko was unsure, having never spent much time with cats, but after one visit he was enamored, gushing to you every single time you went how badly he wanted a cat and spouting multiple reasons why you should adopt one together. On a free Wednesday afternoon he showed up at your apartment unannounced (as he had made a habit of doing) and suggested you go together, an invitation you were more than happy to accept.

As you left the cafe, a couple walking on the other side of the street caught your eye - the man who stood nearest to you was horrifyingly familiar. You recognized him immediately, the shock of his sudden appearance shattering and hollowing out your insides.

It was your ex boyfriend, the man who broke your heart so far beyond repair, walking hand in hand with someone else.

“Zuko,” you mumbled, not even noticing that you used his real name in public, “I want to go home.”

Zuko furrowed his brow, taking you by the shoulders and gently turning you to face him, concerned with the sudden shift in your tone.

“What's wrong?” he asked softly.

All you could do was shake your head. He wrapped his arm around your shoulder, leading you to the nearby subway station and back to your apartment.

Once safe inside the confines of your home, you changed into a baggy sweater and the softest sweatpants you owned, curling up under the kotatsu in your living room with Zuko, arms wrapped tight around his waist as you drifted in the tide of blood that poured from your newly reopened wounds. He didn't have to ask what you'd seen - he could tell from the vacant, glassy look in your eyes exactly which ghost haunted you.

“I can't believe he'd be with someone else,” you whimpered. “After everything he did to me… always giving me mixed signals and never telling me exactly how he felt… how could he be able to do it with another person? What was so wrong about me that he hid all of it from me, when all I needed was to hear it?”

You sniffed as Zuko pressed a thumb to your cheek, wiping away a tear that had fallen. He hugged you tightly, pressing you close as if to remind you that he was there - he was your present, and there was nothing your past could do to harm you.

“There's nothing wrong with you,” he promised. “He's taken enough from you. Don't give him any more.”

For a long while, you sat together in silence, cradled in Zuko’s arms while he rocked you slowly back and forth, the tenderness of his touch sucking the poison from your veins. After what felt like ages, he finally spoke, giving you the piece of his past he'd been too heartbroken to offer until that moment.

“My girlfriend, Mai,” he told you, “she was like him. Everything she felt, she forced herself not to. We were together for a long time, but… I never really felt like she actually cared for me. If she did, she never let me see it. I gave her everything for nothing.”

“Why did you stay with her?” you wondered, voice meek and quivering with tears.

Zuko sighed, letting his chin fall so he could bury his face in your hair.

“Because she was the first person who ever accepted what I offered her,” he explained. “I was so used to everything I did being unwanted, it was just nice to not be pushed away for once. But she didn't love me like I needed it. I wish I was strong enough to see that and walk away, like you did.”

You propped yourself upright, leveling yourself so you could look him in the eye. You rested your hands at either side of his neck, your thumbs grazing delicately over his hot skin as you hooked your legs around his hips, your body nestled in the gap between his crossed legs.

“Zuko,” you breathed, “I love you. Those aren't even the right words to tell you how I feel about you, but it's the closest I have. You're so passionate and kind, and you love so fiercely… I truly don't know how to tell you how beautiful I think you are, or how much you mean to me. You deserve so much more than how the people you loved have treated you.”

Zuko curled his arms around your back, pressing his chest to yours and burying his face in the crook of your neck, embracing you as closely as he'd ever done. Tears soaked the collar of your sweater, and in return you cried into the exposed skin revealed by his t-shirt as you tugged on the fabric, gripping him as if letting go meant losing him forever.

“I love you, too,” Zuko murmured. “You make me feel strong enough to show it.”

When Zuko left Ba Sing Se, it crushed you. You were furious, at first unable to understand why he'd throw everything away to return to the place and the people that destroyed so much of him. Most of all, you missed him like mad - you missed how easy it was being with him, how you understood each other as if you were another part of yourselves. You missed his laughter and his warmth, the side of your mattress he often slept in feeling colder than ever without him there.

You were relieved when Mushi - who you now knew to be the infamously disgraced General Iroh - returned, showing up at your door out of the blue with tea and baked goods from the shop. You hugged him tightly, crying like a child as he settled you at your table and told you about his escape from prison, as well as his conversations with Zuko the few times he'd visited him. Your heart ached, but it finally felt clear just how lost and confused he was; you were still angry, but you knew you could forgive him.

“His heart is lost,” Iroh explained, “but because of you, he knows how to listen to it.”

For the next month and a half, you took Zuko’s place at the Jasmine Dragon, spending your days off helping Iroh wherever he needed you. He became as much a part of you as his nephew did, and started to consider you as much a daughter as he did Zuko a son. Iroh’s presence soothed the burns left on your soul not only by those you loved, but by your own ferocity towards them.

Everything changed again the morning you woke to and find that Zuko had left the Fire Nation a third time, his face plastered across the news as a missing person with a bounty on his head. You knew based on everything Iroh told you what he planned to do, and immediately set to packing your bags. Travel into and out of the Fire Nation was difficult, but a few of your coworkers had connections to smugglers in the seedier parts of the district - they’d be able to get you onto a ship or a plane that could get you where you needed to go.

Before you left, you went to the Jasmine Dragon and told Iroh of your plans, asking him to keep watch over your apartment so that you could return if need be. You expected him to try and stop you - instead he pulled you into a strong, affectionate hug, telling you to be careful and call him whenever you were able.

“Go to him,” he hummed into your ear. “He needs you.”

Later that night, you met a group of other refugees at the docks, piling into the hull of a cargo ship bound for the Fire Nation’s imperial city. For the entirety of the journey, you wore one of Zuko’s necklace’s around your neck - one of the few things he’d kept from his life before his banishment and subsequent disappearance - keeping it tucked under your shirt and pressed to your chest for good luck.

[ Part 2 ]

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ramblinganthropologist · 3 years

Text

N7 Challenge 26 - Purple

Summary: Well... someone was going to catch him eventually. But did it have to be Garrus?

---

Man... he was getting way too good at this whole undercover cross-dressing thing.

Alistair carefully – dare he say it, daintily – stepped over the unconscious man he had just knocked out. His armor said he was Blood Pack, his head said he probably had a concussion. That tended to happen when a biotic whipped something at you, but hey. What did he know?

The other person left was also human, and looking at him as though he was a living nightmare. That was fine by him. It made interrogation easier. So with a spring in his step, he directed himself over to where they were staying.

Naturally, they tried to shoot him but that's what biotics were for.

“That was a little rude. All I wanted to know was where your hideout is.”

They spat blood before they spoke. “Fuck off, I saw what you did to Ban over there. I ain't telling you-”

And then they stopped talking, eyes wide. Alistair cocked an eyebrow, but then he heard the footsteps. They were taloned. His blood ran cold as he prepared his barrier, but no shot came. Instead, he hear the aiming of a gun.

The red dot appeared on the other man's forehead.

“Now, is that a nice way to treat someone? All we want is some information.”

A smooth, translated voice sent a shiver down Alistair's spine for all the wrong reasons as sweat began to trickle down his neck. He immediately began to curse his luck as he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. He was supposed to be working as though they worked together.

Instead of the reality that Garrus had shown up on his own.

The conscious Blood Pack merc was sweating now as he backed up further against the wall, eyes wide as dinner plates. “Shit, it's Archangel! I thought you died!”

Oh, so he had been on Omega. Must have been one of the lucky ones who wasn't put in the charge against the bridge or the chaos that followed.

“I'm tough like that. “Garrus approached, still aiming. At least he didn't say anything to his partner as he did. “So... information?”

There was a brief tremble, and then... “We're in an abandoned warehouse two blocks from here. You're gonna get killed if you try to start shit, we're-”

And then he was out cold thanks to a fist to the head. Garrus pulled back, looking less than amused. Then he holstered his gun and started tapping into his omni-tool. No doubt he was putting in the same call Alistair was – come pick these assholes up.

Would've been a normal mission except he was wearing a dress and petticoat.

“We should head over t-” Garrus finally gave him the once-over. Had he had eyebrows, they would've been in the stratosphere. “Uh... maybe we should do that after you get changed into something more appropriate for a fire fight.”

No shit.

Alistair felt his cheeks color as he started walking. “I was undercover.”

“I figured from the fact you're wearing something that looks like it came from the 19th century.”

His face got even redder, but the Spectre kept walking. This time, he had thought ahead and found a place to change without going back to the Normandy. It saved him time, and he didn't have to worry about messing up the dress by going in to a fight. After all, he eventually needed to return the thing... eventually.

He still hadn't gotten around to that.

“It's called lolita, and it's more the 20th and 21st.”

Garrus didn't exactly look convinced as they walked. “Right. And you're wearing it because...”

Alistair kept his head high. “It's an effective disguise. Nobody is going to believe somebody dressed like this is going to have a gun in their bag. Besides, it makes it easier to get information out of these guys when they think they're going to get me into bed.”

Which they weren't. He was gay, yes, but he had fucking standards thank you very much.

“Wouldn't think many guys would really be into this look, but I guess I don't really understand humans.”

The turian clearly wasn't a fan. It shouldn't have bothered Alistair – he wasn't exactly a fan either, after all most of the time he did this under someone else's needs – but something about it still rubbed him the wrong way as they walked through the quiet streets.

Like... people liked this style. They were helping him get info, he practically had to defend them for their valuable aid.

“It has its followers. Truth be told, I'll be happy when I can get back into my regular clothes.”

Garrus nodded as they approached the building Alistair had rented a room in for changing. Unsurprisingly, the clerk gave no fucks as a human and turian combo made their way through. Then it was up the stairs, second door on the right.

The turian took the bed as he started to get changed. “I'm not even sure how you can walk in those shoes.”

“They're a lot better than heels, actually.” When the turian gave him a look, he rolled his eyes and added, “It's a long story, it involves high school and before I came out.”

Garrus at least had the sense to look embarrassed at his assumption. “I didn't... ok, fair. Sometimes I forget you didn't just pop out of the ground as Commander Shepard.”

Him and the Alliance both. It was a blessing some days.

Anyway, he had clothing to change out of. Soon both the shoes, socks, and his wig were off. Then it was the process of getting out of the dress and petticoat, both which proved daunting. He grumbled as he tried to reach for a button behind his back... it wasn't working.

Fuck.

“You alright there, Shepard?”

Alistair sighed as he shook his head. “I can't reach the damn button. Bo was the one who fixed it before I went out.”

Much to his surprise, the turian stood. Soon his talons were carefully picking the button apart and releasing him from his fabric prison. He was finally able to get out of the rest of his disguise which... left him in his underwear.

In front of a very hot turian.

He uh... didn't think this one through.

“Huh. So you really do have N7 tattooed there.”

The Spectre did his best to keep his tone even as he hid said tattoo with the waistband of his pants. “It was Bo's idea.”

“I have no doubt about that.” Garrus went back to sitting on the bed, looking for the most part awkward as fuck when Alistair glanced him in the mirror. That was probably due to the fact he was suited up and packed for a firefight. In a small room like that,it stuck out. “Anyway... what's with the dress anyway? Doesn't seem like something you'd buy on your own. Did Shepard get it for you?”

No... if Bo had bought it, it probably would've been pink. Pink wasn't really his color, what with him being a ginger and all. Well, some people could pull it off – he couldn't. He did better in darker cool tones.

Not that he had been dress shopping. Not exactly much time or interest there.

“No, it was a friend of hers. I originally got it to help them out. They were being harassed.” He pulled his shirt down, and then slid into his boots. After that, it was time to get back into his armor. This he started into with a practiced hand, almost on muscle memory.

He could probably do it with his eyes closed.

“And you kept it because...”

Alistair shrugged as he belted on his gauntlets. “She needed my help busting a red sand ring on the Citadel.”

Garrus sounded impressed the next time he spoke. “That was you? I heard about it from someone in C-SEC, but they hadn't mentioned their contact was someone in a frilly green dress.”

Guess they left that part out. Seemed like a C-SEC thing to do.

The Spectre finished putting his armor on after a few more seconds of work. Then he reached into his borrowed purse to retrieve his gun. The look on the turian's face was priceless as he holstered it at his side again.

It got even better when he grabbed the rest of his gear.

“You know, now I understand why women carry purses.”

That made Alistair chuckle as he switched out the band on his omni-tool to his heavy duty one that added a little extra wrist protection. “Honestly, same. I'm almost going to miss it, but at least I have my cargo pants.”

“But they hide your...”

Garrus had mostly been muttering under his breath at that point. Still, he had been close enough that it had been easy to pick up. Alistair was left pretty much mute, staring at the turian with wide eyes as he tried to figure out what he meant.

If he hadn't known better... well... no, he definitely knew better. He must have been tired or something.

“Huh?”

The turian's mandibles twitched as he got up from the bed. “Nothing. Anyway, if you're going to keep doing this maybe you should return this dress and get your own.”

Now that made the Spectre laugh as they left the room behind. “Got any suggestions for me, Mr. Fashion Master? I'll let Bo know next time we're out and I just have to get a new coord.”

Shit, he was picking up the lingo. It was getting serious now.

Garrus didn't answer him immediately. Instead, it was pretty quiet as they exited back onto the street to follow up on their information. Alistair was starting to feel the familiar buzz under his skin as his biotics built up. He had been needing a release.

“I don't know, purple maybe?”

The turian's tone sounded not too sure. Regardless, it still stopped the Spectre in his tracks. He almost broke his neck whipping it around to get an eyeful of his mission partner. No doubt if Garrus could have blushed, he would have been doing it. His body language was embarrassment x 100.

“Huh?”

“Purple... might work. Or dark blue. Green wasn't really your color. And maybe not so... much.” He made a vague hand gesture. “You know?”

He was not having this conversation.

“Yeah, I guess OTT isn't my thing...” he shook his head. “Can we just go do the thing we're good at? This is a conversation neither of us probably want to have.”

Given how much Garrus relaxed at his words, it was the right decision. At least now both could relax as they headed into a potential brawl with a bunch of mercs that had no idea what was about to come after them. Talk about stress relief.

But damn if he wasn't going to be kicking himself about this later. Maybe knocking a few heads around would help.

#n7month #ramblinganthropologist's writing #Alistair Shepard #Garrus Vakarian

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jawnjendes · 5 years

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i’m not usually like this | shawn mendes

university au, shawn x goth gf

if theres anything you wanna see happen in this series, let me know!

masterlist | series playlist

It all started because he asked a simple question. “Do you ever wear anything that isn't black?”

I've heard this question many times in my life, from family members, to coworkers, to strangers in my classes. The context in which Shawn asked me, however, was different than normal; He was pulling off my sweatpants and noticed my dark underwear. I told him to shut up and proceeded to ride him into oblivion.

When I wasn't surrounding myself with a brick wall to keep me safe, when I was not being stone cold and expressionless, I was quite the sex fiend. I'll take it anytime, and just about anywhere. I mean, you already know the story of those three hours Shawn and I spent in my bedroom, knowing that my roommate was home. That's not even the worst of it. We've had sex in his car, my car, outside my car, my living room, his kitchen, a bar bathroom, and a stranger's dorm room.

Listen… Shawn Mendes is a man of many talents. If he wasn't my boyfriend, he would be a fuck buddy.

Anyway, he liked to tease me about my wardrobe choices just as much as he liked to praise me. Sometimes he would ask who I’m about to sacrifice to the dark lord, and other times he would thirst over my black skirt and tights. Even better, sometimes he put on his black floral shirt as an attempt to match my ensemble. But this story is about his teasing.

After going at it for an hour at his apartment (my thighs were incredibly fatigued and shaky), I had to get ready for work. It was easy to get out of Shawn's hold since he was so loose and sleepy. As soon as I was ready, I kissed him goodbye and left his apartment in spirits so high it was considered abnormal for me. How did I know it was abnormal? My manager kept pointing out how chipper I was as I answered phones and helped customers. When people notice, that’s when you know things are changing.

It wasn't until I stopped by Walmart after my shift did Shawn's words sink in. I do wear black all the goddamn time. My closet is 99% black t-shirts, button ups, pants, leggings, and even underwear! The 1% is when I'm slacking on doing my laundry, that's when I would wear white.

That's not to say I don't like other colors. I used to experiment with bleaching my hair and dying it blue or green. I was a sucker for neon eyeshadow, and I was an absolute slut for red lipstick. Things are fluid, nothing is ever set in stone.

I looked through some of the clothing racks, but it’s Walmart, so nothing really stood out to me. Then I found myself in the underwear department. I was trying not to laugh at myself in front of other shoppers, because this was mildly insane. Was I really considering buying Walmart lingerie to prove a point to my boyfriend? There were some decent options after all.

My eye caught a black, sheer nightgown with a matching g-string. I studied it for a minute before deciding that I had a lot of black lace already, and half of it wasn't even intimate apparel. The next set I noticed was a simple sheer bra and underwear, also black. Getting there, but it wasn't enough. There weren't any in my size, anyway. I dug through the racks until I spotted something girly.

The first thing that put me off was that it was pink… baby pink. It was another nightie, but it was made of sheer tulle instead of lace. There were little pink and red hearts all over the skimpy fabric, and it came with a lace thong. It was cute, but it was the least Me thing here. On any other day, I would not be caught dead wearing anything pastel.

That's exactly why I ended up taking it home.

I quickly raced back to my dorm, feeling like I had some dangerous weapon hiding in the bag I was carrying. I didn't stop to speak to anyone I knew, and I was very glad that Shawn wasn't currently on campus. However, he did text me asking me to spend the weekend at his place. It only added to the butterflies in my stomach.

“Stella!” I frantically called once I had shut myself in my room.

She came practically running, bursting through the door. “What happened? Who died? Oh - oh my god.”

I was facing the full body mirror that was leaning against the wall. I tried on the daring piece of lingerie, testing it out on whoever was willing to see me like this. Stella was the only person who had seen me in my underwear apart from my boyfriend. However, I still had the decency to cover my breasts with my hands because the nightgown showed a bit too much.

“You trying to seduce me, ‘cause it's working,” Stella teased, wiggling her perfectly sculpted eyebrows.

“Listen!” I turned to face her, trying to justify my outfit choice. “This was probably a stupid idea! It, it was an impulsive buy!”

“Dude, if he sees you in this, you're gonna end up pregnant.”

“Don't say that!” I looked down and twirled my body from side to side, watching the fabric swirl. I felt and looked a little too nervous.

“Seriously, you look hot. Just, y'know, maybe skip the heavy eyeliner and add more perfume. He'll link the scent to the time he had the best sex of his life.”

I chuckled and rolled my eyes. “I'll do the perfume thing, but I can't skip eyeliner. I need something to make up for all the pink I'm wearing.”

Stella nodded. “Yeah, that's another thing. I know this is something you wear when you wanna get dicked down, but you look so soft and adorable!”

“Shit, if you keep saying things like that I just might spend the night with you instead.”

It was night by the time I was at Shawn's apartment. He was in the middle of songwriting, and he wasn't alone. His friend, Teddy, was over. I guess she helped him write sometimes. The two of them were singing to themselves and throwing potential lyrics back and forth at each other. Teddy was frequently writing on a scrap of paper or typing on her laptop. Shawn was strumming his guitar, and sometimes he would glance at me and wink.

I sat silently on the couch and half listened to them brainstorm. I was glad I decided not to leave my Switch at home.

“You're so quiet, is something wrong?” Teddy pointed out. I don't know why I wasn't expecting it.

“Don't wanna bother the artists at work,” I said, keeping my eyes on my intense game of Smash Bros.

“She's like that,” Shawn told his friend. “She'll warm up eventually.”

“That makes me sound like an asshole,” I replied with a chuckle, and then I gasped as my character on screen got knocked out.

Still, I remained quiet as they continued their session. I stayed in the same spot on the couch, curled up and thoroughly entertained. Shawn insisted I sit closer though, considering that I was on the opposite end of the couch from him. He liked my company I suppose, even if I wasn't speaking.

Eventually, Teddy got her things together and left. She gave me a hug, said it was nice to meet me, and then gave Shawn a look that said “have fun you two.”

When we were finally alone, I went into Shawn's room, telling him I wanted to change into my pajamas. It was sort of true, I mean. I grabbed my overnight bag and dashed into the en suite bathroom. Normally, I would have started with taking off whatever makeup I had on, but I only had on some intimidating winged liner and mascara. I needed that tonight.

Fixing up my hair and spritzing on a ridiculous amount of perfume helped keep my nerves at bay. My stomach fluttered when I pulled out the frilly pink item of clothing. This just might be my demise.

Once I was dressed, I looked at my reflection in the mirror and placed my hands on my hips. A wise lady in a hospital drama said standing like a superhero helps increase confidence, so that's what I did. I tried to channel my inner dominatrix, despite the fact that I was probably very far from being just that.

“I'm a strong lady,” I whispered to myself, then I huffed out a breath.

I ruffled my hair one last time before going to the door. I had my hand on the knob, but I could hear the sounds outside this very room. I could hear Shawn's footsteps, I heard the bed creak as he sat down. I heard the sounds of his guitar.

My heart started to race. It was ready to beat out of my chest.

I don't know why the first thing I thought to do when I finally opened the door was to unattractively clear my throat. It's not like Shawn wouldn't notice if I quietly left the bathroom.

He looked up from his guitar, and it took a second for him to process what he was looking at. His eyes lit up, and his jaw went slack.

Awkwardly, I placed one hand on the doorway and the other on my hip. I didn't know what to do with my face, so I slapped on the mock composure. I looked at my boyfriend, unsure if I should say something or not.

“No way,” Shawn finally spoke, a grin forming on his face. He set down his guitar and moved so he was sitting at the foot of the bed. “Come here…”

His eyes were moving up and down my body as I timidly stepped towards him. The look on his face was full of surprise and wonder, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. I mean, I was in skimpy attire and none of it was dark. Anyone who knew me wouldn't believe it.

Shawn took my hands when I was close enough, and he shamelessly checked me out. His eyes stuck on my tits just long enough to raise the tension in the room.

I was still finding my voice. I was probably more flustered than he was.

“You're too cute,” he told me, finally looking at my face. “When did you get this?”

“Today,” I said softly. “I don't know, I looked for something black… this was all I could find in my size.”

“I'm really glad you went with this. You're so cute. The pink makes you look almost innocent. Turn around for me.”

A shy smile crept up on my face as I slowly spun around. I quickly came to realize that I was willing to do just about anything he wanted. Wow, and I thought I was going to have power tonight.

“So adorable,” Shawn mused when I was facing him again. “You're the cutest fucking thing ever, you know that?”

My roommate had said similar things, but it hit me different hearing it from my boyfriend. My face was probably redder than the hearts on this stupid nightie, and Shawn could probably see that.

“I don't wanna be cute,” I mumbled, looking down at our hands. “I wanna be sexy.”

“Trust me, you're very sexy. I, I don't even know what to do. That's why I keep talking. God, you're so pretty.” His hand went up and stroked my cheek.

Stop fucking talking and just take me already!

The only way I could express that was by bringing Shawn's hands to my waist, giving him permission to touch me wherever the fuck he wanted. His breathing picked up a little more as he ran his hands down to my lower hips, reaching around to grab my ass.

I delicately placed my hands on his shoulders, and he leaned in to kiss my collarbones. He kept mumbling about how pretty I was, and it made me feel some kinda way. I could feel just how hot his body was getting being so close to mine, it made me even hotter. His hands moved up to my stomach, moving under the nightie, and running along my skin. My body felt so alive and ablaze.

“Your heart's going fast,” he pointed out, placing a hand on my chest. “You nervous?”

I nodded. “More than I'd like to admit.”

He smiled warmly, and then showed me his hands. Seeing them tremble gave me some kind of relief and an ounce of confidence. I made him feel like that. He was turned on because of me.

Shawn stopped me when I grabbed the ends of my nightie to take it off. “No. Leave it on.”

“Really?” I asked. “Won’t it be in the way or something?”

He shook his head, looking up at me with something like desperation in his eyes. “I… wanna do unspeakable things to you in this thing. We're leaving it on. Now get your ass on the bed.”

I would have fainted if he hadn't given me an order.

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes smut #shawn x goth gf #if this gets a lot of notes im gonna yell #but i also wont be surprised lmfao #MAYBE there will be a part 2 idk yet #i know what will happen i just dont know if ill write it

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scribemallow · 5 years

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kirburbia ch. 23 - it’s hard to go home

here’s where it gets real, folks

this one’s pretty frank on stuff like internalized homophobia, but i promise that this isn’t going to be a dark/angsty fic, and that your author has familiarity with the issue.

like always, you can read here on ao3, or below under the cut!

Earlier than most other customers at the café, Dedede and Meta Knight were able to secure themselves the best seats in the joint. It was a corner seat, lined with diner-style pink leather couches and two wire-frame chairs cushioned by yellow frilly pillows. After a short squabble over who would take the couch up by the wall, Meta Knight gave in and sat facing Dedede, window view unavailable to him. There was a moment of silence as Dedede rearranged the cutlery to suit their food arrangements, all before he spoke for the first time in a while.

“So. You get the best view in the house- my face. Makes you wonder why you’d even want a window seat, now.” For all that Meta Knight was crushing on him, it didn’t stop him wanting to pinch Dedede’s back until he squeaked and cried uncle.

“Be careful, or I’ll stand up this whole meal so you can’t even see the window.” It was taller than Meta Knight sitting, so it was the only thing he could do to obscure Dedede’s view. Infuriatingly, Dedede smiled and patted Meta Knight on the shoulder. Great, more physical contact. Time to look like I’m breaking out in hives again.

“Duly noted, dude. At least you’re not the one who has to monitor Kirby from here.” As if to accentuate his point, Dedede made an exaggerated waving motion to someone beyond the window. Meta Knight turned and saw Kirby chasing around another small boy with dark hair, clearly enjoying himself.

“Shit.” Wait, you can’t swear in public places. “Did we order for Kirby?”

Dedede shrugged. “I don’t think so. Want me to go back to the counter? It might delay the food, but it’d be kind of a dick move to like, not.” Well, if he gets away with it, I can too, Meta Knight thinks. “You’re basically the kid’s dad, what do you think he’d want?”

“One of those… Bee El Tea sandwiches, extra ketchup. And strawberry ice cream, one scoop.” It had taken a while for Meta Knight to acclimatize to the fact “Bee El Tea” sandwiches contained bacon, lettuce and tomato, as opposed to bees and tea.

“I think they only have sorbet at the moment.” Dedede mumbles, gesturing towards the ice cream counter.

“Well, we’ll tell him it’s ice cream. And if he catches on we’ll buy him more.” It seemed like a foolproof plan to Dedede, who nodded before approaching the young man at the counter.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With their food arriving first and Kirby’s still under preparation- Dedede had mentioned the café was very intense in terms of its assembly- neither Dedede nor Meta Knight felt it was fair to call him in and make him wait simply because they had their own food. Dedede had assured Meta Knight that his order wasn’t sufficient to distract him away from the window behind Meta Knight’s back, demonstrating the fact by waving again to Kirby, who had been joined by various other children playing in the park already. Unsure on what else could be talked about, and several bites into the indulgent baked good he had ordered, Meta Knight took a sip of his drink and prepared to speak.

“Hey, Dedede.” Only now he noticed that Dedede had a little bit of gelato dripping from his mouth, which Dedede quickly licked away.

“…Hey, Meta. Sorry ‘bout that show right there. What’s up?”

“You know the daycare where we’ve been dropping Kirby off?” Meta Knight mumbled, sounding much more nervous than he wanted to appear.

“What about it?”

“Well,” he stated, “that guy at the counter when I went in there today. He- he made a joke about whether you and I were, uh, dating.” Though Meta Knight had convinced himself that he’d be able to pass it off as goofing between friends, alarms rung in his head as soon as he got the sentence out. Dedede was sitting there, suddenly still, spoon dug into his dessert and steam rising from his warm drink. After a too-long pause, filled with assumptions, Dedede coughed and spoke.

“Did he think you were a chick or something? I told ya those sunglasses are from the women’s section.”

“No, no. He didn’t- he didn’t think that.”

“Oh.” More silence between them, the kind of pregnant pause that Meta Knight wasn’t used to anymore. “So he thought we were two dudes, dating each other?”

“I… Yeah. I mean I don’t think there’s any other conclusion he could have came to.”

“So,” Dedede emphasized “that’s kind of weird. I mean, that’s just not how it goes, right? My parents keep fixing me up with dames for a reason- it’s just the way things work. You can’t do that.” If not for Dedede upsetting him, Meta Knight would have noticed the way his speech was rushed and flustered. Instead, he let his fork clatter to the side of his plate. "I mean, Meta, I really like you. If you were a girl, I coulda' asked to date you plenty of times. But, y-y'know... How it is."

“Why in the world do you think like that?” The emptiness of the café exemplified Meta Knight’s anger.

“I dunno, it’s just what my parents taught me. That it’s weird for a dude to like another dude. I mean, you agree, right?”

“No,” Meta Knight tried to shout with minimal volume, “and if you think that then maybe you should have your parents come round on your stupid Earth holidays, since I’m “weird”, and you obviously show great deference to their opinions.” Now the alarms were ringing in Meta Knight’s head. Sure, he felt as righteous as he’d ever been against someone, but the hurt of very potentially losing his best friend- someone even more than that maybe- was raw and salted.

“Oh.” Now Dedede was responding to Meta Knight’s admittance, a little choked by the upset he knew he’d caused but scared to back down. “Um, well, you can leave tomorrow. Or tonight. If you want to.” Fuck, Dedede thought. This really isn’t supposed to end like this.

“I’ll think on it. I’ve lost my appetite now, honestly, so we don’t have to stay here.”

“Well, I don’t want to be here much longer either.” But just as Dedede reached to pick up his bag and head back for an inevitably frosty and distant car ride, the sound of an opening door and small footsteps reveberated across the room. Kirby walked forward, scanning the venue with his eyes until he located the table, running over to sit down on one of the wire chairs.

“I’m tired now. Wanna hang with you guys.”

It occurred to both Meta Knight and Dedede at the same time: Shit. This won’t be as easy as I thought it would.

#kirburbia #kirby #metadede #meta knight #king dedede

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arcanaenclave · 5 years

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i-can-see-ur-underwearrrr.mp3.shellyamv.mp4

Francis & Bruno: Mostly go commando, unless it's very cold or they're tasked with wearing something that requires more layers, because that's just who they both are as people. They can hem and haw about having fur that gets hot all they want but other furries get along just fine, such as---

Tom: Wears cotton briefs/more often boxers, usually in whatever colors/packs are cheapest, and doesn't see what the big deal is about wearing them! Growing up in the hot, humid south means he's always favored clothes that breathe as much as possible, and boxers can also double as swimming trunks in a pinch, so, bonus. He's just now really starting to buy clothes for himself in general, underwear included, so he's starting to build a collection of boxers with funny sayings/designs on them.

Finn (formerly Huck): Almost the same as Tom, except he'll also basically wear any underwear regardless of style as long as it fits and doesn't make him too hot. He will also just plain not wear any sometimes because he's a free spirit and counts on his fur to make up for it. Some of that is a holdover from how he was a kid who had to basically learn to dress himself at a very young age, on top of everything else he had to learn more or less on his own. His adoptive dad tried his best, but some things are just beyond his power, especially now that Finn has moved out.

Bianca (who is still in renaming limbo, pardon me): Generally wears light, breathable bras with good underwire support and matching underwear. The matching is key: when her clothes are coordinated, she feels coordinated, and that helps her start her day off right. She tries to get her underwear sets in fun colors when she can (especially pinks and blues and purples), but being a larger cup size means that she's gotta either contend with the Sea Of Beige And White or magically dye each piece herself. So, naturally, she's gotten very good at magically dying things, unless she needs some white bras to match the fur on her chest. She owns a few sets of Very Expensive lingerie, some with camisoles, that she breaks out on special occasions, or when she wants to feel extra fancy.

Davey: Boxers and boxer briefs 4 lyfe. He doesn't have to worry about having fur or only being like 4 feet tall or wanting a bra that has form AND function, so his greatest struggle is just finding underwear in colors he likes, namely dark red, blue, and green. He's not overly fond of underwear with patterns or sayings on them except for gifts from Harold and the like, usually! He'll also wear frilly panties for a joke with zero hesitation, as that one anon found out like 7 years ago, because in any game of chicken Davey will never flinch first.

Ailbhe: Is also part of the big titty committee, and heavy is the chest that wears the boobs. She's less concerned with matching and more worried about comfort and support, which means she's mixing and matching most days even when she originally bought the underwear in a set. She usually goes for light-colored bras and underwear, especially anything light blue, but also has a few sets of lacy lingerie and some sets of very supportive sports bras. Also she steals Boris' boxers from time to time and wears them, as is her god-given girlfriend right.

Yakiv: Oh lord here we gooo. Being as endlessly old-fashioned as Yakiv is, he does wear long underwear sometimes, depending on the weather. Otherwise he'll always be wearing an undershirt of some sort and very plain, sometimes striped, boxer shorts, think maybeee ca. 1920's men's underwear. He considers that all very modern of him.

Lee: Briefs and boxer briefs! As a chronic wearer of skinny jeans, they're just the best suited for the job. You'll find in his underwear drawer just about any color you can think of---he likes having a bit of secret flair, so he loves getting them in bright, saturated colors and with wild patterns and sayings on them.

Crane: Already has to get his pants custom-made for his just-a-little-too-inhuman proportions, and has spent a significant portion of his life flying his transport ship long distances entirely by himself. Basically what I'm saying is he never wears underwear and tries to get by wearing extremely loose pants sometimes and everyone has to be emotionally prepared for the results of that.

Pam: Misses the days when satyrs could all go bottomless, he really, truly does. He makes up for it now by being a wild card. Is he going commando? Is he wearing briefs? Did he break out that pair of bedazzled pink panties he won a bet with 20 years ago? Is tHaT a tHoNg??? Who knows! (It's Bigwig. Bigwig knows.)

Martin: Boxers, briefs, boxer briefs, accidentally wearing a partner's boy shorts because they were the same color as his own underwear, jockstraps and cups, and even the occasional thong, Martin's worn (almost) it all! In his day-to-day he really does prefer boxers for the comfort factor, though sometimes he wears briefs when he feels an outfit calls for more support.

Zahrah: #FreeTheTiddies. Zahrah never wears bras in her day-to-day life, opting instead for a camisole some days or nothing other days, so long as she's not going to be doing anything especially active that will require more support. She finds them incredibly constricting, and has spent a pretty sizable portion of her life not wearing one, and she doesn't much feel like starting now! She also wears plain seamless linen/cotton/other natural fiber panties, because they're comfy! After spending most of her life in desert environments, she values coolness and cover more than anything else, and prefers to keep things simple, usually wearing solid colors like white and red and gold.

Jianyu: Wears white briefs or a fundoshi, usually the latter. As an extremely utilitarian person with more than a few insecurities and issues with his body image, he mostly prefers to forget he even has a physical form and needs to wear clothes, and puts the bare minimum of thought into underwear and the rest of his clothes by extension. As long as they do the job, it's fine! If he could plan his outfits months in advance and then spend the rest of his time focused on other, more important things to him, he would. Zahrah thinks he looks fetching in anything and tells him as such all the time, which he appreciates more than he'll say.

Vince: Also misses the days when satyrs could run around completely ass-out, and so often compromises by not wearing any underwear. It's like being ass-out but also able to go out in public without getting arrested! He has much thicker, curlier fur than Pam, which makes it harder to fit himself for pants of any kind, and makes him more likely to overheat on especially hot days. When he absolutely has to, he'll wear boxers to give himself as much breathing room as he can. As with Pam, being as long-lived as they are, both have had to also wear the underwear was available during whatever time they lived in, but unlike Pam, Vince has always opted more for wearing nothing when he could manage it.

Drago: Wears black briefs, modified with a clasp at the back to attach the waistband over his tail. In the past what he wore was more dependent on what was available to him in local shops when his dad let him go out and buy some things for himself with his very small allowance. Since he spends the majority of his time in his demon form, which is especially lizard-y, as well as wearing tight leather pants, form-fitting bottoms are best, even if he doesn't actually need much support in that form.

Claire: Lingerie all day every day, babey! She has some more sporty underwear alternatives in bright neon colors for when she's going to be especially on the move off the clock, usually when working out with others, but on her own time she pretty much always rocks one of her very extensive collection of matching lacy/satiny underwear sets that she's accrued over the years. Her criteria for what she buys usually falls into two categories: lingerie that's especially fancy-looking, regardless of price point or color, or lingerie that's somehow a little wild or different in some way, be it with fabric choices or strap designs or patterns. She wears a matching camisole or a white semi-transparent silk robe over whatever her look for the day is when she's shuffling in white pom-pom slippers around the girl house.

Zed: Is a pretty committed devotee to the boxers way of life, and doesn't actually go commando all that often, in a shocking turn of events. He's generally more likely to go pants-less than underwear-less! Like the rest of his clothes, most of his underwear is some shade of green, with more than a few weed leaf patterns. He has some assorted weird/funny underthings he's collected over the many years from being friends with Lee and Jude and all of them buying each other dumb shit for various jokes. He keeps them around for a laugh, and for something to wear on laundry days to get a rise out of Dan.

Dr. Yume: Wears simple black bras and underwear, usually t-shirt bras and high-waisted briefs to fit under her usual button-down + pencil skirt/high-waisted slacks work clothes. She also wears them in white, but because of her work schedule and disrupted sleep sometimes she's not able to plan her outfits for the week like she wants to, and ends up with days where she's got a white shirt and black bra. Anyone who dares to comment on how they can see her straps through her clothes will be eviscerated with a 'Thank you, you can see my bra because I am wearing one.' response. She probably owns one (1) set of black lingerie that she bought eons ago on a whim, feeling a little pressured to do so, but she isn't really interested in wearing it at all.

Sak: Used to rock a loincloth and the precursor to long underwear with the best of them, once upon a time! He'll wear literally anything handed to him if you ask him nicely enough, but his preference is for looser options like boxers since they breathe more and are the closest equivalent to makeshift bottoms he wore pre-iceberg.

#headcanons.#long post.

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bythexdreadwolf · 6 years

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SOMETHING JUST LIKE THIS || AO3 LINK

CREMISIUS “KREM” ACLASSI/INQUISITOR EVANNA TREVELYAN WORD COUNT: 2,052

She’s been to every corner of Thedas, sometimes dragging him along, most times not. She always comes back, covered in dust or blood or ichor or all three, her eyes lighting up as soon as she reenters Skyhold’s gates. He wants to do something for her, to show her how much she means to him. She’s always trudging around, doing things for everyone but herself, and he wants to give her the break he knows she needs, to take her somewhere as special as she is. She’s more than just a quick fuck in an unoccupied hallway. She always has been.

But Maker-help him, he’s got no sodding clue how to do it. Each time he’s tried to broach the subject with her, he’s gone chicken shit, and ended up back in his little corner by the door to nurse his pride and a bottle of wine, or she’s being carted off to some other part of the country for weeks. It shouldn’t be this bloody hard to court a pretty girl. He certainly doesn’t ever remember it being this hard.

The Chief just gives him a knowing, pitying look accompanied by a shit-eating grin that’s no help at all.

“You’ve got it bad, Krem de la Creme,” he tells him, clapping a massive hand on Krem’s shoulder. Years of conditioning his legs and knees for the blow are the only reason they don’t buckle from the force.

“It’s so cute, though,” Dalish grins at him. “Look at him, he’s blushing.”

“Oh, piss off, the lot of you,” he snaps. He doesn’t even have a smart-ass comeback either, because he knows they’re all right. All it does is earn him a hearty guffaw from Bull and Rocky as he slides onto the bench across from Dalish and Skinner.

“If you want real advice,” Dalish continues, leaning forward across the table at him, her tankard clutched in both hands. “Here’s mine: you’re reading too much into it. Evanna is just a girl. Forget, for a moment, that she’s the Herald of fucking Andraste or whatever else it is that they’re calling her these days. She’s just a normal girl. Just do something she likes, you lovesick idiot. You’re handsome and charming, and if I’m not mistaken, you’ve already swept her off her feet, if the pining looks she gives you from across the tavern are anything to go by. And don’t think we’ve not noticed you two sneaking off whenever you think no-one’s looking. Take her someplace nice, though. Somewhere she likes. The rest will sort itself out.”

“Yeah, Krem, you won’t know until you try,” the Chief tells him. He groans and buries his head in his arms. “And if all else fails — you’ve always got Rocky as a rebound.”

“Very funny,” he grouses, voice muffled against his vambraces.

He doesn’t sleep at all that night, his mind running rampant with ideas of what they can do and where they can go. His first thought is Orlais, but he remembers the way her nose crinkled in distaste when she’d gotten back from Val Royeaux the first time and the way she’d groused about it to him after. She likes those little frilly cakes well enough, but as far as Orlais itself goes, he knows she hates it.

Not Orlais, then.

He wants to take her to places like Nevarra, Rivain, Antiva, let her taste the food, watch those grey eyes drink in the vibrant beauty of their cultures, kiss her as they watch the sunset. But he’s not exactly rich, even with the decent pay the Inquisition is giving the Chargers. And he doubts whether Thedas can afford for her to be away for so long. Then there’s the matter of the Antivan Crows, the fact that someone could put out a bounty on her head. She’s more than capable of protecting herself, and if he’s with her, she’s at even less of a risk, but he doesn’t really want to be the one who comes back with the news that he got the beloved Herald of Andraste killed.

Andraste’s tits, he’s overthinking this.

He rolls over and punches his pillow in irritation. She’s a noblewoman from birth and he’s just a poor mercenary. She deserves the world and he can’t give it to her.

And that’s when he comes up with a plan. But he’s going to need help. And a lot of it. And it’s going to take time. The Chief is never going to let him live this down. It’ll be worth all of the teasing, though, to see her smile.

He runs a nervous hand through his hair over and over again, mussing it up from where he’d so meticulously styled it not even an hour before. She’s going to hate it. He’s going to get tongue-tied and put his foot in his mouth. He’s going to trip down the stairs and literally wind up with his foot in his mouth.

Why did he think this was a good idea, again?

He’s hovering just outside of the door to her bedchamber, pacing back and forth, trying to bring himself to knock. Stop fucking around, Aclassi.

His hand is poised to knock, but before he can manage to do so, she flings back the door and he just stands there, frozen, the wind completely knocked out of him as he drinks her in.

Fucking hell, she’s beautiful.

He’s never seen her with her hair down; she always wears it in a complicated series of plaits and twists when she’s out in the field, and he’s never fully appreciated just how long it is. It brushes that delicious dip at the base of her spine just above her ass, and he’s seized with the insane urge to tangle his hands in it and kiss her until she’s as breathless as he is. Pulled back, she’s the picture of Andraste’s chosen, but with it down, she looks younger, more vulnerable. More like the Evanna he’s come to know and less like the figurehead everyone makes her out to be. It makes his heart skip a beat. She’s dressed simply, in a grey tunic and supple black leather trousers as opposed to her Circle robes, but it suits her. He swallows.

“Ah, er—Good evening. Your Worship. You—you look nice.” His hand is still balled in a fist as though to knock and he lets his arm fall to his side, heat creeping up his cheeks. She bites her lip in a futile attempt to keep the smile tugging at the corners of her lips contained.

“You can relax, Lieutenant. No-one here but me.”

That’s exactly why I’m so on edge, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Her small, pale hand takes his much larger one and he swallows again, ignoring the swooping sensation such a simple gesture causes in the pit of his stomach.

She gives his fingers a light squeeze and settles into her place at his side, seeming completely at ease. He feels as if he’s on fire, his anxiety making him feel uncertain and awkward. He can face down an army of Venatori, take on a horde of demons without blinking. But this…this is uncharted territory. Sure, he’s been with women before. But he’s never felt the way she makes him feel.

“So,” she nudges him with her elbow, and he’s suddenly very aware of just how silent he’s been the entire time they’ve been making their way through the bowels of Skyhold. “What is it that you want to show me? I swear on Maferath’s beard that Cassandra was practically swooning when I told her you’d asked me to dinner.”

“R-really?” His throat feels dry.

“Mm,” she hums, wrapping her arms around his arm and leaning into him as they wander through the castle. He’s vaguely aware of the fact that he’s supposed to be leading them, and he’s glad that his feet seem to have remembered, because he may have left his brain back on the threshold of her bedchamber. He can feel the heat of her through his doublet — Bull had coerced Dorian into finding one for him (he doesn't want to think about what that had involved) — and it’s all he can do to convince himself to keep leading her to the Herald’s Rest when all he wants to do is run his fingers through that hair of hers and make her moan his name.

They’ve had their fair share of stolen kisses. Physicality — sex — was easy, all things considered. Sex was primal, instinctive, easy to navigate. And, as he’s been told in the past, he’s very good with his tongue. But courting her is something completely foreign to him, and she’s the first person who’s made him actually want to try. He wants so badly for this to go right.

He nearly trips over his own feet and down the stairs out of the keep when the realization that he might be falling in love with her hits him like a war-hammer. If he wasn’t nervous before, he certainly is now, and he hasn’t said a single fucking thing in a solid five minutes, and Maker — he’s already buggered it, he knows it, and they’re not even through the door to the Rest and —

She lets go of his arm on the threshold, and her hands fly to cover her mouth in what he hopes is awe. Her grey eyes are wide as she drinks it in, the lengths he’s gone to to make something special just for her. They’ve draped the entire first level of the tavern in Rivaini silks. Two bottles of Antivan wine sit on a table he’s set for just the two of them, laden with foods from every part of Thedas, including the little pink frosted cakes she’s so fond of from Orlais. It’s definitely too much for the two of them to eat, but he’d wanted options in case there was something she didn’t like. Various other trinkets from different countries — rugs, lamps, little statues, procured with the help of Sister Nightingale, Lady Montilyet, Cassandra, and, of all people, Varric — are scattered around the room, transforming it into a sort of bazaar where they can sit and pretend they are anywhere they wish. It’s the best he can do. (The real miracle, he thinks, is that Bull’s managed to make good on his word to make sure the tavern is cleared, and he makes a mental note to buy that brilliant, beautiful asshole the biggest cask of Chasind sack mead he can afford). It actually…looks pretty good, he thinks, smirking a bit as he gauges her reaction.

“Maker’s breath,” she exhales, her eyes unable to stop flitting from the Nevarran lamps to the silks to the food and, finally, up at him. “You did all this?”

He shrugs, the smirk turning full-on smug grin. He can’t believe he could ever have been so nervous before. Dalish was right. Not that he will ever tell her that. “I had a bit of help, but yeah. Wanted to take you to Rivain or Nevarra or Antiva myself, but, circumstances being what they are, I figured I’d bring a little bit of them to you.”

There’s barely a heartbeat that passes before she flings her arms around his neck and she’s kissing him like she’s drowning and he’s the only thing that can save her. He grins against her plush lips, his own arms snaking around her waist and lifting her off of her feet. It’s brief, but it’s enough to leave them both panting. She runs a hand through his hair and rests her forehead against his as she pulls away, pink high on her cheeks. He nuzzles her nose with his own, that unknown feeling washing over him again as he holds her.

“You know you didn’t have to do all of this.”

“Nah, but I wanted to. If I could give you the world, I would,” the confession is quiet, barely above a breath, but she hears it nonetheless and places a kiss to his cheek.

“I don’t need the world, you silly sod,” she snorts. “I’ve seen enough of it to know what I want, and what I want, Cremisius Aclassi, is you.”

#krem/inquisitor #cremisius aclassi/inquisitor #krem x inquisitor #krem x trevelyan #krem #cremisius aclassi #char: krem #char: evanna #:story time with k

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pale-silver-comb · 7 years

Note

"Have anyone told you you have the most intimidating nostrils I've ever seen?"

“Yeah, I won an award, junior year,” Derek answers, frowning at his new IKEA (bought and built, all in a soft Henley sweater; Stiles knows, he supervised) book-shelf, like he hasn’t just finished a seven hundred page tome on Egyptian artefacts. A seven hundred page tome on Egyptian artefacts alone.

Derek Hale: epic nerd and assembler of easy-to-build IKEA products. Of course, Stiles thinks, cursing his stupid Professor and DIY kinks. Why not? The worst part is, he doesn’t even think those kinks are sexual. It’s just….a thing. That he has. A Derek thing. The Butterflies That Live In His Stomach were trying so desperately to move on with their lives, too. They’d shopped around. Hired a real-estate agent. They were ready, goddammit!

Derek settles on a book - Stiles is pretty sure it also has the word ‘artefacts’ in the title - and sighs, all feigned nostalgia, and glances over his shoulder. “It was a golden nose, too. Across the bottom it said,” he pauses, grinning, “Stiles Stilinski needs to get a life.”

Stiles opens his mouth, clutches his chest, because rude much? Is it his fault Derek’s nostrils belong in some kind of anatomy museum? Is it his fault his Saturday nights are spent playing video games in his underwear, when his week days are spent chasing down monsters and researching things like how Scott and Erica managed to contract chicken pox when stabbing them does, like, nothing? (Except get Erica excited because she’s a beautiful, terrifying weirdo.) The moment he tries to tell Derek this, however, a copy of - is that Pride and Prejudice? - is thrown at his head.

Stiles doesn’t know if he’s more offended when Derek rolls his eyes when it misses him, or the concerned look that crosses his face when the book sails past him and lands in an empty pizza box, like Derek is worried if it’s okay or not.

And to think, Stiles was going to screw up his courage and finally invite Derek to see a movie this weekend. In an actual theatre. Where people go to be normal. Well, the laugh is on Derek because Stiles is going to buy the big popcorn and he’s going to enjoy it all on his own.

Yeah, that’ll show him.

“Has anyone ever told you your eyebrows could star in a disturbing kid’s movie about caterpillars?”

Stiles is drunk. No, he’s wasted. Hammered. Loaded. Completely and utterly shit faced. Which is probably why instead of ending up on his ass on the floor, Derek just pinches the bridge of his nose, tips his head against the back of the couch and says, “what.” Not even a hint of inflection.

This dude, Stiles thinks, and then laughs because, ohmygod, Derek is this dude now. Not that dude or whoa, what are you doing crawling through my window, dude? but this dude. And that’s kind of beautifully heart warming, in its own way.

Really, Stiles should write into Hallmark. It could be a trilogy. A Gay Trilogy™. Bisexuals on ice. Except, without the ice because Stiles doesn’t know how to skate. Can Derek skate? Stiles totally bets Derek can skate.

Speaking of Derek, he’s got this little crinkle on his forehead now, right between his eyebrows, and man, they really are very nice eyebrows. Animated but nice. A little dramatic but nice. Murderous but nice.

“What,” Derek says again, looking more confused than annoyed by the second. Stiles really wants to kiss him.

Instead, he stares. Stares and stares and stares.

Shit.

Slapping a hand over his mouth, he begins laughing uncontrollably and before he knows it, he’s clutching his sides and has his face pressed against Derek’s chest, because the hilarity is killing him.

Because this is them now. Drinking peach-snaps at Derek’s loft, on a couch filled with throw pillows. Throw pillows. One is even soft and pink and frilly and another has a picture of the pack on it. Granted, no one is looking at the camera but Derek, Boyd and Kira and Derek is not so much looking at the camera as yelling at Stiles (holding the camera) for eating his secret stash of cookies, but it’s nice. It’s a nice picture. There is a plain black pillow too, of course. Somewhere. Stiles might be sitting on it, actually. He figures one can only expect so much when it comes to sour-wolves but Erica glued little cat ears on it last week and Derek said nothing. Fuck, he’d even smiled.

It says a lot about what a secret softie Derek is when it comes to vulnerable, drunk-ass people, because he doesn’t push Stiles away; just lets him laugh and laugh until he passes out, drooling on his chest.

When Stiles wakes up, Derek’s sweater is pretty soaked through but he hasn’t moved an inch. He does, however, tell Stiles he snores like a deranged goose and that he owes him a pastry later.

He doesn’t even ask for a specific kind, Stiles chastises in his head, falling back to sleep. He’s in love with a pastry idiot.

“Do you know when you smile, you brighten up the whole damn room?”

The question clearly catches Derek off guard because he falls head first…into a duck pond.

Stiles’ first reaction is to jump in after him - he hates to admit it, but he gets a little nervous around water when Derek is with him; there have been several incidents where he’s unconsciously grabbed Derek’s hand in order to drag him away from pools and, one time, a very large puddle - but when Derek emerges, wearing his someone is about to die face, Stiles can’t be held accountable for the way he falls to the ground because, yup, that’s a tiny, outraged duckling perched on top of Derek’s head.

“Oh my god,” he yells, rolling onto his back and kicking his legs in the air. He feels like a kid, grabbing his stomach, water practically pouring from his eyes. This was, quite possibly, the best day of his life.

Normally, Derek would be yelling threats - several, in fact, some in Spanish because he’s a show off - but he just stands there….in the middle of a fucking pond. The duckling is still sitting on his head, like he or she plans to set up home there and it’s so adorable Stiles thinks he actually coos out loud.

Still, Derek still doesn’t say anything. Not even when Stiles coos again, very, very deliberately. (And Scott said his middle name could never be Danger, pffft.) Stiles can’t actually guess what Derek is going to do but he doesn’t care. He looks a strange cross between wanting to murder someone - namely, Stiles - and a little kid who was told they couldn’t get a puppy only to get one on Christmas day anyway.

Mostly, he just looks lost. And wet. Very, very wet. Somewhere out there, someone is playing It’s Raining Men and Stiles wants nothing more than to share this glorious moment with them. He’s just in the process of taking out his phone to at least snap a photo to send to the pack when -

“Did you mean it?” Derek asks, and man, those water droplets just keep on running, don’t they.

Stiles grins. “Did I mean for you to fall into a pond and adopt a new feathered friend? No but I think we can all agree-”

“Stiles.”

Derek growls and it would be effective - at least in getting Stiles to help him out of the pond - if it wasn’t for the fact his ears were turning a little pink. A lot pink, actually and -

Oh.

Sitting up, Stiles drags his butt over to the edge of the pond.

“Yeah,” he says. “I meant it. I mean, smiles can’t literally light up rooms, I know that, but when you smile it’s like…” He sighs and flaps his arms, suddenly nervous, hitting Derek in the process. The duckling practically glares at him and Stiles briefly wonders if he has competition here.

Right. Better make this good then. He clears his throat.

“It’s like, everything just makes sense for a little bit, you know? I look at you and it’s not that smiling is rare for you, at least not anymore, but it’s still pretty thrilling to see it and when you do I’m like, that’s some quality shit right there but then I get confused because it’s like, do I wanna punch it? Kiss it? Pet it? Who knows. Usually it depends on what you’re wearing.”

Derek blinks and Stiles groans because, yeah, he just said that out loud. In real time. To Mr McGrumpy himself. Who is currently not reacting.

Great.

“Uh, I mean,” he attempts to correct himself but it’s too late. Derek is already slowly pulling him in and pressing his lips to his in what is the single most innocent, chaste kiss of Stiles’ life - because, you know, duckling and head movements - but somehow, it still manages to be perfect.

“Nice,” Stiles whispers, after, waggling his eyebrows.

Derek snorts and kisses him again.

“Turn it off,” Derek whines, nuzzling further into Stiles’ neck. “This is why I leave my phone in the kitchen. Like we discussed.”

Stiles tries to swat him, ends up kissing his temple. Sue him, he’s tired. “Says the person who can afford to leave their phone in the kitchen. We don’t all have supernatural hearing, asshole.”

Derek whines again. “You also have the worst taste in ringtones.”

Stiles gasps, suddenly sitting up. Well, he tries to. When your boyfriend is made of muscle and is half lying on top of you, it makes moving a lot more difficult. Not that Stiles is really complaining. Much. “I’ll have you know Bushes of Love is a Star Wars parody classic.”

Derek rolls his eyes, Stiles can feel it, says, “just answer it, sweetums.”

“Ugh,” Stiles grimaces, “I already told you I’m sorry for the pet-name thing. It was an accident!”

“Calling me your ‘slutty buddy’ in front of your dad was meant as a pet name?”

“It sounded better in my head!”

Derek groans and wraps an “exasperated” arm around Stiles’ waist. Oh. So. Exasperated. Stiles grins. “Answer. Your. Phone.”

Stiles finds his phone on the fifth try.

He has fifteen missed calls, all from Erica. Texts too. Every single one is a link to some article online, followed by a string of heart and eggplant emojis.

“Young Love and the Ugly Duckling’,” Stiles reads, clicking on the link. “Uhhh, Derek?” He prods him.

“What.”

”There’s a picture of us in the online Beacon Gazette,” looking into each other’s eyes, like a pair of love sick fools, Stiles wants to add because, wow, is he really that obvious when he looks at Derek? To be fair though, Derek isn’t much better and he is the one with an angry bird on his head.

He prods Derek again and again until he finally gives in, makes him look at the phone.

“Huh,” he says, blinking at it. “Fred looks pretty pissed that I’m kissing you.” His face breaks out in a smug grin and Stiles rolls his eyes. Hard.

“You are aware Fred is a duckling, right?”

“Yes.” Derek grins harder, showing all his teeth, although his cheeks do colour slightly when he catches Stiles’ eye.

Stiles sighs, totally not fond. “They couldn’t have come up with a better title, though?” he asks, brandishing his phone. “The Ugly Ducking, really?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, frowning. “I mean, I wouldn’t go as far as to call you ugly.” He laughs and Stiles smacks him across the chest with a loud, “hey!”

They both turn back to look at the picture.

“We look so stupid,” Stiles whispers, shaking his head and biting his thumb. We fit, he thinks. We look like we fit.

Leaning in, Derek smiles at him. “We do,” he agrees, burying his face back into the warmth of Stiles’ neck, muttering something about home and content and stupid Star Wars parodies.

Stiles snaps a selfie, captions it goals, and sends it to Erica.

#summersaltturn #sterek #eternalsterek #fluff #these goobers #em writes fic #sorry I've not been around much #I hope this makes up for it a bit

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katrinawritesthings · 7 years

Text

Jinki/Taemin; a lil crushie; PG

a v important tweet

“Were you ever planning on telling me that you had a crush on me?” Jinki asks blandly.

“No,” Taemin mumbles, and then, “I mean--I don’t have a crush on you,” he lies quickly.

ao3

“Jinki….”

A soft tug at Jinki’s sleeve accompanying Taemin’s voice makes him look up from the slow notes he was taking on the first labor unions. He blinks slowly, lifting a hand to rub his eyes under his glasses so he can focus on Taemin better. He’s on the other side of the bed where he was before, laid out on his tummy with his legs kicking in the air and his math book and notebook opened in front of him. He’s looking at them, but his fingers still play with the fabric of Jinki’s shirt.

“Hmm?” Jinki hums quietly. He can take a quick break from history to help Taemin with his math. It’s why they’re studying together in the first place. To help each other out. Taemin was the one that suggested it, as they were leaving sixth period geometry the other day. They’ve been friends for a while through that class and Jinki is fond of the giggly little sophomore so he agreed, and now here they are, lumped on Jinki’s bed having a wild and unsupervised Friday night of teenage debauchery. “Did you get stuck on the fractions again?” he asks gently when Taemin doesn’t reply for a few seconds. He’s really been struggling with them.

“Oh… no,” Taemin mumbles. He shakes his head, bottom lip between his teeth. “I was just wondering, like.” He rolls a little bit and twists his body so he’s half facing upwards, peering at Jinki through his honey blonde bangs. “Have you ever thought of, like… different ways we could have met?” he asks. He’s curious and intrigued in a simple way, but Jinki has to say that he’s surprised.

“No,” he says. He can’t say that the thought of that has ever crossed his mind.

“Oh,” Taemin says immediately. He rolls back to his stomach and bends intently close to his textbook, bangs hiding the rest of his face from view. “Me neither, ha ha,” he says, very much too loudly for a normal human conversation. Jinki blinks at him. Oh. That was. Really obvious. He always had a feeling that Taemin would be a bad liar.

He twirls his pencil in his fingers, watching the tips of Taemin’s hair brush his notebook as he scribbles fast numbers with a shaky hand. He shouldn’t be embarrassed about that, Jinki doesn’t think. It’s cute and imaginative. Jinki wishes he thought up different scenarios for himself and his friends.

“Tell me some of the ways you’ve thought up for us,” he says reaching over to gently poke Taemin’s shoulder with his pencil. He wants to hear. When Taemin glances up with him with nervous eyes he nods encouragingly. “I could use a break,” he adds, putting his pencil into his history textbook and pushing both away slightly. Taemin looks between him and the bed a few times before he hesitantly puts his own pencil down and twists his hands together under his chin.

“Well, um,” he says, glancing up to meet Jinki’s eyes for a second. “Like, what if, maybe, I’d joined the leadership club, or you’d joined the dance club,” he says. “And we met each other through our clubs instead of through geometry.” He shrugs a little shrug and Jinki nods, intrigued. That’s interesting. It would definitely be a different start either way. They might know completely different things about each other than they do now, and probably a lot more, too.

“Or, like,” Taemin says. “If we’d been friends since we were little kids, and stayed friends all the way up until now, and onward.” Ooh. Jinki hums, nodding in approval. That’s a good one. Taemin wouldn’t have had to have asked to come over today if he’d been doing it all their lives. A little smile grows on Taemin’s face at Jinki’s agreement. He looks down, lacing his fingers together and grinning at his textbook.

“Maybe, like, medieval times,” he suggests. “And you’d be the one to save me from a dragon or something,” he says. Jinki raises his brows. Ooh. Some fantasy shit now too. Rad. “Maybe, like, I’m an archer and you’re a hunter, and I stay in your cabin in the woods sometimes, to rest and stuff,” Taemin says, and ooh, Jinki thinks again. That’s cute. “Or maybe, you’re a mermaid, and I’m the sailor that you seduce to turn into another mermaid and live with you forever,” Taemin says. His fingers twist and cling to each other slowly, smile rosy in the cheeks and warm at the numbers under him. Jinki blinks slowly as he watches. Wait a second here.

“Maybe we’re cute little tiny fairy boyfriends,” Taemin says quietly. “And we live in the same peony bush and we make each other little petal presents every day, and I like giving you bracelets, and you like making me crowns, and--” He glances up again to meet Jinki’s eyes but almost immediately after he does he stops himself short, wide smile sliding off of his face.

A second later it’s back, but this time it’s tiny, shaky, a little forced. His hands clasp together tightly and then separate, each one clenching into a little fist as Taemin lifts blinky eyes up to Jinki’s cheek.

“Uh, maybe,” he says quickly. His voice is much less soft now, more sharp and loud like before. “Maybe, like, uh, we’re blood rivals, and, um, we hate each other, and, we--we fight all the time, and we don’t, um, like each other, at all,” he says. A weak little laugh follows it, but not as weak as the fingers he curls into Jinki’s bedsheets. His cheeks blaze pink as he avoids eye contact again. Jinki watches him blankly for another few seconds as he adds all of that up together into what he’s pretty sure is the right conclusion.

“Taemin, do you have a crush on me?” he asks bluntly.

Taemin’s whole face turns a deep crimson.

“No,” he says loudly, and aggressively picks up his pencil and starts writing again. Jinki watches, taken aback. Holy shit. That was an even worse lie than before. He stays silent to think for a moment, watching the way Taemin’s writing gets darker and his hand smudges it every time he tries to brush away chipped lead. He never would have guessed.

The longer he sits there in silence with Taemin a human furnace in front of him, the more he thinks that he should probably be asking some questions, but all he can really think of is one. Quietly he takes out his phone and googles what a peony looks like.

“Oh,” he hums as he scrolls through the pictures. Those are cute, he guesses. “I would’ve picked carnations, though,” he mumbles.

“What?” Taemin asks. He’s still a violent red, but a little confused pout is on his lips as he looks up. Jinki glances at him, then shows him the flowers on his phone.

“Carnations are like these but, like, floofier, right?” he asks. Way cuter. Taemin bites his lip and nods, rolling his pencil between his fingers.

“I thought, um, about that,” he says quietly. “But I thought, you would like peonies more, because they’re simpler but still really pretty, like um. Like.” He looks away again and doesn’t say “you,” but Jinki is pretty sure that that’s what he was going to say. He looks back to his phone and brings up pictures of carnations.

“They look a lot more comfortable,” he shrugs. “Like you could just. Cuddle up in there and nap.” They’re soft and frilly and he knows that they smell nice. He doesn’t think he’s ever smelled a peony. Taemin doesn’t reply; Jinki glances at him to see him focusing again on his math. Jinki can’t tell, but he thinks he went another shade pinker. Probably the “cuddling” thing, even though that’s not really how Jinki meant it. He slides his phone into his pocket and leans back on his hands, finding himself smiling at how blushie Taemin is. He never even knew the little goober could blush.

“Were you ever planning on telling me that you had a crush on me?” he asks blandly.

“No,” Taemin mumbles, and then, “I mean--I don’t have a crush on you,” he lies quickly. Jinki snorts. Okay. Sure. He watches Taemin avoid looking at him for another few seconds before he shakes his head fondly and pulls his history book close to continue his studying. He’s cute.

“Just, if you did have a crush on me, hypothetically,” he says as he finds where he was on the page. “I have this habit when I’m dating someone of buying them ice cream and letting them sit in my lap.” It’s a good habit, he thinks. It’s gotten all three of his past babes all giggly and happy. He bets Taemin would like it. If Taemin did actually have a crush on him. Taemin stays silent, determinedly writing out his numbers from the book, and Jinki grins. “I know your favorite flavor is strawberry,” he adds casually.

Taemin drops his pencil and puts his face in his hands, feet kicking quickly against Jinki’s mattress.

On Monday, they go to the little ice cream parlor down the street from the school for lunch.

#ontae #onew #taemin #jinki #fluf #pg #oneshot #anyway paps taems lil soul #i was thinking about high school ontae a lot #lil floofy honey blonde taem nd young lil jinki #a lil smiley sophomore and a helpful senior #lil math buds #being blushie and giggly and nuzzly and obnoxiously affectionate in public #i lov #they get ice cream and taem sits on jinkis leggie and just u w u wiggles and is a lil brat #also before i wrote this i was kinda thinking like mayb they did the kissie #but then i was like nah #but if they Did then taem wouldve wiggled into jinkis lap nd they wouldve been totes making out nd doin some butt touchies #and then taems like no wait i dont wanna frick #and jinkis like yeah ere young nd we should take more time and get to know each other more and rly make sure we wanna do it #and taems like well no i just promised myself that the first time i fricked would be in my own bed #and jinkis like Fuck #taem is v autistic lmao nd also dyslexic but he doesnt know that second part #until hes watching jinki study nd pouts like '''how can u read so fast when the letters keep wiggling all over the page'''#nd jinki just looks at him for a moment like Taemin Do U Have Dyslexia #and taems like whats that #and jinkis just .......i gotta finish studying but we'll research it on the weekend okay #and taems like ye okay sure and then they research it on the weekend over ice cream and taems like ...shit... that me... and jinkis like Yep #they go to target after nd buy taem lil reading tools so hes not so hecked up all the time its Good

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loudlytransparenttrash · 7 years

Text

Feminist fathers

So you’ve decided to ignore my advice about dating feminist men and you are okay with shitty, tamed, nervous sex where he has to ask for your consent before any time he touches you or kisses you. And you’ve decided you really like the whole no accountability and no consequences deal? Well now you must be wondering if perhaps your feminist boyfriend might make a pretty terrific feminist husband and feminist father to your children while you work 40 hours like a total badass. I’m all for baby makin so don’t let his feminist ways stop you from reproducing, but here are nine things to expect from a feminist father:

1. He will worry if you have a boy, he could be raising a future rapist

We all know that the only way to prevent rape is to teach these barbaric urges out of little boys before it’s too late. He will teach your son from the time he’s still shitting diapers that no one is entitled to sex and that he must see girls as human, not as a slab of meat. He will see your son as a possible perpetrator so he must have words scarred into his brain such as rape culture, gender-based violence, sexual assault, the male gaze and exploitation before he even learns the alphabet. Here’s an example of a feminist dad’s guide to teaching sons how not to grow up to be a rapist. If you mix hockey into the discussion, telling him not to rape people becomes so cool and relatable! My favorite part is when the son says, ‘Innocent until proven guilty, dad’ and the dad replies, ‘So you think she's lying!?’

2. He will worry if you have a girl, she will be disadvantaged in our society

It isn’t so bad, the feminist dad will provide your infant daughter with every advantage it is possible to give her from birth, more food, better food, toys, more soothing, more coddling, more of everything to ameliorate the disadvantages she will soon face in an educational system, labor market and governance structure designed to oppress her. He will teach her to evaluate her environment carefully and find the sexist reasons that are to blame for her failures and she will be protected from ever thinking her own actions might have contributed to any negative outcomes. “There, there sweetie. That swing hit you in the face because of gravity, which is a patriarchal construct designed to hold you down.”

3. He will be horrified when your son acts like a normal boy

The feminist dad will fret endlessly when your son turns sticks into guns and insists on issuing his gender neutral, realistically proportioned dolls. He will fret even more when your son turns his Fischer Price Kitchen into a meth lab where he makes poisonous concoctions and strategizes about how to defeat the bad guys. Your son will happily make Play-doh flowers with his Sitting Pretty Gardening set and then have his T-Rex dolls gleefully tear their heads off. When the teacher notices that your son seems overly interested in engaging with the world in a physical, exploratory, hands-on way, your feminist husband will agree this can only lead to bad outcomes and will insist on drugging him with handfuls of Ritalin so he can develop conformity, obedience and docility.

4. He will be horrified when your daughter acts like a normal girl

The feminist father will reassure your daughter that experiencing difficulties with math or science homework, or experiencing a lack of interest in these subjects is the result of the patriarchy refusing to acknowledge or support women in these traditionally masculine pursuits. He will spend a considerable amount of time going through the vast number of publicly financed programs and courses designed to engage girls with STEM when she just wants to play with her dolls, and he will remove all things pink, sparkly and pretty as that reinforces her submissive gender role which was created by the patriarchy. He will replace all her favorite Disney movies with the latest Ghostbusters movie while she turns all the toy dump trucks he has bought her into comfy beds for her unicorn collection.

5. He will be happy when your daughter starts dressing like a slut

Eventually your daughter will morph from frilly princess dresses into push up bras, thongs, tiny tight dresses and skirts and the sooner this happens, the more satisfied the feminist father will be. He will be proud when perfect strangers stammer “She’s how old? My god..” in the grocery store and he will encourage her to explore her sexuality so she can discover her very own gender. He will take her on slut walks and teach her that anyone who even turns their head at her “I <3 Cock” crop top is just a gross pedophilic misogynist who hates women and should be denounced publicly as such. He will happily make the denouncement for her.

6. He will teach your son humiliation is good for the male psyche

When your son buys the same shirt he saw the astrophysicist on TV wearing, the feminist dad will lecture him that he does not understand how clothing choices can have an impact, often severe, on those around him. He will want to punish your son by refusing to take him to the “Walk A Mile In Her Shoes” event, thereby denying him the opportunity to understand how patriarchal beauty standards negatively affect women and effectively cripple them by forcing them to choose to wear heels. The feminist father will ultimately decide that it is important for your son to experience the humiliation and disabling effects of patriarchy, but not before forcing your son to burn his beloved shirt and repeat “I must not make women uncomfortable with my clothing choices” one thousand times.

7. He will teach your daughter that regret can be called rape

The feminist dad will become visibly upset when your daughter asks to be enrolled in mixed martial arts classes so she can deal with asshats, both male and female, who might threaten her with harm or actively attempt to harm her. He will patiently explain to her that self-defence contributes to rape culture and victim-blaming and that she must never even think that risk management behaviors are appropriate or intelligent. He will reassure her that all sexual choices are contingent upon how she feels at any particular moment before, during or after said choices are made, and that she does not need any way to back up her decisions and should simply demand compliance, although this request for compliance does not need to be stated or indicated in any way. Your daughter will learn that it is the responsibility of her sexual partners to determine how she feels or may come to feel about any given situation and she is not to blame for any adverse outcomes that may arise.

8. If your son succeeds, he will be told to check his privilege

If your son is white and heterosexual, your feminist husband will convey to your son at every opportunity that he is privileged over all women everywhere in all circumstances and he must take steps to address his privilege and apologize and never question those less privileged than himself. He will be taken to view homeless men living in a city park and be given real world examples of how men participate in street harassment by creating mildly annoying conditions for some women. Your son will be instructed in how to blame himself and all his fellow straight white males for all irritations that cause women the slightest degree of discomfort. He will learn that his accomplishments are not the result of hard work, effort, intelligence and perseverance, but the result of the patriarchy producing unearned benefits for people who work hard and persevere in the face of obstacles.

9. He will teach your son that violence is only a male thing

Your feminist husband will teach your son that he must never, ever hit a woman under any circumstances and even if he ends up with a black eye or a hatchet in the head or a beer glass embedded in his face, he must always ask what he did to deserve it and resolve to be a better person. He will be taught “bystander intervention” and he will learn that he is expected to physically and forcefully intervene without concern for risk to his own safety whenever he sees a woman being subjected to anything that might be considered unpleasant or exasperating. Your feminist husband will be confident in his approach to raising children as he’s the ideal, non-threatening feminist ally, the only type of man worth keeping around in a feminist world, that’s all that matters, right? Even if it does make your children miserable, guilt and anxiety ridden trainwrecks.

#feminism #anti feminism #anti feminist #feminist #radfem #social justice #anti sjw #sjw #feminism1

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madness-of-void · 7 years

Text

The Luna

Also on AO3

Theme: Pack Mom Stiles (with a twist)

Oh! And check out this link! You’ll find out why ;3

Stiles has no idea when or why he was dubbed the Pack Mom.

In fact, he had no idea he was dubbed Pack Mom.

Didn't start realizing it till until his birthday.

And it all started with Jackson.

Jackson gave him a mug that said World's Best Mom. At first, he thought it was just Jackson being Jackson. Because, well, even after finally accepting the fact that he was part of a pack (which was before Scott's acceptation), Jackson was still a massive douche. Barely calmed down at all.

After Stiles put down the mug, rolling his eyes, he opened his gift from Erica.

Which was an apron. An apron obviously designed in a fifties rockabilly fashion with a pink and white polka dot tie, pocket, neck strap, and bottom trimming. The rest of it was an elegant yellow, adorned with different colored cupcakes. Erica was smirking as he gaped at it in stunned silence. Everyone else, with the exception of Derek (who was just as stunned as Stiles), was laughing hysterically. He didn't understand why he was given such a frilly apron, but hah! Joke's on Erica! He liked it and was going to wear the shit out of this apron when he cooked and baked for the pack!

(No, really. He loved it. A lot.)

On his third gift, a necklace with a bear charm that had Mama etched into it...Stiles finally got the joke.

“Oh, haha. Very funny guys. Just because I like to make sure you losers eat healthy, and are patched up from your scuffles, doesn't mean I'm your mother.”

“Right. He is not our mother.” Lydia said haughtily

For a split second, Stiles was in love with her all over again. Until...

“He would have to be married to Derek for him to be our mother.”

Aaaaaand instant hatred. For the lot of them.

Except for Derek, who looked equally displeased with all of this.

Gift after gift...they were all themed in some way that he was the Pack Mom. Even Scott, even Allison, gave him mom themed gifts. It was growing pretty disheartening. He was losing his birthday cheer, looking gloomier and gloomier with each gift.

Then came Derek's.

It was a large as hell box. Could fit a litter of puppies plus the mother if needed. Which, with how he was feeling, a litter of puppies would be amazing right about now.

Instead, there was a brand new Mets cap, a new glove, a black duffle bag with sewn on Mets patches, an array of jerseys, and...and...

“Are these tickets to a Mets game?! At the actual stadium?!”

Derek ducked his head, sucking on his cheek and poorly hiding the red tints rising on his ears. “You said that you wanted to go. I could...I could sell them if you don't want them...”

“Are you kidding?! No way! Mine! No take backs! No take backs on anything you gave me!”

Stiles didn't miss the tension leaving the alpha's shoulders. Nor the fond grin that emerged.

Nothing after that could kill his mood. And fortunately, Derek must've set a trend, because there were no more mom themed gifts.

Kira got him a wolf hat that flowed into a scarf, or something of the like, that had wolf paws where he could but his hands in. And a fox beanie that she knitted herself!

His dad got him a whole bundle of yarn for his crime board, and markers to go with them.

Melissa got him a new plaid shirt with a massive black pawprint on the back that had his last name on it. (She insisted it wasn't a fortune to have it custom made, but Stiles didn't buy it for a moment and vowed to buy her a nice dinner when he could.)

Argent got him a Batman shirt. And a lot of cash. Like...a lot.

Then, it was discovered that everyone else had actually got him real gifts. The whole mom theme was just a joke based on how much Stiles really did behaved like a mom friend.

“Excuse you! I am not the mom friend!”

“You kinda are, dude...” Scott said with what could only be described as a cringe face.

“Am not!”

“Stiles...you really are.” Boyd sighed. “You take care of everyone. Not just your dad.”

“You soccer mommed me the other day.” Isaac pointed out. “You do that a lot, actually. More than Allison.”

“And I already do that a lot.” echoed Allison, shrugging.

“What? You don't like being our mom?” pouted Erica.

Stiles flushed, realizing that, yeah, maybe he was the mom friend. But that didn't mean anyone could torture him with that fact!

“Anyone that calls me mom again is...is grounded!” he huffed, nearly slamming down the Catwoman plush Erica got him. “And I hope you guys give all these mom themed gifts to the actual mom in this room! Except for the apron. That I'm keeping. And, just so you know, you have all been demoted, and Derek is officially my favorite person. Kira is still my second fave. No demotion for her.”

“What am I? Chopped liver?” his dad huffed in an eerily same way as his son. “I'm the one that suggested to Derek to get you Mets crap! Which, good on those tickets, Derek. That's been something he's wanted to do since he was five.”

Stiles looked over at Derek, who was bright red at this point, and cooed.

“Awwww! You asked my dad what to get me? You really do care!”

“Of course daddy cares...” grumbled Jackson with an eye roll.

Immediately, the entire room filled with disapproving shouts and gagging sounds. Lydia had to explain about the whole daddy kink fad, which was what Jackson deserved. Be scarred forever, Whittemore!

The party started to go by without incident. No more mom jokes, at least...

(Okay, that's a lie. Erica made one when Stiles decided to wear the apron as he made dinner.)

As the night wore on, everyone tried to weasel Stiles into giving them the second Mets ticket. Everyone but his father, Melissa, Argent, Kira, Allison, Lydia, and Derek.

His father declined, saying that he had seen enough Mets games in his lifetime. Melissa, Argent, Lydia, and Allison all informed Stiles that they weren't interested in baseball. Kira, although she liked baseball, wasn't a Mets fan, so she wouldn't be able to share his joy as much as she thought was deserved. Derek just kept to himself like always, only really lingering around Stiles when he was asked to help out with something.

Everyone else, however, tried to be all sweet to him. Tried to win him over.

For a time.

“C'mon, mom. You love me more than my other siblings.” Erica teased, arm wrapped around him.

Stiles scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Okay...you know what? Why do I have to be the mom? Why can't you guys have two Pack Dads? What's so wrong with that? And no. You are not coming with me, Erica. Boyd would die of a lonely, broken heart.”

“So...you want to be Pack Dad with Derek?” mused Lydia, this glint of knowing in her stare. “I like the sound of that.”

“I don't like the tone of your voice...”

“Why don't you take Derek to the game? Bond over the love of the game and your children.”

“You're not our children.” finally grunted Derek, ears bright red.

“Some of us kinda are. You did turn us.” Isaac said matter-of-factly.

“Then you're all terrible children.”

“Is this a werewolf thing?” asked the sheriff. “Because this whole Pack Mom, Pack Dad, Pack Dads talk is really, really weird.”

“I think it's just a them thing.” Argent replied with a sigh.

“It's no one's thing!” snapped Stiles. “I get it. I am a mom friend. I fuss over you idiots like I do with my dad. I try to take care of you and patch you up. But why do I have to be called the Pack Mom? Why can't I be Pack Dad? Or just Stiles? Can this not be a joke? Can we just...drop it? Please?”

That was the end of the Pack Mom jokes. The Pack Dad jokes.

At least for a while.

It was pack night a few weeks later when they made a reappearance.

Stiles was in Derek's kitchen, baking treats for the marathon of movies they were going to have. Derek was beside him, helping out and (surprisingly) making small talk. They mostly talked about the upcoming Mets games, since Stiles actually did decide to take Derek. They were cheerful, something rare for the alpha to show freely, and were enjoying each others company.

And then came the pack.

Scott arrived first, brows furrowed in confusion as he saw the interaction between his best friend and alpha. Kira followed closely behind, except she looked more excited than confused. Everyone else that filed in either gave Stiles and Derek weird looks (because apparently Derek smiling and laughing freely was considered unthinkable), or smirked suggestively at Stiles. It was creepy...

“Oh. Are mom and dad making us treats? And flirting? Yuck. Get a room.” Jackson snorted, waltzing in last like always.

Before Stiles could slam down his whisk and tell ex snakeskin to kindly fuck off...

“We are in a room. In my apartment.” spat Derek, eyes flashing red. “If you don't like what goes on in my own apartment, with whoever it is I am speaking or flirting with, then you can leave. And I think Stiles said to drop the Pack Mom jokes.”

Jackson made a disgusted, bratty face, doing some form of sarcastic jazz hands. “Fine. Dad and dad. Whatever. Just don't start pissing on him. Nobody wants him. He's all yours.”

“Hey! Werewolves don't piss on things to mark their territory!” Stiles barked. He then turned to Derek, voice in a low, hushed whisper, asking, “Do they?”

Derek threw him a glare, telling him, with mostly the eyebrows, that no, werewolves don't pee on things to mark them as theirs. Which, yeah. Stiles knew that. Totally knew it.

(Okay, maybe he didn't know. He had a hunch, but Wiki had been wrong before.)

“Wait...were you flirting with Stiles?” Scott inquired, his voice a little high and startled.

“You can't smell it?” scoffed Erica.

“It is so painfully obvious...” sighed Lydia.

“H-hey! We can hear you!” Stiles piped, face breaking out in embarrassed blotches. “We are in the next room!”

“Maybe then you'll finally get it on and save us from smelling or watching the pathetic pining.” retorted Boyd. (Surprisingly, 'cause Boyd never clapped back like that.)

“But then we'd smell the smugness and the s-” Isaac started to whine.

“Shut up!” shouted the men in the kitchen, both sharing the red coloration.

“Yeah. No need for the image of our dads going at it...” mumbled Jackson.

“We are not your dads!” Stiles bellowed, chucking the spoon he was using into the sink. “And I am not your mom! Come make your shit yourselves! I'm out!”

That wasn't a threat. Stiles literally stormed through the living room and out the door. He was done with this. Sick of being teased over something so stupid and pointless. Honestly...who even came up with it in the first place? When did it even get thought up?! Whoever thought of it, shared it with the pack, and decided to make sure it would haunt Stiles whenever it would be deemed fun should be locked in a room with wolfsbane petals!

(Not really. He would never condone something like that. Even though he was pissed off at them.)

As he was about to climb into his Jeep, a hand wrapped around his arm, stopping him mid sitting down. Which was not comfortable at all. He twisted around to the best of his abilities to see who it was. And, no surprise, it was Derek. Dejected as al -

Wait.

No.

He looked...

Kind of sad?

Stiles tried to not read too much into it. Or tried to pretend he wasn't, at least. “What? Gonna drag me back in there to hear them say sorry for the Pack Mom-Pack Dad crap, then do it all over again when they think I forgot it?”

Derek shook his head, biting at the inside of his lip. He was...incredibly vulnerable looking right now. It was weird. Maybe a bit concerning.

“Uhhhh...you okay there, Der? You have this look that kinda makes it seem like you may start crying? Are you gonna start crying? I'm not good with crying, man. I am worse with crying than I am with blood. I'm better with crying than needles...but that's not the point. The point is this: I can't do crying. I'm a sympathetic crier, too. So...please don't cry...”

“I'm not gonna cry, Stiles.” the wolf huffed, rolling his eyes. “I'm here to tell you that I knew someone who got teased just like this.”

“You...did? Who?”

There was a hesitant pause. Much swallowing, too. Like this was going to be difficult to say.

Stiles was about to tell him to not worry about. That he was going to suck it up and resign to his fate. But he was beaten to the chase by a semi choked up Derek Hale.

“My dad.”

Those words made Stiles' eyes round in horror and awe. Horror because, oh hell, Derek may actually cry since, well, the guy never talked about his family for probably the same reason Stiles didn't talk about his mother. Awe because, holy shit, Derek was talking about a member of his family with him. Him! Of all people! If Derek had talked about his family with almost anyone else, mostly someone like Kira or Melissa or even his own dad, that would've made much more sense!

But...him?

“When he was dating my mother, he was dubbed the Pack Mom for the same reasons you are. He cooked and baked, worried about everyone, fussed about health. Which, someone had to. My mother was being groomed to be the next alpha. And she couldn't cook worth a damn.”

The small chuckle that escaped the wolf made Stiles' heart and stomach do somersaults. The shy head dip to hide the equally shy smile and eye crinkle nearly made him fall right out of the Jeep. (And he was barely in it in the first place!)

“It drove him nuts. Not because it was killing his masculinity or anything. But because it almost sounded like a negative to him. Like he was being called a mother because he was doing stereotypical things for a woman. And to him...that wasn't right. Especially when Peter always made it sound like it was a negative.”

“Your dad was ahead of his time...”

“Well, he was dating a strong woman. Eventually married that strong woman. He didn't like the title being said negatively.”

“I don't blame him...”

Derek nodded, a sad smile crossing his lips. “My mother wasn't too keen with it, either. Mostly because it bothered my father. So she took him to my grandfather to discuss a new title. One that didn't feel like it was being said in a teasing, negative manner. They discussed Alpha's Mate. But...Alpha's Mate was...”

“Piling his worth into just being the alpha's pet, or something like that?”

Another nod. “That was vetoed real quick. Vice Alpha was a bit more formal, which was my grandfather's issue with the Pack Mom title, it wasn't formal, but my mother hated it. Dad didn't mind it, but he understood why his wife hated it. How it sounded like a pressured title.”

“Are you saying that he didn't find something else for him to be called and he was doomed to forever be called Pack Mom?”

He shook his head, a strange seriousness enveloping him. “No. He was given the highest title an outsider of the Pack could be given.”

“Which is...?”

“The Luna.”

Stiles blinked, understandably confused. The Luna? What in the hell was The Luna?

“The Luna is the highest honor in the pack. The right hand, the partner, the equal to the alpha. Not just a second-in-command. Something greater. Higher than a mate, even. And that already is high in the werewolf world, even though it does sound a little downgrading to some. If you insult The Luna, harm The Luna, anger The Luna, do anything that would be disrespectful to The Luna...there are consequences. Depending on what is done to The Luna, the consequences can be benign or severe. Mom thought that was perfect for my father, who was as much of a provider as she was going to be. Maybe even more so. My grandfather wasn't too keen on it, especially because my father was not only an outsider to the pack...but a human. Thought it was too high of an honor. My mother fought tooth and nail till it was announced that dad was going to be The Luna.”

That was...wow. That was a lot to take in. And it was mind blowing to find out that tad bit about Derek's family. He had assumed that the Hales were all werewolves, with the exception of the few he had heard about from Argent.

“I didn't know that your dad was human...” he finally said in a small voice, sitting fully in the driver's seat now.

“I tell you all of that...and that's what you got out of it?”

“N-no! Not at all! Just...I...I just...I heard that there were some humans that were in the fire...I just...”

“Didn't think any of them were part of my immediate family?”

“Kinda?”

Derek shrugged, a melancholy glimmer in his kaleidoscope stare. “An aunt, three cousins, an uncle, my dad, and my youngest brother were all human.”

“You had a brother?”

“Yeah...his name was Leoric. Leo for short. He idolized me. Tried to be just like me. Our bonding time was us in the kitchen, baking cookies with dad. Or playing baseball. He was the youngest one to die...only six...”

“Oh fuck...Derek...I'm...you know...”

“Sorry? Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

There was solemn silence between them. Hung sourly, chillingly in the air.

Until Stiles timidly broke it.

“So...why did you tell me all that? Besides saying that you knew somebody that knows my sudden pain?”

Derek's ears went bright red, which started to bleed down to his cheeks. Didn't take long before it clicked, and Stiles was eternally grateful he decided to actually sit down in his Jeep. Because if he was still half up and half not...he would've face planted it onto the gravel beneath him.

“Wait...are you...are you telling me that you want to make me The Luna?” he gawked in disbelief. “Holy shit! You were flirting with me! That wasn't just those assholes teasing us! Oh my god! You like me!”

“I know. I'm surprised by it, too.”

“But...that title? The Luna? Are you kidding me? That's way too high of an honor!”

“And you deserve it.”

Stiles leaned into his seat, gaping and unable to understand the magnitude. It was a bit overwhelming. And it was...surreal...to hear that Derek wanted to give him the same title that his dad had. He wanted to decline it, because he didn't feel worthy in the slightest. It would be a dishonor to Derek's late father.

The amount of faith and trust Derek had to give Stiles this title was...astronomical.

“We'll talk about it with the pack tomorrow. Hopefully it will make this whole parent thing go away.”

“Huh? Tomorrow? Aren't you taking me back up there?”

“No. I'm taking you on a date. The 'kids' have the phone number for the pizza place.”

“What about the stuff we were baking?”

“Isaac knows how to use the food sealer. He promised to seal them and put them in the freezer. Allison and Kira are helping him.”

Stiles nodded, face scrunched up in skepticism. “You said you're taking me on a date?”

“Yes?”

“O-o-okay. Cool. Yeah. Awesome. A date. Um...wow...you were really flirting with me...”

“Proper response to you flirting with me.”

“Oh...oh, I was told you didn't notice that. That's what I get for trusting Scott. Then again...he does miss a lot of things.”

Derek chuckled, a true blue smile following suit. Then, he grabbed Stiles' knees, carefully pulling him out of the Jeep. There was a playful fire in his eyes. Something Stiles hadn't really seen to this caliber before. Made his heart race and his skin buzz.

“Come on. Let's go celebrate your new title in the pack.” cooed Derek, obviously knowing what he was doing to Stiles.

Asshole. Big, huge, pain in the ass asshole.

But a cute asshole.

Who promoted him to the highest honor in a werewolf pack because...he saw his father in him? Or maybe it was because the broody wolf really enjoyed Stiles' company? Who knows? No matter the reason, it was humbling to know that he was trusted and valued enough in Derek's eyes to have the same title as his father. To be The Luna.

And humbled that he was told some things about the late Hales. Maybe in the future he would learn more. He sure hoped so. Because Derek taking Stiles on a date? Smiling like that? Opening up? There was no way in hell that Stiles was going to let go any time soon.

Or ever.

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carryonmyobscurialson-blog · 7 years

Text

Mr. Graves Maid Obscurial

Note: Remember that Ms. Kobayashi’s Maid Dragon inspired Gradence fic I said I’d write? Well while I was drunk as shit the other night, I totally did.

Pairing: Original Percival Graves/Credence Barebone (obviously)

Summary: Tina is not allowed to have men over at her apartment. Credence needs a place to live. What's a girl to do? Other than use magic to pass him off as Christine, a young girl working as her maid because she's desperate for employment.But...was the super short maid's dress really that necessary?Queenie thinks so.Tina's boss at MACUSA, Mr. Graves, might be of a different opinion, however.

Under the cut!

"I understand altering his features but is the dress really necessary?"

Tina and Queenie inspected Credence -- or rather Christine --- as he trembled before them in much too short French maids dress. The ends of the frilly black and white skirt barely touched the top of his knees --- knees that weren't quite his own.

Credence was in need of a place to stay, and Tina's apartment complex did not allow for men to inhabit it. So, the Goldstein sisters had gone about the only plausible course of action -- they changed the few masculine features that Credence possessed in order to pass him off as female.

The dress was Queenie's idea.

"I think the dress is cute." Queenie giggled mischievously, Tina rolling her eyes beside her, "Don't fret honey, you look fine. We need to be convincing now, don't we?"

"What maid dresses like that?!?" Tina exclaimed with exasperation.

"Lots," Queenie responded vaguely before the blonde Goldstein scurried away before she could be interrogated further.

Tina sighed and turned back to Credence, smiling sympathetically, "You do look quite nice."

Credence returned the smile tersely but didn't say anything back. Instead, he turned to inspect himself in the mirror for the hundredth time that afternoon.

The Goldstein sisters had grown out his hair, that much he was grateful for -- the ugly bowl haircut was now an impressive mane of regal black locks, extending just past his shoulders. Credence didn't miss the bowl cut, and he didn't think he ever would.

The other stuff, he was a little more apprehensive about.

For starters, they had straightened out his nose, as well as made it just a smidge smaller in both length and width. They made his cheekbones just a bit higher, and somehow seemed to have magicked some kind of permanent blush on there.

The lips were the same -- the lips were plump and red enough to belong to a boy or a girl. There were only a few other altercations, in order to make himself "convincingly" feminine. It's not that he wasn't already, but they needed to make sure that the no maj's had no reason to raise question or doubt that this was Christine – a dainty, timid looking young girl who had come to the Goldstein sisters desperate for work. Tina, out of the goodness of her heart – which isn't a scenario that was out of character – had agreed to give her a housekeeping position.

He reached out to touch his own reflection staring back at him, both yearning and disquiet churning at his stomach and tugging at his heart. One part of his mind saw an abomination; the other saw someone he should have been if there were truly a loving and benevolent God above, a God who loved him.

Overall, Credence saw someone beautiful. And that was just the problem:

He didn't feel like he was supposed to be.

When Percival Graves visited the Goldstein's, Credence had intended to stay in his room. While was fully aware it was the true Percival Graves, one of the few humans who had shown him some compassion before Grindelwald had taken on his face, Credence still had no intention of reliving any nostalgic feelings quite yet. He had intended to tidy up the place as was his job (if anyone asked), and Credence was just going to board himself in his bedroom and not come back out until preferably the next morning.

Of course, as luck would have it, that's not what happened at all.

Credence hadn't even heard the door open, or anyone exchanging greetings. He had been setting the table one hour before Mr. Graves was even due to arrive when the asshole came sauntering into the room with that confident air that he had not lost an ounce of since Credence had last seen him.

Credence froze with his hand still setting down a fork.

Mr. Graves halted at the sight of him, as though he had hit some kind of invisible brick wall in his path.

Behind Mr. Graves, Tina panted as she sprinted over to them -- perhaps wanting to have stopped Mr. Graves before he could encounter Credence.

Obviously, it was too late for that.

"Mr...Mr. Graves...." She huffed and heaved, "This is Christine, our new help."

Mr. Graves nodded slowly as he spoke, his eyes still not leaving Credence's, "Christine. I see."

Credence put on his best Christine voice, lightening it just an octave, "N—nice to meet you, Mr. Graves."

"Likewise." Mr. Graves nodded curtly, finally seeming to gather himself. He cleared his throat and turned back to Tina, "So, pot roast you said?"

Credence took the opportunity to run back to his room, silverware arrangements forgotten. He was relieved beyond measure when no one tried to stop him.

The next morning, Queenie came to his bedroom. She knocked gingerly, and Credence opened the door to see her standing in her pink bathrobe, a steaming coffee mug in her hand. A smirk played on her lips.

"Good morning honey! So that Mr. Graves is really interested in employing your cleaning services, ya know?" Queenie purred slyly, taking a sip from her mug.

"Oh... I couldn't... I mean, I'm not even really..." Credence stammered, his face probably already going red. He did help around the Goldstein's sure, he didn't intend to just twiddle his fingers while he stayed here. Still, Credence highly doubted he could pass off as a true maid. He wasn't even entirely sure if Mr. Graves had bought his new identity.

"Maybe it's time for you to start paying some rent." She mused, but she said it with a smile playing at her already glossy lips, "Mr. Graves is a very rich man. I'm sure he plays very... handsomely. Who knows? Maybe he'll talk you on full time."

Credence swallowed hard.

"I..."

Before he could offer a real response, Queenie handed him a small slip of paper.

It had an address scrawled on it in elegant writing. Handwriting that Credence somehow knew belonged to Mr. Graves. He wondered if Mr. Graves had truly been the one to bring up the subject, to make this offer --- or if this was truly the offer he had made. Maybe he did buy into the secret identity.

After a moment's hesitation, Credence took it into unnaturally slender fingers -- fingers that weren't quite his own, with nail polish shining on trimmed nail tips.

"Don't worry." Queenie winked at him after taking another sip of her coffee, "He doesn't know who you are, I checked his thoughts to make sure."

Queenie strode away, and as he watched her leave Credence noticed she had a remarkably similar swagger to Percival's -- they both swung their hips with the air of someone who knew there would always be people lusting after those hips... or what was between the hips.

Damn them.

Credence found himself on Percival Graves doorstep less than 24 hours later. He was still wearing the dress.

Tina had given him various other things to wear, but much to Queenie's telling amusement, they almost always seemed to vanish.

So, the dress it was.

Tina had insisted that he looked good in it.

Right?

Queenie has assured him Mr. Graves didn't know who he was anyway.

Right?

The door swung open before he could even knock on it -- Percival Graves stood there in a silk black bathrobe. Credence inhaled sharply.

"Christine." Mr. Graves smirked, "Come on in. "

Trying not to have a panic attack right there and then, Credence shuffled in past Mr. Graves. He had hoped the Auror hadn't noticed him staring... but he probably did, the observant bastard.

Credence let himself into the large brownstone, the brownstone he had always wondered about the interior of. Everything was in place, organized spick and span. There was not a dust mite or bunny in sight. Credence wasn't entirely sure what it was Mr. Graves needed tidying.

Credence turned to Mr. Graves, who was pouring a dark red liquid into a wine glass, presumably wine.

Trying not to sound too intimidated, Credence cleared his throat and remarked, "Quite the place you have here Mr. Graves. I'm.."

"Cut the crap Credence."

Credence gaped openly, and Mr. Graves smirked -- which Credence was starting to think was just a default expression for the brazen bastard.

"You... you didn't ask me here to clean, did you... sir?"

"Nope." Percival grinned slyly before he took a sip from his wine glass.

"How... how did you know?" Credence squeaked, feeling dumb and awed and seduced all at the same time, "Queenie said..."

"I'd recognize those lips anywhere, darling." Percival shook his head. He took a step forward and out of reflex Credence took a step back, "...but what the hell did those gals do to your face?"

Credence absently patted at his own jawline, magically altered to seem a bit more dainty. "They made me beautiful. Like a girl. Like my sisters had been. There's no men allowed at the Goldstein's apartment, so I had to look like a girl, really."

Mr. Graves' expression was not shy in it's abhorrence."Heaven's, no.", he growled lowly, the words dripping with distaste.

He whipped out his wand out of his robe pocket, and Credence flinched. Percival sighed, but he still tapped the end of the wand to the tip of Credence's nose.

"Revelio."

In a swift succession of tickling sensations in various areas, the magical mask came undone.

Credence found himself cowering without it; as though Mr. Graves had never seen his true appearance before. He felt shame burning upwards through his cheeks and spilling out of his eyes through brimming tears.

Mr. Graves gently tilted Credence's chin so that he had no choice but to face him.

"Look at me..." Mr. Graves whispered softly, running a thumb over his naked, flawed, and ugly face.

Credence obeyed, and his heart fluttered under the gaze of his old friend -- the man once viewed as his personal Jesus; and then as his personal Judas.

"Much better..." Mr. Graves crooned before smiling a genuine, heartfelt smile. It was something he had never seen on Percival Graves before – neither original nor doppelganger – but it was truly one of the most beautiful things Credence had seen in his very ugly life. The older man dove in for a kiss more passionate, with lips more hungry and reassuring than Credence had imagined in his wildest daydreams.

When they parted, Credence was breathless. His vision blurred from tears and euphoria and delirium. He panted where he stood, at a loss for words.

Mr. Graves chuckled darkly, remarking as he walked off, "I'll be writing Tina to tell her you've found new employment then, eh my boy?"

Credence could only nod dumbly, straightening out the skirt of his French maids dress in a weak attempt to hide his shaking knees that were very much his own.

#credence barebone #percival graves #gradence #gravebone #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fbawtft

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