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wintaerbaer · 4 months

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ringing in the year (jjk)

summary: Your six-year relationship with Jungkook certainly hasn't been devoid of the occasional mishap. But when Seokjin accidentally winds up with a gift meant for you, Jungkook's proposal may wind up being the biggest blunder of all.

pairing: Jungkook x Reader

rating: generally sfw, sans a handful of swear words

genre: established relationship au, pure fluff, bit of a crack fic

word count: 2.2k

a/n: this was so fun to write, and a bunch of the details were inspired by real life events! thanks to @animeniacss for brainstorming this one with me and sprinting me through it. wishing everyone a happy and healthy new year! <3

MASTERLIST

Jungkook knows he’s messed up several times over the course of your six-year relationship.

There was the time in college when he wanted to cook you dinner and, upon realizing that he didn’t have a corkscrew to open the bottle of wine, tried to pry it open with a screwdriver and sprayed most of it all over the kitchen and himself.

There was the time when he ate suspiciously old-looking dumplings out of the fridge for lunch in spite of Hoseok’s warnings and spent your anniversary date that night going in and out of the bathroom.

And of course, there was the time when he'd insisted that it was fine for you to get frisky in the living room because Jimin wouldn't be back until tomorrow. Only to realize, oh wait, it's Saturday, the second the man himself walked in the door with both Yoongi and Taehyung in tow, all three getting quite the view of you and Jungkook on the area rug.

But this right here, he thinks, has got to be his biggest fuck-up of all, watching Seokjin peel back the wrapping paper on his white elephant gift to reveal a white mug that says, in large black lettering, “WORLD’S BEST WIFE.”

“Awww, Jungkookie,” he coos, raising the mug up above his head to show it off. “You’re proposing?”

He is, in fact, trying to propose, but certainly not to Seokjin. Every New Year’s Eve since sophomore year of college, your friend group has gotten together to party and do a holiday gift exchange that consists of a white elephant round and a general present swap.

Jungkook, wanting to propose amongst your friends and on what you’ve always said is your favorite day each year, had intended to give you the mug and propose later in the night. But, it would seem, he must’ve mixed up the two presents, putting your mug into the white elephant pile instead of the travel mug he had meant to contribute.

“Ah, Y/N,” Seokjin is now sighing, “I’m so sorry you had to find out this way.”

You're giggling, wrapped in a burrito blanket that was courtesy of Hoseok. “It's okay. I understand that your love can't be denied.”

“Actually, hyung,” Jungkook finally gets the courage to pipe up. Is it hot in here? It feels hot in here. He might be sweating. “Can I talk to you in the kitchen for a second?”

“You need to talk now?” Hobi asks, wearing a t-shirt that also happens to be a collage of Seokjin's face–his white elephant offering. “It’s Yoongi’s turn. Let’s finish the white elephant, and then you can talk.”

“But–”

“I want Namjoon’s,” Yoongi says, snatching up the gift and tearing away the paper to unfurl a large black Snuggie. “Oh, fuck yeah.”

“You got a Snuggie?” Jimin jeers in Namjoon’s direction. “Lame.”

“Lame? It’s funny,” Namjoon argues.

“Yeah, if it was 2008.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining.” Yoongi slides his arms into the sleeves, settling into the couch and eyeing the rest of the group warily.

Jimin rolls his eyes at him. “No one is going to steal it, hyung.”

“Nobody better fucking steal it.”

The game actually finishes with no steals. Namjoon opens up your gift (a KFC-scented fire log) and Jimin and Taehyung choose each other’s only to find out that they both bought Bob Ross Chia Pets. With the game over, your group devolves back into party mingling–Yoongi dozing off on the couch in his new Snuggie, Jimin and Taehyung heading immediately to the dining room to get started on their chia projects, and the rest of you trying to decide which party games you’re going to play as the night goes on.

But when Seokjin stands up, declaring that he’s heading to the kitchen to get a drink for his “fun new mug,” Jungkook jumps to follow him, bringing along the slab of granite with twenty dollars taped to it that he’d opened (“I’m renovating my countertops,” Yoongi had explained).

“Hyung,” Jungkook hisses as Seokjin reaches into the fridge for a beer. “I need that mug.”

Seokjin turns, sizing him up in the glow of the refrigerator. “Then you probably should’ve picked it.”

Jungkook huffs in exasperation before stepping in closer, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Listen, I am trying to propose to Y/N tonight.”

“With a white elephant gift that anyone could’ve gotten?” He clicks his tongue, scolding. “That’s just terrible planning, Jungkookie. And proposing with a mug? A little boring.”

Color rises to Jungkook’s face, giving his cheeks a natural blush. “We were watching reruns of The Office when I kissed her for the first time. And it wasn’t supposed to be a white elephant–you know what? It doesn’t matter at this point. I just need the mug back.”

He reaches for the counter, intending to steal the mug away, but Seokjin gets there first, cradling it to his chest with a pout. “No, it’s mine. I opened it, and I’ve already imprinted–”

“We never should’ve let Y/N show you Twilight. Here, look.” He raises the granite sample and money in his hands, offering it up. “I’ll give you Yoongi’s gift and the gift I was supposed to be giving for the game. You’ll get two.”

Seokjin narrows his eyes in suspicion. “What was your original gift?”

“A travel mug that says, ‘Weird to be the same age as old people.’”

He gets a wrinkled nose in response. “Well I like this one better. The other one calls me old. This one says I’m the best wife ever.”

“Oh my God, hyung. You’re not a wife!”

“I’m not old either!”

Jungkook throws his arms up in frustration, practically launching his hunk of stone across the room. “Then what am I supposed to do? You’re really going to ruin my entire proposal?”

“Hmm.” Seokjin lifts a hand to his chin, the other still clutching the mug to his body. “Thirty-two-race drunk Mario Kart?”

“Hyung.”

“What? You want the mug–this is how you can get it.”

Jungkook scrubs a hand over his face, accepts the inevitable. “Okay, fine. I’ll do it.”

“Hooray!” A clap of his hands as Seokjin practically skips from the kitchen. “I’ll get us set up!”

By the time Jungkook drags his feet into the living room, Seokjin has already gathered a crowd, your friends piling onto the couches and armchairs to watch the upcoming event. Surely they’re expecting a slaughter; Seokjin is notoriously a Mario Kart ace.

“You looking to get drunk, babe?” you ask, settling into the spot next to him on the couch. “There are easier, less humiliating ways, you know.”

He pouts, eyebrows squishing together. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he grumbles, immediately forgiving you when you press your lips to his.

“For luck,” you say, giving him one more peck before sitting back to watch Seokjin hand him a controller, shot glass, and bottle of soju.

“Pick your character.” He plops onto Jungkook’s other side, selecting his own racer on the screen.

“Peach? Really?” Namjoon teases.

Seokjin shoots him a look. “I don’t wanna hear that from a basic-ass Mario main.”

Jungkook, meanwhile, chooses Donkey Kong, and loads up the first map, Peach and Donkey Kong lining up in their pink and yellow go-karts at the starting line.

“May the best me win,” Seokjin says, a split second before the light goes green.

He does win the race. And the next one and the next one. And Jungkook is three shots in before he even knows what hit him, fingers wrapped tightly around the controller.

“Not too late to back out, Jungkookie,” Seokjin jests, nudging him in the ribs. “At least leave with your pride intact.”

But before Jungkook can even respond, mouth already half-open in indignation, you wrap a soothing hand around his knee, massaging lightly.

“You've got this, Kook. You can do it.”

The sound of your voice puts him at ease almost instantly, and he ignores Seokjin, loading up the next track. This time, he does his best to relax, letting the feel of your palm siphon away his anxiety.

This is for you. He can do this for you.

The race is close, their cartoon avatars neck-and-neck until Jungkook manages to gain an edge at the very last second and blow through the finish line first.

“Holy shit!” Taehyung exclaims. “The Kart King lost?!”

“Calm down, it's one race,” Seokjin says. But he shifts forward on the couch as he takes his shot of soju, clearly miffed. “We have twenty-eight more to go. I like my odds.”

Seokjin wins the next one again, celebrating with a whoop, but Jungkook goes on a run after that, winning three in a row so they're tied. And once the thirty-second race has been driven, Seokjin has won sixteen, Jungkook has won sixteen, and they've each drunk two bottles of soju apiece.

“TIEBREAKER RACE,” Seokjin slurs, swaying on his feet. He's played the last dozen games standing up, claiming it “helps with the turns,” whatever that means.

“I think you two have had enough,” you say, patting Jungkook lovingly on the arm. “Just call it a tie and leave it there.”

He jerks away, stretching his arm out like he thinks you're going to try and take the controller from him. “No, Y/N! I need that mug!”

Your lips pull down into a frown. “What mug?”

“I think Y/N is right, you guys,” Namjoon chimes in. “You both need some water.”

“Everyone shut the fuck up. I'm trying to sleep,” grumbles the Snuggie blob.

“ONE MORE RACE!” Seokjin yells, insistent. “FOR IT ALL! FOR THE MUG!”

“Again, what mug?”

But you don't get an answer. Instead, Jungkook shouts, “FINE! RAINBOW ROAD, ASSHOLE!” and everyone's eyes fixate on the screen, eager to find out who will emerge victorious.

Both characters rip off the starting line, Seokjin quickly obtaining a mushroom power-up that gives him a speed boost and comfortable lead. But after Jungkook lucks out on a green shell throw, causing Seokjin to spin out of control, he takes the lead as the first lap ends.

“C’mon, babe!” you cheer, Jimin and Taehyung joining in in their desire to see the Kart King tumbled from his throne.

Jungkook holds his lead for most of the lap, but Seokjin takes it back after a couple more mushroom boosts and a red shell. The final lap is tight, the lead going back and forth and back and forth until all hope seems lost as Seokjin begins to pull away on the last leg…

Only for him to cut the final turn too closely, allowing Jungkook to bump him right over the side of the track and into space before blasting across the finish line.

The room erupts in cheers, Jungkook leaping to his feet with a shout even as Seokjin falls to the floor with a scream of anguish. You stand as well, trying to give your boyfriend a hug, but you’re shocked when he moves away from you instead, preoccupied with something on the dining table.

He crosses the room–dodging Jimin and Taehyung, who are now flossing over Seokjin’s prone body–to grab the “WORLD’S BEST WIFE” mug and triumphantly raise it in the air before stumbling back to where you stand both perplexed and amused by the scene before you.

“This,” he says, clumsily pressing the mug into your hands, “was supposed to be for you.”

“World’s Best Wife?” you ask, heart hiccuping as you begin to have a suspicion. “Like Michael Scott’s mug?”

“Yes!” The word feels heavy moving off of his tongue, and he suddenly regrets not being sober for this. “Because uhhhh…I have this for you, too. Shit, wait.”

He fumbles around his pockets, panicking until he finds the ring, slips it out of his pants, and drops to his knee with a graceless thud.

“Ow, crap. Y/N.” He takes your hand, and in spite of the absurdity of it all, in spite of the fact that part of the room is now fawning over you while the other part is either sleeping or on the floor, you feel tears pricking your eyes.

Really, you couldn’t think of a more perfect scene.

“Y/N,” he begins again–slowly, like his words need to be corralled, “I love you. So much. And I know I may sometimes be forgetful or foolish or careless–sometimes I might accidentally spray wine all over the kitchen or ruin a proposal because I gave Seokjin the wrong present by mistake–but I just…love you.” He blinks, thoughts drifting away from him as the soju continues to take its toll. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what I’m saying is even making sense, but…I find I don’t mind having those moments as long as you’re there with me. I’m fine making a fool out of myself if it’ll make you smile or laugh so…” He hoists the ring up just a little higher, eyes hopeful. “Marry me?”

A leaping sensation takes off behind your ribs as you gasp, “Yes, Jungkook. Of course, yes.”

For someone who’s drunk, he surges back up with incredible speed to capture your mouth in a kiss, dragging your body to his and swaying you side-to-side.

“Congratulations, you two,” Yoongi says through the applause of your friends–even Seokjin managing to clap his hands like a seal from the floor. “Now can I please get some fucking sleep?”

a/n: please consider liking, reblogging, or commenting if you enjoyed :)

#jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fluff #bts x reader #bts x you #bts imagines #jungkook imagines #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #bts fluff #bts fic #bts fanfic

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ktsumu · 5 months

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When Nanami first shows you the house he bought for the two of you, sat right next to the sea like he promised, you tell the movers to bring the mattress in first.

You sleep on the floor of the living room for the first night, scribble your plans for every room on the back of a takeout napkin, and tell him that you’ll go pick out paint tomorrow.

"Just a little TLC, Kento," you tell him with a smile, "that's all it needs."

You fix your home yourselves — some old friends help you paste the backsplash tile in the kitchen, you clean the wood floors and the fireplace by hand. You host a dinner for each room you finish, drinking wine and toasting to the life you’ll there. Nanami's lips taste like cherries when you kiss him and say 'thank you' without letting go.

The last room you finish is the bedroom.

There's plastic protecting the floors and paint covering his hands and clothes when you rush into the room wielding a camera.

"What's that for? The room is a mess,”

"Documentation, Ken. We'll look back one day and be proud of our work. Come and smile for me!"

He’ll do just about anything you ask, so he walks over with a small grin, wrapping an arm around your waist and leaving a big, painted handprint on your side. You kiss him when the flash goes off, shaking the picture that pops out until you see yourselves and the chaos behind you.

Nanami asks you for the picture, and you (begrudgingly) say he can have it — but you get the next one; he promises you that much.

When you go back downstairs, Nanami walks over to a crack in the doorframe, and he folds the polaroid in half before he jams it inside. He wedges it in with his screwdriver, pushing until there's only a sliver of it you can see, before starting to seal the crack shut.

(He hopes you won't hold it against him when you eventually ask him where the picture went, and he tells you he stashed it in the door.)

"Kento!" he hears from downstairs, "Dinner!"

"Almost done, dear."

The crack seals shut.

Someday, when all that's left of the both of you are children who have your laugh and dogs with your names, there will at least be comfort in knowing that you'll always live in this home you made; inside the bedroom you built last.

"Kento!"

"Coming," he laughs. "I'm coming, honey."

#can you tell i’m distraught and reeling #nanami x reader #jjk x reader

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bi-writes · 3 months

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i didn't have an amazing christmas this year so i projected this onto bestfriend!roommate!simon and im sorry about it but im also not sorry about it but i tried to end it nice

more bestfriend!roommate!simon (part 6/?)

cw: mature language and content, mentions of past trauma, mentions of unrequited love and lack of family, mentions of death and loneliness, allusions to violence

you waited for the ringing of the call to stop. you were seated on the couch, the laptop propped up in your lap as you stared at the screen hopefully. your heart skipped a beat when the ringing stopped, a circling loading screen popping up until a grainy video came through.

simon was seated in the dark; you guessed that he was hunkered down in his room, seated on his bunk. he had his skull mask on; the plate sewn onto a balaclava, eye-black hiding most of him in the void of the terrible quality video, and you tried not to notice the mysterious drops of something against the white of his mask.

"hey, simon," you greeted him, giving him a gentle smile. simon ran a gloved hand over his head, nodding.

"''ello, luv. i know the time is bad, if...if you want to head to bed, 's alright with me."

you scoffed, "you know that's not happening. i don't care what time it is here...i always want to talk to you."

he grunted lowly, looking away for a moment at something out of your view before looking back. you moved to go sit by the window, keeping the laptop propped up as you looked outside. you could see the soft lights lighting up the neighborhood; twinkling lights, mostly in red and green, sparkling between the soft snowfall that had began to fall against the pavement.

there was something so peaceful about the moment. you could see the wind pushing the snow at an angle as it fell, starting to add a fresh blanket of white to everything. if you squinted, you could see two people in the apartment across the street, trying to build a small bike in the early hours of the morning. one of them held papers, instructions you guessed, and the other held a screwdriver and was trying to fit the two back wheels onto a base.

"how are you?" you asked suddenly, looking back down at the laptop. "you look like shit."

simon laughed dryly, "you can't even see me."

"i know you," you laughed with him. "and i know that even through the shitty camera, you're worse for wear."

he hummed, looking down for a moment.

"i've had better days," was all he offered, and you swallowed hard, trying to look at him better.

"i miss you, simon."

you said it easily. you did miss him. he was so far away; you didn't know where he was, but you knew it was far. and he did not say when he would be coming back; you suspected he didn't even know himself when he would be.

"i miss you, too, luv."

you looked out the window again. you looked at the couple again, watching one of them take a few bites of some cookies that were laid out while the other had a few hearty gulps of the milk in the glass beside them. your eyes watered a little. their house looked...full. stockings hung over a dwindling fireplace, christmas tree lights giving the room a soft yellow glow, a mountain of presents gathered under a full tree of ornaments.

there was nothing in your apartment. no lights, no tree. you never liked to keep one; you had no one to buy presents for. and simon--this day only brought the wrong kind of feelings to the surface. feelings of torture, of unexpected discovery, of death and the stench of it which couldn't be covered by lighting evergreen candles or baking sugar cookies.

so much of the day surrounded family--of which you didn't have. no one to visit, no one to bring the wine while you cooked the ham, no one to hand you a gift and no one for you to give one to either. you had learned a long time that it was best not to dwell, but it was hard. it was hard when you looked across the street and saw people that had so much more of something. something that you desperately wanted, but couldn't be bought.

when you looked back down at the laptop, simon could see the tears in your eyes clear as day. your eyes were so glossy and wet, and he swallowed hard as he looked at your face, illuminated by the twinkling lights that were bright outside.

"sorry--" you whispered, reaching up and wiping your cheeks with the sleeves of your sweater. "sorry, i don't know why...i don't know what's wrong with me." you laughed it off, but simon could hear the pain in your voice. something aching and scratchy, something hollow.

"did...did you get what i sent?"

you looked up at him, frowning a little.

"sent? like...a package?"

"oh, christ, luv, don't tell me you haven't left the flat all day?"

you opened your mouth to respond, but you closed it, smiling shyly.

"just...go check outside. i can see it bloody snowing, go get it before it gets ruined."

you got up from your seat, going outside momentarily. when you came back inside, you had a wet box in your hands, and you set it down on the table as you when to go get something to cut the tape off. when you had opened the box, there was a smaller one inside, a nicely wrapped burgundy box that fit in your lap. you took a seat in front of the camera again, seeing simon's messy handwriting on the top of the box.

happy december 25th.

you laughed reading it, looking up at the camera after you reading the message.

"just another day, right?" he asked. you had new tears now, but they weren't sad. your heart was beating fast, making you take shaky, fast breaths, and you tried to smile, but it was hard.

"j-just another day," you whispered back to him. you took the top off the box, taking the tissue paper out to reveal a little plushie inside. it was a black teddy bear, but this one was unique. someone had fashioned a little skull mask of it out of felt, messily sewn fabric fit over the bear's face with the beady black eyes peeking out from the eyeholes--just like simon's. you picked up the bear, letting the box fall to the floor, and you tipped your head back as you tried to keep your tears inside. "simon--"

you and simon had never really gotten the chance to just be kids. to just be. to just enjoy and to receive something that didn't serve a purpose or a function, something unnecessary and trivial--something considered extra. because possessions were luxury, and you can't remember the last luxurious thing you had ever gotten.

"i know," he said lowly. "fuck, i--"

he pushed his own laptop down, and the camera tilted so you could only see his lower half. you watched him lose a bit of control, more tears coming down your face as you held your breath. simon cleared his throat loudly, ringing his hands together nervously before he picked the camera back up to his face.

"i'm getting the next fuckin' plane out of here, y'hear me?"

you brought the bear to your chest, hugging it gently before nodding. you wondered if this was why he had gotten you something like this--something to hold onto when he was gone. something to remind. something that would make you remember in the simon-shaped void you seemed to dwell in all too often.

"okay."

you had spent many december 25ths without him. you had spent many december 25ths right here, on a lonely windowsill, watching through the windows of lives that you wished you were living. this loneliness was not new--but now the loneliness was shared, and it hurt to share it.

you fell asleep there, watching glittering lights between the snowfall and holding the bear to your heart. the laptop went dark after awhile, and you slept there by the windowsill, wondering if anyone looked in and wanted to live this life instead.

the empty, quiet life of nothingness and bad dreams.

but it was something warm that woke you. a familiar hand, cradling the back of your head, whispering against your hair.

his breath was shaky. sucking in with difficulty, and then breathing out in rough stutters. your eyes opened slowly, your cheek squished against his tactical vest. you realized that he must've just gotten home--he was still head-to-toe in his gear, and you were staring up into the skull plate.

"simon--!"

you wrapped your arms tight around his neck, squeezing your eyes shut. you gasped as you held him close, and it took everything in you not to burst into tears. your heart fluttered at the thought that he must've left as soon as he told you last night--determined to get back to you.

when you pulled back, simon rested his forehead against yours. you nuzzled your face against his, soft breaths as you grounded yourself in the realization that he's here, he's with me, he's alive.

"just another day," simon murmured, gripping your head with both hands. you swallowed hard, opening your eyes and meeting his own. you swear you saw something sad in them, something emotional, tears of some kind, but he blinked it away before you could look too long. "but i...had to come home."

your nodded reaching up and putting your hands over his on your face.

"i love you, simon."

if he had paid enough attention, he would've heard what those words truly meant. that you didn't just love him, you love him. not want, need, not a preference, but a requirement. undeniable, endless, raw, soul-sucking love--the kind that tore up your insides and spit them out without remorse.

but how can you really love someone like me?

simon tangled his gloved hands into your hair now, tugging gently.

"i love you more."

how can you love someone who's already dead?

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty

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deonsx · 8 months

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PM!Dazai Boyfriend

dazai x female reader

Content: Gun play, spicy talk,teasing

Not: I hope you like it. English is not my own language so there may be some problems^^

• usually when he gets home after a busy day at work you'll be all he wants (but don't expect it to be a normal night of course)

•If you live in the same house there will be an item to kill all over your house (kitchen knife the hammer in the bathroom is the screwdriver under the pillow and a ton of guns in the drawers)

•Everyone and as you know, everyone knows him as "demon prodigy" but when you see how childish he is from time to time, you can't help but feel doubtful about it

•While he spends good times with you at night, he will keep the handcuffs, ropes and guns with him, every sound that comes out of his mouth makes him stronger

•”slut” “little whore” These are the names he used for you on hot nights

•he loves to tease him ready for you to beg me and do anything he won't stop until i give him what he wants

•Kissing biting aggressive moves hard slow fast tight or relaxed all of this will depend on his mood or your current willingness

• Public Sex: home, kitchen, bedroom or any place, just any place where you and him are together is suitable for him, no matter how indifferent he may seem, he always checks around for you he likes quick things but prefers long and slow wine

•you can never escape from him he is always on you he is serious about his job but he loves physical touch when he is in his office

•You come home at the same time because you work together at night. He likes to cuddle, but the spoon position is his favourite

•kisses are deep they always taste like mint and wine

Request Are Open

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insimniacreations · 1 year

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Functional SMALLER Custom Bar

Comes with *5 NEW DRINK RECIPES!*

Screwdriver

Dry Martini

Dirty Shirley

Lemon Drop Martini

Sparkling Rose Wine

HOW TO USE:

1. Go to Buy mode and place the custom bar. It will be found in Entertainment -->Bar

2. Click on the custom bar to open the menu.

More info on the Patreon mod post on Required Files, How to Install etc

Please be respectful and do not release my early access content. They are only early access and will be free.

Please do not include my items in uploaded builds. Link back to my Patreon page for others to download separately

Please do not recolor, convert, and/or edit my meshes

DOWNLOAD

Now on Early Access. Public Release: 4/17 @ 7pm EST

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undead-supernova · 2 months

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Masterlist

plot: they say that if it's right...you know...nothing has ever felt so wrong (so maybe you’ll just drunkenly wander the streets until you figure out somewhere to go)

warnings: alcohol consumption, arguments, cigarettes, I frowed up, hurt/comfort

pairings: steve harrington x fem!reader

wc: 2.8k

song inspiration: Hits Different by Taylor Swift (I've listened to this on repeat for like an entire year now)

note: HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY to everyone who actually does NOT have a Valentine and would rather read about fictional characters because you're a real one out there. This is my first Steve one shot and I hope it's alright. Here's to all my sad and messy bitches !!!!

If It's Right...You Know

“Can someone call her a cab?”

“No!’’ you exclaim, wiping the tears under your eyes. You’re staring up at the bartender, trying to silently plead him to take pity on you despite how embarrassed you feel.

“I’m sorry, I’ll just go.”

He eyes you, shoving his plaid shirtsleeve up to his elbow as he walks over to the small computer. His eyes flicker towards you every few seconds, the buttons on the screen seemingly nothing compared to the state of you. It’s like you’re a car wreck, isn’t it? Just too hard to look away from despite the carnage.

“Are you sure?” he asks as he slaps your receipt down. You’re starting to scribble a tip with the shitty pen he’s provided when he decides to add, “This is the third time you’ve done this.”

You look back up, mortified. “Really?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Oh, god,” you groan, desperately wanting to curl up into a ball and die. “That’s mortifying. I’ll do better next time.”

“Maybe lay off the booze until you feel better,” he suggests. “Or, you know, you talk to whoever that Steve guy is. Maybe try that.”

Before you can say anything in return, he’s grabbing your receipt, saluting you, and moving on to the next person in line.

And that’s it.

Tab closed.

Moment gone.

Sighing, you stand and grab your purse and jacket. Dip back whatever’s left of your shitty glass of a Screwdriver, the watered-down vodka tasting like absolutely nothing on your tongue. Suppressing your groan, you push through the growing crowd as you try to escape.

As soon as you emerge from the shitty little dive bar, you’re nearly blinded by the fresh midnight air. It nips at your skin, the September of it all begging for a chance to release its worst. And you’re wearing a short dress with high heels that aren’t covering your feet. It’s your own damn fault for not checking the weather before you came. Now look where you are.

Now it’s time to wander the streets, to try and find somewhere reasonable to go.

Because why go back home? Why risk sitting by yourself in the dark, nursing a bottle of wine that certainly won’t mix well with orange juice and vodka before spending the whole night by the toilet?

Why leave when the streets are perfect for a heartbroken woman like you, crowded with the hordes of others experiencing some form, no matter how miniscule, of melancholia?

A part of you finds it funny, fucking hilarious, that no one around you knows what you’re feeling. What you’re thinking.

If only they knew about the self-loathing, the devouring loneliness. How this is eating at the lining of your stomach, a kind of hunger that feels so different than any that has come to pass.

It always happens after a vacation, doesn’t it?

See, just a month ago, Steve had taken you on vacation to some beach in California. Said it was to get away from work. To get away from the stress. The late nights. The fuckery that lied in office buildings and smushed cubicles.

The beach felt like a perfect fit, thick with the scent of sunscreen and a couple of beers in a melting cooler. The sun itself felt like a form of freedom, cascading through the tie-dye umbrella desperately trying to stay put in the sand.

But it just kept slipping, kept trying to escape whenever the breeze rolled in. You sat closest to it, trying to hold it down whenever it popped up.

After maybe the fifth, sixth time, Steve had had enough.

“I got it, I got it,” he said with a sigh, trying to push the umbrella further into the sand. But every time he tested its stability, the pole seemed to shoot out of the damn hole.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed.

“Maybe we should just call it and put it down,” you suggested.

Steve raised an eyebrow at you. “What, and risk getting sunburnt?”

“So?”

He waved his hand around. “So, it’ll hurt. Like, a lot. And then neither of us will have any fun.”

“I think you’re just overreacting.”

But that was before you got burned.

And then you were the one losing it.

“This fucking hurts!” you nearly screeched, the sheets of the hotel bed scratching up against your inflamed skin.

“I told you that it was a bad idea.”

“Yeah, I know, Steve,” you grumbled. “I got that the first ten times you said it.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Steve, the one who had been worried about getting burned, hadn’t. In fact, his skin was glowing. Practically radiating with the most perfect tan you’d ever seen. Just a fucking daydream of golden skin and honey hair.

Despite your scowl, Steve seemed to let go, the crease between his eyebrows smoothing out.

“Come here,” he whispered, squeezing the green aloe vera gel into his palm. “You can be grumpy, but you’ll have to let me play doctor.”

“Don’t you dare,” you nearly seethed.

But you weren’t scary enough for Steve. He took a small glob and rubbed it along your shoulder. You yelped at the cold sting, but that was before it settled in and left you at a comfortable ease.

“Oh, fuck,” you sighed, letting your head finally rest against the pillow.

“Oh, look at that. I’ve already got my license.”

That pulled a giggle out of you, finally, the irritation seeming to dissipate the longer you let it out. Steve joined in with you, probably just happy that you weren’t acting like a complete asshole.

The rest of your trip was spent smearing aloe vera over your body and lounging on the balcony. Eating seafood at little restaurants along the coast. Walked the piers at night, taking flashlights to look for little crabs. You even brought home a whole bag of seashells.

Despite the pain, you had the best time of your life with Steve.

But that was the heart of summer.

And now it’s coming to a close.

A few more blocks over, your mind starts to stray away from the present, the liquor reaching the corners of your mind that you’d rather leave darkened. The parts that have always been an issue, even when you were secure enough in your relationship.

Where’s Steve tonight? you wonder. Who is he with?

Because there are so many women out there, so so many, who would lose their minds if they met someone like Steve. He’s something more than just a man, more than just a pretty face or a quick fuck. No, he’s got something about him that transcends what you have always comprehended about the male species. Something that feels almost…magical.

He’s something of a dreamboat, an absolute firework show with that hair and those eyes and that smile and—

Well.

He’s not yours right now, is he?

He doesn’t have a girlfriend waiting for him anymore. In fact, he could be with some other girl. Some girl with a better smile and a better laugh and a better body and better lips, holding onto his arm as they walk down the cobblestones of a street you used to stroll down. Steve helping her walk in her heels through the cracks, guiding her like a fucking gentleman.

And maybe he’s kissing her right now, whispering to her that she’s much, much better than his ex, some crazy fucked up mess who doesn’t know what she’s missing. How you’re just too hard to handle, too soft and sensitive for him. How you never gave him any chance at peace. How it was so much better now that you’re gone.

What if he’s kissing some other girl right now?

Leaning up against a streetlamp, you can’t help it when your stomach makes the decision for you. You can’t think properly, can barely see through your tears as you lean over and throw up on the street.

“You good?” a female voice asks, putting a hand on your shoulder.

You turn to her, registering her hesitance at your appearance most likely, and nod. “Yeah, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

She looks relatively around your age, with a perfect manicure and a cigarette in her fingers, mauve lipstick wrapped around the filter. Her dark chestnut strands waves around her face, eyelids sparkling with pink glitter.

“Do you have anyone with you?” she asks, looking around.

“Yeah,” you lie immediately, pointing at the crowded bar across the street. “I’ve got some girls waiting for me inside. Just went a little heavy on the liquor tonight.”

“Is this about some guy?” she presses. You can’t help but nod. “Take my advice. Lay off the alcohol for a little bit and get yourself some sleep. You’ll wake up and think to yourself, ‘Wow, that random stranger was right. Thank you, random stranger.’” That makes you chuckle. “I’m sure your friends will understand.”

“Yeah,” you say before you slip in a lie. “I’ll try to do that.”

“Godspeed, my new friend,” she responds with a smile. She salutes you, pats your shoulder, and walks away.

You watch her as she goes, stunned that a mere stranger could see right through you.

Maybe people do know that you’re experiencing heartbreak. Maybe it’s written all over your face, some typical sad woman with smudged mascara and lipstick. A desperate girl stumbling down the street, destined for catastrophic failure. Or maybe you’re just shit at keeping yourself together in public.

But you’ve come too far now to turn back. It’s time to keep moving.

You knew you fucked up the moment it was all said and done.

See, when you broke up with Steve, you really, really didn’t want to. You thought you needed space, that there was shit the two of you needed to figure out. Separately. If your jealousy and his indifference were to collide, well, maybe you shouldn’t be together.

And maybe it was better if you sabotaged yourself instead of trying to actually work on yourself. What’s the point of trying to fix the problem instead of running away and convincing yourself that you weren’t supposed to be this happy? That you weren’t supposed to be this at ease. That you didn’t deserve to be with Steve.

It didn’t even really matter the reasoning if you even had one at all. The details were insignificant, the excuses piss poor. All you can hear now is Steve’s voice, all crackly and strained as he asked you question after question.

“I don’t understand.”

“So, what, now you’re just gonna leave? Leave us behind?”

“Do you still love me?”

To that, you had an answer.

“Yes.”

“So why are you doing this?”

To that, you had none.

Steve left his spare key that night when your inevitable fight led to an outburst and a slamming of the door. You didn’t notice for days, hoping that you’d hear the key turn in the door, and he’d stumble down the hallway with a hug and a promise that you’d fix this.

But he didn’t.

And you said nothing.

So, you spent your nights going out to bars for some kind of companionship with the other strangers haunting the sticky, stingy rooms. You became a blubbery fool, desperate for a conversation that you refused to initiate. Desperate to get over Steve. Desperate to let him be like all the rest, insignificant and easy to forget.

But Steve is different.

And you are really starting to fucking hate these heels.

How did you end up here?

You pause, staring up at the sign above the door.

Penguin & The Whale.

It was, you guessed it, a neon image of a penguin standing in the mouth of a whale.

This…is the bar you and Steve go the most. The one you met in years ago, just two stupid college students without any clue as to what the future held. Him working on some finance presentation and you finding any chance not to read the book you were supposed to.

That night started with a “You go to college around here?” and ended with his number on a scrap of paper that you still keep in your wallet.

And somehow…you’re here after weeks of avoidance.

Staring at that damn penguin.

That damn whale.

Despite your confusion, your aching feet and chilled legs pull you in, using some of the last of your physical energy to push open the door. You’re hit with the thick smell of tobacco, the whole room seemingly drenched in smoke.

For nearly one in the morning, the place is still relatively crowded. There’s college students (mainly frat bros) and two separate bachelorette parties, all congregated along the length of the bar itself. You do your usual shimmy through moving figures, desperate to get to your spot.

God, it’s stuffy and you’re tired and your fucking feet are killing you and—

There at your favorite table, next to your favorite seat, is Steve.

He’s running his hand through his hair, scribbling something on a napkin. Mouthing along to whatever he’s writing, like he’s still figuring out what he’s trying to say. He strikes through something rapidly before letting out a sigh.

Steve isn’t his usual self, you realize. His hair doesn’t hold the same volume or shine. There’s a bit more acne than usual, all picked at and scabbed. His outfit is more casual than usual, a Hall & Oats t-shirt and…were those a pair of sweatpants?

He never goes outside with sweats on…

“Steve?”

He looks up, nearly startled. Like he’s shocked to see you here.

“Hey,” he says, standing. Runs a hand through his hair and adjusts his shirt. “What, uh, what’re you doing here?”

You don’t miss it when he turns over the napkin.

“Just kinda wound up here,” you say. “What are you doing here?”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, well, you know.” He takes a deep breath. “Just kinda wanted to get a quick drink, you know, ‘cause…” He stops himself, tapping himself on the head before waving his hand in the air. Puts his hand on his hips. “Yeah, uh, forget it. I’m lying. I was waiting for you. I’ve been waiting here for you for the past week.”

“For me?”

“Yeah,” he responds, nodding. “Not like living here, obviously, ‘cause that would be insane. But I’ve been trying to figure out what to say to you if you ever came. Oh, and I think the bartender might be sick of me.” You open your mouth to say something, but Steve rattles on. “And it’s actually crazy because I started thinking fifteen minutes ago, ‘You know, the probability of her showing up is actually quite dismal’, but here you are, proving myself wrong—"

Without hesitation, you pull him into a hug. It’s maybe the most tender hug you’ve ever had, with his arms wrapping around you immediately. Giving a soft squeeze, running his fingers through your hair. His face is nuzzling into your neck, his breath sending shivers down your back. He’s melting you, wearing down the shell you’d forced yourself into. For too long you’ve been coasting by, letting your pride and jealousy get the best of you. Convincing yourself that he’d walk away and leave you shattered on the floor before running off into the arms of some other girl that only exists in your head.

But here Steve is, waiting for you. Choosing you.

There never was any competition, was there?

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Just needed some time, I get it.”

You pull him tighter against you. “I don’t want to keep pretending that this isn’t the absolute worst thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

“That’s okay,” he says, pulling back. Wipes some of your smudged lipstick and mascara out of the way. Leaves a peck on the tip of your nose. “How about we fix that mistake together?”

“Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

“Me, too.” His lips meet your forehead before he dips down to meet your eyes. “Want me to get you a drink?”

“Water.” He raises an eyebrow at you. “I think I’m going to lay off the booze for a while.”

This gets a laugh out of him, the first you’ve heard in weeks.

It’s bliss.

“Okay, hun. Sit down here,” he says as he pulls out your favorite chair, helps to push it in once you sit. “You look good but, Jesus, your feet must be killing you.”

You smile. And this is your first smile today. The first time you’re feeling a release of every nasty, negative feeling you’ve had for the last two weeks.

Steve walks towards the bar, fiddling with his hair again and you even see him check his breath.

Looking over, you see the napkin resting on the edge of the table.

You glance back over, making sure Steve’s back is still turned before you turn it over.

There’s just something about you

I just can’t stop thinking about you

I don’t know.

I fucking miss you!!!!

I love you. I’m sorry.

I’m an idiot. This is stupid.

Can we please talk through this?

I can’t move on because of you.

Because I love you.

Because it’s you.

#Steve Harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington angst #Steve Harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington fanfiction #just a little something before I upload next week #happy vday bitches

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incorrectclonewarsquotes · 1 year

Text

Obi-Wan: One vodka, three screwdrivers, four bottles of red wine, a pint of moonshine, four shots of brandy, a line of Corellian cocaine

Cody: What are you doing?

Obi-Wan: I can't sleep, so I'm counting the number of drinks and drugs I had during the senate gala. Counting sheep is sooooo tedious.

Cody: I see quietly texts helix

#incorrect clone wars quotes #incorrect star wars quotes #incorrect quotes #codywan #the clone wars #the clone army #the clone boys #212th attack battalion #212th shenanigans

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ladylooch · 8 months

Note

For blub night, how about Timo and reader celebrating her birthday with their families and friends and during cake time, Timo surprises reader with matching Cartier white gold LOVE bracelets with diamonds (worth $12,700 each) and then proposes to her with a 10k diamond ring, which leaves reader in tears?

Look at you giving me a lil birthday gift 😘 I would literally die if someone gave that bracelet to me. It is so dreamy and expensive and indulgent. But not for Timo. The ring you can use your imagination with. But if you think you’re imagining big.. go bigger. Because that’s what Timo thinks you deserve.

A bubble of happiness pinches your chest as you put your hand on Timo’s thigh. Tonight has been perfect. You're sitting at a table, on your birthday, with both of your families and closest friends. The Mediterranean Sea lazily laps at the beach below the restaurant. The warm summer air and sunset make for a perfect ending for your day.

“Did you have a good day?” Timo asks you, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. You turn to catch his mouth with yours. He smiles into your kiss, gently easing back with soft pecks before he awaits your answer.

“Best day.” You confirm.

“You ready for your gift?”

“I feel like this was the gift?” You gesture to the expensive pasta and wine he bought for everyone. Plus, the pastry chef made a custom cake that will be making an appearance soon.

“No way.” He snorts. “Not for your big birthday.”

“You say that every year.”

“And every year it’s true.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the distinct, rich red box fro Cartier. Your group of loved ones is blissed out on great food and wine, not even paying attention to you. You grin as Timo pops the box open, showcasing the lavish and gorgeous LOVE bracelets. You’re pretty sure you’re going to swoon right off your seat.

“One is for me.” He says quickly.

“Oh my god…” You murmur as he takes yours out of the box. The bracelet comes with its own screwdriver to attach it to your wrist. He is delicate as he works at the small screws, tongue licking at his bottom lip in concentration. You stare at the top of his head as he works, relieved at how relaxed he looks. When you first got to the restaurant, he could barely sit still- legs bouncing, stretching his neck from side to side, talking privately with the staff members. It was all odd behavior. You’re happy to see him being more like himself.

The sound of a sparkler igniting reaches your ears and you turn behind you, seeing the staff come forward with a huge cake. Timo brings your hand up to his lips, kissing each of your knuckles as you watch the approach of the giant pastry. In all the commotion, you don’t even catch that the inside of your bracelet has “Y/N Meier” engraved inside.

“T. This is too much.” You chuckle, looking back at him. You get serious when you see his face. A sincerity is lining his blue eyes and for some reason, even though you shouldn’t yet, you just know. You bring your expensive hand up to your mouth then watch with everyone else's undivided attention as he pushes his chair back to get on one knee in front of you. You squeeze your eyes shut, leaning forward to press your forehead into his shoulder. “Ohmygod.” You choke out, letting go of your mouth to hold his cheek to your temple.

“I love you so much…” He begins, then pushes out a heavy breath like he is struggling to speak. A slight quiver returns when his words do. “I knew you were the one the second our eyes locked in that crowded restaurant. What used to be a constant, unfulfilled search for the one ended in one glance. I didn’t even want to go out that night. I was so homesick. And you became the cure, baby.” He’s speaking in a quiet whisper that only you can hear. Each of his words tickles his lips against the shell of your ear. You pull back, wanting to see his face now that you've allowed your tears to break freely down your cheeks. “We've been planning it for years, so let’s get started on forever.” You grin, shoulders shaking as you begin to laugh excitedly. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes!” You shriek, throwing yourself into his large body. He grips you tightly, holding onto the ring box that you haven’t even looked in yet.

It doesn’t matter. All that matters is it’s Timo asking.

"I love you. I love you. I love you.” You say against his mouth as you kiss desperately. Flashes are going. Video is being recorded. Strangers cheer. And loud booming fireworks blast off above the sea in celebration.

“Here.” Timo calls your face back to him as you feel something heavy slide onto your ring finger. You choke at the size of the diamond, looking at Timo. “It’s insured.” He calms your responsible brain. The band is simple, understated but so elegant. You don’t even have words to say. You’re trying to catch up to what is happening and soak everything in too. “You missed this.” He points down to your bracelet, showing you the engraved metal. Your eyes fill with tears at seeing your first name next to his last.

“T…” Is all that comes out of your mouth. He grins back at you, leaning in to kiss your lips again. This time, he absorbs your mouth, tongue swirling inside and tasting the champagne you had just toasted to for your birthday. “This is the best day of my life.” You finally tell him.

“And you haven’t even seen the hotel yet.” He wiggles his thick brows. His mischievous face turns to watch the rest of the fireworks while you wonder how you two can sneak discreetly away.

#t. meier blurb #timo meier x reader #NHL blurb #NHL imagine

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pseudowho · 2 months

Text

Nanami Kento and Higuruma Hiromi are given the same box of IKEA flat-pack furniture.

Kento has a well-organised tool bag, a drill, a tape measure, a spirit level. He reads the instructions through once, slowly, hums, and nods at the end. He builds, methodical, mathematical, flawless. You could build it yourself, of course, but there's something soothing to both of your souls as you watch him, wooly cardigan clutched across your breasts, a cup of tea swirling steam, the sunlight illuminating the dust-motes floating past his shoulders. Kento finds clarity, a slow peace with the world, huffing a soft puff of satisfaction as the drawer-runner glides into place just so.

The result looks professional. He should be employed by IKEA, you think, to put their catalogue pieces together. He is almost disappointed there isn't more to do, having found the experience profoundly therapeutic.

"Where do you want it?" Kento asks you, casually lifting the furniture as if it weighs nothing. You gesture. He carries, positions. Accepts a cup of coffee, pressed into his hands as you grace him with an appreciative kiss.

Higuruma Hiromi had a drill, once. He's certain it's in the same place as those missing keys. Or, the album he's been meaning to listen to for a while? Anyway. You hear cursing and crashing as he rummages through the cupboards, eventually appearing with two pristine, still in their packaging screwdrivers. He reads the instructions step-by-step (but uses the wrong plank of wood for the base anyway, having to double back 6 steps to correct himself), keeps losing his pencil (it's behind his ear, every time), drops pieces on his feet (hopping and swearing), lifts you up and throws you sideways along the sofa, certain the missing screw is under your bottom. He has a glass of wine halfway through, staring out of the window, and asks you, full of solemn despair; "Why is life this way?"

You offer help, concerned by how his hair stands on end, how his shirt has sweat patches, and the look of heated fury in his eyes. The response is almost toddlerish-- "No! I'll do it," he reassures, his voice carefully tempered. You offer him an encouraging smile, now on your 3rd cup of tea, pouring his down the sink and putting the kettle on again. You could build it yourself, of course, but Hiromi has a thirst to prove that he can, and well...who are you to deny him that?

The result? Picasso. It has...character.

"Where do you want it?" Hiromi asks you, dragging it with a concerning grind across the hard floor. You wince, gesturing. He drags, positions. Accepts a cup of coffee, smiling, proud, and pulls you onto one sweaty armpit, nuzzling his shiny hooked nose into your hair.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Neat Suit/Messy Suit Aesthetics

Hot Anger/Cold Anger Aesthetics

"Get Up!" Fighter/"Stay Down!" Fighter Aesthetics

City-Skyline Penthouse/Converted-Factory Penthouse Aesthetics

#jjk #kento nanami #jjk nanami #kento nanami x you #nanami fluff #higuruma hiromi #kento nanami x reader #kento nanami x y/n #jujustu kaisen #hiromi higuruma x reader #jjk higuruma #higuruma x reader #jujutsu kaisen higuruma #hiromi hiromi hiromi #hiromi x reader

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theoutcastrogue · 15 days

Text

8 Fancy Pocket Knives

Etched pocket knife from Eskilstuna, Sweden

Silver / mother of pearl Victorian fruit knife, England

Damascene Toledo knife, Spain

Inlaid Toledo knife, Germany

Silver-plated fruit knife, USA

Damascene Toledo knife, Spain

Etched pocket knife from Eskilstuna, Sweden

Mother of pearl pocket knife from Eskilstuna, Sweden

@victoriansword [details after the cut]

1) Swedish pocket knife by EKA (Eskilstuna Kniffabriks AB), c. 1980-2000. Model 6 GS (1967-2010), with main blade, bottle opener/screwdriver, pen blade, and nail file. Tang stamp "EKA / SWEDEN" (from 1967), etched handle, 7 cm closed.

These were very popular in the 2nd half of the 20th century as gift knives or advertising knives. They were manufactured by many cutlers in Eskilstuna, and widely exported. The decorative pattern appears, with variations, on Swedish knives from at least the 19th century, and is inspired by Norse / Viking art, which often features twisted serpents/dragons. The interlacing perhaps also borrows from Celtic knots.

2) English fruit knife by Martin Bros & Co, 1848. Silver blade with 4 hallmarks (for Queen Victoria, the year, sterling silver, and Sheffield) and maker's mark, mother of pearl scales, 9.5 cm closed.

This is the posh version of what used to be an incredibly useful tool, a knife (and sometimes a multi-tool knife and fork) for eating on the road. The fancier ones were also status symbols, and very popular gifts – millions of silver fruit knives were manufactured in Britain from the 18th to the 20th century, mostly in Sheffield, Birmingham, and Edinburgh.

3) Spanish Toledo knife, as it's sometimes called, a damascened penknife of recent manufacture. Two pen blades, tang stamp "TOLEDO", 6.7 cm closed.

Not to be confused with Damascus blades! The handle is damascened – decorated with gold inlaid into oxidized steel (see here for details). Reminder that gold is a highly ductile metal (you can stretch it real thin before it breaks), so that impressive aesthetic result comes from a tiny amount of gold. It's a cheap knife, is what I'm saying, for tourists basically.

4) German pocket knife, confusingly also called Toledo, by Hartkopf. With main blade, pen blade and nail file. Brass handle inlaid with oxidised steel. Tang stamp "Hartkopf&Co / Solingen", 8cm closed.

It's "damascened" in the broad sense of inlaying, hence the name "Toledo": it supposedly emulates the Spanish style, and perhaps pretends to be Spanish, but both the metals and the geometric patterns are different. Knives of this type were popular in Germany all through the 20th century as gifts and advertising knives.

5) American fruit knife by William Rogers Mfg, made in Hartford, Connecticut c.1865-1898. Main blade, seedpick [also called nut-pick or nut-picker *snickers*], silver-plated nickel silver, decorated with flowers and apples. Tang stamp: an anchor logo and "Wm ROGERS & SON AA", 8.2 cm closed.

Sometimes fruit knives like this were bought by fruit shops/groceries (relatively fancy ones, presumably) in bulk, and sold or given to customers as gifts.

6) Spanish Toledo penknife (another one). With pen blade and damascened handle, different pattern, probably a bit older. Tang stamp again "TOLEDO", 6.8 cm closed.

7) Swedish pocket knife by Emil Olsson, c. 1920-1950. Blade, pen blade and corkscrew. Tang stamp "EMIL OLSSON / [star logo] / ESKILSTUNA", 9.2 cm closed.

Another etched serpent pattern on the handle, though by now you have to squint to see it. This knife has seen some shit. Until ~1940, pocket knives were widely sold and used in Sweden because they came with corkscrews, and all the bottles had corks, and everyone needed to open bottles. After the war, bottle caps replaced corks for everything except wine, and the pocket knife's utility plummeted, and cutleries started closing. There used to be hundreds, and by now only EKA's left. So statistically, if it's from before ~1950 it saw a lot of use, and if it's after ~1950 it did not, it was a gift or something.

8) Swedish pocket knife by EKA, c.1935-1965. Model 38 PB, with blade, pen blade, flat screwdriver, and corkscrew. Handle with mother of pearl scales and nickel silver bolsters, tang stamp "E.K.A. / ESKILSTUNA / SWEDEN", 8.3 cm closed.

The corkscrew is a quirky one, known as Gottlieb Hammesfahr patent: it pivots on the pin and opens perpendicular to the handle, not pulled downwards as in most pocket knives.

#tools of the trade #folding knife #sweden #sheffield #spain #germany #toledo #eskilstuna #solingen #usa #trs #trp #trc #how to stab #<- the knife nerd tag

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silkscream · 2 years

Note

💌 with peter getting a chain and it’s hot maybe nsfw (totally not inspired by that video of tom)

nsfw ahead! minors dni <3

no fr. like everyone’s coming over to pregame at yours and peter’s the first to show up, obviously, because he’s a loser with a huge crush on you and was the only one to respond to your text in the groupchat asking if someone can come by with chasers.

when you open the door, your jaw nearly drops when you notice the thin silver chain hanging over the neck of his fitted black t-shirt.

“what is that?” you raise an eyebrow, and he blushes at how close you are to him as you roll the chain between your fingers.

“uh, it’s a chain.”

“since when do you wear jewelry?”

“since aunt may converted to all gold and didn’t want this anymore,” peter shrugs, walking past you to set down the grocery bags on your kitchen table. “i got orange juice and coke.”

“oh, you have coke? okay, fezco,” you tease, knowing full well peter is nearly straight edge if it weren’t for your tendency to force him to drink at your parties. peter rolls his eyes at your comment, smirking. it’s the smallest gesture but it makes your heart flutter in a way that it hasn’t before when you’ve been around the boy. he looks almost... cocky.

peter parker is a nerd. it’s what you like to tease him about even though it’s probably getting old as a joke, but you do whatever you can to help him gain more confidence as you’ve gotten closer as friends. this included dragging him to thrift stores, messing up his hair to bring out his curls, and accompanying him in trying (a little bit of) weed so he can relax for once in his life.

but as more of your friends start to flood into your apartment, the more you notice peter’s little mannerisms and how they feel... different. it can’t be just because of the stupid chain. though you’re realizing that you can’t stop staring at it and the way it sits at the base of his neck.

you’ve downed enough screwdrivers to feel the blood rushing to your head, so you stumble onto your couch and accidentally join in on a game of truth or dare slash spin the bottle, because harry insisted on playing but ned insisted on having the option to not kiss people.

“y/n, it’s all you,” mj says.

“huh?” you blink up to everyone watching you. “dude, i can’t play. if i kiss anyone tonight i’m just gonna drag ‘em straight to my room.”

you lock eyes with peter briefly right after your comment and you see a slight roseate flush on his cheeks. you wonder if it’s because he’s just as drunk as you.

“all the more reason, you little whore,” harry teases.

“shut up,” you snort, shoving him on the arm. “give me a dare or something.”

“okay. i dare you to kiss whoever the bottle lands on. and then take them to your room,” harry grins.

you shrug nonchalantly. you’d already had a short-lived fling with harry, and anyone else in the room you’d kiss and probably roll a joint with in your room. you imagine the scenarios in your head as you spin the empty wine bottle, faces shifting in your mind, but they all seem to turn into one face.

peter’s. who also happens to be the chosen one by the bottle.

the whole circle starts to hoot as you roll your eyes at their expense. you’re too drunk to be this nervous. since when are you ever nervous? you decide to make it quick, pulling him by the chain closer to you as you kiss him gently.

harry boos loudly. “c’monnnnn, you can do better than that, disney channel!”

peter doesn’t know what hits him, but he kisses you again, but with more passion. your eyelashes flutter in surprise when his mouth is against yours again. his tongue peeks out to touch your bottom lip and you feel warmer than ever. your friends cheer.

“thanks for the show, you sluts,” harry sneers. “now go, shoo.”

without exchanging a word, peter gets up and walks to your room as you follow. you grimace at the feeling of mj slapping your ass as you walk away, but she flashes you a cheeky grin.

“we don’t have to do anything,” you disclaim right when you’re able to close your bedroom door.

“oh,” peter nods, trying not to let the disappointment show on his face. “okay.”

“unless, you, like, want to. but i don’t wanna make things weird.”

“right--”

“but also, we just made out, so i guess it wouldn’t be, um, that weird. i guess,” you stammer.

peter narrows his eyes at you with a smile. you keep blinking haphazardly like something’s in your eye. you still feel dazed from the kiss, even moreso at the sight of him casually sitting on your bed. wearing that stupid goddamn chain.

“you okay?”

“yeah. yes! i just feel insecure about how messy my room is now,” you lie.

“looks fine to me.”

“thanks,” you reply sheepishly. the two of you sit on your bed in silence. god, this is so fucking awkward.

“y/n, i--”

“canikissyou?”

“what?”

“i was going to say that i like you.”

your heart is fucking pounding.

“and i was going to ask if i could kiss you.”

“i would say yes.”

with a grin, you lock mouths again, this time with as much eagerness as possible as you climb into his lap. he kisses you down to your collarbone while his hands drift to your hips and you subconsciously rock your lower half towards him.

it’s like kissing him is making you even drunker. you pull him by the shoulders so that he’s on top of you, and for a second, he pulls away just to look at you and your blissed out face.

“you’re so fucking pretty.”

“you’re prettier,” you grin. the way his chain hangs over you makes you feel fucking insane.

within minutes, the both of you have managed to discard most of your clothes. peter’s hand rubs your thigh as he kisses you, nibbles on your neck and grins when he hears your tiny kitten moans. slowly, his fingers graze over the front of your underwear and his eyes widen just a bit when he feels how wet you are. you grab his hand yourself to shove down your panties out of impatience, and when he starts to cooperate and rub your bud gently, you have to bite your lip to suppress your moans.

“this okay?” he whispers.

“mhm,” you murmur dreamily.

his mouth is slack as he watches you come undone for him. meanwhile, you can’t keep your eyes off him either, how he’s hovering over you and breathing just as heavily at the sight of you grinding up into his hand. his chain bounces as he breathes and it makes you wetter by the second.

the more you whine in little whispers just for him to hear, the wider his lovesick smile gets.

soon enough, you feel it, the way his fingers cradle themselves into the sweet spot in your cunt. if your orgasm feels this good, you can only imagine how good his cock would feel buried inside of you.

“‘m cumming,” you whimper. he covers your mouth with his hand and the sudden dominance excites you.

“shh,” he coos into your ear as you tremble through your high. “that’s it. that’s a good girl.”

#2k celebration #peter parker x you #peter parker x reader #peter parker smut #tom holland smut #blurb

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