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belphiesgirlfriend · 9 months

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Judging Obey me! Brothers bedrooms/hcs cause why not

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Lucifer:

• freakishly neat

• like you know those people that are so perfect/symmetrical that they’re almost scary, that’s his room

• type of guy to say “ah i was just tidying up, this place is such a mess!” and one thing on his desk is moved a centimeter to the left

• satan and belphie definitely come in there sometimes and move everything off by an inch

• it fucking enrages him

• he gets on the brothers asses to clean their rooms

• they don’t listen

• at most, if he’s drunk or had a really long day he might leave his clothes on the floor or his toothbrush out

• he’s such an old man he’d be doing math equations to fold his fucking sheets exactly

• really though, i feel like it’s a total control thing

• i mean my dudes entire life is out of his control, a pride demon, who’s very about control

• his brothers don’t really listen to him, he’s indebted to diavolo, etc.

• i think it probably brings him a lot of comfort to have one controlled space for himself, where he knows where everything is and has everything how he wants it

• sorry got a little deep but yk

• also???? the skeleton dude??????

• like i love him he’s iconic BUT WHY LMAO

• imagine you wake up in the middle of the night AND IT FUCKING MOVES

• nah i’d be packing my bags and staying at purgatory hall for the rest of the week thank you!

• coming back with a bible and some holy water

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Mammon:

• complete and utter 180

• his room is such a mess it’s a problem

• plates, glasses, ramen cups, wrappers, all over his nightstand and floor

• when the garbage is going out he’ll come down the stairs balancing so much trash he could make a goddamn acrobat jealous😭

• only thing that’s truly spotless is his car

• if you nag him enough he’ll clean up a bit though, though definitely complain

• clothes are a whole other thing, he has an insane amount of clothing, not more than asmo, but a genuinely absurd amount

• because of this, his floor is always covered in clothes

• his room is probably one of the messiest, rivaled only by belphie

• but mammon definitely wins by a long shot

• the biggest reason his rooms a mess is just cause of the pure amount of stuff he has

• bros a grade A hoarder, he’s got stuff in there you didn’t even think existed

• he also just,, isn’t in his room super often

• he likes going out and doing stuff, plus he’s usually working jobs + modeling to fund his spending

• and if he’s not, then he’s probably in mc’s room so it makes sense he doesn’t care as much

• his bathroom though…is surprisingly clean

•on the surface at least

• he’s got a shit ton of skincare and hygiene products, some makeup too (definitelyyy not stolen from asmo)

• he’s a model so he definitely takes good care of himself

• though..i don’t think he’d ever deep clean his bathroom, or know to, if you asked him he’d be like “what no?? the sink cleans itself with the water!”💀

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Levi:

• his room really isn’t all that dirty

• i mean he’s in there all the time so it’s at the very least habitable

• his biggest issue is really just having a bunch of dirty dishes he’s too “busy” to take down to the kitchen

• his idea of busy is being huddled up in blankets watching season 3 of “I’m a generic anime protagonist who just met a really pretty girl at school but i’m painfully socially awkward and then i find out she’s my childhood friend who moved away???”

• his figures though…

• shockingly well taken care of, like he’s literally the perfect owner he cleans and dusts them obsessively

• if anyone touches them, he knows.

• he has them positioned in a very specific way, he’s able to notice even the slightest discrepancy

• he’s a really good caretaker to the things he cares about

• henry 2.0 for example, his tank is always spotless, he’s well fed and treated very well.

• levi is also very hygienic, he takes good care of himself too generally,

• though he sometimes needs to be reminded to eat, drink, sleep, etc. cause of a new anime or game coming out

•when that happens he’s even more holed up in his room, if he’s close with the mc he might drag them with him, prepare yourself to be trapped in there

• his setup is godly, i don’t know much about pc building but i know he has the good shit

• you’ve seen his room, bro has 4 monitors WHO NEEDS THAT MANY?!?!?!?

• got the mic with the pop filter too you know he’s absolutely violating the other people in the cod lobby

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Satan:

• messy, but not dirty

• cluttered would probably be the best word

• his main issue is just his INSANE amount of books and cat hair…lots of cat hair.

• when he’s fostering a cat his bed is covered in the stuff it’s horrible

• the cat may be cute but the full sized scarf you can make out of its hair sure isn’t!

• you better hope your mc isn’t allergic cause you literally won’t be able to enter his room if you are

• not to say he doesn’t clean it, cause he does, he has that sticky rolly thingy

•but i swear to god it’s like it’s glitter THERES ALWAYS MORE😭😭

• his books are a fucking hazard

• cause why are the stacks so high and so close to his bed💀

• i know for a fact they’ve collapsed on him while he was sleeping

• multiple times

• he’s learned not to keep any cursed books in the stacks by his bed as a result of this

• also with that fucking candle right there???????

• bro has no self preservation skills apparently

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Asmo:

• goes without saying, he’s neat

• not a clean freak like lucifer, but he likes to have everything in order to make his life easier

• his makeup and skincare especially, he has a mini fridge for it and all

• an absurd amount of perfume too, his room is like a bath and body works but with more high end stuff

• this extends to his bags too, if your out or at RAD and need perfume he’s gonna pull out like 6 and be like “take your pick!”

• but back to his room, his room smells so fucking good

• it also just has a really calming energy, it’s very comfy

• he’s strict though, no outside clothes on his bed, shoes off at the door, etc. etc.

• there’s usually a lot of bags around from his shopping sprees

• type of dude to have a white noise machine or something when he sleeps just get that vibe from him

• another clutter guy, his room is one of the best with cleanliness, but there’s lots of stuff in his room, it’s cute though, he pulls it off

• i really don’t have any complaints about his room at all, it’s cute and clean so he gets a pass

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Beel:

•hmmm

•i’m putting beel and belphie’s separate cause i’m criticizing their separate sides

• he’s not overly clean but not overly dirty either

• his room really is a perfect limbo

• except for his bed

• his bed is fucking disgusting

• i just know theres crumbs EVERYWHERE

• you lie in his bed and it makes a fucking crunch sound

• okay joking he’s not that nasty, i’m sure he’d probably change his sheets frequently

• if for no other reason, cause of belphie getting annoyed at him cause his beds uncomfy to lay on

• but with all the midnight snacking he does i would not be surprised if he brought half the fridge back with him at night

• his room itself i’m thinking is pretty clean, probably some clothes on the floor etc, but he never lets it get too bad

• unlike some people (i am staring directly at mammon and belphie)

• when he has his midnight escapades he pretty much always brings the dishes back in the morning so it’s not a huge problem.

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Belphie:

• clothes everywhere

• him and mammon definitely are the worst offenders

• but listen he probably doesn’t let it get nearly as bad as mammons cause of him trying to be considerate of beel

• but if he was in a room alone…good god

• he just simply doesn’t have the energy to put shit away

• some things will sit on his floor for weeks, months, years, decades, before he moves it

• a lot of the time it winds up being beel who grabs his stuff and puts it where it’s supposed to be

• this is why he’s such a brat, always getting spoiled smh

• his bed though..

• the most comfortable thing you will ever have the privilege of laying on

• there’s so many blankets and a shitload of pillows, it smells good, ur instantly so warm and comfy and the mattress is so soft you literally sink into it

• it feels like you’re literally on a cloud you’ll never find a better sleeping spot

• no wonder he never wants to get up

• i cant help but think that the twins room is a little boring, so it’s hard to give a lot of commentary on it

• i wish there was more personality like with the other bedrooms in the HOL

• seriously though they gave them the 2017 opposite twins sims 4 speedbuild delux😭

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#omswd #shall we date obey me #obey me boys #leviathan obey me #mammonobeyme #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphie #obey me belphegor #obey me lucifer #obey me asmodeus #asmo obey me #beelzebub obey me #belphegor obey me #obey me mammon #x reader #obey me x mc

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skullfck · 1 year

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@unpossession SAID: Dear Hawk,

It’s late at night, you’ve just left (about an hour ago) and I keep wishing that you hadn’t; a letter will have to make up for the loss of your company. I’m still drunk, so please forgive my messy handwriting-

editors note: her handwriting is perfect. neat, girlish swirls for o’s, loopy l’s and perfect polka dots punctuate the i’s. each letter connected by a seemingly effortless swoosh of her pen. black ink barely smudged. she must be shitting him.

-and please also forgive any mushy, gushy talk that might come out of this. By morning I might have come to my senses and decided not to post (mail) this at all, but knowing me I will. I think it’s important to be earnest. When you care about somebody you should say it. Also, apparently I am just a fan of embarrassing myself out of commitment to the bit. Anyway. Feel free to skim read. I’m sure all this is going to be very silly in the light of day.

I tried reading after you left but I was too distracted by the empty space on my sofa where you were sitting, so I moved to that side hoping to fill the void and started to wonder what it’s like to be you. I started trying to take up more space, spread my legs (not like that, perv) in that way that guys always seem to without meaning, broadened my shoulders and slouched a bit. I tried to imagine myself where I was sitting but couldn’t seem to grasp my own face. You’re the first person I’ve had over since I moved in here, I wanted to know if I look happy here. I’ve been trying so hard to make it a place I will be comfortable in my own company. Now it seems I’m just chasing your ghost. Which is something I do. Obviously. I’m trying to stop that, too.

I have this problem where I never feel close enough to people. I wanted to say thank you for carrying me home tonight but it isn’t enough. I feel like I use words so much that they lose all meaning. I like that you don’t use too many even though you know how. I know you know how. I might take a vow of silence or something just to see what it’s like. There I go again, copying you. I’ll try to cut that out now. It’s almost impossible to go back to where I started once I get too into it. Somehow I don’t think I’ll pull it off the way you do.

I hope you’ll come back soon. I’m sorry for the things I said on the walk home. I meant all of it but I didn’t mean to say all of it. Things will be different here, I think. But I said that about New York and I said that about the old apartment and I let things inside and it ruins it all. I get lonely, and it’s not like I go looking for trouble but it seems to find me and swaddle me and make me feel safe in the chaos. I feel like if I lose myself in the dark then i won’t be me, and I’m really sorry, I know you like me and you think I’m sweet but I cannot stand being alone with myself. I’m not

You’re so handsome. I wish you’d stop smiling at me in my head. I wanna make you smile all the time and you’re so stoic most of the time. I was sitting in the bar waving my arms around like an idiot for that bartenders attention but really it was for yours, just to see if I could make you laugh. I made you laugh a lot tonight. Mission accomplished.

I can’t keep a thought straight. This is gonna be such a shit letter. Oh well. I’m gonna see you real soon, probably, and I’ll try not be in need of any carrying next time but I like being close to you, so maybe if you could just pretend I do, that would work out just fine.

With love,

Wednesday’s Child, full of whiskey.

Ps. I still think about that poem you wrote me when I touch myself. ✠ send a MESSAGE?

The letter rests face-down on his chest, keeping him company during the high. Occasionally, he’ll lift it up and read it again, finding new meaning in every word and reopening a wound he didn’t even know he had. The drugs keep him from crying the same way he did when he first read it, but they can only numb so much. The ache is persistent, unyielding. Sometimes he has to change positions just to breathe.

He wrote something, too, that night. Came home and scribbled some bullshit out onto a piece of paper that was promptly crumpled up and thrown away. You’re so handsome, I wish you’d stop smiling at me in my head, battling it out with the half-remembered fragment She thinks I’m handsome because / I don’t look her in the eyes too long. He’s so fucking worthless. She never should have sent this to him—she never should have written it. It’s a waste of talent, a waste of feeling, on somebody like him.

He’s clinging to it like a lifeline, though. He’s wrapping himself up in the words like a warm blanket that still has the smell of somebody long gone. It’s such a human letter, full of human thoughts and ideas, and that innate goodness he always saw in her—so pure and raw and terrifying—bleeds all across the page.

When he shuts his eyes, he goes back to that night and he doesn’t leave her house. He goes into her bedroom and he throws her on the bed like she’s been wanting him to do, cutting the clothes off her with a knife. When she parts her lips at the feeling of him he whispers into her mouth promise me you won’t let him inside, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. She whimpers for him but doesn’t say anything so he says it again, growling this time, promise me you won’t fucking let him inside—

He comes to with the phone against his ear. It’s ringing, once, twice—and then she answers, because she never leaves him waiting long. He smiles sleepily.

“Hey, baby.”

#unpossession #✠ ???

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stellocchia · 2 years

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hi! do you have any discduo fanfic rec? /nf

Sure:

The poet and the thief (Fae AU and they have a nice wholesome relationship. It’s also both crimeboys and primeboys focused, still, it’s really cute)

the dead don’t dream (Very, very dark. Let’s just say that Dream has fun experimenting with his revival powers, and everyone else suffers)

I met a monster (he seemed to vibe with me tho, so we’re kinda besties) (Lab AU. Dream is a monster stuck in a lab and Tommy keeps him company. It’s sort of odd, but it’s really fun to read)

Butterfly Reign (Royal AU where they have a nice relationship. It’s wonderful though. Like, genuinely, it’s written so well and it’s really nice in general)

Over the River Styx (It hasn’t been updated in a while, but, basically, something goes wrong after Tommy’s death in the smp and he and Dream somehow end up sharing a body, which also has his own consciousness? It’s weird but cool)

The Worst Space Trip Ever (Modern AU where they have a nice(?) relationship. Dream is a sort of eldritch horror in this one, and it takes a little while for him to care)

The Corruption We Suffer (This one is simply god tier as a fic. Just in general, but especially for primeboys content. It’s just, so good. Truly maximum priority to this fic, it’s wonderful)

Sweet Dragon Child (Au, where they definitely have a really wholesome relationship. Dream adopts a dragon child)

There’s Blood in your Web, Theseus (wipe it out) (Black Widow AU. Primeboys relationship is complicated but ultimately positive. It takes some time before we get to explore it, but then their relationship gets plenty of time to shine. I love it. It gets really dark though, so make sure to read the tags)

Don’t Struggle; Don’t Move (Fae AU, pretty short, but cool)

Returning Stars Bring Meteor Showers (This hasn’t been updated in a while, but still, it’s a fic set in the future of the Dream smp, Dream is stuck being a ghost, he’s invisible to everyone aside from Tommy’s reincarnation. He’s still his good old manipulative self)

Helios (Ngl, this one is pretty damn dark. If I remember correctly it takes around 2 chapters for Dream to appear? But it’s well worth the wait)

music didn’t have a meaning to me before I met you (Modern AU where they have a nice relationship. Basically, Dream works at his dad’s music shop and Tommy is fascinated by the place)

Forged by Truth (or Lack Thereof) (This is THE protegé AU. Like, among the AUs that focus primarily on that, this is my absolute favorite. It also updates really regularly, so that’s a big plus in my book)

whenever we’re opened, we’re red. (Always set on the Dream smp, but it’s an AU where the Egg has taken over and with Tommy being the only immune one, and Dream being stuck in an obsidian box they end up being the only non-infected ones and they have to work together. Which, with Dream being, you know, Dream, ends up being rather hard)

6.9 billion outcomes, and somehow we ended up here (All the people from the 3 hunters manhunt end up in the dsmp universe)

Gleam and Glow (Rapunzel AU, and they’re exactly in the roles you imagine)

nepenthe (It’s another one set in the Dream smp but with Platonic soulmates and so so much angst)

Mask (Protegé AU, it’s really cool, and it has a really neat gimmick)

Also maybe check Mine, I have quite a few that are primarily primeboys-focused that you guys may enjoy!

#anon ask #fanfic recommendation

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shig-a-shig-ah · 2 years

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Shigaraki’s been scribbling a lot of shit down in notebooks in AtBI, which got me thinking about his stationary preferences, which means I spent way more time than I should have this week looking at different notebooks trying to decide what his go-to would be.

I cannot imagine many people are interested in this analysis, but I’m giving it to you anyway.

1. Size. This was the biggest consideration, for a number of reasons. I assume our little gremlin man is going to want something that says ‘convenient to shove in your pocket with your dead dad’s hand’ which immediately ruled out any full size notebooks. But, at the same time he’s got those big-ass yaoi hands and a destructive quirk, so anything too small is probably going to just lead to frustration, which means none of that passport-sized nonsense. Seems like something right around A5 size (~8 x 5 in/21 x 14 cm) would be the sweet spot; small enough to shove in a hoodie or even the pocket of a pair of normal men’s jeans, but big enough to not be a pain in the ass.

2. Thickness/flexibility. Very related to the above. Assuming that he’s going to be periodically shoving this beat up thing in some pocket means I ruled out anything with a hard cover; I also pretty quickly ruled out anything with a high page count, because anything too bulky will take up space, and won’t nicely conform around his thigh when he’s shoving it in the pocket of his jeans or whatever. So, he’d need something thin--probably somewhere between a 50-80 page count. He also seems like the type to like folding the cover all the way back or whatever for ease of use. Technically a spiral notebook would do the trick in that case, but would be way more uncomfortable to haul around in a pocket, and might not be quite as flexible if it’s getting forced into odd shapes. So, in addition to a soft cover, he’d need something that was thread or glue-bound.

3. Line ruling. There’s a lot of options for what pages look like--college or wide rule, graph paper, dot grids--and I think he’d want none of them. There’s a really good meta somewhere on all the newspaper clippings he has up in his room, and how he’s probably a visual learner, and I pretty much agree with that. I think he’d prefer blank pages so that he doesn’t necessarily have to jot things down in any neat order, and can just kind of let chaos unfold on the page as he marks stuff down or processes information on paper.

4. Aesthetic. This is not to say that I think Shigaraki cares about aesthetic stationary; the opposite in fact. I think he’d specifically go for something minimalist and utilitarian--basically blank covers, no frills or bells or whistles or anything.

So, after all that and a lot of googling, I was left with three contenders:

1. Muji Thin Pocket Notebook. This one is slightly smaller than an A5 size, but is thin with a nice shape and obviously very portable. But it lost points because it is a little small, and because I don’t think Shig would be into the built in bookmark thing. I think he’s very much a ‘dog-ear relevant pages’ kind of guy.

2. Muji Paper Bind. These actually come in a couple different styles, like the standard linked there or a similar one with rounded corners.

3. Moleskine Cahier, large size. The large size of these is actually A5 sized paper, so exactly what we’re looking for. They’re also completely unadorned--plain cover without even the little stripe the Muji notebooks have--and the only frill they offer is a little folder insert in the back (or, what would be the front for a Japanese user.)

After ruling out number one thanks to the tinier size and bookmark, I… well I ordered the other two for comparison. Don’t mind that the cahier in the pic is lined—that’s for me since I needed a lined notebook, lol.

As you can see, the cahier is a little smaller than the muji one. I also found that the binding was more flexible—it’s less squared off than the muji, making it easier to lie flat, or fold in half. The cover of the cahier is also a little softer, which is another plus. And, it comes in a 3-pack, which is super convenient if you’re a NEET who hates running errands.

Even after all that, I was admittedly a little hesitant to commit to a non-Japanese brand, but it does look like Moleskine stuff is common enough there, too. So, in the end I think the Moleskin cahier (large size, with plain pages) wins for being a villainous boy’s notebook of choice. I do think he’d go with black or the plain brown as far as colors though, if he could be bothered to do more than just grab the first ones he saw.

And, shoutout to @arozaur and @feral-creep for listening to me spend way too much time talking about this nonsense the other day.

#this is THE most useless thing I have ever written #shigaraki #shigaraki thoughts #ghuleh.speaks

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phoenixyfriend · 3 years

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When Obi-Wan gets to AotC, there's also about two dozen Anakin clones on-site. They're all girls because... IDK Anakin is trans. They have a hive mind and are developmentally a few years younger than Anakin himself.

It's incredibly unsettling to Obi-Wan.

It's almost definitely a "fuck with Anakin's already fragile mental health" ploy by Palpatine, along with a "what if Jedi Black Widows, for me, a Sith Lord. Wouldn't that be neat? That would be neat."

Anakin is torn between "this freaks me out" and "GANG OF BABY SISTERS LET'S GOOOOOOO."

(I just finished reading Like Real People Do by glimmerglanger, so this is definitely inspired by that and the obligatory 'lay back in bed and daydream variations on plot points of that fic you just really enjoyed,' and also a little by Same Heart, Same Blood by loosingletters.)

They're physically like 14-16 on average, and Anakin's vibrating out of his skin with a million conflicting emotions, but when he tells Padme she's just like "oh, you have a handmaiden gang!"

I told this to @willowcrowned and she suggested:

Once Anakin decides to repress the part of him that’s weirded out and just regard them as baby sisters he gets. A little strange about it The first time one of them dies he may or may not slaughter every person he can [in response to Padme's comment] Anakin starts worrying that he needs to get them cool matching outfits

I also chatted about it with @firebirdeternal and they said:

Gang of Unsettling Smol Siblings is exactly the Karma that Anakin deserves

Do you think the Clones have a kind of Collective Name that they use at first that eventually just kind of morphs into a new last name? Skysisters or something? Like Palpatine was trying to be clever and name them like the Nightsisters.

I initially went with "functionally one person" hive-mind but I'm torn.

I think maybe they're BASICALLY one person on Kamino but drift into Separate Consciousness once they're far enough apart physically that their minds don't blend from proximity anymore.

Then they start Dating (like half of them are dating Fett clones because they grew up with these dudes, it's like childhood friends romance), and Anakin loses his mind about Protecting Them and They're Too Young.

Padme: You're nineteen and we just got married, they can date. Anakin: THEY'RE EIGHT. Padme: And the Fett clones are ten and dying for us in the field. Get them rights before you panic about their love lives.

Firebird:

it could be worse, one of them could imprint on Obi-Wan. "Anakin I promise I won't yell at you for the next five stupid things you do if you can figure out a way to stop this baby from having a crush on me" (I like the idea of Obi-wan bargaining not with "I won't be mad at you ever" because they Both Know That's Not True, and instead haggling with specific allowances. Like he's handing out Stupidity Coupons)

Please imagine Mace and Obi-Wan's personal responses to the idea of suddenly having to deal with not one, not two, but OVER TWENTY SKYWALKERS.

Plo is delighted to take one off their hands.

So is Yoda.

Willow:

Mace is like. okay suicide isn’t the Jedi way but on the other hand. i physically cannot deal with this Yoda: a skywalker, you say? one who is tall enough to reach the top shelf, you say? such a skywalker, bring me

Anakin would be given at least one because fuck you, suffer with us, but he's still a padawan so Ugh, fine, no.

I want to say one stays on Coruscant to hang out with the Guard, and ends up half-adopted by Padme. She keeps dressing up the Aniclone left with her in handmaiden outfits and sending selfies to Anakin.

"Hanging out with the little SiL!"

Anakin has so many issues about WHEN his genetic material was acquired.

And there's some confusion from the Fett clones about how much of a hive mind is normal for Jedi. They are confused that the answer is basically none, and "this is WHY nobody clones a Jedi"

ONE OF THEM STEALS BOBA FROM THE ARENA ON GEONOSIS.

Firebird:

"I have followed in our progenitor's footsteps and acquired a sibling." holds up a struggling Boba "He bites."

Willow:

Ooooo okay so if they have a sort of hive mind then they probably don’t have names other than their designations on Kamino right BUT When they SEPARATE The one that picks Boba up on Geonosis gets a name specifically for that. Okay what if the one Padmé picks up gets some variant on ‘pretty’ because she’s always being dressed up BELLE Maybe Yoda’s Ani has a name that means thief? Because obviously Yoda is using Anakin to steal sweets

So, to make the timeline work...

I don't think anyone would give Anakin one of his sisters until after he's knighted at least.

So obviously when they're doing initial placements none of the sisters go to him or Obi-Wan.

Once he's knighted, of course they're already all placed with someone, and Anakin instead gets Ahsoka. He loves Ahsoka. She is also a little sister. He said so.

At some point afterwards, one of the sisters is left without a place because the Master that was in charge of her died in the field battle.

That sister then gets placed with Obi-Wan, because he's already mostly-successfully raised one Skywalker, so he can do it again.

Anakin gets to hang out with her basically all the time.

Ahsoka is very very jealous of this girl stealing Anakin's attention.

Anakin is oblivious to the rivalry.

He asks Barriss to look after them while he's discussing Adult War Things with Luminara and Obi-Wan, and Barriss gets an eye into This Mess, which is quickly colored by Ahsoka growing a puppy crush on the lovely Miss Offee herself.

Firebird:

Ahsoka: Ah yes, my nemesis. Anisister: Ah yes, my new older sister whom I want to impress so bad.

"I will impress her by being Stoic and Competent" "Oh my god she must think she's so much better than me what a bitch"

Anakin is oblivious to most things to be fair Anakin: Laser focused precision fighting machine who can read the tiniest body movements and predict your moves seconds in advance, who also cannot understand even the most basic social nuance. I was originally writing this as to Dunk on Anakin but then I made myself sad, because none of those things are really his fault.

So you know that post about like, Sasuke and Brooding, specifically in the context of "Brooding" as it's used to refer to Nesting Chickens? Grouchy and protective and sitting on a tennis ball trying to hatch it because they're just. "These are my Babies." Anakin Broods. Baby sisters. Must protecc. "I'm actually fine and extremely deadly in combat." "MUST PROTECT."

Bad Guy: [catches Ahsoka in a Trap] Aniclone: Must rescue sister! Aniclone: [fights, is not winning fight, gets ouched] Ahsoka tearing her way out of Trap: I lived bitch. Also: stay the fuck away from her. [murders so hard]

Ahsoka catches the Protective Older Sib feels by the traditional method: "Hey, only I'm allowed to be mean to them."

Willow:

Oh Anakin has no clue what’s going on. He walks in on Ahsoka glaring at the Ani and is like!!! Little sisters!!! Bonding!!! When Ahsoka was about three seconds away from tossing her out of the airlock. Ahsoka mistakenly assumes that Barriss has a crush on the Ani, and gets even MORE jealous.

Obi-Wan is like oh god. I can’t take care of an Anakin going through puberty again. He’s great with periods and other stuff because he read about a billion books. He is TERRIBLE with everything else, as he was the first time.

Barriss is like???? YOU'RE BOTH CHILDREN, PLEASE CALM DOWN, I HAVE ZERO INTEREST IN DATING ANYONE, LET ALONE SOMEONE YOUR AGE.

IDK how old Obi-Wan's Aniclone is, probably physically the same age as Ahsoka?

Per @atagotiak on discord:

Also something something, similarities btw Anakin and Obi-Wan where like. "Am I a parent? That seems uncomfortable, I'm too young to be a dad to a kid this age, I mean I'm cool with being a mentor/caretaker but..."

Obi-Wan can't even sidestep parenthood this time.

"Is Anakin basically your dad?" "Uhhhhhh" [Muffled discussion] "So Obi-Wan is your dad." "Okay!" "WAIT NO I DIDN'T AGREE TO THIS"

Ahsoka: She's stealing my brother, that BITCH. Obi-Wan's Aniclone: new sister new sister new sister gotta make a good impression

Firebird:

I feel like the Sister Squad would make very effective interstellar espionage agents Even like, kind of by accident. They just get encouraged to branch out in their interests and figure out what they want to do with their lives and end up all over the dang place, and since they're all pretty dang competent they tend to gravitate towards Important Positions wherever they end up. Except for one sister who just retires to raise Space Sheep.

I like that in this AU Palpatine is just like "I will create an army of Loyal Murderers who will obey my every whim and also be a big psychological lever on my Other Pet Murderer," and then they all just Baby Duckling imprint on the first Jedi to be nice to them instead and he has to just be like "Wait no not like that."

AND one of them Steals Boba

I want Obi-Wan's Aniclone to start dating Fives. All the sisters judge her for it, because he's a Goof. A very competent, ARC Trooper goof! But a goof.

Not as goofy as Anakin, though.

Firebird:

Who expects a clone of Anakin Skywalker to not make questionable lifelong romantic choices impulsively?

#Anakin Skywalker #Ahsoka Tano #Obi Wan Kenobi #Disaster Lineage #Sheev Palpatine #Skeevy Sheev #cloning #Yoda #Mace Windu #Skysisters AU #trans anakin skywalker #Phoenix Posts #hive mind #Padme Amidala #Anidala

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parchmentedpetrichor · 3 years

Text

➳who cursed the bludger? ♡

in which the reader's dominant hand is injured badly after a rogue bludger slams into it and none other than fred weasley is behind it. who cursed the bludger?

fred weasley x fem!reader

word count: ± 2k

tw: serious injury, a little bit of swearing

drop a follow if you wanna see more of this content!!

my masterlist:D

ft. penny clearwater

who cursed the bludger?

y/n was currently draped lazily over her broomstick, haven given up trying to teach penelope clearwater how to fly. said prefect was on the grass, smirking as y/n embarrassedly looked around.

"penny that's not ok to ask!"

"fine, fine," she pondered for a moment, "hey, what's up with you and fred weasley, huh?"

"nothing at all," y/n answered a little too quick for penny's liking.

"c'mon, y/n, you're younger than me, i should know all that happens. you two are very...flirty."

"yeah well, my dear pennysylvania, we have flirty personalities. duh."

"no, you don't."

"okay, i don't. he does."

"but he seems like he means it."

"of course he means it? he says it in a joking way? y'know, he means it as a joke."

"hmm, nope, i don't think so, y/n. he's looking your way right now."

"i'm probably blocking the space, let's move outta the way."

"you're not gonna play with them?"

"already play in matches, why now? let's chat."

fred was silently eavesdropping on their conversation as he heard his name.

"sooo you and perceeee??" y/n dragged out, grinning as she did loop-do-loops with her broomstick.

penny blushed, but looked disappointed, "he likes oliver."

"oh. well, f percy, what about marcus??"

"he's just marcus. we're best friends, y/n."

"my fav trope of romance is best friends to lovers," y/n wiggled her eyebrows suggestively and penny shook her head in amusement.

"my one is the opposites attract."

"hmm yeah, that's a good one too, it's really cute! say, aren't you and mar-"

"i was meaning you!"

"huh?"

"you and fred."

fred smirked as he listened, flicking back the bludger harshly at angelina.

"oh yes because we are totally meant for each other," y/n sarcastically replied.

"what's that supposed to mean?"

"yes."

"you're doing this on purpose!"

"hmm? what?"

"oh my goodness, merlin you're stupid bro!" penny said exasperatedly.

"and you just realised. congrats, penny."

"anyway, what i'm saying is you and fred are rather like opposites. although he's extroverted and you're extroverted, you're a cute little nerd," y/n huffed at this 'i am n o t a nerd for the last time!' "and he's a class clown in the most charming way. you like reading and he likes pranking people and quidditch. you're a goody two shoes, an adorable one, but he's this foolish jock," penny looked proud with her argument so y/n laughed, "you're modest and he's very confident. and you're both hot."

y/n smiled, "i am not hot!" she giggled, "that's stupid."

"oi, ange!" penny called to angelina who looked over at her in amusement.

"yeah?"

"is y/n hot?"

"oh, totally!" angelina casually threw the quaffle into the hoop, "10/10."

"guyyys you flatTer me," y/n stretched out as the three of them laughed, "i'm bLushIng."

"you actually are," angie quipped.

"it's a command thing. if she wants to blush, she'll blush," replied penny.

they burst into giggles again.

fred watched y/n. a rosy pink, sure enough, had spread across her cheeks. that was enough to get her blushing?

"oi, l/n!"

y/n's head snapped his way, her eyes narrowed as if expecting an insult being thrown her way.

"your lips are pretty!"

her form relaxed, "thanks! yours are too!!"

penny giggled as angie rolled around laughing.

"what?" y/n looked around.

"the way you return flirting is hilarious."

"a compliment for a compliment, isn't that what they say?"

angelina snorted, "no one says that."

"oh well i say it, so deal with it."

"hey, i have an idea!" penny brightened up.

"let's hear it!"

"let's teach y/n pick up lines, ange!"

"oh you're a genius, penny!"

"okay, so-"

a bludger came whizzing at y/n as she screamed, trying frantically to dodge it. it hit her hand and a crack was heard.

luckily she immediately hopped off calmly, taking out her wand shakily and stunning the bludger, before penny and angie helped her over to the hospital ward, fred lagging guiltily behind.

she was ordered to stay in bed rest and with drowsy eyes she drifted off.

fred watched her feeling so terrible as he saw her heavily bandaged hand, imagining how he was going to tell her that he was in fact the one that had charmed it.

the next day, she was out and about, gently cradling her hand which was broken.

"um, hey, y/n," he nervously approached her.

"oh, hello!"

"i might have jinxed the bludger to go wild," he confessed abruptly, "i'm really sorry i didn't mean to-"

"no, it's fine, really." she gave him a reassuring smile and walked off.

he noticed that she couldn't write in class. usually she was scribbling away, but she just sat awkwardly at her desk, trying frantically to get anything legible down with her non-dominant hand. the fact she was so courteous and forgiving about everything just made it worse.

by now, y/n was dying inside. she couldn't write notes, and even though she wanted to ask any willing person for a duplicate of their notes, she'd have to explain the whole broken hand thing.

"ange?"

"yep?"

"do you have history of magic notes?" y/n did puppy eyes.

"nope, you forgot i dropped out."

"oh."

"do you want mine?" fred asked, smirking as he looked y/n up and down.

"you take notes?!!!" y/n was shook.

"only for you, 'cause i felt bad."

"you didn't need to!"

"i did. you want them?"

"yes please, thank you so much, you're a lifesaver!!"

"you're acting like you're not the one the bludger hit," angie quipped and y/n frowned, completely forgetting fred was still there, browsing the notes.

"c'mon, it was just an accident. and i've always wanted to be ambidextrous."

"lovely, you were struggling. i'll take all your notes. my handwriting isn't neat but i owe you."

y/n ducked to hide the light blush she could not control at all.

immediately she got a confused look from fred.

and instantly she thought of something that might make the blush go away. he didn't mean it, it slipped out, she thought and she felt her face cooling down, a slight frown appearing on her face.

"o-okay, thanks fred."

"no problems, darling," he flirted.

"that's good, darling," she flirted graciously back, bravely tilting her head up and looking him in the eye.

he took it well.

"where did you learn how to flirt so well, my little love??"

"why, freddie," she joked flirtatiously, "from you of course!"

he coughed and excused himself.

"he should really be careful with who he's flirting mindlessly with," y/n rolled her eyes.

angelina laughed, "flirting mindlessly? do you see the way he looks at you?"

"personality," y/n stated simply.

"or not."

true to his word, notes in fred's flurry of handwriting appeared neatly stacked every day. they were far too thorough and consisted of stupid flirty notes by the side. sometimes a little note, written in class, was jammed in there probably by accident:

hello freddie!

i have a crush on you 0-o, hogsmeade at 7pm on sunday?

-jamie <3, boy who sits in front of you in arithmancy

jamie,

i already have my eye on someone :) not you, sorry, y/n cringed at the bluntness of his words

you are very nice, perhaps try trera rivera if you swing that way? or illinois ann if you swing all ways?

oh i'm so sorry, i didn't know that! i'll talk to both. was the gracious answer

-jamie

and again! the lucky boy! this time from a girl.

weasley-

i know we hate each other but give me a chance to explain myself? broom closet at 9 tomorrow ? it trailed off to something that y/n didn't even want to think about.

k.o

fuck off. i don't fucking like you, i like someone else, ffs.

was the reply as y/n laughed and made sure to give the note back to fred.

it wasn't everyday someone confessed to you, right?

she underlined all the words that simply weren't legible to ask fred about.

and aNOTHER ONE?? how did this boy have so many admirers? y/n had received 0 love letters from any boy, let alone people of the same gender. you knew you were good with the ladies (and the gentlemen) when everyone sent you these letters.

dearest frederick-

it droned quite sweetly on about him and loving him and the writing was really magnificent.

margaret perrer

hi marg

i'm really really sorry. you seem like such a nice person, and it's not you, it's me. i, however, have a friend who really adores you: kenneth. he'll be an amazing friend and maybe more.

i also already am interested in another girl, so it really isn't you. thank you for your beautiful letter, hopefully we can be friends!

fred

oh he was very nice. feeling like she had overstepped the boundaries, she put them aside, discovering more and more but putting them all in a stack. she felt slightly insecure, especially when they all looked relatively neW?? the perfume on the flowers still smelled fresh?? who was this guy?

she sighed, finishing her read through and being thoroughly impressed with the sheer quality of the notes.

but there were around 100 words she had underlined. she skipped down into the great hall where she spotted two gingers. as soon as one (she couldn't see which one) saw her, he got up, whispered to the other something, and left.

when she approached the one that was left behind, she saw it was george.

"hi georgie!" she greeted him and thrust the papers into his hand, "where's fred?"

george shrugs, "left, for a date or something."

"oh, okay, could you translate these for me, the underlined words?" if y/n was disappointed, she didn't show it.

"oh yeah, sure, his handwriting's rubbish, isn't it."

"yes it is, i can barely read half of it."

george finished scribbling words next to the underlined ones.

"oh! and give these back to him? i'm pretty sure he dropped them in, probably got mixed up." she gave him the pile of letters, now neatly bundled in rope she had found.

"oh, yeah sure," george smirked, "of course."

"nice, well that's it, thanks for the help!"

"anything else?"

"tell fred good luck."

"right, right, mhm."

"yea."

once she'd left, george took out his walkie talkie.

"got that, freddie?"

"crystal clear."

"you're pining, pffft, hahahahah," george smirked as fred sighed.

"it didn't even work?"

"which plan?"

"the one to drop the letters in."

"i'm pretty sure she read like two, she didn't seem that disappointed?"

"exactly."

"you're an idiot. just tell her."

"but that's boringggg."

"well drop the hints then, merlin fred you're terrible at this."

"i haven't dated a billion girls like you!"

"then learn how to date my goodness."

"true."

"come fucking back."

"hickies or no?"

"eh go for it. i wanna see her reaction and then we can decide whether she likes you or not."

fred strided handsomely in, neck littered with little hickies and his top had two buttons open, freckles and pale broad shoulders showing.

george rolled his eyes, muttering, "drama queen," as he subtlely watched y/n. she managed not to look so surprised, her eyes widening then looking down quickly at her hands.

he would have thought she felt nothing for his twin if a light pink had not dusted over her face and if angie had not nudged her with a concerned look on her face.

y/n was wondering what the hell happened, disappointment rising slowly in her.

"okay, she's into you," george whispered as fred began removing the spell, leaving the unbuttoned shirt unbuttoned.

"cool beans."

"oh and she gives these back," george smirked.

"oh look at how she bundled it! so adorable georgie!"

"you're disgusting."

y/n hurried to the library at 6pm. she had heard the book she had waited for was finally available.

as she settled down with it, a paper aeroplane hit her.

"ahh!" she screamed as she caught it.

it read:

forbidden forest, 8pm.

huh? was this meant for her? it was in neat handwriting and on the smoothest parchment, with a single flower that smelt like fresh rain.

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yeojaa · 3 years

Text

( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud. Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

(or: Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

pairing. tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating. slice of life fluff, light smut. explicit (but only at the end).

tags / warnings. mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...

wc. 7.6k.

beta reader(s). @hobi-gif, @papillonsgf, and @yeoldontknow 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠

author note. i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this. it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless. as always, feedback means a lot!

You and forethought aren’t close friends. You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree. You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is. Careful consideration? Thoughtful patience? None of that exists for you. At least, not when you really, really want something.

It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.

You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this. Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid. By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.

“Do you take walk-ins?”

You’d meant to make an appointment. Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to. When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed. (Just your luck.)

Still, it never hurt to try, right?

“Everyone’s fully booked.” The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial. (You don’t blame her.) By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal. You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue. “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”

An apprentice? Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable. Well-known. Considered one of the best in the city. Surely their apprentice would be fine. Just less seasoned, not as experienced.

You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter. “That’d be great!”

The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall. “Last room on the left. His name’s Jungkook. His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.” It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves. Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told.

“Jungkook?” There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight. (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.) It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else.

(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting: one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits. Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine. A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall; one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it. There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath. All in all, very homey. Reminiscent of your own apartment.)

Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space. “Oh?”

You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples.

For a moment, you forget what you’re here for. Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.

The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe. It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin. “Are you okay?” He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way. Good for him, but worse for you.

He’s so cute. Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?

“Y-yeah.” You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete. “Um— I was told you might have some time? For, uh, a walk-in?”

(Why’re you stuttering? You’re never shy. Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess. People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)

(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)

“Oh!” Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder. He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway. “Yeah, I’ve got time. Come in.” Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek; the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip; each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks. “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no. You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook? He was that. In spades.

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table. It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display. “I’ve got a pretty big selection.”

When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him. This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation.

“So—” He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen. You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt. It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion; it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles. He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling. The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity. “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredible.” It really is. You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink. “Did it hurt?”

(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question. Of course it did. It’s a hand tattoo.)

Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally. “Like crazy, but it was worth it. This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—” He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.

“A piece of cake?” You can only imagine.

“Exactly.”

You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you. (It doesn’t. You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)

If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap. “Do any of these interest you?” He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash. There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf). They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.

“That one.” It catches your eye more than the others have. Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines. A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.

“You like cats?”

You do. “She looks like mine.”

“It’s settled.” He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled; you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion. A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen. “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”

Well, that was easy. Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no. You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.

(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though. You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it. You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life. There’s really no going back now.)

(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)

“I think I’m done,” you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.

“Do you have your ID?” You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form. “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”

He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come.

Alone, the nerves set in. You’re actually doing this. Getting a tattoo. Putting something permanent on your body. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap. Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come. (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.)

(But had you really made up your mind? Was this going to be it? It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise. It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)

“Okay!” Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope. You eye it curiously. “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”

He’s really thought of everything. Or the shop has. Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.

“So, where do you want it?” It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand. (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.)

You hadn’t thought about that. You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away. “My arm?”

“Upper? Forearm?” There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative. He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you.

“Tricep area, I think? Would that look good?”

“If you like it, it will.” Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same. “I’m kidding. That was cheesy. But I’m sure it’ll look fine. We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?”

“That sounds good.” A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement.

“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”

It’s then you realise your mistake: wearing a turtleneck. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like. Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon? Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)?

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule. Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside. Whatever you’d prefer.”

The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill. You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.

(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)

(Did it really matter either way? He was probably desensitized.)

“It’s fine.” You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly. Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though. Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater. It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.

One breath. Two.

You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him. “All right. Let’s do this.”

“So, which arm?” He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.

Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello.

He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers. You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.

“Oh.” It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror. “It’s so pretty.”

There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face. “Thanks.” He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful. “What do you think?”

“This is it. Right here.”

Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool. As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee.

“All right. We’ll shave you down and get started. You like the colours, right?” Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart. It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes. (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.) He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him. “Hop on up. Face down, if that’s okay.”

You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace. It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?” You’d misheard that, right?

“Your skin. You’re sparkling.” He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.

“Oh.” Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly. “It’s my soap.”

“Sparkle soap?” Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure. He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before. (Which, fair.)

“It’s this specialty holiday soap. It has pigment in it.”

“That’s cool.” He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm. “It smells nice.”

Obviously, you agree. It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does. Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot. “Thanks.”

“Was that weird? I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.”

He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.

Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle. “Ready?”

Honestly, you’re not sure. Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog. Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue. “I think so.”

“I think so too.”

By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee.

“All right—”“ The incessant buzzing stops. Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel. “You are finished.”

(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you. Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.)

“Can I see?” You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face.

“Yeah, go ahead. Just be careful - you might be a bit—”

He’s right. You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet. It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you.

“Careful!” It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.

“Sorry, sorry.” You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede. Everything straightens out quickly enough. “Got up too quickly.”

“Do you need a snack?” He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall. “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”

You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art. “I’m fine.” That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.

“Choco Boys it is then.” The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open. Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words, “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”

A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention. It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours. It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.

“You like?”

“I love.” You’d stare at it for hours, if you could. Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie. “Thank you so, so much.”

The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head. Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose. Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into. “It was a pleasure.”

It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one. It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink. (You half expect him not to answer; you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.)

Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.

He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.

“So, what’re you thinking?”

Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking. Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history. You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece. “A sleeve?”

That surprises him. His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously. “Like, a full sleeve?” It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.

“I think so.”

He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable. “You caught the itch.”

Your own features twist, brows shooting high. “The what?”

“The tattoo itch,” he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea. “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.” He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up. For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing. (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.) “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan. It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”

You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there. He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”

Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions. It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin. A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep. Another takes up the entirety of your forearm. There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi. It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.

You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch. You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.

“You did it.” Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap. “Big girl.”

From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers. Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat. He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up. Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.

“You mean we did it,” you return, giddy like a child.

“Ah, right.” The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled. “I guess I did do all the work.”

“Hey! Screw you!” You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.

(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more. It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head. Solidarity in pain and all that.)

(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow. You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm. That in itself had hurt like a biiitch; you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)

(You’d been mistaken.)

“Am I wrong?” He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to. It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.

“Yes, you are.” You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares. This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together. (Not that you’d complain. You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)

A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful. “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”

You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.

Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration. “You wouldn’t dare.” You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.

“Wouldn’t I? I’m leaving anyway.”

You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.

“Leaving?”

(Is it you or do you sound disappointed? You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation. Had he mentioned it previously? Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain? No, you would’ve remembered that. You swear you would’ve.)

“I’m moving to Tokyo.” How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea. You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway. Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago. (God, your memory is good. If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.) “My flight’s next weekend.”

Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.

“Gonna miss me?”

Would it be inappropriate to say yes? Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question. You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).

You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own. “Are you gonna miss me?”

“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,” he answers, offering honesty to your reticence. “You can still send me funny photos though.”

You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile. “I guess you’re right. Will you still be tattooing?” It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know. You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.

“Yep, new shop.” Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin. “Actually, where I got most of mine done.” You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith. He’s finally come full circle. You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.

But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to. It wouldn’t feel right otherwise. “Whoa, big shot.”

“I am actually,” he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair. It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn. “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”

“Famously lame, maybe,” you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder. You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go. It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk. “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”

His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you. It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available. (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.) “Obviously.”

Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black. You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?” He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to. (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?) “Like, a face tattoo?”

You scoff at the question as if greatly offended. “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”

While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you. “Hey, I don’t judge. You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Okay, so he’s got you there. Used your own impulsive history against you. “I would never.”

“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”

“Dibs on what? Tattooing me?”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Duh.”

You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him. “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”

His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth. There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up. You wonder what it is.

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”

“Really?” You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face. “Then why don’t you have one?” He has a million others as it is: a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs. (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)

“And hide all this?” One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home. “I would never.”

“That’s what I said!”

It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual. “But I’m cuter. It’d be a shame if it were me. You…” The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean. (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.) “—not so much.”

Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.

“Don’t be rude!”

He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him.

“I’m kidding.” You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries. A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke. “You’re actually pretty cute.”

(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them? Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)

(Not that this meant it was. Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met. It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)

“You all good?” The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.

Were you? You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Really? You can’t?” You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it. But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously. It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.

“Should I have expected it?”

Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears. “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”

Had he? Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall. Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of; accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff). Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.

But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought. You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).

“You like me,” you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.

“I think you’re cute,” he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff. The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.

Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week. The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb. (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)

“Same difference.”

He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer. “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t.” Where the confidence comes from, who knows. You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering. It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits.

It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go.

Then he does the last thing you expect: shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.

(His lips are so soft. A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate. Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him. French fries and beer and his Chapstick.)

(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.)

“You just kissed me.” It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re leaving.” Speaking the words into existence feels bad; you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.

“I am.” At least he’s realistic. It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay.

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose.

“Do it again.”

And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.

It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next. (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass. Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers. An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)

(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)

“Lay down,” the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials. You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation.

You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof. The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin. You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous. It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left.

(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed. He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders. You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.

“Stop being a baby,” he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity. It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.

“Stop being mean,” you’d countered, petulant like a child.

It couldn’t be helped. You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was. As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.

That was your fault, though. You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow. He hadn’t.)

“Do you have a preference where I start?” You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder. Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again. (You’re proud of that. It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)

“Nope.”

“Sounds good.”

The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine. You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness. Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad. Tolerable and yielding.

You can do this.

Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around. It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.

The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper. He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror. “You did good.”

You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals. Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care. Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre. You’re in love with it.

“Thanks.”

You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life. It means so much - like progressing to the next level.

Which, you suppose it is. This is a fresh start for you. A new beginning in a new city.

“Proud of you,” he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips. He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.

You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago. A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.

“Proud of you,” you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.

Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual. “Proud of us.”

You suppose you can settle for that. You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome. From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.

(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)

Four years of miserable long distance had become this: a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had; to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.

You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that. Made it worth it in ways you had never considered. Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.

“Should we head home?” He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself. It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.

You say yes anyway.

“I’m so talented.” The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.

“Are you serious?” You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets. It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that. He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.

Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised. “What?”

“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?” Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job?

(It truthfully could be. You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)

“Oh.” All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.

The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine. “You don’t like when I admire my own work?” Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit. The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need. (Because you really do need it. You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.) It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once.

“Kook,” you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.

“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.” He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin. They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas. A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.

Any other time, you might not care. Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits. When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”

“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt. “I’ve missed this,” he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.

“Missed you too,” you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.

Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @xjoonchildx

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deanstead · 3 years

Text

Hidden Feelings

Pairing: Jay Halstead x Reader

Request by @winqhster: Hii!! I would like to request a Jay imagine where the reader works in the Intelligence Unit and is younger than him. She develops a crush on Jay, but overtime she tries to distance herself from him. She takes a week off from work and doesn't tell anyone. Jay begins to worry, so he goes to her apartment. At her apartment, they end up arguing and she says that he sees her as a child. Can it end with a happy ending with them getting together!!

Warnings: swearing, a little angst, fluff

A/N: This took a little more time than I expected but I enjoyed writing this so I hope you like what I did with it! If you have any thoughts, feedback or even just want to say hi, please (always) feel free to reply or send me an ask, always love hearing from all of you. Also, thank you so much for all the love so far, hope you’ve been enjoying my writing! Jay requests remain open, feel free to send in an ask!

---

You looked up from your desk, your gaze falling onto your partner sitting across from you. Jay had a small frown on his face, like he usually did when he was deep in thought, as he twirled a pen in his right hand.

As if he felt you looking at him, his eyes flicked upwards and he cocked his eyebrows upwards. “Everything ok?”

Slightly embarrassed, you cleared your throat and nodded. “Yeah… just thinking…”

Jay glanced at his watch. “It’s late, we should call it a day.” He leaned over to turn off his computer before looking back up at you. “Molly’s?”

You hesitated. Normally, you would have jumped at the idea - chilling with a beer after a long day was something you couldn’t resist but recently you could feel a magnetic pull towards Jay that you couldn’t explain, which really scared you.

“I think I’ll head home tonight.” You told him.

Jay turned back towards you. “Everything okay?”

You nodded back and smiled. “Just tired.”

A small concerned frown crossed Jay’s face making you look up at him again but it was gone just as quickly, making you think you might have imagined it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” You called, pulling your jacket around you as you headed out of the district.

---

It was getting harder and harder to do this. It had started off as a warm feeling, you felt like you had earned a big brother in your partner who was always looking out for you, making sure you were okay, both at work and off. Then somehow along the way it had transitioned into a stupid crush, probably from a physical attraction – but who wouldn’t be attracted to Jay Halstead?

And now, you were head over fucking heels in love with him and you had no idea how it had come to this.

It scared you, this sudden intense feeling you had towards him, so much you didn’t know how to be around him anymore. You felt Jay’s eyes on you and you looked up.

“Hey, we’re hitting Molly’s after work. You in?”

You could feel Jay studying you as you struggled to keep your expression in check. “You guys go ahead.” You responded, pushing your chair backwards and heading for the pantry.

Jay frowned but didn’t follow you.

It had been about two weeks since you had started to put some distance between yourself and Jay. You could tell he was confused, at the very least, and it was only a matter of time before he decided to corner you so you really needed some time and space to deal with this, once and for all.

By the time the end of the day came, you were sure this was what you had to do. Glad that everyone else had left, you got up and knocked on Voight’s office door. “Sarge, can I have a word?”

Voight looked up from where he was sitting at his desk, studying your expression before nodding and motioning for you to close the door.

“What’s up?”

You took a deep breath. “I have some unused furlough days. I need a week, if that’s okay?”

Voight didn’t say anything but continued to look at you. “Everything okay?” His eyes flicked up momentarily to look at Jay’s empty desk.

You nodded. “Yeah, I just have some... personal matters I have to take care of.” You paused, trying in vain to read his expression. “If it’s okay with you… I…”

Voight nodded, without waiting for you to finish. “Take the time, do what you have to do.”

You nodded. “Thanks, Sarge.”

----

Jay had turned it over and over a million times in his head over the past two weeks. He was sure you were hiding something from him, he just wasn’t sure what.

You had been different lately – the way you talked or walked, hell you barely even made eye contact with him this last week.

Jay jogged up the stairs to Intelligence, noting with mild concern that you hadn’t come in yet. He glanced at his watch. He was running late so he had expected you to already be seated at your desk, sipping your coffee. Instead, your table was neat, your chair tucked in. You weren’t here yet and that in itself was strange.

He sat at his desk, looking up every time he heard footsteps until Voight stepped out of his office.

“We’re operating a member down, Y/L/N is on furlough, I need everyone’s head on straight.” Voight barked. “Let’s go.”

Jay frowned and jogged towards Voight. “Sarge. Furlough?”

Voight didn’t respond immediately. “You’re riding with me today.”

Jay nodded, getting into the car. “Did she say why?”

Voight looked at Jay, his eyes seeming to pierce right through him. “Personal stuff.”

---

You were on day three of your furlough when your doorbell rang.

You frowned, confused as to who would be here. You weren’t expecting anyone, or anything.

You pulled the door open and froze. “Jay?”

Jay had that look on his face. The one that told you he had probably been brewing all the way here.

“What’s going on?” You asked as he stormed in.

“What’s going on?” He repeated as you scrunched up your eyebrows. “What’s going on is that you disappeared for three days without bothering to tell me anything. That’s what’s going on.” He huffed.

“Hold on, Jay.” You tried to talk but he didn’t let you.

“What’s going on is that I can’t believe you are so irresponsible that you won’t even tell your partner when you’re going to be back.” Jay continued with his tirade but your dismay at him being angry at you switched to a sudden flare in your gut.

“Irresponsible?” You asked, looking directly at him. “I told Voight I needed a week.”

Jay spun back around to look at you. “And you didn’t think you should tell me? You had your damn phone off for three days.”

“And it didn’t occur to you that I needed time? I needed space?” You shot back, getting more furious by the second.

“Time? Space? It takes you five seconds to send me a damn text Y/N! How am I supposed to look out for you if you don’t tell me anything?”

You shook your head. “That’s the problem, Jay. You always treat me like a damn child! I can take care of myself.”

Jay paused for a second, a hurt look briefly crossing his face, so quickly that you almost missed it. “What are you saying? You don’t want me to look out for you?”

You shook your head. “I’m saying, don’t treat me like a damn child. I’m not. I’m not a little girl, and I sure as hell ain’t your little sister.” You snapped.

“I never said you were!”

“Then stop being so nice to me!” You screamed.

Jay lowered his voice now. “So, you want me to ignore you? Be mean to you? Is that it? I don’t get it!”

“That’s not what I’m saying!”

“Then what, Y/N? What is it? You’ve been avoiding me for weeks and then you just disappear? Are you going to leave the unit next?” Jay asked and this time, you heard it, a tone of desperation in his voice.

“I’m not leaving, Jay.” You stressed, bringing your voice down a few notches. “Like I said, I just need some time.”

“Some time for what?” Jay pressed.

“It’s nothing.” You mumbled. “Just drop it.”

“Damn it, Y/N. You ask me not to treat you like a child, but you’re sure as hell behaving like one.” Jay’s voice rose again.

You glared at him. “To get over you, okay? Happy? I just needed some time and space to squash down all my damn feelings for you so I can go back to being your partner or your younger sister or whatever the hell you need me to be so drop it!” You yelled.

Jay’s eyes widened and your heart sank. There, you did it. You let your emotions get the better of you and you let it slip like you always do when you’re mad and now everything was going to be awkward and maybe you would have to transfer out of the unit or change your partner…

“Y/N.” His voice was soft when he spoke this time.

You turned away from Jay. You didn’t want to see that look on his face. The look he had on to reject you or try to let you down easy.

Jay grabbed your wrist and turned you back towards him. “Who the hell said it was okay for you to get over me?”

Without waiting for an answer, Jay pushed his lips onto yours, one of his hands resting on your lower back, pulling you towards him, while his other hand found the back of your neck, gently moving upwards to thread through your hair. Your eyes fluttered shut as he pulled you deeper into the kiss.

You had imagined this so many times, you had wanted this for so long, yet now that it was happening, it was so much more than you had ever dreamed of. The room felt like it was spinning around the both of you as Jay covered your lips with his and you could even taste the remnants of whisky on his lips.

Gently, he pulled away, looking down into your eyes. “I so did not go on furlough for this.” You muttered.

Jay chuckled. “I was just worried about you.”

“Next time just tell me.” You answered, looping your arms around his waist.

Jay rolled his eyes. “You’re one to talk.”

You let out a smile as Jay rested his forehead against yours. “Don’t you ever disappear like that, ever again.” He whispered.

984 notes · View notes

middleearthpixie · 2 years

Text

Durin's Garage AU ~ The Chance You Take - Chapter Five

Durin’s Garage AU - The Chance You Take ~ Part 5

Modern Spin on The Hobbit

Summary: When your car breaks down, there is only one garage in town - Durin’s Garage and Engine Repairs. And sometimes, they do more than just tune your engine, check your oil, and top off your fluids…

It seems that for every solved mystery, a new one pops up. Only this time, Thorin knows the answers to some things in your past. Things you don’t even know the answers to…

Pairing: Modern!Thorin x reader

Warning: Jealousy, desk sex, still moar mysteries (well, only one more, but still…)

Word Count: 5,502

Check out these other great stories in the world of Durin's Garage AU

Tag List: @tschrist1 @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @linasofia @fizzyxcustard @legolasbadass @kibleedibleedoo @xxbyimm @ocfairygodmother @exhausted-humxn-being @shalinizhara @rachel1959 @laurfilijames @sketch-and-write-lover @enchantzz

Thorin just glanced over at you, then looked back at the road. “Wikipedia?”

You felt a little foolish. Everyone knew Wikipedia wasn’t exactly the most reliable source out there for anything. “It’s a perfectly good jumping off point and now I’m going to the primary source.”

“Primary source?”

“My degree is in history,” you explained with a sigh. “Primary sources were my lifeblood. And you didn’t answer the question.”

He hit the turn signal and eased to a halt to wait for a break in traffic to turn into Durin’s lot. It clicked softly in time with Metallica for a moment, but then lost the rhythm. “Wikipedia thinks I’m missing because I want Wikipedia to think me missing. Anyone can update it, so I do if it gets changed.”

You just stared at him as if he’d answered you entirely in Khuzdal. “What?”

The light up ahead changed and with it came a break in the oncoming traffic. “I want it to think I’m missing. No one here needs to know who or what I am and no one outside of here needs to know where to find me.” He turned the wheel, tapped the gas, and you bounced into the parking to and across the asphalt. “Imagine the competition you’d have, if the women around here were to learn who I am.”

A grin accompanied this and you shook your head as you bit back a smile. “So, I’d have competition, that’s what you’re saying?”

“As far as I am concerned?” He shook his head. “No. But, other women in this town would look past my pretty face and see the title behind it. They might get vicious where you’re concerned.”

“Your pretty face?”

He let out a low sigh. “I’m not stupid. I know what I look like. And I know what women see when they look at me. If they all knew the truth about me? If they saw I was something other than just a mechanic?”

“They’d see you as a king. And what do you mean, just a mechanic?”

“I mean just that. It’s not pretty work. It’s messy, I come home stinking and sweaty and can never get all of the grease out from under my fingernails.” He held up one hand, splaying his thick fingers for you to see the faint black smudge beneath each nail.

“It’s important, though. And there’s something very sexy about a man who works with his hands for a living.”

He glanced over at you, smiling when you winked. You weren’t kidding, though. There was something absolutely sexy about a guy who did manual labor for a living, and Thorin was Exhibit A.

“Besides, who cares if you shower at the end of the day and not the beginning?” You shrugged. “And it hardly changes the fact that you are a king.”

“Do I look like a king?” He pulled the Dakota almost to the building, shifted into reverse, and carefully backed into what had to be his space.

You turned sideways in your seat. His dark hair tumbled about his shoulders in loose curls, where it’d pulled free from the silver cuff, except for those two braids, which were neat and smooth, their small silver cubes still firmly in place.

His profile certainly could be that of a king—high forehead, proud nose, elegant bearing. That he was handsome as fuck was just the icing on the royal cake. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

He looked over at you. “I’m just a guy who likes to work with his hands. I take engines apart and put ‘em back together again so they run right. I make transmissions not slip out of gear. I make sure cars stop when their brake pedals are depressed. I’m not a king.”

“You are descended from them, according to that article. So… you are a king. You just have no kingdom.”

“Same difference. I don’t have one and I don’t want one.” He tugged the keys from the ignition. The rain still came down in sheets against the windshield. “I also have no umbrella with me and yours is still at my house.”

You made a face at the water sluicing down the windows. “Can I have another tee shirt?”

You looked over to see him smile at you. “I think we can work something out, yes.”

“Okay. I’ll run.”

He leaned across the cabin and brushed your lips with his, the threw his door open and launched himself out into the monsoon. You did the same, splashing across to the shop’s back door. He thrust it open and ushered you in.

Shaking rainwater from his hair, he brushed by you to move down the narrow hallway. Music blared from the bays, and you heard Kili and Fili shouting at one another, but it didn’t sound as if they were angry with one another, but just trying to be heard over the music.

“Where is that bloody wrench?” Fili’s voice bounced over the sounds of Avenged Sevenfold, which was loud enough to make the glass in the windowpanes vibrate.

“That’s not very nice, you know?” Kili shouted back from underneath the Chevy in the middle bay.

“Nice? What’s not nice about it?”

“Calling her that! She’s seems cool.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Ki?”

“Thorin’s chick! She seems nice and calling her a wench isn’t cool.”

“I didn’t call her a wench, you ass, I asked if you knew where my wrench was? The three-quarter inch one?”

“Oh, wrench! My bad.”

Fili sighed. “Where is it?”

“Got me. I’m not using it.”

You smiled, but then jumped as Thorin bellowed, “Loud enough in here?”

A dull thunk, followed by, “Afsêl-‘Amad!” rang out, followed by Fili’s, “Hey, Mouth!”

You bit back a chuckle, shaking the water from your hair as Thorin marched over to the built-in workbench that ran the length of the shop, and snapped off Avenged. “Are you trying to go deaf?”

“Sorry, Uncle.” Fili moved to the upright tool box and opened a drawer to rummage through it. “We’re just finishing up here.”

Wheels whirred and a moment later, Kili stood, rubbing the side of his head. “Hey, Uncle Thorin, we—” His gaze fell on you and his cheeks went red. “Sorry you had to hear that.”

You held up a hand. “It’s quite all right.”

“What are you two doing? This was supposed to be done and out in the lot by now. I told Miss Abrams it would be done by four and she could come—”

The door opened as if on cue and you didn’t miss how Thorin muttered, “Kakhf,” beneath his breath as a stunningly beautiful, brunette—who was all legs, mind you—stepped into the bay. Your back stiffened as all three men just stared for a moment. It was tough to blame them. She was beyond striking. And her pencil skirt and gauzy blouse certainly didn’t serve to make her harder on the eyes. Neither did the stiletto pumps that just had fuck me written all over them.

Well, fuck.

Women like her made you feel like R2D2 from the Star Wars movies—short and squat and constantly squeaking obscenities (or so you’d read somewhere that was how George Lucas envisioned him)—especially when Thorin said, “Miss Abrams, uh… I’m sorry. I know I told you four, but as you can see—“ he swept a hand at the Suburban and his nephews, who still stared as if neither one had ever seen a woman before—“it’s not quite finished.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, very painfully aware of your damp jeans and tank, as she tossed her perfect, glossy dark hair and focused her dark eyes on him. “I was led to believe you were going to do the work on it.”

“I assure you, it’s in perfectly capable hands.”

“I’m sure, but I wanted it—” she glanced over at you and you had the most childish urge to stick your tongue out at her as she turned back to Thorin and gave him a long, slow, up-and-down gaze—“in your hands.”

You tried not to glare at her, but weren’t at all successful. You couldn’t help it. I’ll just bet you did.

To his credit, Thorin just shrugged. “Another car came in with a blown engine and she needs it back as soon as possible, so I asked Fili and Kili to oversee this one. How much longer do you boys think you’ll be?”

Without taking his eyes off Miss Abrams, Kili grinned. “Half an hour, maybe. Shouldn’t be more than that.”

She sighed. “And what am I supposed to do while I wait?”

Thorin glanced over at you, then back at her. “There’s a coffee shop across the street that is open until six. One of us will call you when your car is ready.”

She didn’t look at all happy about that, but sighed and nodded. “Very well.”

You rolled your eyes as she sashayed out and all three men stared. Without thinking, you brushed by Thorin and called, “Her ass is going to catch fire if you all don’t stop staring.”

“I’d put that fire out,” Kili muttered.

“Me, too,” Fili added.

“I think I’d—” Thorin stopped, glancing at you, and you just shook your head as you left the bays to go to his office. It was silly to be annoyed, but you were annoyed just the same. Men. They never changed.

The shop’s office was small, cluttered, but neatly so, with a large, metal desk, a battered green vinyl sofa, two battered gray filing cabinets in one corner, two more in another. A calendar hung on the wall behind the desk, the days up to yesterday were crossed out in black ink. Like every other corner of the shop, it smelled of engine parts, oil, grease, and sweat.

The vinyl sofa crackled softly as you sank onto it and leaned back, closing your eyes. Twice in one day. The green-eyed monster just had to land on you twice in one day. Because the universe just wasn’t happy unless it was reminding you that men like Thorin Durin did not look at women like you, especially when women like Miss Abrams were in the room.

Plain.

Beige.

Average.

Blended in with your surroundings.

You wondered what it must be like to be one of the Miss Abrams of the world.

Instead of being R2D2.

In damp jeans and tank top.

Ugh.

Fili’s voice carried back to the office. “I’m going to finish up here. Ki, let’s go.”

“I think you’re in trouble, Uncle,” Kili said, his voice faint.

“Think so, do you?” Thorin growled back. “You’re a huge help, you know that? Get this car finished and out of here. I’ll go finalize the bill to hurry you along.”

Thorin’s boots thudded dully again the linoleum and your gut twisted as the sounds grew louder. You busied yourself on you phone, which was suddenly the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen.

“I should know better than to leave those two unsupervised.” Thorin closed the door behind him and moved to tug his chair away from the desk. The wheels squeaked softly as they gave in, and the leather squeaked not-so-softly when he sank into it. “They need a keeper.”

“Seems to me, people would rather have you under their hood anyway.”

He looked up from the stack of papers he thumbed through and you didn’t miss the faint flush creeping above his beard. “I owe you an apology for that.”

“No, you don’t.” You lowered you gaze back to your phone. “I’d stare at her, too.”

His chair squeaked once more and papers shuffled. “I wasn’t staring at her.”

You looked up again, only to find him bent over an invoice pad, pen in hand. Tossing your phone onto the cushion alongside you, you snorted. “Sure you were. My eyes work, you know. And if you weren’t staring, what are you apologizing for?”

“My nephews. They think with their dicks.”

“Don’t you all?”

Now he looked up. “Boys do, yes.”

“You were staring at her. Admit it. And you were about to say you’d put that fire out as well. It’s okay for you say it. I already know.”

He sighed, sitting back in his chair. “You’re right and I’m sorry. Guess I’m guilty of thinking with my cock as well at times. But,” he added before you could pounce, “that is not what I was doing out there.”

“Then what were you doing?”

“I don’t know… she puts it on display all the time and it’s habit by now, I guess. And I’m pretty sure she fucks with that car just to have an excuse to bring it in.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Let me just get this finished, get it to Kili, and then maybe we can go and grab dinner or something.”

“Does she get charged labor?” The words were out before you could stop them and you regretted them the moment they touched air. You had no right to be jealous or possessive or anything. You and Thorin weren’t a couple.

Were you?

Did being soul mates make you a couple?

Could you be soul mates with a guy you just met?

His back stiffened and when he looked up again, his eyes were cool. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“No. It wasn’t nothing.” He shook his head, finished writing whatever it was he wrote, and shoved up and out of his chair to stomp down the hallway back to the garage.

You could hear him talking to first his nephews, then to Miss Abrams. With a sigh, you stretched out on the sofa. Your short night’s sleep was catching up to you and it didn’t matter how good the sex leading to that sleep was, you were beat. And honestly? You wished you never opened your mouth about Miss Abrams. You didn’t want to fight with Thorin. And in all honesty, how could you blame him for staring? The woman was gorgeous and she knew it and she knew just how to play it up. Unlike you, still in your damp clothes, your hair drying in all directions. You were a train wreck in comparison. An absolute train wreck.

You didn’t mean to doze off. One minute, you were there just waiting for Miss Abrams to stop flirting with him long enough for him to remember you were there, and the next, a hand moved over the back of your head and a soft baritone voice murmured, “Let’s get you home.”

“I don’t have a home,” you murmured thickly, your eyelids refusing to see reason and open.

“Of course you do,” Thorin replied, his hand going still on the back of your head.

“Your Miss Abrams will be disappointed.”

A low sigh wafted across your cheek, then, the hand on your head moved. It brushed your hair away from that same cheek, sent it sliding over your opposite shoulder. The sofa crinkled softly as Thorin eased himself over you. He straddled your ass, knees on either side of your hips, and warm lips came soft upon your nape. “I don’t give a damn what she is or isn’t,” he murmured between kisses. “She was charged a hundred and fifty dollars san hour for labor.”

You smiled into the vinyl as he caught the bottom of your tank top to ease up. Your breath caught when he shifted and his warm lips came softly along your lower back, just above the waist of your jeans. “Four hours of labor,” he whispered, then with the tip of his tongue, traced along your spine, which sent a rush of goosebumps along your back, “plus parts? Almost a thousand dollars.”

Your eyes closed as he eased your top up a fraction of an inch higher. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” his lips skimmed along the trail his tongue had just taken, “you will pay nothing for a new engine, mesmel… you just need to let me see you naked on occasion.”

“Thorin…”

You felt his fingers brush your bra strap and you bit down on your bottom lip, waiting for him to unhook it, but he didn’t. He just pressed another kiss against your back, this one above said strap. “What? I’ll take sex as payment as well, you know…”

“From me or from anyone with tits and a heartbeat?”

He went quiet, his lips brushing over your right shoulder blade.

“Thorin?”

“Mmmm?”

“Get off me.”

He laughed, but rocked back. “I was thinking it over.”

“Thorin!”

The vinyl crackled again as he stood and held out a hand to draw you to your feet. “I’m only teasing you, you know. I just told you a little while ago that I’m not about to fuck around. You think I’m interested in her or anyone else when I’ve got this—” he caught you around the waist and lifted you easily—“right here?”

“She is perfect.”

“No such thing.” His hands locked under your thighs and you both sighed as he cradled you up against him. “Her breath smells like a swamp. And I don’t think she’s fond of deodorant, so the rest of her kind of smells, too.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He held you just far enough to offer up a wide-eyed look. “Why would I lie about that?”

You linked your fingers at his nape, his hair soft and cool against your fingers. “Because you’re a guy and guys—”

“I’m not like other men, haven’t you figured that out yet?”

“Why? Because you think I’m your soul mate?”

He offered up a slow grin. “I know you are. And I proved it to you, so you know it, too.”

“Thorin—”

“Tell me I didn’t.”

“It’s crazy.”

“It is.” He nodded. “No sane person would believe it.”

“So you must be crazy then.”

His eyes darkened. His hands tightened on the backs of your thighs. “I’d say you are just as crazy, because you are still here.”

“You have my car,” you whispered.

“And I’m keeping it.” His lips swept yours. “I’m keeping you, too. I like you.”

Those words send a shiver through you, but it was a nice shiver, one that made you tighten your arms about him and pull him closer.

“If I wrote this as a book, no editor would ever believe it,” you said this into his open mouth as he kissed you mid-sentence.

“Thought you said you were a historian?” came his murmured response.

You had no chance to answer as his tongue slid along yours, teased it and caressed it, drew it back into the wet heat of his mouth. All words were forgotten then as he tugged you flush against him and you tightened your legs about his waist.

Your belly whooshed as he turned and bent slightly. He shifted you to one arm (one arm!) and with the other, shoved papers and whatever else lay cluttered on his desk to the side, then set you where those papers and whatever else had been.

His hands came up to cradle your face as he angled your head to deepen his kiss. You caught him by the hips, pulling back long enough to whisper, “I said my degree is in history.”

“So,” he kissed you again, his long fingers stretching back into your hair, “what do you do?”

He angled between your knees, bumping against the desk’s lip. You slid closer to him, smiling as he sighed at the contact between you both. “I am between jobs at the moment.”

Your fingers twisted in the navy blue cotton at his hips, tugged it from the waist of his Levi’s to slide your hands beneath it and skim them along his smooth back. He pulled away, his thumbs grazing your cheekbones, his eyes dancing. “How were you paying me then?”

“Sex.”

He grinned. “You’re lucky I’m easy,” he murmured, dipping back to you once more.

Your head fell back as he smoked a trail with his lips down your throat, into the hollow at its base. His beard came softly scratchy against your skin, sending another delicious shiver along your spine. It brushed your jaw, your neck, and when he kissed down into the curve of your tank top, you let out a soft sigh.

Gently, he pushed you down flat on his desk, sliding your tank top up and out of the way. The cool fabric skimmed along you, a caress in itself, and when he reached your bra, he slid a hand beneath you and, with a flick of his wrist, unhooked it.

You bit down hard on your bottom lip as his hands slid over your breasts, kneading them, letting his thumbs slide slowly about your nipples. They tightened into hard beads, sensitive and aching as he slowly rolled them between him thumbs and forefingers. His tongue flicked into your navel. He kissed down into the waist of your jeans.

You shivered as he skimmed his hands flat against you, down along your ribs, to catch the snap on your jeans. His hair spilled softly against your belly, his fingers curling in the waist of your jeans to tug them down. You lifted your hips, let the soft denim skim away from you, shivered as he pressed a kiss just above the waist of your thong. Desire hummed through you, pooling in the cotton between your thighs. Kili and Fili might still be in the garage, but you didn’t care. Hell, you didn’t care if Miss Perfect-With-the-Swamp-Breath-and-Stinky-Pits was still there. It didn’t matter because if she was, she should only know that at that moment, Thorin Durin was sliding a finger beneath the lacy triangle of fabric between your legs and whispering, “Kurdelê,” as he slid that finger through your slick folds.

Your head spun from the slow, deliberate stroke of that finger against your flesh, but that didn’t stop you from whispering back, “Kurdelê?”

He slowly circled your clit, slid over it, moved through your slickness toward your entrance. “My heart of hearts.”

The tip of his finger slid inside you and you sucked in a sharp breath, biting on your bottom lip as he withdrew it and slid it back up. “Your… heart of… oh, my—”

“Mine,” he interrupted softly, coming back up to loom over you, to bend down, to seize your lips in a deep kiss that had his tongue teasing yours, and that finger sliding back around your clit again. You rocked into his caress, gasping into his mouth as his hand curved against you and, just as he’d done last eve when he used your thong to tease you when he went down on you, this time, he did it with his hand to set your body on fire with the need to have him.

The lace was rough against your soft flesh, but it felt so good, you didn’t care. Your hips moved of their own, rocking to meet each teasing stroke. And when he slid the lace from your legs and slid one finger inside you, your head fell back and your, “Oh!” echoed all around you.

You clawed at his tee shirt, desperate to feel his skin bare against yours. But he didn’t stop teasing you with that finger, whispering, “Enjoy yourself, amrâlimê. We have all the time in the world and I am not finished with you.”

“Thorin… oh…” Your hands fell to the desk. You wanted to touch him, wanted to make him feel even a little bit of what he made you feel. Kurdelê. Soul mate. This man was yours and you wanted to brand him the same way he’d branded you. And he had definitely branded you. Oh, no one else could see it, but it was there. In your heart. In your mind.

On your body.

He stroked you oh so nicely with that finger, and it was unlike anything you’d ever felt before. The mythical G-spot was mythical no more, for not only did he find it, he knew exactly was to do with it.

Your climax rolled toward you like a tidal wave, growing higher with each slow, sensuous stroke. Everything inside you tensed in the sweetest way possible, white-hot pleasure stung you until you were pretty sure your eyes crossed and you could actually hear your blood racing through your veins.

Your hips rose to meet him. You buried a hand in his hair. Your eyes closed as you breathed, “Thorin… oh… love…”

He stroked faster, and then leaned over and—

You pulled his hair hard as his tongue slid over your clit and it shattered you. He thrust. He swirled his tongue about to draw out your orgasm, to make it far sweeter than anything you had ever felt before. Your back arched, your body pulsed all around him as you fought to breathe, fought to keep from being devoured by that amazing fire, only to realize you didn’t care if it consumed you. Death by an orgasm brought about by Thorin Durin was well worth being dead.

He brought you back to earth with soft kisses from that now-too-sensitive bead, over the fluff of curls between your legs, over your belly. When his mouth found yours, you wrapped yourself around him, scrabbled to grab hold of his belt, unbuckled it and popped the fly on his Levi’s.

He groaned into your mouth as you slid your hand beneath denim and cotton and wrapped your hand around his cock to tug it from his jeans. He thrust into your hand, hard and sleek and his mouth locked with yours, he reached down, caught you by the wrist, and you guided him to you.

His first thrust was hard and deep, and you wrapped your legs about his waist as he went still, as he groaned, “I love you…” and began moving inside you.

You stared up at him. “What?”

“I know it sounds—oh, it sounds mad,” he slowed his thrusts, smiling as you couldn’t hold back your mewl of protest, “but I do…”

With that, he thrust again, slow and deep and enough to make you shiver around him. You meet his smoked-sapphire gaze. “Thorin, how?”

“Because.” A soft moan swirled through that one word, his eyes closing for a moment as he treated you to another slow thrust, one that raked every pleasure centre along his path to make you clench about him and hold him inside you. “I told you,” he gritted as he thrust again, “I’ve been—oh, Mahal, you feel so fucking good—been waiting for you.”

“I know but—”

Another hard thrust. He was close to the point of no return, judging by the tension woven through him. A muscle bulged along his furred jaw. His eyes closed briefly. His breath came in short, hard bursts.

“Oh, fuck,” he growled, arching hard against you, his fingers biting into your hips, lifting you to meet him as he surged deep again. “You are mine, givashel and no other man will ever touch you… oh, Mahal, yes… squeeze me, baby… Oh, squeeze me tighter…”

He thrust again, surged deep, crushed you to him and as he came, he moaned, “Marry me…”

You tensed around him, squeezing every last bit of his orgasm free, and you held him there inside you as he sank against you, his head coming to rest on your breast. His heartbeat became yours, fast and furious and as you stroked his hair away from his face, you smiled and pressed a kiss into the top of his head for a change. “I love you,” you whispered back.

A soft laugh skittered across your skin. “Is that your answer?”

“Was that a serious proposal?”

He lifted his head, his blue eyes soft and direct as he nodded. “I can get down on one knee, if you like.”

“I met you yesterday,” you reminded him softly. In case he’d forgotten?

“I know. And I’ve been waiting for you since I was a boy.” He withdrew from you and you both winced at the same time. Without hesitation, he whisked his tee shirt over his head to press between your legs and swiped gently.

“Well, you’ve been waiting for me, but I didn’t know you existed.” You sat up, taking the tee shirt from him to finish cleaning up. “And… well…”

“And, well, what?”

You met his gaze. “I’m afraid.”

“Of me?”

You shook your head. “Of loving you.”

He took the damp tee shirt from you, finished cleaning himself off, then tugged his dark blue boxer briefs and jeans back up. “Why?”

“Why? Why do you think? We just met and look at you. Women must throw themselves at you and—and I don’t understand what you see in me compared to your Miss Abrams and don’t ever try to tell me it’s because she smells.”

“She does smell. But that’s not it.” He wadded up the shirt and set it on the desk next to your leg. “What do I see in you? I see my soul mate, that’s what I see.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

He sighed, crouched to fish your thong and jeans from the floor to give back to you, then dropped into his chair. “I don’t think I can answer it. I just know. I feel it. I feel whole with you. I feel that something was missing and when I came out of this office to see you in my garage, I knew what that something was. When something is right, it’s right, and this feels right. ”

You slid into your underwear and then into your jeans. “Did you really? Because that just doesn’t happen to women like me.”

“Still need convincing? Okay,” he slapped his hands against his thighs and rose, “let me put on a clean shirt and we are going over to Dis’. There’s one more thing I have to show you.”

You watched as he crossed to the box on the table in the corner and rummaged through it, coming up with the now-familiar black Durin’s Garage tee, which he tugged over his head and tucked not the waist of his jeans. “One more thing?”

“One more thing. She’s been holding onto it for me because I thought it safer with her than with me.”

You just stared at him. “So, this is like a mystery for you.”

“For you, too. And I promise it will all eventually make sense.” He came back around to wedge between your knees, his hands coming to rest on your thighs. “Tell me about your family, amrâlimê.”

“There isn’t much to tell. I’m an only child. My mother was a single parent and she died when I was in college.”

“And your father?”

You shook your head. “I never met him. My mother told me he took off before I was born. All I ever knew about him was I have his eyes.”

He folded his arms across his impossibly broad chest, his eyes soft and serious as he said, “What if I told you I know who he is? And I know where he is.”

“You’d be lying,” you said flatly, shaking your head. “There is no way you could know that. I don’t even know it.”

“I do know and I will show you how I know when we get to my sister’s.”

You just stared up at him, that Twilight Zone feeling stronger than ever. “Thorin?”

“What?”

“You aren’t playing me, are you? Because if you are—”

His eyes softened and he closed the space between you, catching your face in his hands once more. “I swear to you, amrâlimê, I am not playing you.” His thumbs swept along your cheekbones. “You were meant to come here, which sounds crazy, I know, but—”

“It sounds no crazier than anything else that’s happened since I crossed the town line.”

“Do you trust me?”

You looked up at him. You should say no, right? You’d known this man all of twenty-four hours. Your friends would all be horrified to know how you’d spent these last twenty-four hours. There was no way he wasn’t some sort of charlatan, some kind of con man. How could he be anything but that?

And yet… you understood what he’d meant about something missing, for that was why you’d left home. Something had been missing. Fate brought you here, to this garage, to this man, and as crazy as it sounded, it didn’t feel crazy.

It felt right.

Slowly, you nodded. “I do, yes.”

“Good. You should.” He bent and kissed you gently on the lips, then took your hand, swiped his keys off the three-drawer filing cabinet just inside the office doorway, and led you out to his pickup once more.

#The Hobbit #Thorin Oakenshield #Hobbit Fic #Hobbit Fanfic #Fan fiction #The Hobbit fan fiction #AU #Thorin Fic #Is it hot in here?#Thorin x reader #Thorin short fic #modern au #garage au #stay tuned #more to come

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gavin-plz-call-me · 3 years

Note

i saw you did an nsfw alphabet for wannabe challenge so i was wondering if you could do one for tears of themis? i'd love to see one for artem

Hell yeah, alphabets are the only nsfw stuff I'm good at writing

AO3

Artem NSFW Alphabet

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

-Stills inside/beside you for a moment while you both catch your breath, then he’s combing through your hair, peppering your body with loving kisses.

-Has wet wipes/tissues to help clean you up at arm's length, so if let’s be honest, when you whine about not wanting to leave his side just yet, he can help you clean up.

-If you’re still clingy after a while, this man will carry you to the bathroom to get the rest of the way cleaned up.

-If you find yourself in a more dominant role in the bedroom sub Artem? It’s more likely than you think be prepared to pepper that man with so much love and care.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

-His favorite body part of himself is his eyes. They’re a nice color, but I don’t think he thinks about his appearance too much.

-As for you, would it be cliche to say your brain?

-While your beauty was what attracted him first, your mind is what really sealed the deal.

-Your mouth is a close second, because it helps you voice your thoughts in that beautiful voice of yours and, I mean, if you wanted to give him a blow job too he wouldn’t be complaining…

-Is an ass man.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

-Is hesitant on deciding where to cum.

-He thinks cumming anywhere in/on you would not be a very pleasant experience for you.

-But in the heat of the moment, he’ll probably end up cumming inside you if he’s wearing protection, or on your thighs/ass if he’s not.

-When he cums, whether it be in you or on you, he’s grabbing you a tissue when he comes down from his high to clean you up.

-If you swallow his cum he’ll be a little disgusted, but a lot turned on.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

-Has masturbated in his office after you’ve left on multiple occasions.

-Sometimes the perfume you were wearing was extra enticing, sometimes what you were wearing made you look extra hot, and sometimes your presence alone is enough to get him hot and excited.

-Is mostly ashamed about the times he did it before you two were dating because it felt like an intrusion of your privacy.

-Once Celestine came to his office right after he finished and he was so mortified that she’d somehow be able to tell that he did something. She knew something was up because of how much he was blushing, but she didn’t know what exactly

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

-Big old virgin

-I’m not even saying that to be mean plus being a virgin isn’t bad it’s just true.

-Sure, his lack of experience may be a bit of a hindrance at first, but he’s a clean slate.

-He’s not gonna be doing some weird thing with your clit because a girl he was with before liked that.

-Train him to perfectly pleasure you, and, trust me, he’s a fast learner.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

-Your first few times together he only did missionary, because, while he knew there were other options, he didn’t know how to initiate them.

-As he got more experience, however, he grew to absolutely love doggy style.

-Loves your ass, so it’s an obvious choice. Plus, if he’s extra flustered, he can easily hide it.

-Grips your ass extra hard while kissing your neck and back. If he’s feeling extra brave, expect a few whispers about how good you feel.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

-He has his goofy moments, but most of the time he’s 100% serious.

-Whether it be because he’s concentrating on learning how to pleasure you correctly, or, when he’s gained a bit of experience, just concentrating on both of your pleasure.

-I feel like as you guys get closer, however, an awkward moment may turn into a brief bout of giggles shared between the two of you before continuing.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

-Shaved himself completely when you two started dating.

-Was convinced you’d be disgusted by any hair down there. My poor insecure baby

-When he gets more comfortable around you, he’ll let it grow out, but he still trims it to keep it neat.

-Carpets match the drapes.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

-Is a whore for a sexy, romantic atmosphere.

-I’m talking rose petals, candles, and a couple of glasses of non-alcoholic wine.

-Wanna have the most romantic love-making session imaginable? Set all of that up for him instead of the other way around.

-He’ll be so in love with you at that moment he’ll have no choice but to give you the best orgasms you’ve ever had.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

-Before meeting you, he jacked off maybe once or twice a week, and it was more of something he had to do than something he wanted to do.

-When he met you, he thought you were the most attractive person he’d ever seen, so his sex drive and, naturally, his masturbation sessions increased.

-Increased to every other day, maybe every day. He tried to not think of you during these times as he felt it was an invasion of privacy emphasis on tried.

-After finally getting together with you, his sessions have decreased back down to once or twice a week.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

-Likes having sex in his office, but that’s the most public space he’ll do it in.

-Also loves it when you’re slightly dominant on him.

-Doesn’t want to do any of the more kinky stuff, tying him or you, depending on his mood with a tie is about as far as he’ll go.

-But just take charge, he loves it.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

-Can’t go wrong with the good old fucking in bed. It’s easy, comfortable, and you guys can take as long as you want.

-Get him riled up at work by wearing something that beautifully shows of your ass, or make sure he knows you’re wearing that pair of panties you know he loves or, fuck it, no panties at all he’ll polietly ask you into his office so he can fuck your brains out.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

-Loves when you assert yourself, especially at work.

-Get all confident during a trial because you know you’re going to win? That’s all the motivation he needs.

-Does not help his productivity at all, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

-Expect to fuck after a trial, extra hard if you won.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

-No threesomes/group sex.

-It’s not even because he’ll get jealous okay maybe a bit of that but you were his first and only. Everything he’s learned about sex has been about specifically pleasuring you, he wouldn’t know where to begin when having sex with other people.

-He’s more than content with you being his one and only.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

-Not skilled at the beginning like all things sexual, but he’s a fast learner.

-Good communication is key here, as it is in all aspects of sex with Artem. Guide him to where you want to be pleasured, praise him when you really like what he’s doing, and give him some delicious moans and he’ll be a pro at fucking you with his tounge alone in no time.

-Is too shy to ask for you to go down on him, and will insist you don’t have to when you try to initiate it.

-Ignore him and do it, the noises you draw from him are absolutely worth it.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

-Starts off at a weird middle ground sort of pace, not fast and not slow.

-Is fond of slow and sensual when he grows more experienced, but will occasionally get rough with you.

-That usually happens when he gets a bit too jealous of a guy who got a bit too close to you for your liking.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

- doesn’t really have a choice in the matter at the beginning, mr. 30 seconds (sorry Artem)

-For real, he prefers longer love-making sessions, but if you’re teasing him in the office a quickie will ensue.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

-Grows more confident the more the two of you have sex.

-He does like fucking in his office, so he likes a bit of risk, but there being too many people in the office, or the chance of Celestine walking in at anytime, Artem would much rather feign working on a case and take you home.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

-At first, like most virgin boys, his stamina is basically nonexistent.

-Let him take his time, he’ll get to fucking you until the sun rises in no time at all.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

-Has never thought about getting one for himself when his hand does the job well enough.

-Is very open to using toys on you in the bedroom, especially when he’s feeling insecure about his ability to please you which happens often, scream his name and make him forget those insecurities.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

-Not a teaser in the slightest.

-You want something specific in the bedroom? He’s already doing it, you barely have to ask.

-On the flip side, sort of loves it when you’re unfair to him.

-Just barely touch him and stop at the brink of his orgasm, he gets a sick sort of pleasure from that.

-It also helps him gain more control over himself in the bedroom, so it’s a win-win.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

-May try to stay quiet, after all, in all the porn he’s watched which isn’t a lot because I feel like watching it makes him feel uncomfortable the man is always basically silent.

-That does not work out for him, though. He gets so overwhelmed with pleasure that he can’t control what his vocal cords are doing.

-Gains a bit more control over it over time, but he realizes you like his moans, so he stops trying to keep them at bay.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

-Is a total switch.

-Can be pretty dominant at some times see his atmospheric card

-But I can totally see him wanting you to dom him sometimes. Loves seeing you dominate the court, if you bring that energy to bed, oh boy is he like putty in your hands.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

-He’s of average girth and slightly above average length. Has a nice, thick vein that runs the length of his penis.

-Uncut.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

-Has a very active imagination how else would he become such a great lawyer?

-And while that helps him out in his work, anything about you can really set him off.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

-Is out like a light

-Especially the first few times, his body doesn’t know what hit him.

-But even after a while, he works so hard that the moment he has the chance to fall asleep, his body is taking that chance.

-Make sures to stay up long enough to get cleaned off and help you clean yourself up.

#Tears of themis #tears of themis artem #artem wing #tears of themis headcanon #tears of themis headcanons #tears of themis fic #tears of themis fanfic #nsft #tears of themis nsft

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findingjoynweirdstuff · 3 years

Text

Dream SMP Recap (July 25/2021) - The Wilburger Ranvan

Wilbur comes up with his new calling: selling burgers in a burger van! At Phil’s suggestion, Wilbur teams up with Ranboo to do so, setting up their new business on the outskirts of Las Nevadas.

A brief summary of the week’s total events can be found at the end of the post.

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VOD LINKS:

Wilbur Soot

Captain Puffy

BadBoyHalo

---

- Wilbur and Phil hang out in the Arctic. Wilbur has a proposition for Phil

- He says he met up with Quackity and it was a nice time. The one conclusion he came to is that Quackity is very resourceful

Wilbur: “As much as I may disagree with your views on anarchy, I must say, it’s pretty harmless. I -- I can’t hate you for it. I can’t hate you for enjoying literally living in a peaceful little village in the snow, I mean the server’s never been this peaceful since -- since all the countries and nations and cities and everything is gone. So Phil, I came to you with one question, one question...do you think Quackity should be allowed to be left unchecked?”

- Phil says no. The issue is, there’s no government, no police force. What Techno’s done is left a power vacuum and now Quackity’s come in with an unethical establishment, gambling...

- Wilbur wants to make a burger van

- They get interrupted by an Enderman ascending from the basement

- He knows there’s a bit of déjà vu, but the difference is that the burger van isn’t going to sell drugs this time. He wants every steak to have a name

- He’s done with being a source of authority, a president. His calling is just burgers, no ulterior motives

- Phil knows someone who would help out: Ranboo. The richest, most knowledgable man on the server, and he’s run out of things to do on the server

- Wilbur doesn’t want to play with Ranboo, but Phil threatens to kick him out if he doesn’t so he does, annoyed at being treated like a child

- Wilbur gives Ranboo his proposition

Wilbur: “I like to think, you know, let bygones be bygones, let’s bury the hatchet, let’s be -- Ranboo I’m gonna go out on a limb here...do you wanna be friends?”

- His next progression, after being a dead-terrorist-president...is to be a chef. Ranboo is onboard

- They start walking over. Wilbur asks if Ranboo’s heard of Las Nevadas, and Ranboo mentions their abandoned cookie post that was causing trouble. He wants to create competition for Quackity’s business. Eventually, maybe Quackity will have to make a deal with them, maybe even be their friend

- Ranboo wants to keep it respectful. Wilbur assures him that they already has the land necessary

- Wilbur wants to pick Ranboo’s brain and asks his thoughts on Quackity. Ranboo says he just hasn’t seen him in so long. Their last interaction before everything else happened was just that they were in the same cabinet of New L’manburg

- Wilbur didn’t know that Ranboo was part of L’manburg’s government

- Wilbur asks if he dislikes anyone. Ranboo says not too much, just people that he doesn’t agree with. Everyone is just a product of what they’ve gone through, so if you understand that, you understand the person

- If you align yourself with everyone, isn’t that more complicated? Ranboo says that’s why he’s just been living with Phil and Techno away from everything, trying not to involve himself in much, but he has a terrible radar on what’s involving himself and what isn’t

Wilbur: “What about Dream?”

Ranboo: “Well that’s -- well, with Dream it’s kind of like...all I’ve heard of Dream, all I’ve seen with Dream is just been like the really bad things that he’s done and everything, so I would say that I -- yeah, I don’t really like Dream, but I mean, he’s also not really someone that it matters whether or not I like him ‘cause he’s just away in that prison for a really long time, so I mean...”

Wilbur: “No trial?”

- They reach their competition and go into the fast food restaurant

- He peeks into the casino, but holes it back up. This building doesn’t benefit the consumer

- Wilbur places down some signs insulting Quackity’s burger place, guaranteeing those signs will never leave since they don’t care about the customer

- Wilbur shows Ranboo his area, which he's thinking of naming “Paradise.” Ranboo says it could be a neat play on words...pair-of-dice

- Wilbur and Ranboo decide to make the place red and white, retro-themed. Ranboo gives Wilbur Ranord and Wilbur goes off to gather some red

- Wilbur likes Tubbo since he’s strong-headed and doesn’t let people push him around

- Ranboo says when you can’t change someone’s mind, it’s no use to needlessly argue. Wilbur points out that Ranboo seems to be a bit more dynamic than a purely neutral, peaceful force. He’s somehow appeared in almost every conflict the server’s had since Wilbur died

- Ranboo says it’s because he’s bad at discerning things, but he’s been doing alright with his situation recently. He wants to help people, and sometimes he lets that desire to help people get in the way of what he says about himself

Wilbur: “Ranboo...why did you help to help me?”

- Ranboo needed something to do, and he also thought that Wilbur’s an alright person, so he wants to get off on a better foot because he doesn’t like having people not like him

- Wilbur asks why he doesn’t think Wilbur’s a bad person. Ranboo says he did bad things, but also went through things that made him that way and now he’s changed as a person since he died. He’s optimistic in that

Wilbur: (sniffs) “Good, uh...that’s nice. Thank you. Uh...I think I needed to hear that.”

Wilbur: “Can I be real with you man? ...I think I scare people.”

Ranboo: “I mean...yeah, I do the same thing.”

Wilbur: “No, not in -- no no, I mean I...I don’t think I...I think a lot of people share your idea, but they share your idea in trying to -- trying to keep me from hurting them, you know? Like they’ve seen what I can do and they don’t want me to do it again, so they adopt your emotion in order to do it.”

- He demolished Jack Manifold’s house twice, he completely ignored him in the war, and what it took for Jack to forgive Wilbur was just a sorry.

Wilbur: “And I know -- I’ve spoken to Tommy about Jack Manifold! And Jack Manifold is not the sort of person to forgive someone like that with a sorry! Imagine if Dream said sorry to Jack Manifold! What’s Dream done to Jack Manifold, huh? Barely anything! I imagine if Dream said sorry to Jack Manifold, Jack Manifold would ignore him. Do you know why? Because DREAM’s in prison, and I’m not!

“Dream is -- he’s had his comeuppance and I’ve not! My comeuppance was apparently not good enough for these people! They’re just waiting! Waiting for the next thing for me to slip up on them -- Ranboo, I’m not gonna fucking slip up, Ranboo, I’m different. I’m not Dream...god, I wish I was! Sometimes I wish, I wish I’d gotten that comeuppance but Ranboo, I’m not Dream. And I’m not gonna be Dream, and that’s...”

“I’m living in eternal Limbo...again. I’ve been through Limbo. I’m out of Limbo. And socially, I’m still in this Limbo, and man, Ranboo, hearing you say those words that you said to me? Do you remember what you said?”

Ranboo: “Y-yeah, I do?”

Wilbur: “You said...(sniffs) I think people can change, that’s number one. And number two, you said you’re scared that people don’t like you.”

- He tells Ranboo that they’re kindred. They have the same neuroticism, their strongest point. But anxiety is not their downfall. Wilbur’s parents are alive because they were anxious and didn’t let anything take them down

- Ranboo says they’re both thinkers. They may think in different ways, but they think at the same level

Wilbur: “I think you might be a bit braver than me in showing your true colors. I feel like with you, Ranboo, I never have to be guessing your next move. I never have to be guessing your hand, you know? I feel like life dealt us the same cards, and the difference is you build your trust by showing people your cards whilst I keep them close to my chest, and I feel like that might be the big difference.”

- He asks Ranboo what he feels about thievery. He’s going to steal Las Nevadas’ cows to make into burgers

- Ranboo makes some concrete and starts building the van. Wilbur rides off on a horse looking for some sheep

- Wilbur asks Ranboo about Tubbo and Ranboo talks a bit about Snowchester. Wilbur thought Techno was successful at getting rid of all the nations, but Ranboo says it’s not a nation. Wilbur doesn’t know about Kinoko Kingdom either

- Wilbur gets to the spider farm, which has Kanye West in it

- He heads back and they discuss names like Paradise or Wilburger

- Wilbur asks Ranboo’s opinion on Tommy and Ranboo thinks he’s great. Tommy’s gone through a lot, but it’s made him a good person.

Wilbur notes that he seems to think that everyone’s gone through something. Ranboo says yes, the only bad people are those who are evil without a reason why, but there’s not many people like that

- Wilbur names the first burger “Wilburger Vol. 1″ and puts a watermark on it

- Wilbur wants to ask Ranboo one last make-or-break question

- Chat suggests the “Wilburger Ranvan” and they like it

- They go to Quackity’s restaurant and Wilbur wants Ranboo to smash the windows. Ranboo does

- Wilbur goes inside and places TNT. He hands Ranboo the lighter and tells him to detonate it

- Ranboo does so. Wilbur tells Ranboo to go back to the van. He’s passed the test

Wilbur: “Ranboo, I’m proud of you man. You’ve -- you’ve taken a side.”

- Wilbur goes back and places a sign at the crater:

---

***** Wilbur + Ranboo Did this together

*****

---

“I love that guy.” (laughs) “I love that guy.”

END OF WEEK RECAP:

7/19 - Nothing much happens.

7/20 - Sapnap and George speak with Mexican Dream

7/21 - Foolish creates Philzavilla and breaks into the prison

7/22 - Nothing much happens.

7/23 - Nothing much happens.

7/24 - MCC, no updates

7/25 - Wilbur and Ranboo make a burger van

---

Upcoming Events:

- Captain Puffy’s Lore Stream

- Wilbur’s 11 planned streams

- Egg Finale Stream

- Tales From the SMP: “Space Race”

- Ponk’s prequel stream

- Ponk’s current-day lore with Sam

- Puffy’s Lore Cast

- Sapnap’s lore

- Dream’s lore video

- Quackity’s casino opening

#dream smp #dream smp recaps #long post #long posts

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yurtletheturtlehenderson · 3 years

Text

COSMIC - S1:E5; Chapter Five, The Flea and The Acrobat - [Pt. 2]

A Will Byers x Male!Reader Series

𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘣 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴 𝘔𝘳. 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯.

|| 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕 ||

"Fear not, for I am with you. Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you."

'I can't believe I'm at Will's funeral.'

"Yes, I will help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." The pastor continued.

I spared a glance at the people around me.

I looked to Jonathan, his head bowed, and poor Joyce who was sitting nearby.

I can't imagine what they must be going through.

Joyce was like a second mother to me, and she has always treated as if I was one of her own. I'll always be grateful for that. I lay a hand on her shoulder.

She looks up to me confused like I had pulled her deep out of her thought, upon seeing it was me she smiles thankfully. She put her hand over mine and gave it a few gentle pats and then a small stroke with her thumb to say thank you.

I smiled solemnly at her and let go, listening to the rest of the service.

"It's times like these that our faith is challenged. How, if he is truly benevolent... could God take us from someone so young, so innocent?"

I looked down at my feet.

"It would be easy to turn away from God... but we must remember that nothing, not even tragedy, can separate us from His love."

I felt a nudge on my shoulder and turned to look at Dustin. He wore a sly smirk as he looked to his right, past me and Mike.

Frowning in confusion, I turned my head to see what he was smirking about.

"Just wait till we tell Will that Jennifer Hayes was crying at his funeral." Dustin said cheekily.

I scoffed under my breath, rolling my eyes.

"Since when has she cared about Will? She couldn't even get his name right, remember that week she called him Bill?" I huffed, crossing my arms in distaste.

The boys smirked at me.

"What?" I asked.

"Somebody jealous?" Lucas smirked.

"No-! Not ev- Shut up!" I scowl.

The boys giggle earning more than a few concerned and offended glances making me smile to myself. Mrs. Wheeler leaned down and shushed the boys making me smirk more.

'Serves them right.'

Soon enough, the casket had been lowered into the growd and roses had been thrown on top. I made my way to the very side of the grave, looking down.

"I know you're not dead. But I swear to God, if you don't come back I'm gonna kill you." I muttered to the casket in the ground.

As people began to filter out, we watched as Mike's mom said her condolences to Will's parents.

"I'm so, so sorry."

"Oh, thank you so much for coming." Will's dad said.

I never liked him.

Joyce was just standing by herself quietly, her arms crossed looking down at the grave.

"Yeah, if there's anything we can do..." Mr. Wheeler offered, shaking the man's hand.

"I appreciate it. Thank you so much."

I said goodbye to Lucas who had to follow his parents out, even though we would be seeing him later at the wake. I did the same with Mike, and soon enough Mom was waiting for us so we could get to the car.

"Mom, will you give me a minute?"

"Of course, Pumpkin," She smiled at me with sympathy.

I turned around wove through the crowd that had separated me from Joyce. I tapped her on the shoulder, seeming to jostle her from her thoughts a second time.

Upon seeing it was me, she smiled.

"Hi, Ms. Byers."

"Oh, hi Y/n. Thank you, for coming, sweetheart," She smiled.

I captured her in a bear hug and she gladly reciprocated, giving my several comforting strokes.

"Of course. I'm so, so sorry for your loss." I said, letting her go.

"Oh, thank you, honey. T-Tell me, how have you been holding up?" She asked gently.

My eyes welled up.

"I'm not gonna lie, it's- it's been really hard. I just, I just miss him so much. Your son was such a good person. Always a gentleman." I knew what I was saying.

Even if he is alive for sure, everything I said was true. He always has been nothing but kind to me.

Not to mention, I owe him for so much.

She seemed extremely thankful for hearing that and I was glad I could make her genuinely smile on this sad day.

"Really? Oh sweetie, thank you. That means, just so much to me."

I look back to my mom and brother waiting for me by the car, and I return my gaze back to Ms. Byers.

"Um, I better go. My mom is waiting for me. I guess I'll be seeing you at the wake. Goodbye, Ms. Byers."

"Thank you again, Y/n. I'll see you later, okay?" Her face slightly fell and she smiled at me.

I nod and begin walking backward sending a small wave her way before turning around a breaking out into a small jog to catch up to my mom.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Being at the funeral of your best friend is daunting and quite surreal.

Being at the funeral of your best friend who is quite possibly alive in another dimension and you and only four other people know this is a completely different ballpark.

We had all met up at the wake and regrouped.

The plan was to ask Mr. Clarke if there was anything he could tell us about the theories regarding alternate dimensions. I'm just praying that we don't arouse suspicion given the setting.

"Mr. Clarke?" The tall man turned his attention away from the buffet to look at us.

Mr. Clarke smiled sympathetically. "Oh, hey, there."

The somber look came easily to my face as I looked to Mr. Clarke, Mike, and Lucas on either side of me while Dustin was digging into the buffet.

"How are you kids holding up?"

Lucas speaks up for us, slightly distracted by Dustin's blatant chewing. "We're... in... mourning."

"Man, these aren't real Nilla Wafers," Dustin sighed, shaking his head.

My eyes widen softly, and I look to Mr. Clarke trying to cover for him.

"You'll have to excuse my brother, Mr. Clarke, he's-" I stop midsentence to see him happily munching on more snacks, and look back to Mr. Clarke. "well, he mourns in his own... special way."

"We were wondering if you had time to talk?" Mike asked, wanting to move things along as quickly as possible.

"We have some questions," Lucas added.

I shook my head in agreement. "A lot of questions, actually,"

Mr. Clarke complied and the four of us found ourselves at the nearest table, asking our teacher about other dimensions at our "dead" friends' wake. Not something I ever could have imagined doing.

"So, you know how in Cosmos, Carl Segan talks about other dimensions? Like, beyond our world?"

"Yeah, sure. Theoretically." Mr. Clarke replies, noticeably confused at the subject of our questions.

"Right, theoretically,"

"So, theoretically, how do we travel there?" Lucas asked.

"You guys have been thinking about Hugh Everett's Many-World's Interpretation, haven't you?" A ghost of a smile on our teacher's face.

"Yeah," I chuckled, nodding my head in response.

The boys looked at me, wondering why I had said that.

I gave them a look that said, 'I don't know, just go with it.'

"Well, basically, there are parallel universes. Just like our world, but just infinite variations of it. Which means there's a world out there where none of this tragic stuff ever happened," I found myself nodding along, not for the sake of being believable, but actually lost in the idea.

"Yeah, that's not what we're talking about," Lucas sighed, leaning back.

"Oh."

"We were thinking of more of an evil dimension, like the Vale of Shadows. You know the Vale of Shadows?" Dustin asked, taking another loud bite of his off brand Nilla Wafers.

Not thinking that our science teacher would know anything about Dungeons and Dragons, I was completely taken aback by his next words.

"An echo of the Material Plane, where necrotic and shadow magic–"

"Yeah, exactly." Mike said cutting him off.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

"If that did exist - a place like the Vale of Shadows - how would we travel there?"

"Theoretically, of course." I add.

"Well..."

Mr. Clarke grabbed an empty paper plate and pulled out a pen from his jacket pocket. He then drew a straight line across the paper plate as he spoke, creating a visual for us.

"Picture... an acrobat..." He drew a small stick figure on top of the lines. "standing on a tightrope. Now, the tightrope is our dimension. And our dimension has rules."

He began drawing arrows on either side of the acrobat.

"You can move forwards, or backwards. But, what if..." He drew a very small creature under one of the arrows. "right next to our acrobat, there is a flea? Now, the flea can also travel back and forth, just like the acrobat. Right?"

"Right." We all agreed.

"Here's where things get really interesting. The flea can also travel this way... along the side of the rope." He drew arrows indicating the flea's direction around and under the rope, causing me to furrow my brows. "He can even go underneath the rope."

The boys and I all shared the same look before returning our gaze to Mr. Clarke. "Upside Down."

"Exactly."

Mike spoke up. "But we're not the flea, we're the acrobat."

"In this metaphor, yes, we're the acrobat."

"So we can't go upside down?" Lucas asked warily.

"No."

"Well, is there any way for the acrobat to get to the Upside Down?"

"Well," Our teacher furrowed his brows, a thoughtful look coming upon his face. "you'd have to create a massive amount of energy. More than humans are currently capable of creating, mind you, to open up some kind of tear in time and space, and then..."

He folded the paper plate in half, creasing it shut before shoving his pen directly through both sides of the paper plate. "you create a doorway."

"Like a gate?" My brother asked eagerly.

"Sure. Like a gate. But again, this is all–"

"Theoretical." I smile, nodding my head.

"But... but what if this gate already existed?" Mike asked, timidly.

"Well, if it did, I... I think we'd know. It would disrupt gravity, the magnetic field, our environment. Heck, it might even swallow us up whole."

Mike seems to gauge our reactions, and I'm the only one who met his eye with an equally uncertain gaze.

"Science is neat." Mr. Clarke continued. "But I'm afraid it's not very forgiving."

We all lean back, digesting the information.

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alphadaddyderek · 3 years

Text

Dude, just get out! (we both live here dumbass!) (sterek fic, smut, college au)

Stiles was initially excited to go to college. The freedom aspect of it in particular is what Stiles was the most excited about. Don’t get him wrong, he loves his dad, of course, he does. He didn’t mind living with him, he liked seeing him on a daily basis. He’s all Stiles has. Well, Stiles has Scott, but Scott is attending university in Arizona of all places. Meanwhile, Stiles is going to NYU, so, there’s not a lot of opportunities to see Scott or his father in person.

Not to fret though! Stiles was ready like Freddy to meet new people and, hopefully, make new friends along the way. That’s what college is all about. Supposedly, Stiles wouldn’t know but if all the movies are to be believed then that’s what college is all about.

He and his dad spent days driving up to NYU and then spent hours moving Stiles’ belongings into his off-campus apartment and unpacking. Stiles got a full-ride —thank god— so there’s extra money for him to be able to live in an actual, nice apartment instead of the dorms. His roommate was nowhere to be seen at the time, but that was fine with Stiles. He’d have plenty of opportunities to get to know him. Stiles’ dad left to stay in a hotel for the night because there was no way he was starting the trek back to Beacon Hills this late in the day. So, Stiles was left to his own devices in his new apartment.

Well, he was for about twenty minutes, then his roommate came back and...he’s kind of a dick.

He has a resting bitch face and he hardly likes to talk. Stiles doesn’t know if it’s because the guy doesn’t like him or if he’s just the quiet type. He’s starting to think that the guy doesn’t like him because every time Stiles starts talking he looks annoyed. The dick’s name is Derek and coincidentally, he also goes to NYU. He did tell Stiles his major, but wouldn’t tell Stiles what his favorite color was, which is just plain rude.

Anyway, Stiles isn’t going to let this Debbie downer ruin his college experience, no way!

Stiles decides the best thing to do is to just ignore him. Which is hard to do because the guy takes up so much space, like, he’s actually huge. And he always seems to be in the apartment when Stiles comes back from classes. Which is weird because, dude, don’t you have classes to go to? Nonetheless, he’s always there which means Stiles has to see him all the time and Derek can continue being an asswipe for no reason.

For example, Stiles sometimes forgets to wash the dishes —sue him!— and Derek will chew him out for it. Stiles didn’t know Derek was such a neat freak, but now that he knows he’ll leave more things laying around because Stiles can also be a dick when he wants to be. Maybe Derek should learn to be more personable, then Stiles wouldn’t have to go out of his character by doing such petty things. They’ve only been living together for about a week and a half and there’s already a turf battle going on. Stiles isn’t sure who’s going to win this battle, however, the sight of Derek tripping over one of Stiles’ shoes and the subsequent curse that flies out of his mouth makes Stiles not even care in the end.

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

After about a month, it's way more than just a battle. The turf battle has evolved into a war and now, no one is safe.

Derek continues being yucky and Stiles continues to do things to intentionally annoy him, except, now Derek is doing things to annoy Stiles. Like, eating all of Stiles’ Pop-Tarts or, and this is a cruel one, flushing the toilet while Stiles is in the shower. Unfortunately for Stiles, Derek buys gross ass healthy food for himself, and Stiles couldn’t choke down that food to save his life. So, what can one do to even the playing field?

Derek is sitting on the couch in the living room, watching some show about underwater caves. Stiles normally wouldn’t stick around because, despite what Derek might think, Stiles really doesn’t enjoy being talked down to by an abnormally grumpy man. This time though, Stiles sits down beside him. He can see Derek watching him from the corner of his eye, probably waiting to see what Stiles is going to do. Stiles likes to instill fear in Derek. Normally he acts like Stiles is nothing more than a bug he wants to squish under his overly expensive boot, but now? He’s worried. He should be. Stiles is going to pull out his ultimate weapon.

“So, whatcha watchin’?” Stiles asks, plastering a smile onto his face.

Derek gives him a suspicious look. “Why do you want to know?”

Stiles shrugs, smile still present. “I’m curious. This show seems interesting.”

Derek gives him an incredulous eyebrow raise, which is super insulting. Derek thinks all Stiles watches is Harry Potter, Star Wars, and superhero movies. Which is just wrong. But that’s okay. Stiles thinks all Derek watches are documentaries about how to be a functioning human in society, which, newsflash Derek, still needs working on.

A few minutes go by before Stiles decides to speak again. “So, you haven’t told me about your family.”

“That’s intentional.”

Stiles laughs. Derek thinks he can scare Stiles into leaving him alone. Unfortunately for Derek, Stiles has zero self-preservation skills.

“Come on Derek. We’re roommates. Don’t you want us to get along?”

Derek didn’t dignify that with a response —rude!— so Stiles speaks again.

“My dad is the sheriff of my hometown. Been that way for as long as I can remember. My best friend, his name is Scott, wants to be a vet. He goes to The University of Arizona. After that he’s not sure where he’ll go to get his DVM but he’s open to anything.”

Derek turns the volume up on the tv and Stiles bites his lip to stifle his laughter.

Ah, Derek. That won’t help.

“At first I was kinda skeptical about Scott becoming a vet. I mean, he’s a puppy himself, and I love him to death, but sometimes he’s ditzy. He’s a ditzy brunette. But after working at Deaton’s, Deaton is the town vet, for years he’s proved me wrong,” Stiles risks a glance at Derek and he’s scowling so hard Stiles is kind of afraid it’ll get stuck that way forever. “He and his girlfriend, Allison, are kind of having issues with long-distance but they’re high school sweethearts so I’m confident that they’ll work through it. They’re so cute together that it’s actually kinda nauseating. Like, sometimes their sappiness makes me sick to my stomach. I wonder when they’ll get ma-”

Derek abruptly stands up and walks out the room, slamming and locking his bedroom door, as if Stiles is the boogeyman who he’s trying to keep out.

Stiles snickers and grabs the remote to change the channel. Derek gets annoyed when Stiles talks, well, he shouldn’t have started this war then (it doesn’t matter that technically Stiles started it). Stiles has weaponized his ability to talk people’s ears off. So, Derek better watch out.

Hopefully, Derek won’t murder Stiles in his sleep.

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

Okay, so, Stiles thinks maybe this whole turf war thing is getting out of hand.

It’s been a total of 3 and a half months since they’ve been living together and Derek and Stiles are on edge around each other 24/7. Stiles has to shower around eleven o’clock at night so that Derek won’t burn him alive by flushing the toilet. Derek doesn’t have access to Stiles’ snacks anymore because Stiles hid them in the back of his closet. Derek stays in his room all day just so that Stiles won't have any opportunities to talk to him. They’re at an impasse, but Stiles has a feeling that the worst has yet to come.

A really bad feeling.

Stiles comes back from a particularly grueling day of classes to see Derek sitting on the couch...and he’s smirking.

That doesn’t bode well for Stiles.

“Hello, Stiles.”

“Uh, hey dude. Why do you look like a supervillain?”

“‘Cause I have a surprise for you.”

Yeah, that definitely didn’t sound good.

“Actually, I am a-okay. I really don’t need the surprise. I appreciate it though,” Stiles tries to make his way towards his room but Derek keeps talking.

“I normally don’t snoop through people’s things, it’s really not in my character, but after you left to go out last night, I heard some weird noises coming from your room. I was trying to ignore it at first, but after a while I went to see what it was. I was going to mention it this morning but you woke up before I did and by the time I had woken up you were already in class.”

Stiles had stopped in his tracks but he still hasn’t turned around to face Derek, because if Derek is going where Stiles thinks he’s going, Stiles is going to need to be able to book it into his bedroom as soon as possible.

Derek didn’t seem too perturbed by Stiles’ silence since he continues with his story. “Imagine my surprise when I found out that it was your laptop making that noise. Now, I wasn’t surprised by the fact that porn was playing, but what I was surprised at-”

Oh god.

“-was that the video you were watching was titled ‘bear fucks twink with huge cock’. And now I can’t help but question your hatred towards me.”

Stiles’ face is burning. He’s never been so embarrassed in his life, which is really a great feat because Stiles doesn’t get embarrassed by much. It’s not that Stiles didn’t notice Derek was hot, like, come on now, Derek is gorgeous. He’s not that much taller than Stiles but the size of his biceps? They’re easily the size of Stiles’ thigh. Derek is bigger than Stiles in every aspect.

Well, he’s not sure about every aspect. Stiles has never seen Derek’s dick outright, but he’s seen him wear sweatpants, and ooh boy, that bulge gives Stiles the impression that Derek is hung like a horse.

Stiles still hates Derek because Derek still has his asshole-ish ways. Case in point: right the fuck now. But, you can hate someone and still want to fuck them, right? Hate sex exists.

Derek is patiently waiting for Stiles to respond, and Stiles has never been good at staying silent, so it’s only a matter of time.

Stiles finally turns around to face Derek and clears his throat. “That- that means nothing. People watch shit like that all the time. Plus, you hardly qualify as a bear.”

It’s a weak excuse but, hey, Stiles is grasping at straws here.

Derek tilts his head to the side in agreement. “True, but if that was the case, why do you seem so nervous?”

Stiles can’t think of a reasonable response in time and Derek knows it.

Derek smirks again and Stiles really wants to knee him in the dick.

“Do you wanna fuck me?”

Stiles narrows his eyes at Derek. What the fuck is his endgame here? Why is he being such a dick?

Oh yeah, because Derek is a fucking asshole.

“Fine,” Stiles says through gritted teeth. “I find you attractive. I watch porn about big, hairy men fucking twinks because I want you to fuck me. Are you happy now? Jackass.”

Stiles storms into his room and slams the door. That’s a perfect example of why people can’t be pretty and nice. It’s genetically impossible.

Stiles lets out a sigh and dumps his backpack on his bed before stripping out of his clothes and getting into the shower. He stands under the spray for ten minutes, just praying to the cosmic gods out there that a black hole will appear and suck the whole human race into nothingness. After waiting for a few more minutes, and his prayers going unanswered, he washes himself then gets out to dry off. He wraps the towel around his waist and opens the door to find Derek standing outside his bathroom door. He shrieks (a very manly shriek by the way) and covers his chest with his arms, not that that’ll hide much.

“Derek, what the fuck are you doing?”

Derek’s eyes do the slowest sweep in fucking existence down Stiles’ body and Stiles feels his cheeks flush. Ugh, why are the cutest guys always assholes?

“I came to apologize. I was being a dick-”

“What else is new?” Stiles interrupts. Stiles is rewarded with another smirk.

“-and I took it too far. I’m sorry I embarrassed you.”

Stiles looks at Derek for a second. They’ve never apologized to each other when they did shit, and even though Stiles didn’t take it as far as Derek did, Stiles can’t stand here and act like he wasn’t also an asshole.

Stiles sighs. “I’m sorry too. I was also kind of a dick. Not as much as you, but still.”

Derek laughs a little, and Jesus H. Christ, how is a laugh sexy? “Apology accepted.”

Stiles holds his hand out for a handshake. Derek puts his hand in Stiles’ and they shake on their newfound not-friendship-but-also-maybe-not-complete-dicks-to-each-other-ship.

“So,” Derek starts after they drop their hands. “wanna have sex?”

Stiles might’ve actually choked on his own fucking spit, because what?

“What?”

“I asked if you wanted to have sex.”

“Where is this even coming from? You hate my guts. Every time I talk you look like you’re going in for a root canal.”

Stiles is so confused, he’s also getting hornier by the minute, but right now, the confusion is outweighing the horniness.

“I don’t hate you. Yeah you talk a lot, and it was so annoying at first, sometimes it still is, but I got used to your incessant chatter.”

Stiles knows he looks dumb, his mouth is gaping and everything. “I think maybe there was something in the water because I must be high. We’ve lived together for over 3 months and you’re telling me that you actually want to have sex with me?”

Derek shrugs. “Yeah. Just because you can be kinda annoying that doesn’t mean you’re not cute. Plus, people have sex all the time, that doesn’t mean we have to, like, date or whatever.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. Derek’s so romantic, how has Stiles been able to resist jumping his bones for this long?

“You just embarrassed the hell out of me, why would I ever want to have sex with you?” Never mind the fact that Stiles definitely does want to have sex with him.

“Maybe you don’t. If not, then fine. We can just go back to how things were. If you do, then we’ll have a great time.”

Stiles is still struggling to wrap his mind around all of this. Derek wants to have sex with him? In what universe does that make sense?

Apparently in this one.

Stiles does this sort of shrug that basically portrays well, what the fuck? Okay then. “Okay. I guess this is happening then.”

Derek smirks for like the fiftieth time in thirty seconds and if Stiles was a stronger man he definitely would’ve kneed Derek in the dick, but clearly, Stiles is weak.

Very, very weak.

“My room or yours?” Derek asks.

“Mine. Since it’s right there,” Stiles points behind Derek and, lo and behold, there’s Stiles’ bed.

Grabbing Stiles’ hand in a surprisingly gentle gesture, Derek walks the three feet from the bathroom to the bed to lay Stiles down.

Derek gets on top of the bed and is sitting on his knees by Stiles’ feet. He pulls his shirt off like he’s in Magic Mike or something before throwing it onto the floor without a care in the world. Jesus, it’s like his muscles have muscles. Stiles starts feeling a little insecure about his body. He’s got muscles, but, he’s not, like, ripped like Derek is. Stiles likes to think he has somewhat of a swimmer’s body.

Looming over him like a fucking creeper, Derek stares down at Stiles. “You know, you’re very pretty.”

Stiles refuses to admit that he blushes at that because he’s not pretty. If anything he’s handsome, some may even say gorgeous.

“Can you just get on with it?” Stiles throwing a scowl in Derek’s direction.

“Bossy. I kinda like that,” he strips his sweatpants off and throws them down too. Now he’s only in a pair of gray boxer briefs and, god, Stiles wants to suck his dick so badly. Which is weird because he’s really not all that experienced with blowjobs, he’s given maybe two blowjobs in his life. Whatever, Derek has a great dick okay?

Derek tugs at the towel around Stiles’ waist. “Is this okay?”

Stiles nods and then the towel is gone, and Stiles is laid bare for Derek to gaze at his leisure. And boy does Derek gaze. He does another slow sweep down Stiles’ body, except this time it’s even more intense because now Stiles is naked.

“You’re not a virgin right?” Derek asks while rummaging through Stiles’ bedside drawer and pulling out the lube. First of all, it’s rude to go through people’s stuff! Second of all, how the hell did Derek know his lube was there? Although, where else would lube be?

“Nope. There will be no deflowering of the Stiles today. Sorry to disappoint.”

Derek shrugs before popping open the lube. “I’m not one of those weirdos who pops a boner at the thought of popping someone’s cherry.”

Stiles chuckles, like actually chuckles. Who knew Derek was even capable of being funny?

Stiles pulls his legs up and hooks his hands behind his knees. The position exposes Stiles’ hole to the extreme and it makes Stiles blush. Just because he’s not a virgin doesn’t mean that he doesn’t get nervous or embarrassed during sex.

Derek knee-walks closer to Stiles and squirts some lube onto his fingers. He puts one hand on Stiles’ right thigh while the other one gently and slowly breaches his entrance. Fuck, his fingers are thick. Thicker than Stiles’ that’s for sure. Stiles definitely isn’t shy about fingering. He fingers himself all the time, but it’s been a while since someone else’s fingers were up there. Stiles is nervous and excited about it all.

Derek doesn’t spend too much time with the one finger, quickly adding a second one and that’s when it starts feeling good. Derek’s fingers are about an inch away from his prostate and Stiles is about to curse him out until Derek presses both fingers against his prostate and Stiles has to bite his lip to stop the loud ass moan that almost escaped his mouth. Judging by the look on Derek’s face, he knows he touched Stiles’ prostate, and being the asshole that he is, he has a cocky smile on his face.

After scissoring those two fingers inside Stiles for a few minutes, Derek adds a third finger. The stretch is definitely there, but hey, Stiles likes a little pain with sex. He can be kinky sometimes.

“Okay. I’m ready, come on,” Stiles says. He was starting to get impatient. He just wants to get dicked down already, damn.

Derek gently removes his fingers and gets off the bed to pick up his sweatpants. He reaches into the pocket and retrieves a condom out. Stiles’ mouth drops.

“So you just knew I’d have sex with you?”

“I didn’t know. I just hoped.”

That smarmy little bastard.

Derek gets back in bed and, finally, removes his briefs and...

Holy mother of god.

Well, maybe not the mother of god. That’s blasphemous as fuck. But! The sentiment is the same because wow. Stiles is glad he didn’t knee him in the dick because that dick is too gorgeous to cause serious injury to. He’s not like porn star big, but it is big and long too. And it’s uncut, which Stiles has a weird sort of kink about. He loves uncut cocks. Yeah, that’s a good-looking cock right there.

Derek unwraps the condom and rolls it onto his cock. He then grabs the bottle of lube that he placed on the bed and squirts more out before slathering a generous amount onto said cock. He makes Stiles move his hands before replacing them with one of his own, the other is at the base of his cock, lining it up to Stiles’ hole.

“You ready baby?” Derek asks.

“Call me baby again and I’ll dropkick you in the throa- oh fuck.”

Of course, Derek chose when Stiles was mid-threat to start pushing his cock inside. Geez, that is seriously a big cock, even the fingering didn’t make it burn any less. Derek gently pushes his cock in deeper before pulling it out, then he pushes it in a little deeper than he did at first before pulling it back out again. He repeats that until his cock is seated all the way inside, his balls to Stiles’ ass. Then he stops and waits. There’s sweat gathering above Derek’s eyebrow and some is even rolling down his temple. Needless to say, Derek isn’t as unaffected as he’s trying to be. Which makes Stiles feel kind of great actually.

“Okay, you can move now,” Stiles informs Derek. And when Stiles says Derek goes to town, he really means that.

Derek puts his other hand behind Stiles’ left knee and pulls out all the way, not even the tip is inside, before thrusting back in. Hard.

Stiles’ breath gets forced out of him at the movement. This truly is hate sex, kinda. Derek said he didn’t hate Stiles, but he certainly doesn’t like him all that much. At least, not yet. Who knows what will stem from this. That’s something to think about when Derek isn’t pounding him into the mattress.

Derek delivers a thrust that nails Stiles’ prostate dead on and Stiles makes this super embarrassing sound, like a high-pitched keen. He knows he’s not going to live that down after this.

After that, Derek is consistent with the hard abuse on Stiles’ prostate, and Stiles is getting close to orgasm embarrassingly fast. He isn’t too sure he’ll be able to last much longer. Although, Derek doesn’t seem like he’s going to be able to either. If the grunts and groans he’s letting out are anything to go by.

“Unh, fuck. Derek-!”

“Yeah, you’re gonna come?”

Stiles frantically nods his head and grabs his own cock to start stroking himself. Derek thrusts harder if that’s even possible, and within a few seconds, Stiles is coming all over his stomach.

“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek groans and thrusts one, two, three more times before stopping with a deep, guttural moan. He almost sounds like an actual bear and Stiles can’t help the giggle that escapes him.

Derek gives him a weird look but his lip quirks up in a maybe sort of smile. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh nothing,” Stiles gives him a shit-eating grin.

And since it’s already been established that Derek is an asshole, he grinds and his cock brushes against Stiles’ oversensitive prostate causing Stiles’ whole body to convulse. He slaps Derek’s arm.

Derek pulls out and lets go of Stiles’ legs. They’re sore from being in the same position for so long but Stiles can’t even care. He’s sated and all he wants to do now is take a nap. Stiles stretches his whole body like a cat while Derek disposes of the condom.

“Okay, that was fun. If you want to annoy me, I’ll be in my room.” And with that, Derek walks out of Stiles’ room to go to his own.

Derek was definitely a dick, but Stiles could deal with him. Especially if they continue to fuck like that.

Holy (not) mother of god indeed.

#sterek #sterek smut #stiles stilinski #derek hale #sterek fic #sterek au #smut #My fic

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