#glass dining table ikea
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Hi! For the kink thing you're doing - could we please please get a Billy Russo competency + overstim kink (or competency and praise, whichever pairing you prefer). In my mind the reader gets *ideas* when Billy is building something (bc those damn IKEA dressers are difficult) or maybe she goes to Anvil one day and sees him doing like training with recruits or something? Anyway, sorry for the ramble and thank you in advance!
I am!
Masterlist
In the Sniper's Nest
Contains: Consent and kink negotiation, hand kink (you get an extra one), competency kink, fingering, overestimation, P in V, fluff.
1.5K words
You check out the new instalment at Anvil, a sniper's nest that Billy seems to love.
Despite his ear protection, he still heard you ascending the steps of the sniper's nest. It was Anvil's newest toy, the tall structure standing out above the skyline of the flat warehouse. He pulled aside his ear muff and pulled the earplug free, pushing himself up from his position lying on the table in the middle of the room to rush over to greet you. "Hi."
You tapped your own ear muff with a smile. "What?"
He pulled them off your head and placed them around your neck as you yanked the earplugs out. "These are a good look for you."
You chuckled. "Yes, that gun is very loud."
He smiled and leaned down to kiss you, his hand soft on your cheek as you leaned against him. He pulled away, brushing your hair from your face as he looked down at you lovingly. "Now what are you doing here?"
You sighed. "I missed you, you've been busy and we've been missing our lunch dates." You furrowed your brow. "Why are you in your suit?" Normally during training, he wore his grey fatigues.
He sighed. "I just got done showing our client our new space. They were very impressed."
You took the chance to look around the small room. It was set up like an embedded sniper outpost, the walls covered in large charts about wind speed and bullet type, even though it was furnished like a dining room in a dilapidated apartment. The only things that really stood out were the new couch in one corner and the shelves of binoculars and PEE along one wall. "It looks even better than the photos." It really felt like you were in enemy territory.
He took your hand and led you to the table, gesturing to his rifle with a smile. "You wanna watch?"
You nodded, and he walked around the table to the shelves, picking up a pair of safety glasses and a set of binoculars. He placed the binoculars on the table and pulled you close, sliding the safety glasses over your face before booping your nose as you held back your giggles. "You're being silly, Billy."
He bent his head and kissed you again before helping you climb onto the table and settling next to you. His shoulder was back bracing the riffle as you looked through the lens, and the shot shook the room while smoke billowed from the barrel. You didn't see anything until he tapped your shoulder and pointed to one of the trees at the very edge of the property. Another look clarified what he was shooting at as another shot rang out, and a left was blown clear of its branch.
It happened like that each time, the green leaves disappearing in a puff as the boom of the gun jerked the table until he ran out of bullets. When he finally placed the weapon on the ground, you still found yourself unable to look away from the sight, he hadn't missed a shot the whole time. He ran his hand all the way up your back, finally breaking your attention away from the tree. You removed everything from your head and turned backwards to face them. "That was very impressive."
He was smiling, his ego clearly boosted by the look of amazement on your face. "I gotta go back to the armoury and clean my rifle. You wanna come?"
You nodded. "Of course I do."
The trip was short, only down the stairs and through a door before you were standing in an expansive space loaded with guns. He made his way to the large table with you following close behind and began to dissemble the weapon, taking it apart piece by piece before cleaning each part with care, his face a mask of concentration as the burnt gun powdered turned into shiny metal.
"You see something you like?" He looked so smug.
You most definitely did, each movement of his slender fingers was precise and controlled more like a dance than a tedious process he could do with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back. "Yes, many things, would you like me to list them?"
If you thought he was smug before, that was nothing compared to how he was now. "Nah, I think I have a pretty good idea."
The gun was put away in his personal spot, and he washed his hands in the slop skin as you watched on, swaggering up to you and lifting you onto the table when he was done. "You need something from be gorgeous girl?"
You nodded. "Many things."
He settled between your spread legs, his fingertips playing with the hem of your jeans as he gazed into your eyes. "Are my fingers one of them?"
It was hard to concentrate on anything when he was touching you, but you knew if you didn't answer, nothing would happen. "Yes, I would like that very much."
He smirked and popped open your jeans, slowly undoing the zip if only to toy with you before his fingers met your core. "You got something you need to tell me about, because there's no way my poor landscaping and the smell of gun oil has got you this wet."
He wasn't pulling any punches, there was no tease or slow build, he was doing exactly what he needed to bring you right to the edge before your brain could catch up. "You're very good at things…" You took a deep breath to gather yourself as heat spread out from where his fingers were on you. "And I like that you're good at things."
The feeling of his fingers leaving your skin shocked you into action and you tugged at his clothes while he tugged at yours, and before long, you were both naked with your clothes in little piles around you. "You know what else I'm good at?"
You knew exactly what answer he was looking for by the way his thumb was rubbing at the inside of your thigh. "Yes, yes I do."
He smiled and returned to touching you with the same insistence as before. It didn't take long for the pressure to build in your core, and he knew it. His beard scratched your skin as his lips worried at your neck, and he smiled into your skin as you clenched around nothing. He didn't stop there, his long fingers filling you before the aftershocks could fade.
Everything was so steady and practised, the fingertips on your G-spot, his lips on yours, each move intentional and purposeful until you were once again cresting the hill into bliss. He was unrelenting, pushing and pushing and pushing until one orgasm faded into another and space reduced to just the two of you in the empty Anvil warehouse.
"Please, Billy, I can't take it anymore." That was only half a lie, you could have told him no if you needed to.
He chuckled warmly, pulling his hand away and sucking his fingers into his mouth with a groan before speaking. "So you don't want me inside you?"
His tone held just a hint of mischief, and you nipped his shoulder as he chuckled. "I'll take that as a yes."
You nodded. "Yes please."
His forehead fell against yours as he slid inside you, taking a careful pace as you leaned your weight into him. He wrapped his arms around your body, controlling the pace as you wove one hand into his hair and held the table with the other. As his speed picked up, he pulled back to watch your blissed out face, grunting like an animal with every thrust as he took in the sight of your screwed tight eyes and heaving chest. "Billy..I."
He kissed you softly, whispering against your lips as his fingers made their way to your clit. "I know, gorgeous, I can feel it. How about you be a good girl and cum for me again."
You were powerless to resist his request, not when he said it so sweetly and as you were swept into the undertow of it, his teeth sunk into your lower lip as he followed you.
You stayed together for a breath before he finally stepped back, smirking as you twitched. "Sorry."
You huffed. "No you're not."
He kissed the corner of your mouth with a smile. "You're right about that."
He reached down for your clothes, dressing you piece by piece before dressing himself. Your eyes went wide, and he paused, looking at you intently as if he could decipher your worry. "Umm, is Jerry watching the cameras?"
He chuckled and shook his head. "I made sure they were turned off when we walked in here."
You fained offence and shoved his shoulder playfully. "You ass, you planned this from the start."
He nodded and kissed you again. "Yep. You can't be mad, you love me."
You sighed. "I do but I'm expecting you to make it up to me, I can't have you scheming all the time."
The look of lust on his face told you what he was thinking. "Oh, don't worry, I will."
Fin
@thegirlwhowritesfics
#billy russo#the punisher#billy russo imagine#billy russo fanfic#billy russo smut#ben barnes#the punisher fanfiction#billy russo x#billy russo x reader#billy russo/reader#billy russo x you#billy russo/you#sp's kinkfest pick and mix
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Here we have a 2008 home in Santa Fe, NM that has such unparalleled views, that it's been likened to being on a hot air balloon being circled by hawks. It has 1bd, 1ba, 1.208 sq ft, $795k. To get to the house, there are 500 rugged "stairs." That thing beside them may be a transport system for groceries, etc.
So, here we are at the top, and it looks like there's a pully system.
The outer walls are glass and I wonder why they did that if there are hawks and other birds that could fly into them.
It's cute in here. I have to wonder how they got all of this stuff up here and if it comes furnished.
A swinging bed faces the glass walls. I don't see a separate bedroom, so it's like a studio.
It's has such a cozy feel to it.
Wow, who lugged the heavy appliances and cast iron stove up here? The kitchen's cute. Look like IKEA.
There's plenty of room for a table and chairs in the dining area.
In this corner across the house there's another bed.
The bathroom has a washer/dryer in it, and a partial tile, partial rock shower.
The deck has a canopy for shade.
The yard looks kind of scrubby. There's what looks like a canvas fence around it, and a hot tub.
Wow, it's a long way down. This thing must be some sort of transport.
There's a garage at the bottom of the mountain.
I don't know who comes down all those stairs to sit on this patio.
The house looks nice all lit up at night.
https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/41-Ridge-Rd-Santa-Fe-NM-87505/87885005_zpid/
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Broken vase
Puppy Leon x gn reader
warning: smut, reader with female reproductive organ, masturbating, somnophilia, reader neglected Leon, silent treatment
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A small whine escaped Leon's lips as he curled up under the dining table. After the long-lasting rain, the ground was moist, and the air was fresh. That's why Leon was quite excited since he woke up in his small bed, looking forward to going to play fetch with his owner. Leon jumped on your bed and started to pull the comfy crotched blanket away from your body. A wet nose sniffed your neck, trying to find out if his owner was awake yet. The constant sniffing, whimpering, and the strong pull at your blanket woke you up. After working at home all night, having been woken up by your puppy wasn't the nicest thing in the world right now.
"Leon? What the hell?" You mumbled sleepy, trying to grab your warm blanket back. The blonde retriever whined hearing your words. He immediately grabbed your arms and pulled you out of the white sheets. You groaned in frustration but followed his request and got out of bed. The late autumn was quite cold this year. A small chill ran down your spine as you stood in the bedroom rubbing your eyes in your pink shorts and grey top. When you opened your eyes and looked at the sound coming next to you, Leon was digging into your closet to find your shirt, jeans, and collar to go outside. He knew you didn't live going to the park when it was cold, but he couldn't help but try to change your mind today. The puppy barked and gave you the warm clothes, trying to put on his collar before you could say no to him.
You signed and looked at the warm clothing. Leon always knew how to make you do whatever you said. "Goddammit... I spoiled him too much, " you thought to yourself before putting the shirt on lazily and heading to the kitchen to grab a protein bar for a quick breakfast.
Leon whined loudly as he saw you leaving the bedroom, leaving him tangled with the leech. The puppy runs after you at a high speed, disappointed that you won't go outside with him to play. You stood in the kitchen next to the window, looking outside. The view was quite beautiful but looked cold and gloomy. While you drank a glass of water while the wind blew outside, Leon crashed into the vase beside you, causing the loud noise of a shattering vase.
You looked around to see Leon's head wrapped in the leech, the vase shattered on the ground, and him whining loudly as he sat on the floor with his ears down. Leon knew his wish to go outside and play fetch is now gone, at least for today. As he stared down at the floor, the beautiful golden pattern of the shattered vase drew his attention. It wasn't the blue vase you bought from IKEA. Instead, it was your mother's gift for your college graduation. One of the things you love so much, even more than yourself. Realizing what he had done, Leon whimpered loudly, crawled to your frozen figure, and hugged your legs to have your mercy.
You didn't know how to feel at the moment. Your puppy just broke your vase, but you loved him. At the same time, it was one of your most-priced possessions. Leon tensed up as you stood still like a tree. After a few moments, you gently moved Leon's hand and moved out of his grasp, heading to your room without saying a word.
After the death of your mother, the small fancy vase was all you have of her. Most of her belongings have been taken by your father and siblings. The word disappointed was beyond your feelings. So you just locked yourself in your bedroom and curled up in the sheets while Leon whimpered and whined outside the door.
It has been 2 days since you started giving Leon a silent treatment. The more you were quiet, the more louder Leon got. He wanted nothing but your attention and love.
Every time you would get out of your room to eat or get something from your office, Leon would try to sneak into your room and cuddle you, and when you didn't allow him, he would get frustrated and bark at you.
You weren't mad at Leon, just sad that all you had of your beloved mother was now gone. You needed time to yourself to think and heal. During your time to yourself, what you forgot was Leon's heat was coming soon. Every time he was in heat, you would help him by showering him with cold water, giving him his private time, and giving him his pills to help his heat a bit.
During the night, Leon whined in his sleep loudly as he rutted against the soft mattress.
A moan escaped between Leon's soft lips as his hardened shaft leaked precum. His baby blue eyes opened, on the edge of crying. The friction wasn't enough for Leon to calm down. He needed something more. As he bit his lips and thrust his hips into the soft pillow more, his movement slowed down. Leon signed in frustration and slowly crawled to his owner's bedroom.
Every time when Leon was in heat, you would take care of him and love him. Something about your smell drove Leon's mind crazy. His cock now leaked more precum as he whined and slowly pulled the blanket off of your sleeping body. Leon placed himself on top of you, paws playing with your hair while he sniffed it. As the pleasant aroma filled his nose, Leon felt his cock harden more. Leon whined quietly, trying not to wake you up.
"God..." muttered Leon under his breath quietly as he sniffed the air.
"That smell..." whined Leon now sniffing your opened legs. The little dark spot between your legs was enough to make Leon's little head dizzy and make him do a bold move he knew he shouldn't. The hybrid slowly pulled down your shorts with your thong and licked the white spot on it, moaning to himself. As his paws got closer to the pink opening, you signed in your sleep quietly. Leon stopped in his movement, cursing himself for doing this. He finally touch the slit of his owner and rubbed the wetness up and down. The slick sounds made Leon moan and thrust his hips in the air. Leon quickly threw off his shorts as he stroked his knot up and down, biting his lips to stop the sinful sound from coming out. He played with your clit for a while, enjoying your little squirm and moans in your sleep. You suddenly turned around on your belly to sleep, causing Leon to pull away from you. Leon stared at your pussy as he kept stroking himself at a rapid pace. After a few minutes of moaning and whimpering, long white liquid coated the sheets beneath and your things. The puppy whimpered and pulled on his shorts before kissing your cheek and waddling to his bed.
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*the photos aren't mine. Credits to the owners*
#leon kennedy#leon kennedy fluff#leon kennedy x reader#leon kennedy x you#leon kennedy smut#re2 leon#puppy!leon kennedy#hybrid leon kennedy#resident evil leon#leon s kennedy#leon kennedy angst#resident evil smut#re2 remake
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is it too early to love you? - part 5
(moodboard made by moi)
part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, page 6, part 7
summary: reader and spencer build ikea on the floor. they both know there’s something there, but don’t know or won’t say what it is.
a/n: okay… can i just be honest and say idfk what i was doing but i like it??? i feel like my tone while writing this one changed a bit, but idc (i do but idk how to fix it😭) so pls enjoy I ALSO LOVE UR COMMENTS THEY KEEP ME SANE AND MAKE ME SUPER HAPPY
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i went without complete dish sets and whatever else i’d written down that i needed to replace for two weeks. because unfortunately the FBI isn’t like the normal nine-to-five. i had to work through a wall of paperwork, and three cases spread across the country before i was able to step foot in ikea.
i felt bad while looking at and then eventually bringing home various things because i didn’t tell spencer i was going. but i felt like i had to go alone, because it was my apartment and all. and i didn’t want him to feel like he had to look after me.
so now i found myself sitting on the floor in my ‘lazy clothes’ which was just sweatpants and a tank-top, drinking my second glass of wine and blasting some upbeat music with a half assembled tv stand in front of me. i was flipping through the instruction book and sorting out all of the pieces i needed so that it wouldn’t fall apart either on me or in the middle of the night. my healing foot that was completely painless after the glass incident moved along with the rhythm of a song.
my trip to ikea was quite successful. i found some pretty blue dishes and really nice drinking glasses that i’d already washed and put away. they looked better than all the other dishes i’d had before, so maybe james going on a rampage was a really, really awful blessing in disguise.
i still felt bad that i didn’t bring spencer along.
halfway through taking in a mouthful of wine i was brought out of my thoughts by a series of knocks on my front door. i swallowed the wine and walked to the door.
“hey! what’re you doing here?” i swiped a drip of wine from the corner of my smile-curled lips while looking up at spencer.
he studied me before answering, “you weren’t answering your phone.”
i opened my mouth as if to say ‘oh’ while glancing back to my phone as it sat on the counter. “sorry, i had the ringer off. do you wanna come in?” i asked, directing my eyes back to him.
he nodded and i opened the door wider. his face changed as he saw the disarray of my apartment. “you went to ikea without me?” he asked.
i closed my door with a smile. “yeah, this morning. sorry i didn’t call you, i just wanted to go on my own.” i walked past where he was standing beside my dining table to turn down my music slightly prior to sitting back on the floor. “do you want some wine?” i pointed at my almost empty glass.
he shook his head. his eyes slowly looked over all of the things on the floor, and how i had my couch pushed against a wall to make the space seem bigger, and then me. “have you been doing this all day?”
i shook my head, finishing my wine before answering. “no. well… i got up at eight and then came home at noon, struggled to get everything inside for an hour and then went to get food with penelope which meant i got home around six, so no.” the extent of my day tumbled out of my mouth. the recitation was more for me, just backtracking over everything i did just to get the answer right for spencer. “why?” i pushed some hair from my face.
spencer looked at me with an amused smile and came to sit beside me. “you look happy.”
my hand reached for a piece of what was the next step in the instructions on the floor beside me. i worked on the furniture while i replied to spencer. “i always get really excited when i get new furniture.” i quickly followed the rest of the instructions on the page before turning all of my attention to spencer. “what did you get up to today?”
he shrugged. “nothing half as interesting as what you did.” his eyes looked over my face a few times. i gave him a look and silently told him to just tell me. he cleared his throat. “i went to the park and played chess, walked around to a few bookstores, drank six cups of coffee and then came here because you wouldn’t answer my calls.” his body leaned closer to mine as he talked about my unanswered calls.
i giggled. “i already said i’m sorry for that.” my heartbeat sped up at his proximity. it was just the wine… i think. “also, six cups of coffee? on a weekend?”
spencer nodded. “i like coffee.”
“oh, trust me, i know.” i smiled. “are you sure you don’t want some wine?” i asked, slowly getting up to refill my glass. “it’s that kind rossi broke out for us… a while ago.” i wiggled my eyebrows a little, holding the almost half full bottle up for him to see.
he didn’t answer immediately, meaning he was contemplating, before he inevitably nodded.
i smiled and went to grab another glass and fill it up. he joined me in the kitchen, gently taking the glass from me while i poured more for myself. “i’m glad you’re here.” i took a sip.
“are you?” he asked.
i nodded, bumping into his side as a way to tease but i stayed leaning into him. “yeah. your company isn’t too bad.” a smile spread over my lips that i hid with my wine glass.
spencer huffed a short laugh. “do you want help finishing that?” he was referring to the tv stand on the floor.
i stared at it, tilting my head this way and that before i answered, “yeah.”
spencer nodded and we went back to sit on the floor together. with his help we got it done in less time than it took for me to construct the first half. granted, i was doing more dancing and procrastination when it was just me.
after it was done i laid down on the floor, knees up while i stared at the ceiling. my eyes moved to look back at spencer as he smiled down at me. “what?”
“nothing.” he didn’t look away like he usually would. he kept on staring like he did that night i was in his hotel room.
i smiled giddily. “in case you need a picture.” i slid his phone to him in the space between us.
he shook his head. “i have an eidetic memory.”
i propped myself up on my elbows. “i thought that only worked with words.”
“it’s works with images too.” spencer told me, reaching out a hand to move a piece of hair out of my face.
i didn’t breathe while he was doing that. i felt his finger tips on my face and it made me feel warm. “how long do you remember stuff for?”
“the specifics kind of fade after a few minutes but i still remember whatever i saw.” his voice grew softer as he spoke.
it got quiet between us again.
i don’t mind the silence. it leaves me with a better ability to focus on his features. like his deep eyes. his brown hair that framed his face perfectly. the blue sweater that just be new.
i looked away in a rush, trying to push the observations out of my head.
i can’t be doing this to myself. why am i not allowing myself to feel for him?
“what’s wrong?”
“nothing i just… i have a lot on my mind.”
“like what?” he was trying to help, so why did i want to push him away right now? i’ve never thought like this before.
i inhaled deeply. “why did you kiss me?” my eyes found his and he looked like a deer in the headlights.
he looked away for a second before looking back. “i’m sorry i did that.”
“i’m not asking for an apology,” i said. “i’m asking why you kissed me.” i wasn’t trying to sound rude or anything other than curious, and yet he seemed like he wanted to cry.
spencer cleared his throat. “i did it because i’ve wanted to for three years… and i knew that if i didn’t do it that night, i wouldn’t have another chance to.”
i want to say that explains the last three years, but i can’t. he was too good at hiding his feelings for me to have even had a hunch about it until four weeks ago.
i didn’t even recognize my own feelings for spencer until four weeks ago… and i’m still not entirely sure what those feelings i have are.
i only nodded and looked away. i sat up all the way and moved to sit criss-cross right against him, leaning into him, head on his shoulder.
i wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words, and spencer was okay with that. he returned the touch with an arm around my back. his hand gently grasped my waist. his head rested on the top of mine.
i closed my eyes. he was really warm. and he was right there. “is it too early to love you?” i breathed. i could barely hear myself. the chances of spencer hearing was slim, but his hand on my waist gave a gentle squeeze.
#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid#criminal minds#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid imagines#spencer reid drabble#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid one shot#spencer reid scenario#criminal minds fanfic
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Provocation pt. 3
[9.6k words/30min Read - Lee Know x Female Reader, Bang Chan x Female Reader - Non-Idol!au - NSFW/Smut w/Plot - Voyeurism, Developing Relationships, Multiple Orgasms, Alarmingly Short Refractory Periods, Cunnilingus, Blindfolds, Handjobs, Spit as Lube, Dom/Sub Elements, Creative Approaches to Identity Crises, Jisung Finally Enters the Plot]
[Part 1 | Part 2 | Chan | Also Chan | Come Say Hi!]
Despite how nervous you were, this was shaping up to be a gorgeous evening. Not only was the rooftop bar at Magnifique thankfully uncrowded since it was a weeknight, you even scored a table next to a space heater so you didn’t need your coat just yet. Your dining partner was enjoying himself thoroughly, especially with the Old Fashioned and appetizers you treated him to as the sun was beginning to set. This was as nice as the night was going to get, you figured, so it was time to suck it up and do what you came here to do in the first place.
“So,” you began, speaking somewhat confidently into your food, “I was wondering... who’s Chan?”
Jisung choked on his drink, reeling before he forced himself to swallow. You winced and slid your water across the table. He shot you a steely, skeptic glare as he carefully sipped. Your friend firmly set the glass back on the table and composed himself.
“What did Minho tell you?” he suspiciously interrogated.
“Nothing!” you defended. It was true. Minho shut down so hard that you’d never pressed the issue. You wouldn't be asking if it wasn't such a problem now.
“Bullshit!” Jisung laughed incredulously. “Minho never talks about Chan with anyone outside work, not even me, not even Dad, not even his mom.”
“Look,” you guiltily reasoned with Jisung, “I know I haven't been up front about me and Minho–”
“Oh my god,” Jisung groaned with a roll of his eyes. His fingers clumsily slipped off his glasses before pinching the bridge of his nose. But even then, he still seemed like he was about to laugh. “Do you seriously think I don’t know? Do you think anyone doesn't know?!”
Your face heated up immediately. Jisung started giggling into his drink.
“Come on, Ji, I–”
“You don’t think everyone at my last get-together saw you two dorks disappear into the kitchen together?!”
“Jisung!” you whined, “you sent me to get hors d'oeuvres–”
“I had to tell Seungmin you were single! He was convinced you weren’t. I wonder why–”
“Ji! I get it–”
“Maybe I was just blind! I've been to Ikea with you plenty but it never occurred to me–”
“OKAY, JISUNG!” you snapped. “I’m sorry, okay?!”
Jisung perked straight up at attention. Everyone around you was staring. Without even meaning to, you’d slapped your hands down onto the table with your outburst. Jisung was practically on the verge of tears, holding in a laugh until his face was red.
“Fine,” you pathetically grumbled with a wave, “continue. I deserve it.”
“I’m just saying,” Jisung facetiously shrugged. He was failing to hold back a giggle. “Where was my kitchen handy?”
Jisung howled when you kicked him under the table.
“Oh my god, Jisung, GROSS!”
“Now I'm gross!” Jisung sobbed out a hysterical guffaw.
You were both losing it by now, but you managed to stubbornly get argumentative for a second. “Like you were ever available anyway! I ripped off that bandaid a long time ago and you said no, remember?!”
Jisung swiped a tear away and put his glasses back on. “I was so smart to friend-zone you early on.”
“Smart,” you exaggeratedly rolled your eyes. “And all these years you’ve just pretended to not be interested in dating.”
It seemed you’d tripped Jisung up for a moment, judging by the way he paused, seemingly choking before he tried to subtly clear his throat. “I mean… yeah? Obviously. Because I'm not interested in dating.”
You searched for him to meet your gaze again. “Thank you, though. For understanding. I really appreciate it.”
“Hey,” he shrugged more earnestly now, “if someone's going to take care of Minho I'd like it to be someone I trust. Better yet, someone I like. You're perfect.”
“Thank you,” you smugly grinned. “Now! Who the fuck is Chan?”
The air between you got serious again. Jisung shifted uncomfortably in his seat, before leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. He looked like he was about to begin, paused, and ultimately cracked his neck to perhaps soothe his nerves. You patiently, nervously waited.
“... Fine,” Jisung nodded. “Chan's our boss.”
Your gasp was involuntary. “Oh, fuck.”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “And he’s even more Minho’s boss than mine. I’m over in Finance, but Chan’s the fucking VP. Minho’s an associate, but you knew that already.”
“Right,” you lied. Associate sounded important, which was probably how Minho could afford his nice apartment.
Jisung held up an eyebrow in doubt of you. “Chan stresses Minho the fuck out. If he brought him up to you, it can’t be good news.”
“It’s not like he’ll even tell me that it’s not good news,” you sighed. “He’ll tell me anything else.”
Your friend shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was clearly considering something. “Fine. You didn’t hear this from me–”
“What?” you interrupted, stunned. “You’re helping me now?”
“I might as well!” Jisung groused. “He’s been acting so weird for a while. He’s left me on Read for three days and he hasn’t done that since that time he worked 36 hours straight. If you can snap him out of it then it’ll be a weight off my back before our parents catch on. Now do you want my help or not?”
“Yes,” you groveled, grabbing onto his hand with one of yours and calling over a waitress with the other. His glass was empty, after all.
“Okay,” Jisung steeled himself. “Again: you didn’t hear it from me. But you’ll catch Chan in the loft at Good Night. I’ve been asked to come out often enough to know he’s a regular.”
You thought about this amazing nugget of info for a moment. “And has Minho ever tagged along?”
“Has Minho? God, no,” Jisung scoffed. “But like I said, you didn’t hear this from me.”
“Oh, Jisung,” you gratefully exulted, grabbing onto his hand again. “Thank you, seriously–”
“Are you sure you can’t tell me what happened?” he tried again.
You considered this. It wasn’t like you could tell him Minho clearly wanted to fuck their boss.
Right?
“It’s probably just work stuff,” you fudged. “I’ll get to the bottom of it, I promise.”
Jisung seemed satisfied, thankfully. But now you had a new fire lit underneath you.
🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤
It was just your luck that Minho happened to live in roughly the same neighborhood as this mystery nightclub. Considering the distance, it was a reasonable bus ride, but it honestly wouldn't be a terrible walk. Following that logic, it only made sense that you’d grab a cab.
Minho hadn’t even asked you where you were taking him tonight. Apparently, he was simply elated that you'd seemingly dropped the Chan nonsense for the time being.
The club wasn't your vibe by any means, by the way, but it wasn't a dealbreaker. The line to get in was modest, the cover was decent (which made up for it being cash only) and the fog machine wasn't obnoxious. In a move that shouldn't have been so surprising, Minho made a beeline upstairs to the loft.
“Been here before?” you teased over the music.
“No!” Minho laughed. “There's just a bit more light up here.”
This was a great date night barring any ulterior motives. Minho sat beside you in a cozy booth seat at a small table. It took every ounce of your reserved energy to not make it obvious that you were internally squealing when he casually smoothed a hand across to your far shoulder so he could hold you close. Truth be told, you liked whatever it was that you were growing with Minho.
The atmosphere in the loft made it easy to feel like you were still intimate despite the crowded accommodations. Minho talked low in your ear, his lips tickling you just enough to make you giggle like an idiot when you weren't being more careful. If you didn't know any better, though, you'd almost think your unintentional reaction nearly made him blush.
Minho cleared his throat and waved over a thankfully fast server. Soon, you both had a drink to distract you a little. You took a moment and surveyed the loft. Really, any of the gorgeous men chatting up the other patrons could've been Chan.
Any of them, but one in particular, once you caught sight of him.
And you weren't the only one who noticed.
Beside you, Minho coughed into his drink, making you jump. He floundered. He sputtered. Ears fully red now, Minho got up and fled into the chair across from your booth bench. Both hands flat on the table, he leaned forward, his gaze wild.
“You bitch,” he wheezed out with an affronted laugh, “you set me up! You knew he'd be here!”
You blinked innocently. “Who?”
Minho ignored you, and instead rubbed his temples in frustration for a second. “As if I'm stupid! You think I don’t know where he spends his off hours? I’m going to murder Jisung. How else would you find out? Of course this was a set-up, I knew it–”
“Min,” you sweetly interrupted. “If you're saying what I think you're saying, I'll tell you right now that I don’t even know what he looks like.”
Small lie, but harmless. You didn't know, but you had a good idea. Your retort made Minho pause, likely right in the middle of a clever remark. As a result, his mouth momentarily flopped open and shut like a fish. The only thing you could think to do was push his drink back into his hands. Minho clutched the glass and took a healthy swig. Once he was finally satisfied, he firmly set the glass back down, all while eyeing you steadily.
“So,” he carefully treaded, “this isn't a set up?”
“Never said that,” you mischievously grinned.
Minho cocked an eyebrow. “But you don't know what he looks like?”
“No,” you gleefully replied, arms folded indignantly across your chest. “I don't know what Chan looks like–”
You were cut off by Minho flailing. Either it was that you actually said it… Or that you said it just loud enough for your voice to carry.
And right on cue, your suspicion was confirmed.
The young executive with the soft brown waves, coordinated accessories, and likely incredibly expensive shirt that was engrossingly form-fitting in the chest and biceps – the one you’d been betting on when you caught sight of him schmoozing a cute date on the other side of the loft – definitely glanced up and around at the sound of his name. You certainly recognized him now. He’d been blonde when you first caught him looking at you at Minho’s office, but this was unmistakably the same man. Same strong nose, same dimple, same sweet little eyes that lit up when he laughed.
You understood the appeal.
“What’re you so worried about? He’s cute, Min,” you smirked.
Minho currently held a glare that either meant he could kill you or kiss you right at that second. “I'm glad I have your approval,” he grumbled.
“Tell me more,” you prompted him. You reached across the table and held his hand.
Minho paused, looking at your thumb brushing over his knuckles. He finally sighed. “There’s not much to say. We've known each other for a long time. He just… He makes me feel…”
“Like I do?” you gently teased, trying to keep him inside the comfort of your dynamic.
Except Minho met your gaze. “Actually?… Yeah.”
You sat up, a little caught off guard. Well, you figured, it was no wonder Minho felt shaken up by this whole development, starting from the moment he called you hyung in bed.
“But you still feel… Like this? About me? And that’s why you feel weird?”
“Yes,” Minho nodded heartily, “but also, like, it’s weird because I'm… Y'know. Straight.”
You raised your eyebrows curiously. “You sure about that?”
Minho’s shoulders drooped with a sigh. He roughly massaged his temples. “No? It's fucking confusing.”
“Then think about it this way,” you quickly suggested. “You’re straight. But there's currently an exception. One step at a time.”
“Well, it’s not like it even matters,” Minho babbled. “I'm with you!”
You both stopped now. Any discussions about you and your standing with each other was still on a minimal basis. But the butterflies in your gut were clear as day. There was a drawer in Minho’s dresser and bathroom counter with your crap in it. His shirts were in your laundry basket. You squeezed Minho’s hand.
“And I'm with you,” you reassured him. “But what’s wrong with trying? Are we exclusive or anything?”
Minho scoffed at the thought. “Hardly. It’s just, you know… What about you?”
“What if I help?” you thoughtfully suggested.
This was tempting, apparently, with how Minho blinked at you. The smallest sparkle lit up his eye. “You’d help? How?”
“Well,” you pondered, “I'm assuming it’s risky to just pick up your boss.”
Minho’s shaky confidence returned instantly, an exhausted sigh blowing ragged over his lips. “Jesus Christ,” he cursed with a defeated laugh, “imagine the consequences. His career? My career?! What would I even do?!”
You spied Chan on the other side of the loft, currently leaning incredibly close to a stunningly hot girl.
Minho raised an eyebrow when you shifted your drinks aside and ordered a couple waters. “We done already?”
“Of course not,” you retorted, “I just prefer to not drink when I'm scheming.”
“Scheming?” Minho stared at you, half aghast and half intrigued. You nodded in return.
“Come on, Min,” you invited, “tell me more about Chan.”
🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤
You looked ridiculous. This was now one week since you’d first stepped into the loft at Good Night. Minho dressed you, and from the way he could barely keep his hands off you, you were curious to see what Chan would think. First and foremost, your tits were shoved up under your chin. It wasn’t like you were suffering through a push-up bra or fashion tape situation, but you were surprised to find Minho had picked out an astonishingly nice corset top for you, all cropped and coquettish with ribbon details on the shoulders and everything.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you’d asked him.
“Quit whining,” he scolded. “Do you want him or not?”
Of course, the boobs would only help so much. Along with the gorgeous top that was horrifyingly body-hugging, Minho also supplied you with an elegantly long and chic skirt that sported a devilish slit up the thigh. The skirt perfectly coordinated with an equally cropped blazer that you currently wore draped around your shoulders. You’d never tried this look before, but it was surprisingly not bad.
“What do you think?” Minho had asked when you tried it all on.
“I look like an expensive hooker,” you determined. You kept nervously fussing with the buttons on the blazer.
“Perfect,” Minho chuckled as he fixed a dainty gold chain around your neck. He squeezed your hand away from the jacket buttons. When you batted him off, he swatted your hand instead. “We call that a ‘call girl’, by the way. How do you feel?”
You had thought about this. “I feel hot,” you decided.
“Good. That’s because you are.”
It was still true, days later. In your heels and the other cute accessories Minho picked out for you, you felt like you were unstoppable. (Which, truthfully, only made you feel more like you were really, truly falling for him – the way the accessories and outfit still felt like good matches for you, not the fact that he bought you things… Except maybe that was also there, at least a little.)
You snapped open your clutch purse to grab your cover charge. It’d been Minho’s idea that you also arrive separately. Even though he was only 15 or 20 people back in line, you still couldn't help but feel a little nervous for some reason.
When you couldn't find your cover right away, you pulled the bag closer to get a better look. Instead, you got a faint whiff of the cologne dotted on your wrists.
“You sure?” you’d asked Minho. He’d nodded heartily in return.
“Absolutely. I know what I'm doing.”
It wasn't even his cologne or anything. He simply recalled it as a detail Chan had divulged while tipsy once: cologne always smelled better than perfume. No matter what.
You wondered if Minho ever recalled silly little things you’d said along the same lines.
Finally, you found your cover charge, but not before you heard it.
“You! White skirt!”
The skirt was cream, idiot.
Wait.
That was you.
Holy shit, that was you.
Your head snapped up to attention. Sure enough, the bouncer was waving you forward.
Apparently, you actually looked as good as you felt.
Sneaking a look back at Minho, you recognized his look as burning pride, the way his grin bordered on smug.
The club was even more crowded than your previous trip, making you doubt your plan for just a second, but you remembered what Minho said.
“Don’t sit at the bar. Don’t even spend a minute looking for him. Sit on a lounge bench by yourself and don’t look at your phone. Just people watch for a minute. He’ll find you instead.”
Complete and total nonsense, but you were curious nonetheless. You honestly got in your own head. Whereas there'd been no thought to pushing Minho’s buttons, you didn’t even know Chan aside from what Minho told you.
Although Minho told you quite a lot.
“... And you know what else bothers me? He never lets anyone stay after he leaves the office. He’s always going on and on about how he doesn't want to leave anyone behind and everyone deserving free time. Does he even know how much overtime everyone pulls on days he’s not in the office to make up for it?”
Did Minho bitch about you like that? You hoped so. The idea of him griping at Jisung over how he was annoyed with every little thing you did was miserably adorable.
Getting lost in your thoughts for a minute helped pass time tremendously, as it turned out, but now you were worried that you hadn't caught sight of Minho yet. Even though he mentioned wanting to lurk in the background, it made you nervous to feel like you were on your own.
Even though you sort of were.
Was Chan even going to show? Minho had texted you when he overheard Chan talking about his plans for the night, but that never meant it was a confirmation. He easily could've–
“You’re here all alone?”
A distractingly forward voice cut through the noise and your internal distress.
Chan?
Turning to face the greeting, you were almost startled to find – sure enough – Chan sitting beside you on the lounge bench.
Why did you ever doubt Minho?
Chan was wearing a suit today, a casual number without a tie and his shirt dangerously three-quarters buttoned under his open jacket. He was brazenly sitting facing you, his knee nonchalantly nudged up on the bench and his arm slung across the back without touching you. You rapidly composed yourself.
“Excuse me?” you asked, seemingly nonplussed.
Chan blinked in response before visibly resetting himself.
“Be present, but not invested, not right away,” Minho had advised you before heading out here for the night. “Make him work for it.”
Here, Chan rolled his shoulders back and put his grin back on. “I asked if you’re here all alone.”
“I'm not,” you politely answered with a short shake of your head.
Chan automatically nodded in cordial understanding. “Fair enough. Apologies for interrupting you–”
He stared at your hand on his sleeve, stopping him from getting up.
“Is that usual?” you'd questioned Minho earlier tonight. “Making him work for it?”
And Minho had only grinned. “Not at all.”
Chan curiously held your gaze.
“I said I'm not here alone; I didn't say I wanted you to leave.”
He warily glanced around the loft. “What if I'm not into cheating?”
“Neither am I,” you shrugged innocently.
More intrigued than perturbed now, Chan eased back down onto the lounge bench. “So I take it that your companion is pretty private then?”
You cracked a sly grin. “Let’s say he has reason to not show himself.”
“Then you’re suggesting I know him? I know everybody,” Chan eagerly pressed on.
“Never said that. But I never said you don’t, either. He did say you're the curious type, though. Are you?” you teased.
Minho had warned you that Chan looked good when he blushed, but he didn’t tell you how easy it was to get him to do it.
But it wasn't just that. When you were first planning all of this together, you’d made sure to ask Minho. It was important to know, after all.
“Tell me what you want out of this, at least for the first round if that’s all we’ll get.”
Minho had considered it carefully, and you loved every second of his answer.
Currently, Chan looked on in abject anticipation.
“And maybe,” you resumed, “he thinks you like to show off. Maybe he wants to watch and know he got to see you with me, without you ever knowing who he is.”
You stalled before he could say anything, grabbing a hearty sip of your drink to gather some fortitude.
It seemed you weren't the only one in need of some renewed confidence either. Chan blinked at you again and swallowed down a tough breath, processing this.
“Not interested? I’m sorry to take up your time,” you politely apologized before moving to get up.
However, just like Minho predicted, it was Chan’s turn to put his hand on your sleeve.
“He wants to watch?” he carefully repeated.
“This time, at least,” you winked, aloof.
Chan’s ears burned bright coral.
You leaned into his hand on your arm. Even in the low lighting of the loft, nothing obscured his distracted gaze trailing down your throat to your chest.
“Everything okay?” you patiently implored.
Chan nodded dumbly. “I'm not used to being caught off guard, that’s all.”
A smirk tugged at your lip. “You’ll have plenty of time to get adjusted. Anyway, I’m sure you're a real quick learner.”
The gleam in Chan’s eye was woefully endearing. You were never much for “Labrador boyfriend” energy, but Chan reminded you more of a bouncy Rottweiler.
What would this guy look like in one of those handsome collars? Like, not even a lined, leather one, but just a chain pinch collar–
“–if your man doesn’t mind.”
Oh shit.
You were getting distracted. Chan had just finished saying something attractive, judging by his cocksure smolder. You leaned into your distraction, cocking your head curiously. “I’m so sorry,” you apologized, “what did you say? I was already imagining what’s coming next.”
Chan, gawped, floundering again. “I, er, was just saying I'd love to show you a good time, if your man doesn't mind.”
“Oh, Chan,” you cooed, “of course he doesn’t mind. He wants this, remember?”
Now he was just ogling you. Did you say something wrong?
“How did– who– so you do know my name?”
Fuck.
Your pause betrayed how much you were scrambling to stay cool. The most devious grin spread across Chan’s face before he scooted forward. Now you were hip to hip on the bench. You backed up an inch in surprise but Chan only leaned in, gaze hungry. “I was right,” he eagerly implored. “If you don’t know me, your guy definitely does. Who are you?”
“Chan,” you repeated, regaining composure as you did so and sitting up into his space, “of course I know you. I know lots of things.”
He devilishly met you in the middle, your lips a few inches from his now. “I bet you do,” he murmured. He was staring at your mouth, eyes half-lidded. “What else do you know?”
You called his bluff, pushing forward another inch until he pulled back, just barely. “I know,” you paused for dramatic effect, “that you want to get me in a taxi right now and do whatever it takes to find out everything I know.”
The bit about the cab was explicitly supplied by Minho.
“If there’s anything the idiot loves more than his job, his flat, or getting laid, it’s the Rover. He’ll turn himself inside out to give you a ride, especially if he thinks you're not expecting it.”
And damn it all if he wasn't right again, because Chan looked like he could eat you alive right then. Did Minho know everything about you, too?
“Come on,” Chan urged you as he got up. Despite his neediness, his hold on your hand was incredibly gentle, a smooth little motion of scooping up your fingers in his. “You tell me where and we’ll go. You into cars? I have–”
“Whoa, whoa, slow down champ,” you giggled, not letting go of his hand but using your other to play with the buttons on his suit jacket. “You’re just gonna take me? Wherever? Even his place?”
“I don't give a shit if you want to go to Brazil, if I’m being honest,” laughed Chan, “I’d book us a flight right this second. But if it’s about safety, that’s fine, I'll gladly take a cab.”
Minho did make it clear that although Chan was a jackass, he was not a creep. And, unsurprisingly, he was right again. Chan’s eyes followed as your hand lifted to cup his face. His chin was ridiculously smooth. God, he even knew how to shave. Minho had good taste.
“Come on, then,” you nodded towards the stairs, “show me your nice car.”
As it turned out, Chan's car was every bit as dumb as Minho told you it was, but you found yourself fond of how proud he was of the thing. It was nice, sure, but you were more interested in how spotless he kept it. When he opened the door for you, the Rover smelled almost brand new, like it’d just been detailed.
Driving with Chan was a whole other story. Thank god Minho lived close, because your mind was racing. One hand on the wheel, Chan’s other hand possessively held your knee. He’d asked, of course, if it was okay, and here you were, lost in thought as you watched his thumb brush little circles on your kneecap. He hadn’t been able to access your bare skin immediately, though. His pinky edged under the hem on the slit of your skirt so he could smooth the fabric out of his way. You liked his approach; it was forward without being overbearing, a neat little acceleration of how much you'd been firing each other up in the club.
The conversation was still mostly focused on him, at your insistence. He asked what you did for work, but all you told him was it was a boring little job. Nothing like his job, by the look of it.
“Eh,” Chan dismissed, “it’s a career. It’s second nature by now.”
He did keep trying, though, and when you wouldn't give up, he tried prying more info about Minho out of you. In fact, Minho warned you about this. He said Chan liked to tout having a silver tongue with clients, but your boyfriend preferred to say Chan simply talked so much that his clients would do anything to shut him up.
Wait.
Boyfriend?
Minho was your boyfriend, right?
It felt good to say it, at least in your head.
“Have you done this before?” Chan prodded. “Picking up guys together?”
You tried to get back in the game mentally. “Would it make you feel more special if we haven't?”
Chan’s face was pink again.
“Cute,” you teased, lifting a hand to ease your fingers back through his hair. You weren't surprised to find your hand didn't come back with hair product residue.
It should be said, you reminded yourself, that all these little revelations weren’t too different from similar ones you’d had about Minho in recent months. He was also astoundingly put together. It just made sense, you supposed, that Chan seemed to fit the same kind of image.
There was one spare parking spot for Minho’s building, but you already knew that. Minho had confirmed the week before that one of his neighbors was out of town. You were just about to open the passenger side door of the Rover when your phone buzzed.
>>STALL FOR ONE SECOND I got held up by coat check and only managed to leave a minute before you.
“Everything alright?” Chan asked, getting your attention back. The concern in his face told you that you may have been internally screaming at your phone.
“No, yeah, everything’s fine,” you reassured him before opening the door. Chan dutifully jumped out after you and jogged around to your side, offering you a hand. You looked at him, almost eye to eye in your heels. “I do want to know, though, for my own purposes…”
This wasn't part of the script, but you needed to stall, apparently.
And you were curious.
Chan looked on intently.
“I guess what I'm wanting to know,” you carefully continued, “was what brought you out here. The prospect… Or me?”
Chan’s gaze softened, matching his grin. His hand gently held you at the elbow. “It’s definitely a proposition I've never gotten before…But I also haven't met many women like you. Your guy’s pretty damn lucky.”
Okay, maybe you were getting more on board with Minho’s praise of the guy.
You paused, though, when Chan leaned in, his lips almost on yours when you stopped him. “Sorry, handsome,” you apologetically giggled, “you gotta save it.”
“No, what?” Chan whined, but he backed up immediately. “Don’t make me wait–”
“Don’t worry,” you laughed, taking his hand and leading him to the elevator, “you don’t have to wait long.”
As expected, Chan’s eyes were everywhere, even in the elevator, looking for any hint of who you were with, so you got his attention back again. His brows jumped when you easily wrapped your arms around his strong neck, herding him against the back wall of the elevator. He tested the waters a little, getting a hand around your waist before you swiftly swatted him off.
“What, you’re not gonna be good for me?” he cooly smirked, teasingly trying again before you roughly grabbed onto his hand. His eyes widened, looking caught. You kept your composure despite retaining your sharp grip on his hand.
“One thing you’re going to learn very quickly,” you smiled sweetly for him, “is if anyone wants me to be good for them, they have to earn it.”
Minho earned it. Who knew if Chan ever would.
“Of course,” Chan nodded attentively.
You combed your fingers through his hair again, liking how he seemed to enjoy it. “Do you want to be good for me?”
Chan raised an eyebrow. You leaned away a little.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “I’ve just, er… I've never had anyone ask before.”
Hilarious. Of course. You should’ve known–
“– But I'd love to try.”
It was your turn to raise an eyebrow back at him. Your fingers still in his hair, you tried a tentative tug, only craning his head back an inch or so. His fingers squeezed your waist appreciatively in return. “You think you want to say sorry for getting overly eager with me a second ago?”
Chan scoffed. “What, when I got a little too fresh with you? Yeah it turned out to be too much but–”
“But you can just say sorry like I asked,” you chided him, your voice syrupy sweet while you tugged his hair more sharply.
His hissed inhale was cute. “Yes, baby,” he gritted out, “I’m sorry.”
“I like the way you say baby,” you cooed. “Was that okay?”
“Yeah,” Chan nodded, halfway dazed, “yeah, that was definitely okay”
“Plenty more where that came from,” you assured him, cupping his cheek.
How long had the elevator been stationary at Minho’s floor?
Well, you’d definitely stalled a little.
You took Chan’s hand and led him down the hall to Minho’s flat. A deep breath stagnated in your lungs. There was really no going back from this.
Then again, there was really no going back from the moment you let Chan sit next to you at the club.
No, you reminded yourself. You wanted this. And the fact that Minho wanted this, too, was even better. You really felt unstoppable like this.
The doorknob gave way easily when you turned it, Minho making sure there’d be little to no barrier when you arrived. Chan followed close behind, still holding your hand. Like you planned, the flat was fairly dark, only some candles and dim lamps lighting the living room. You stopped in front of the chaise on the wall opposite Minho’s bedroom. Chan’s eyes were still wandering, trying to glean any hints to Minho’s identity in the decor. Thankfully, you’d thought to stow all his photos for the night, and the dark room meant it was difficult to tell if an innocuous item like a vase was sentimental or purely decorative.
You gently but pointedly pulled down on Chan’s hand so he'd sit beside you on the lounge. He was still ridiculously distracted. You cupped his face so he would look at you.
“Weren't you waiting for something?” you patiently asked.
Chan’s pout was going to kill you.
“Waiting–? Oh, I mean, yeah–”
“Then close your eyes and put this on, handsome.”
You held up a necktie, magically producing it from its hiding place in the couch and Chan wavered momentarily before he closed his eyes. He leaned forward, letting you knot the necktie into a blindfold, but not without Chan markedly pausing. His nose pointed towards the tie. You wondered if Chan recognized Minho’s cologne. Maybe it was simply familiar, but the idea that the scent jogged his memory made you ache in your growing desire.
It was cute to imagine Chan hadn't done this in years, following someone else’s lead… If not ever. He didn't really strike you as the type. Your reading led you to believe Chan was always calling the shots.
The tinkling of a whiskey rock in a lowball glass signaled you to Minho’s presence, and you weren't the only one. Despite the blindfold, Chan clearly perked up at the noise. Minho leaned against the doorway of his bedroom, taking a sip from his drink while he watched you both. His shirt was opened by a couple buttons, and he'd abandoned his jacket so he could roll up his cuffs. Knowing him, this wasn't his first drink since he got home, and he was already warm. He shared a sweet, proud smile with you.
“He wants you to kiss me,” you told Chan, stroking your fingers through his hair again.
“Do you want me to kiss you?” he asked in return.
Minho shook his head into his drink. You already loved how much Chan pushed all his buttons without even meaning to.
“Of course I do, sweetie,” you laughed. “Now quit making me wait.”
Chan nodded, his own hand searching out your cheek and pulling you close. His breath was hot against your lips, a single moment of hesitance before he kissed you. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the poignant rise and fall of Minho’s deep inhale swelling his chest. He moved to sit down in his favorite chair in front of his bookcase.
Meanwhile, that first kiss was the only barrier Chan needed to pass, from what you could tell. Instantly, he was right back to his previous boldness, pulling you close and exploring your mouth with his tongue. This was already a delicious change of pace. Whereas Minho liked to push and pull with you, Chan was plain hungry. Every inch you gave him became a mile. You started running down the list of things you and Minho agreed on, all the things you wanted to do and he wanted to see. The moment you led Chan’s hand to your knee, he immediately grabbed your leg and pulled you over so you were sitting on his lap, his tongue still in your throat and ravenously trying to get more and more of you. Barely a second had passed before his hands were already moving from your waist to your hips to the curve of your ass. Your skirt strained where your knees were parted to straddle him and instead you grabbed onto the collar of his shirt, reeling him in while you leaned back to recline on the couch. Chan followed, blind and dutiful, and swallowed a breath when he felt you lead his hands to the zip of your skirt. He paused then, a hand on your hip waiting for any positive signal until you writhed up into his palm. You hummed contentedly while he slowly pulled the zip down, raising your hips to allow him to shimmy the garment down and off of you. This left you in your heels, your sheer panties, and the flirty corset top.
Across the room, Minho methodically swirled his glass in one hand while he watched, his other strategically resting on the visible bulge in his slacks.
Chan was surprised when you stopped him, his hands paused by your own. You led him to sit up beside you again, and then stand. First you slipped off your blazer, carelessly dropping it to the floor. He turned his head slightly, following the sound of your heels on the hardwood when you stepped behind him. His broad shoulders tensed when you ran your hands over them. You slipped off his suit jacket, folding it and dropping it on the coffee table. Next was the shirt, easy work with most of the buttons already undone. You simply unclipped his expensive cufflinks, dropped them into his shirt pocket, and this joined the jacket on the table as well. Not too long ago, you nearly lost Minho’s favorite cufflinks in this very room after being too rushed. You peeked over Chan’s shoulder to catch Minho absolutely devouring your date for the night with his eyes. Right now his gaze was firmly locked on Chan’s cut form, his defined pecs and rippling abs. You couldn't blame him. Chan shivered when you reached around his middle to get a teasing feel of his abdomen. You leaned your lips up to Chan’s ear from behind, all the while your hands now sank down to the zip of his suit pants.
“Okay, baby,” you smiled, “tell us why we brought you home.”
Chan sucked in a breath at the sound and feel of you slowly pulling down his zipper. “Because you want me?” he answered, surprisingly on the brink of timid.
“Right,” you nodded. “And why do we want you?”
Chan's ears were pink again. You brazenly ran a hand down to get a quick squeeze of him. He shivered, curling in on himself with his inhale.
“Because, heh – mmh – I'm hot?” he tentatively asked, trying to keep that cocky edge intact.
“Very hot,” you praised. Meanwhile, Chan surreptitiously stepped out of his shoes, but froze when you actually opened and dropped his slacks. He was down to his stupidly expensive boxer briefs. His hand covered yours.
“W-wait,” he stopped you. “I didn't get a chance to say yet, but… I can blow my shot real fucking easy if I'm not careful.”
Minho arched a curious eyebrow.
You placed a comforting kiss on the nape of Chan’s neck. “Oh, baby,” you soothed, “you say that like it's a bad thing.”
“No, not at all,” he flustered, “I just, I mean – what I'm trying to say is – there's usually a whole process to this.”
“You have a routine?” you teased. Minho watched you sink back down onto the lounge.
If your ears didn't lie, Chan almost whined. “When you put it like that–”
“Underwear off,” you pleasantly demanded.
The swirling of Minho’s ice in his glass sped up when Chan complied.
Guy was built. Cute back dimples and everything. Needed some work in his legs, but who didn’t?
You spread your knees, patting the upholstery between them. “Come here. Sit back down, baby.”
Chan carefully lowered himself between your legs. You lifted your heels, hooking them inside his knees from behind to spread him open.
Minho watched intently the first time you touched Chan’s bare cock. It wasn’t thick, it wasn’t long, but it did feel just as handsome as the rest of him. And if Chan was pink, then the head was almost red, you mused. You wistfully imagined Minho was wishing it was his own hand on it. Chan choked out a groan, almost like he’d been holding his breath, and immediately relaxed into your chest. He was fully exposed for your boyfriend, getting his dick stroked while he moaned and sighed.
“Tell me what the whole process is,” you directed towards his ear. “Tell me why else we brought you home.
“I go down,” he immediately answered. “I always get them there first, feels so fucking good and helps me last longer.”
Minho almost sat up straighter and you knew why. Despite having both taken turns going down, plenty of times, neither of you could really say it was your favorite activity.
You put your open palm under Chan’s full lips. “Spit, handsome.”
Chan didn't hesitate, immediately letting a good drip of saliva drop into your hand. He threw his head back when you reapplied your newly lubed hand to his strained erection.
“And then what,” you asked him, “you get to be hot and attentive and then what.”
“Hmn, oh shit,” he cursed when you sped up, “then I get mine.”
“Yeah?” you smiled. “That’s it? They get theirs and then you get yours? Let’s see what that looks like.”
Chan nervously giggled. “Never said the process was complex, it just– oh fuck,” he croaked, his breath shaking while you fisted his leaking cock. Just like that, Chan dropped his head back onto your shoulder while he came. The way you held his length aimed it low on his belly.
From the magical hiding spot in the chaise came one of Minho’s pocket squares. You mused for a moment if these also smelled like your boyfriend while you cleaned Chan up enough to keep going. One last swipe left a bead of cum on your forefinger. You lifted this up to Chan’s lips, only for him to automatically poke his tongue out and hungrily taste it.
“Oh, I knew it,” you gushed. “I didn’t even have to ask.”
Chan was simply rosy and catching his breath when you wrapped your fingers into his perfect hair. He turned his attention to you. “Now what, baby, tell me what's next.”
You led him down to kneel in front of the chaise. “You like to go down? I wanna see.”
Minho had already freed himself from his slacks and was lazily palming himself, licking the whiskey off his lips while he watched Chan blindly feel for your knees so he could work his way up to the waistband of your scant panties. His fingers were careful with the delicate fabric. Properly bared for him, he spread you nice and wide on the chaise before slinging your legs over his shoulders. First, Chan kissed and nipped at your abdomen, leaving a couple little love bites on his way down between your thighs. He breathed you in before taking one sampling taste of you. You both shivered at the first feel of his tongue on your wet clit.
When you noticed Chan’s pause, you sat up. Minho looked on expectantly. Chan was waiting.
“More,” you urged him.
Chan dove into you then, licking and tasting every inch of your hot pussy that he could reach. He felt out all of your favorite little spots, too. Your back arched, your breath hitching in your throat when he pressed into you with his tongue. You stopped him now. If he kept this up you’d be a goner. You threaded your fingers into his hair and yanked him back, loving how he groaned for you. He caught his breath, waiting for you to give him the next direction when he felt your hand on his half-hard cock, this time with Minho’s pocket square wrapping around him.
“Think you can cum again while you’re down there?” you challenged him.
Chan paused, pouty lips shiny wet with you. “You want me to?”
You cracked a smug grin. “I want you to go until you hit empty.”
You could’ve sworn he blushed at that, too. It felt like half the words out of your mouth were nothing he’d ever heard before. Minho nodded in agreement behind him.
“Yes, baby,” Chan dutifully answered, taking over from your grip on his quickly regrowing erection before diving back into you, herding you back onto the chaise so he could lick you again.
You were coming apart under Chan’s tongue. Minho was amazing at it but something about Chan told you that, apparently, someone could really love eating pussy. He held onto your hips and thighs, grinding his moaning breath into you while he jerked himself off. Within minutes, he shivered as he came again. You shot up to support yourself on your straightened arms.
“Did you just–?”
“You told me to,” Chan panted, as if it were obvious. He lifted the blindfold to gaze up at you. His flushed cheeks and chest were adorably shiny with perspiration by now.
You and Minho glanced at each other, doe eyed.
“And can you… go again?” you tentatively asked.
He nodded emphatically. “Yeah, baby.”
“Oh my god,” you marveled. You gently grabbed him by the chin and led him back to your heat.
Chan got right back into it, licking you while clearly giving his cock a moment to rest before you could feel him gently stroking it again.
Good Christ, you groaned internally, could you imagine edging him?
The thought alone was getting you to your peak even faster than before.
And it was like Chan knew.
“Baby,” he pleaded into your pussy, “tell me I can touch you.”
You felt the fingertips of his free hand tease your hot entrance. He rode the line without ever crossing it.
“Yeah,” you nodded, “I wanna feel it.”
For a moment, you were worried you’d be thrown off by the change of pace, but Chan was surprisingly astute with how he approached it. His fingertips slowly, slowly rocked into you, in pace with the grinding of his tongue. The stretch was almost too natural, and before you knew it, he was pumping his fingers right into your spot. You let out a breathy whine at how pliant yet attentive Chan was being. When he clearly hit the right rhythm, he never let up. Before too long, your peak was right there. With the blindfold still lifted up, his eyes were locked on you in determination.
Your fingers were in his hair again, getting his attention. “Baby,” you urgently sighed, “you’re gonna make me–!”
You threw your head back into the chaise with the force of your orgasm, your thighs spasming and clenching onto Chan while he moaned into you. He licked you up until you pushed him off, fighting for breath, gripping onto the cushions of the lounge.
“Holy shit,” you breathed, dazed.
“Good, right?” Chan eagerly asked, still panting.
“Yeah,” you nodded, a little more lucidly. “Did you–”
“No,” Chan almost whimpered. “I haven't gone this many times in years.”
“But you still can?” you verified.
“I need to,” he insisted.
“Good,” you smirked, slipping his blindfold back down and dipping your thumb in between his lips. He automatically began sucking on it, until you curled your fingers around his jaw and pulled, hauling him up onto the lounge beside you.
Chan gasped and whined when you immediately threw a leg over his lap and straddled him. You dragged a fingernail down his toned chest.
“What now?” he asked, hushed anticipation filling his voice.
Minho was teasing his fingertips over the dripping head of his erection.
You seated yourself right on Chan’s hardness, enveloping him in your soft heat and getting a broken groan out of him. “We’re just finishing this one off, baby,” you assured him.
“How’re you–oh Jesus Christ–”
Chan clawed into the chaise when you pulled all the way off of him. You sank him inside again, repeating the motion, taking him all the way to the hilt and then lifting completely off of him.
“You love getting fucked, don’t you, baby,” you mewled.
This poor man was quivering under you. “Yes – fuck – god, yes, baby, I do,” he babbled.
You slid your hot pussy onto his cock and right back off again. Just for the added torture, you reached up and tweaked his nipples. Chan let out a garbled curse.
“Oh,” you simpered while you maintained the same arduous cycle, “what a perfect slut. So good for me.”
Chan whimpered again. “Baby, baby,” he panted, “I can’t, I have to–”
“Not yet,” you scolded him, pinching his nipple again. “Tell him how good it is.”
“Him–?” Chan asked, almost too dazed to understand at first. You looked behind you. Minho was panting, groaning while he touched himself.
“Him,” you repeated. “My boyfriend wants to know how good it is. Tell him I'm gonna make you cum.”
“Fuck, she’s so good,” Chan immediately commended, “her pussy’s fucking perfect, she’s gonna make me fucking bust–”
“Do it, then,” you instructed. “Fucking bust, slut.”
“God damn,” Chan hissed, “yes, baby, whatever you want–”
He shut up again when you hesitated for a moment. You'd still been keeping up the same torturous cycle of never properly riding him, only teasing his whole length inside you before pulling off. This time, you paused for a second before taking him back inside. This, apparently, was nearly all he needed. Chan writhed under you, needy and desperate, until you rode him properly, grinding him upwards inside your heat. He was fully moaning out loud now, not stopping until his breathing hitched.
“Fuck,” he whimpered, “I’m gonna, I’m gonna–”
When you pulled off of him again at the last second, you could've sworn he almost sobbed, bucking his orgasming cock into nothing and coating his stomach in his cum again.
The incredible thing was, however, Chan was still hard. Even when you let him catch his breath for a good minute.
“You bitch,” Chan wheezed out a laugh while you cleaned him up.
“Was it that bad?” you pretended to pout.
He shook his head. “No, it was weird. Interesting might be a better word for it, but that was a weird fucking orgasm.”
“Want a better one?” you propositioned.
Chan lifted his head off the chaise to look at you, humorous with the blindfold still on. “Wait. Seriously?”
You glanced behind you. Even Minho seemed surprised, but his sly grin communicated a persistent pride.
Minho knew you loved impressing him.
“Yeah,” you insisted, letting him feel you climb off of him so you could melt down beside him onto the lounge. “I wanna wring you dry. Come here and fuck me properly.”
“Oh hell yeah,” Chan blurted. He instantly scrambled off the chaise and fell back onto his knees on the floor.
“Now?” you stalled, suddenly bashful from his eagerness.
Chan yanked the blindfold down now that he wasn’t facing Minho’s direction and roughly grabbed his cock. “Look at me,” he goaded you, crazed, “I'm ready to go. Let me fuck you properly.”
You nodded dumbly, a bit gobsmacked by how he retained this edge to him even when he was bordering on submissive. Chan scooped a hand under you to sit you up. His other spread your knees and scooted your ass to the edge of the chaise.
“Please kiss me again, baby,” he gruffly pleaded.
You grabbed onto the makeshift blindfold, now a makeshift leash. Chan grunted when you pulled him closer together. “You want it?” you asked sweetly.
“I need it,” Chan clarified. “Please, baby, please kiss me.”
You nodded, closing your eyes while you reeled him in, the meeting of your lips coinciding with him sliding into you again. He groaned hot and urgent into your mouth, and already his hands were all over you. Chan fucked you firm but not too rough. He doubled the thrust by pulling you onto his sensitive cock at the same time, his fingers clutching your ass while he sloppily nipped and kissed your neck.
“Is your boyfriend getting off on this?” Chan asked sweetly into your ear.
Over his shoulder, you could see Minho spit into his own palm to lube up his erection, his head lolling back into the easy chair while he touched himself.
“Yeah baby,” you nodded, already fucked dumb yourself.
“And you?” he teased. “You like your boyfriend watching you get fucked?”
“Yeah,” you whined desperately, thrusting back.
“Who’s really the little slut– oh fuck–” Chan cursed roughly as you tugged hard on the necktie wrapped around his throat. Your back arched, getting a sordid moan out of both of you when this created more of a grinding angle in your hips.
“No question about it,” you breathlessly taunted, “only a little slut can go three times.”
“If you keep that up,” Chan whimpered, “it’s gonna be four.”
“Fuck,” you whined pathetically, “Channie, you're hitting my spot–”
“Channie?” he repeated, nosing his lips up to your ear. God he was insatiable. “Oh, I like that. You like Channie pounding into your g-spot, baby?”
“God, you're annoying,” you cutely ribbed him. “Make me cum, Channie.”
“Give it to me,” he pleaded. “You gotta tell me so I can pull out and finish–”
“Pull out?” you questioned.
Chan raised his eyebrows at you. “You don’t want me to?”
“I said,” you repeated with a measured amount of menace, “I want to wring you dry.”
It was Chan's turn to look a bit gobsmacked. That multiplied when you wrapped your legs around him, hooking your ankles behind his back. You were getting that headrush back. He craned his neck when you pulled at the necktie again. “You’re going to make me cum, Channie,” you explained, “and when I do, you're going to fill me up.”
“Yes, baby,” he desperately nodded. He was still grinding into you. “Just like this?”
You nodded, stealing a kiss from him. “Yeah, Channie, I love it. You want me to cum all over your cock?”
“Please,” he growled into your mouth, “come on baby, let me cum inside your perfect pussy.”
Your goddamn vision was going hazy from how fast Chan was getting you there. Everything went so fast when you hit your peak. Your nails raked into Chan’s biceps when you finally unraveled, your cries and moans indecipherable from his own when your hearing dropped out momentarily. He hit his high right after you, clutching you tight against him while his hips stuttered with the force of his orgasm. Minho's empty whiskey glass hit the floor while he tried to stifle his curses, biting into his knuckles while he sprayed right onto the hardwood. Thankfully, the glass didn't shatter, only traveling a handful of inches to the floor.
There was only gasps and sighs for air in the ensuing silence. Minho caught his breath for a moment before he would make his planned return to his bedroom. You collapsed back onto the chaise, stroking Chan's hair where he’d crumpled on top of you. He was hugging you tight around the middle.
“That was amazing,” you appreciated, punctuating this with a kiss to the crown of his head.
“The feeling is mutual,” Chan chuckled. He kissed you beside your navel when he straightened back up. “Can’t say I saw this coming when I went out tonight.”
There was a shy quiet while Chan plucked his shirt up off the table behind him. It was almost romantic, the way he was still inside you.
“So do I get to meet this mystery man?” he asked casually, fishing his cufflinks out of his shirt pocket.
“He’ll prefer to keep his privacy,” you smiled sympathetically. “I’m sure you understand.”
Behind him, Minho finally arose from his chair, picking up his glass and ready to head back to the bedroom.
“Sure,” Chan nodded. “So do you think he’d mind a date, then? Just me and you?”
You stared, mouth agape. Minho paused too. His hand was tight around the glass.
“You’re joking, right?” you carefully laughed.
“No!” Chan laughed back. Was he serious or was he trying to get his way and see Minho? “I’m sure he won't mind,” he continued. “We already fucked. I already made you cum. Twice, may I add. I'm sure he’d understand if I want to see you again.”
“Careful, Channie,” you tried to playfully warn him.
“What,” Chan teased back, taking his sweet time easing out of you. “Maybe he’d like it. He already like watching us fuck in his apartment. Maybe he'd like sharing you–”
“Don’t be dumb, handsome,” you warned him again. Minho fully faced away from the bedroom now. “How do you know it’s not my apartment?”
“It’s clearly not your apartment,” Chan persisted. “But I can show you mine if you show me yours–fuck!”
You’d wondered how long Minho would last, and the answer was not very long at all. He marched right over, kicking a foot up under Chan’s arm to punt him onto the floor. Chan cursed and sat up, quickly grabbing his trousers to cover himself and discover Minho standing over him.
The two men stared at each other, Minho’s glare meeting Chan’s wide-eyed panic.
Instead of backing down, though, Minho did what he was best at. He squared his shoulders back, unyielding.
“I tried telling her, hyung, sometimes you refuse to shut the fuck up.”
#skz smut#stray kids smut#bang chan smut#bang chan x reader#lee know smut#OOOOH I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE HOPE YOU ENJOY#bang chan breakdown#bang chan#lee know#lee minho
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in which you and Bob celebrate the little things 🌻Bob Floyd x reader; 18+ only; implied sex
“I’m starting to think IKEA is just one big social experiment,” you huff, a thin sheen of sweat gathered on your hairline, the consequence of having to use a tiny hex key to tighten a dozen screws.
Bob makes a noise of agreement in his throat as he heaves the bulk of your brand new tabletop into an upright position. His arms bulge beneath the thin white cotton of his t-shirt and you’re struck by the thought that you didn’t specify exactly what kind of social experiment. To see how many relationships were furniture-building-proof? To see how turned on the sight of a man lifting a piece of furniture could make you? Check and check.
“Done,” Bob sighs, letting his arms fall to his sides after he readjusts his glasses. You both take a moment to admire the new fixture in your dining nook.
“This calls for champagne,” you giggle, hopping off the counter toward the fridge. You only make it two steps before Bob intercepts you with an arm slung around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.
“I think you deserve a reward for your efforts, baby,” he coos into your ear, making your legs quiver. “Something better than that cheap champagne.”
“What did you have in mind?” Bob replies by nipping gently at your collarbone, letting his fingers slip up your shirt and splay wide across your belly. He begins to tug you back toward the table but you dig your heels in. “Robby,” you laugh, “That’s not going to support our weight—not once you get going, hm?”
Bob contemplates your words for a moment before he’s lifting you as if you’re weightless and carrying you toward the bedroom, leaving the sound of your laughter echoing throughout the house.
#bob floyd x reader#bob floyd x you#robert floyd x you#robert floyd x reader#robert bob floyd#bob floyd fluff#bob floyd smut#bob floyd blurb#bob floyd imagine
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Ikea my lovely! I’m digging Its A Match so hard!!! 😍and now you’ve got me curious 🤔 how do you imagine the readers flat looks like
OOOOOOH HOHOHOHOHOHOHO 😏
I DREAMED OF SOMEONE ASKING ME THIS QUESTION 🥹🥹🥹🫶
I'M GONNA MAKE IT IN THE SIMS FOR Y'ALL!!!!!!
But for now, have this vague description:
One bedroom, hardwood floors, light walls (was thinking a warm shade of white), cosy and warm (a bunch of pillows and blankets on the couch and bed), a few little trinkets they like, souvenirs of places they've been, pictures of friends (and family). The 'dining' room table is glass and reader uses it more as a desk than a dining room. The kitchen is pretty small so reader has an extra table on wheels to hold the microwave so they can cook on the counter.
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oomf w gorg apt thru blud sweat n tears like old ass run down building but she refinished every surface and decorated tf out it went away for 4 months and sublet to a lawyer and a ballerina who broke 4 plates 3 mugs a glass bookshelf ripped every cushion on the built in couch bench seating in dining room oomf hand built covered everything in cat pee deinstalled shelving in bedroom reinstalled ikea shelves took down curtains and rods and put up new rods that fell out and left holes moved 400 lb mint condition travertine dining table out into the backyard and pulled up floorboards on the deck and left them lying there. the meth that that had.
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Going off of @enchantedlandcoffee‘s nail polish prompt, I’m going to flesh it out some. Take passion where it leads me!
It had only been a half hour since Killian came in to drop off apartment warming gifts of food and Alice was all too merry to take a break from unpacking to eat sandwiches and take part in some “vibrant mess” as the sounds of power drills whirred from the bedroom to be as Robin assembling Ikea furniture. While he had planned to help out with anything, Killian hadn’t predicted helping his daughter paint her nails, so that she wouldn’t scarf down her food in order to have a free painting hand. The cloth tarp laid out over Robin and Alice’s dining table, littered with paint splotches from the adventurous artist’s previous works, currently acted as a nail salon station.
“What color do you want painted on next when this dries, Starfish?” Killian asked, holding a neon orange nail polish brush as Alice’s left hand, nails decorated in bright dots over simple bases, rested gently on his hook.
Usually, he’d be one for keeping his modern prosthetic on, as the byproduct of the curse made him more comfortable with its daily use. However, the silver attachment, familiar to him as ocean currents, suited being cleaned and dampened better than the black tailored glove he covered his hand prosthetic in.
Alice hummed happily as she took another bite of her marmalade sandwich before continuing to sort through a purple plastic storage case full of random polishes and makeup supplies, the glass clinking as she rummaged through them to pick out a lucky shade. One bottle caught her attention and she paused, looking at him with her eyes lit up in a way the former pirate knew tremendously well. “This one!” she exclaimed, fetching out a glittery topcoat and setting it on the tarp. “But only if you do it with me, Papa!”
“Starfish, I don’t think-” Killian hesitated. “I thought matching could be fun.” Alice nervously laughed and started fidgeting with a ring around her thumb.
He took a deep breath, contemplating the consequences of saying yes. Killian wanted to decline her request, imagining how his ears would sheepishly tint red and how he might earn another nickname similar to ‘Eagle Scout’ going into the precinct the next day, but as he saw Alice teeming with hope, he couldn’t say no. With a tired exhale, the detective swallowed his pride, twisted the brush cap back on as Alice held the previous neon polish bottle, and reciprocated her happiness with a smile.
“What have I got to lose?” Killian confidently replied. “But, I don’t think I can put that on first without a,” he addressed with an eyebrow raised, “what do you call it?”
“A base coat,” Alice confirmed, nodding in agreement to what he was implying. She dug around the case again until she pulled out an obsidian shaded polish. “Which hand should I do first?” the realm hopper questioned, tongue in cheek, earning her an eye roll in return.
They opened the black lacquer together as he readied himself for the first coat of paint he’d had on his nails in decades. Alice reassured him, “Don’t worry, Papa, I’ll be precise as long as you hold still.” “I’ll do my best,” he replied, jokingly shifting his hook up and down with every few strokes that she painted. By sticking to a repetitive motion, her drying hand was stuck on a small roller coaster, causing her to laugh or glare at him with annoyance. The next morning, Killian’s work day was filled with whispers and giggles around him until the desk sergeant, Sam Ryce, patted him on the shoulder as he grabbed his 2nd coffee. Clasping the warm paper cup, the detective’s fingernails dazzled like stars across a midnight sky.
“I see you’ve upgraded from Eagle Scout to Prom Queen,” Ryce candidly commented with a chuckle.
Killian grimaced as he sidestepped, increasing the distance between him and the desk sergeant. He replied back loudly, enough for the whole small precinct to hear and turn to silence, “So what? Call me what you like, but you’re missing out on a self care day.” As he walked back to his glass office space to sort out more paperwork related to the emergency calls made regarding the apocalyptic storms, Ryce complaining to others about how he couldn’t take a joke, Killian smiled, glad that a silly reminder of his time with Alice could stay by his side at work. He couldn’t wait to see how Alice and Robin were settling into their new apartment the next time he saw them.
#knightrook#wish killian jones#detective rogers#alice jones#robin mills#samuel b ryce#father daughter bonding#nail painting#sometimes I take an idea and run with it#pris writes
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Also 99% of my stuff is secondhand! The couch was $35 on Facebook Marketplace, the curtains are $3.99 from Ikea, the cane wicker chairs were $12 at Goodwill and some were given to me by my next door neighbor, the hoosier was $100 on half off day at an estate sale, my boyfriend made the bed frame, we found the nightstand in a dumpster (sad!), that table was $40 on Facebook Marketplace, the bookcase was $200 from a monthly antique sale, all art and lamps are from Goodwill! Not thrifted - green rug is from Ikea, glass coffee table is from Wayfair, dining room light fixture is from Ikea, poster above bed is a Mt Eerie album insert
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I glow pink in the night in my room
It's Obikin time again. I know, I wrote another AU yesterday but this draft was just irresistible, I found it in a pile of other drafts and cleaned it, cut the edges, clearing the hidden gem it is. So, enjoy!
A Break in Their Day - David Hettinger American, b. 1946 (insipired a scene in this story)
AU prompt: Obi-Wan is getting divorced, ex-wife Satine (maybe? choose whatever char you think would fit, 'not the most amicalable divorce'-ish), he looses himself in the process, make him miserable, (down bad coping habits, smoking, a night out with Vos, something in that line, nothing too bad, treat him tenderly). So, he drives back home, Xmas-rom con style, (Hallmark-ish but not too cheesy), great reunion with the fam (please single parent Qui-Gon!) and then meets his great love Anakin. Give them some sort of happy end!
(thank my roommate for that prompt, and yes, that is word by word how she sent it to me. She loves her Hallmark romcoms.)
I glow pink in the night in my room.
Obi-Wan lives through the divorce but he loses three things: his condo in Fort Greene, his social circle of the last decade, and their cat – his beautiful, beloved Arfour. He is not thrown out like some stray; Satine isn’t that kind of person and she isn’t heartless, no enfant terrible. He can stay, she offers with a friendly expression, that does not reach her eyes, one hand gripping the other tightly – until he finds himself his own apartment he can stay. She even offers to give him a hand financially.
It is NYC, he adds mentally. It will take ages. Momentarily they can continue in their living situation, spending their evenings together like they used to, like friends before they became a couple – she stresses.
On Wednesday takeout from their favorite Thai around, when both of them run home late, Mango sticky rice, Panang curry, and fake, greasy Wan Tan wrapped in tin foil, which Satine loves with all her heart. Every time Obi-Wan runs over the street to the tiny shop, half past ten, they already know the order, just handing him two steaming plastic bags.
Bucatini Pasta on Friday. The Trattoria da Paolo is a lot more elitist and pretends to be the perfection of every cubist’s dreams. The inside is a cuboid made of white-washed concrete walls and a lot of glass, the former construction metal peeking through the concrete in a sense of beautified industrial style for people like them, that have never seen a factory from the inside but still idealize it from an aesthetic perspective because goddamn, a manufacture-like building can be pleasing to look at if it is designed by a multimillion-dollar architect.
And on Sundays Brunch with Mace and Depa, a befriended married couple, they meet every second week. A social obligation. Nothing quite pleasant.
They will continue as they used to, she says. Dining in the same room as the last fifteen years, drinking Chablis from the same crystal glasses, that were gifted to them over a decade ago, and setting the table with the same china, that Obi-Wan bought when he first moved out as a student, an Ikea snap.
Everything is static. Nothing needs to change; she explains with a soft undertone – just because they have gotten a fucking divorce.
Somehow their friends have taken her side. At least to him, it feels like they have, he thinks bitterly to himself after his second glass of Chablis. They smile at him with their paperwhite teeth like he is the casting director of some toothpaste commercial and then tell him how perfectly he and Satine have fitted together for the last couple of years, a dream team, their Emily Blunt and John Krasinski. Two stars in each other’s orbit, competing who can shine brighter.
Then they wait for Obi-Wan to grin to assure them that everything is all right like it’s his job to do, not the other way around. So, he does, he rubs their backs, puts on his most magnificent grin, and then talks about their amicable parting. No matter what has happened to their wedding band, they are still perfect for each other.
They have always been Satine’s friends, colleagues, or acquaintances, he thinks, whom she collects like pearls on a necklace to complete her image of perfection.
Although she is already perfect, a Wycombe Abbey graduate and human rights advocate for the International Committee of the Red Cross, considered to be one of the people to hold a speech for the UNO this year. The public adores her, what else is left for her to achieve?
And he had been – well, just Obi-Wan, a graduate of a community college, born in the middle of nowhere in Oregon, no prestige legacy awaits him.
She needs space and time to experiment – that is her reasoning when she sends her parent’s lawyers, all armed with Mont Blanc fountain pens. They have gotten married too early, foolishly young – but she will always love him some way, she states with her red lips curved into a soft smile.
The same expression the young girl wore, he once met fifteen years ago. Back then she had leaned over a bar counter in West Harlem, some bar with cheap lush, a glass of whiskey balancing in her hand. Her hair had been chopped off as if she had cut it herself, the bangs seventies styled, which reminded him of Stevie from Fleetwood Mac, and her jeans were decorated with feministic patches, idolizing Simone de Beauvoir, and Margaret Atwood. Absolutely charming.
She had asked him out first, a witty remark on her curved, red lips about his grandpa-like sweater, some snap from a Pittsburgh Vintage store. Then she had drowned her drink and kissed him, open-mouthed like he had been never kissed before. It had felt like he was destined to fall for her.��
After the next rendezvous, he found out two more things about her. Firstly, she was always on the run for the next riot on the street, demonstrations for women’s rights, world peace, against capitalism, the elite her parents belonged to, et cetera. Secondly, she never truly lived in present; her mind was already away on the next barricade of some street fight for justice.
Fifteen years, two apartments and one adopted stray cat later, her hair is now cut by a professional once a month, she books online, and the pair of jeans, she usually wore, has been exchanged for a suit, unpayable for a normal wallet, tailored specifically for her, the rebellious phase overcome.
At heart she is still the same young girl, that wanted to see the world burn, fighting against policemen on street riots – that’s what he tells himself when he returns home late and finds her asleep on the kitchen table over some court case, fighting for justice – she has just adapted, matured, become more like her parents, something he would have never guessed back then. But that’s the way of time, isn’t it? He swallows.
Their marriage does only chain them, both of them, she stresses and tries to reach for his hand, almost tenderly, he jerks back. She wants to feel young again, going to modern art exhibitions, buying cheap tickets for movies in arthouse cinemas, illegal star gazing on some rooftop they broke into, dancing through the night to techno music – fucking feeling in love again.
She has fallen out of love with him although she is clever enough to leave that part out, he is sensitive enough to hear it.
So, he signs the papers, takes the Mont Blanc pen from her parent’s lawyers, and sets his name under the document, which seals the fate of his broken heart, biting his lips.
That night he finds a pack of smokes, bought ages ago, probably back in his twenties when he was still a student, half buried under a vintage copy of Stephen King’s The Last Stand, a book Satine hated for its apocalyptic content. He lights himself a smoke and hunches over the railing of the balcony. It had been her fucking idea, the condo in Fort Greene, the balcony, the cat, the entire status quo – and now it will be hers again.
Then why does it hurt so much?
He stares up at the dazzling night sky. The scene could be romantic if it would be shared, perfect for a Hallmark rom-com, he thinks to himself bittersweet. Or it could be painted by some artist of romanticism. Casper David Friedrich. The wanderer over the sea of fog. He nips his cigarette between his lips and breathes in the tobacco. For the next minutes, he only coughs, throat burning, suppressed tears of months streaming down his face.
Nothing so romantic about that.
=
The next months come, the snow melts on the streets and the first green decorates the trees of Fort Greene. Half a year passes and Satine stays to be right like she always does. No changes happen. It is like Fortuna is Satine’s goddess, her word is law, and luck blossoms along her way – at least to him Satine seems to be happy.
They smile at each other at the evening’s dinner table with stifling Smalltalk about their work. “How was your day?” “Good.” “Nothing stressful?” “Just the usual.”
They smile at their cat when they pet it as if they have not talked about split custody before. They smile at Mace and Depa at their usual Sunday Brunch while eating brioche and French butter from Ladurée Soho. They smile at his parents-in-law at their monthly visit, drinking Tea in a painfully expensive café and talking about how wonderful it is to live in NYC, pretending to be happy even though it hurts deep inside.
They smile at Satine’s charity events; he puts his arm around her shoulder and she gives him her hand. The paparazzi take photos of how perfect they look together. The next morning it is all over the press. The NYC dream team strikes again. The only thing missing is their wedding band, but nobody seems to notice. They see what they want to see.
Satine and him, they do everything the way they normally would, following their strict schedules, Satine fighting in court and him teaching at university. Happy and successful together, a true power couple, everyone is inspired by their achievements.
They attend his annual faculty party and Satine does it perfectly, dressing up in a red slip gown, laughing at his colleagues’ jokes, presenting her public persona of charming Satine, whom everybody adores and makes them tell him how beautiful his wife is – even though she is not his wife anymore. The word slips so carelessly over their tongue, marked by years of practice. Then his colleagues apologize, pad him on the shoulder and say that they still seem happy together.
They are in modern times, you still can be together as a divorced couple, right? Obi-Wan nods and smiles painfully.
They attend his parents in law golden wedding and this time it is his turn to behave perfectly. He wears the tailored suit, Satine picked out for him, and the watch, a Christmas presents he hates for everything it stands for a tedious status symbol but it does its job, making her parents happy. He jokes around with the guests, old-fashioned, sexist jokes, that taste bitter on his tongue. He talks publicly about his research and brags about his Ph.D. from Oxford – just as Satine wishes him to do, flaunting their happy and successful lifestyle into everybody’s faces.
The next morning, he struggles to come out of the bedroom. She sees it, she ignores it. They do not talk about it.
So, all they do is smile, talk, and pretend. They even smile in court like it is a contest, who can smile longer and brighter? Who can persuade more people with their smiles? Who can convince the public better, that they have been fine after the divorce? – it had been a mutual decision after all, hasn’t it?
Each day he applies a new layer to his masquerade of being perfectly fine until he feels like there is nothing else left of him inside the shell – but that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? He feels like wax from a candle, something she has molded more than ever into the perfect husband. As if now that he lost it, he tries more than ever to be him.
His smoking habit becomes worse. He can recognize it on her face, the slightly scrunched nose, and she can smell it on his clothes. He waits for her to ask him to stop. She never does.
So, he smokes on the balcony, a pack a week. He pets his cat, the same kitty she wanted to get. He kisses Arfour on the head, sleeping in the living room with her curled in his lap, afraid of what demons will await him in his bedroom, the empty bed staring at him daunting. Light still lingers under her threshold, he wants to know what she is doing, tell her how he is feeling, and tell her that he is a mess inside. But he does no such thing.
Another half a year later, he resigned from his job, cleans his office at Columbia, bides his colleague goodbye, and packs the cardboard boxes into his Bentley, leaving everything else in the fucking condo in Fort Greene – after all it’s not his anymore, it hasn’t been his for a long time. He toys with the thought of driving back, thumbing the key angrily on the kitchen counter, causing her the same pain, she had done to him. He shakes his head.
A fresh spring wind hauls through NYC when he decides that it is time to drive East.
=
Driving East means coming home. Oregon. The tiny town of fucking Tatooine.
He does not call Qui-Gon because he can’t stand the tears that will run down his face if he does. He is an emotional wreck and all that is holding him together is clenching the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white, feeling the wind on his face from his window as he passes the streets.
Homecoming. He tries the words on his tongue. Homecoming. He has not been home since his last year of high school.
Two days and one night in a cheap motel later, he pulls the Bentley over. His neck is aching from the long drive when he drives past the town sign of Tatooine. He pushes down the brake pedal to look around, noticing the differences between his childhood memories and the present.
Everything is like it used to be: there is still the gas station right behind the town sign decorated with spray paint, where he bought gas for his first junk car, which he had owned with barely over eighteen. Qui-Gon had helped him scrap it together, it was his father’s present for Obi-Wan’s graduation. Just a few meters down Mainstreet there is still the old barn, where he and his friends would meet up, drink their stolen lush, smoke their cigarettes, or kiss and make up for the first time – he can still feel their hopes and dreams clinging to that place.
They had felt on top of the world back then, invincible like only teenagers could, that had not been hurt by the world yet.
And somehow the town has changed too: The old VHS store, always lit by 80s-looking neon lights, is nowhere to be found. Instead, a new convenience store has taken its place, a glass cuboid with a green logo. So, there will be no more borrowing Child’s Play and getting scared to sleep alone at night, Obi-Wan chuckles. No more sneaking into Qui-Gon’s bed and no more midnight peanut butter jelly sandwiches to cheer up his mood. No more sneaking into the adult section as a dare. No more flirting with the cute girl behind the counter and totally embarrassing yourself.
He pushes down the accelerator pedal, ignoring his burning eyes. Old and new puzzled together as he passed the streets and new buildings, a patchwork of memories and slate-grey asphalt. Only a few remnants have been left of his childhood, but what did he expect? Just two blocks until he will reach Qui-Gon’s house. He bit his lip and clenches his hands around the steering wheel.
The town hall has been renovated too, the 70s-style building has become modernized, glass and concrete greeting him as he drives by. The High School is still the same grey cuboid that reeks of purgatory. From the car, he can make out the hockey field and bleachers. At seventeen he spent a good chunk of time there, writing or sketching in his notebook – or secretly watching the team train on the ground, sweaty jerseys clinging to toned upper bodies in summer. His first boy crush had been awkward, unreachable, tinted by anxiety and internalized homophobia, and the end had been misery, crying his eyes out in bed for a week straight. Qui-Gon had been helpless.
He turns his head away and concentrates on the street again. Just a few blocks then he will see Qui-Gon again. Nausea creeps up his gullet. He stops the Bentley in front of his childhood home and lets the engine rev one last time.
The grass lane needs to be mown; he thinks as he watches the house from afar. There is still the apple tree in the garden, where once a swing hung. Qui-Gon had installed it so young Obi-Wan could play outside while he harvested his vegetables in the garden. There are still some of them left, salade, carrots, and Qui-Gon’s favorite herbs. From the street Obi-Wan could recognize a couple of wooden boxes of beehive huts hidden behind the lush green grass, seems like Qui-Gon had started a new hobby, that would fit him.
The white picket fence desperately needs to be colored again but Qui-Gon never really cared or better said, detested the image of a perfect suburb family connected to it, so the crumbling paint fits him better. He had always loved the mood of vintage, the nostalgia clinging to it. The kitchen window is open and some 60s pop is played somewhere in the house, probably a record player. The Zombies, Obi-Wan realizes and smiles softly, a vinyl he gifted his dad.
Obi-Wan steps out of the Bentley and walks the last step towards the door. He rings the bell.
The Qui-Gon, that opens, is different. His long grey hair is tucked away into a low ponytail, held together by a leather band. A few white strands have appeared at his temples and he wears machine-oil-stained jean overalls, that smell as if he has just tinkered in the garage behind the house – but most importantly, he looks at Obi-Wan like only a stranger could, confusion is painted on his face.
The other man clears his throat, hesitantly raising his hands to Obi-Wan’s face as if he wants to touch it, feel the difference, and then jerks back as if he has burned himself, turning away from his son.
“Obi-Wan… God, it must have been ages.” The voice sounds old, strange, and pained like it hasn't been used for ages. Obi-Wan averts his gaze and looks down at his wingtips. The leather is worn out and the stitching needs to be repaired. “Hello, Dad…”
=
Qui-Gon offers Obi-Wan a cup of tea as they stand silently in the kitchen.
The kettle boils on the gas ring and the older man thumps down two mugs on the kitchen counter, both handmade. The green one is taller than the other and the clay is uneven, shaped by a kid’s hands. Obi-Wan crafted it in kindergarten and Qui-Gon has ever since proudly used it as his go-to tea cup. An old Father’s Day gift. A bright, yellow sun is painted on top of it, stating “Tomorrow the sun will shine” in the cranky handwriting of a preschooler.
Now Qui-Gon hesitates for a moment as he realizes what cup he has pulled out of the shelf. He looks over his shoulder to Obi-Wan, offers a weak smile – almost shy like you would smile at a stranger, not your long-lost son – and then drops the tea bags into the mugs before pouring the hot water over them.
The tea tastes stale, green tea from the convenience store nearby. Nothing compared to the morning brew Obi-Wan buys for himself in NYC Chinatown when he runs the errands. Qui-Gon is not prepared for visitors, he realizes.
The simple green tea, the brown bottles of milk from the farmers around, and the handmade cups. That is how Qui-Gon lives all by himself, austere, like an old man living by himself. He cooks his vegetables from the garden, receives pickles and silver skin onion jars from the neighbors for the winter months, and buys only the necessities from the supermarket around.
“How have you been?”, tries the older man weakly as the silence becomes palpable. He is hunched over the counter and has offered Obi-Wan the only chair in the cramped kitchen. The other one, which used to be there, has disappeared, probably somewhere in the attic or sold. Without Obi-Wan, there had been no use for it. Obi-Wan cringes when he is spoken to.
The older man’s face is turned away, his gaze directed somewhere outside of the kitchen window, the garden, his vegetables, or the apple tree, lovelier things to look at than the stranger, that his son has become. He behaves strangely, not like the Qui-Gon Obi-Wan is used to. He behaves like a man, that has not spoken to a lot of people in the last few years.
“Good.,” Obi-Wan speaks softly, unsure, trying the words on his tongue. No one has asked him how he was feeling since his divorce, they always avoided the topic and pretended as if nothing happened, complimenting his new publication on astrophysics, or going on about how awful New York’s traffic is. Or they offered him their toothpaste commercial smile and rubbed their hands over his back as if he is a little child that you can console with a pad on the head.
As he takes another sip from the mug, he feels Qui-Gon’s eyes on him, calculating his reaction.
“You drive a new car.,” says the other man, averting his eyes again. A quite expensive one is left unspoken. Not the scrap car we built for your graduation. That one is gone too, isn’t it?
“A Bentley.,” Obi-Wan explains, nodding softly. “A wedding gift from my parents-in-law.”
Qui-Gon looks at him for a second, one lip between his teeth. Hurt flashes his expression before his face becomes stoic again, pain hidden in his grey eyes. Then they continue to drink their tea, too many broken promises hauling in the silence between them and no one dares to speak a word.
=
When the sun is about to set, they step out of the house to load the boxes out of Obi-Wan’s car and store them in the attic. “You can sleep in the garage.”, Qui-Gon explains as he opens the trunk and balances a box filled with books in his shaky arms.
The cardboard rips open and for a second all the books seem to hover in the air before they fall down on the asphalt of the street. All the book spines are exposed. Hemingway, Atwood, Steinbeck, etc. Old Secondhand shop copies from all over the place, Portland, Philly, Seattle, New York – and Tatooine. They are used, dog-eared, and pages filled with notes and drabbles.
“I…”, Qui-Gon stutters and kneels down to pick up a copy of John Steinbeck’s East of Eden.
The soft cover is broken, and one corner is ripped out but the young James Dean in the 1976’s version is still easily identified, staring dreamingly into the landscape. “You still do love John Steinbeck.”
Obi-Wan only nods and takes the book from Qui-Gon’s hand, cautious to avoid skin-to-skin contact.
He throws it into his cardboard and picks up the other books from the street, averting Qui-Gon’s eyes. John Steinbeck was or still is Qui-Gon’s favorite author.
He stacks the hardcover of Wuthering Heights on top of the Penguin classics from Jane Austen and lines up Nancy Fraser with Margaret Atwood’s The Edible Woman, keeping his hands busy, just to avoid Qui-Gon’s eyes on him.
“You haven’t changed that much.”, exhales Qui-Gon as if he is gasping for air, grabbing blades of grass and ripping them out with his left hand. “You’ve grown a beard to hide your dimples but they are still there.” He clenches his hands into fists, crushing the grass blades. “Sometimes things aren’t as easily erased as we wish them to be.”
Obi-Wan just stares down at the box on his arm
It is filled with remnants of his old life, which he had tried to bury in his office, far away from Satine. Notes, Books, Polaroids, etc, little gifts Qui-Gon had bought for him.
“Still, you are not …”, tries Qui-Gon with a hoarse voice before it breaks off and a sob escapes his lips. He is hunched over the last book in the grass, fidgeting with its pages.
You are not the same as you used to be, Obi-Wan. You are 41, have greying temples, and suddenly wear tweed jackets with elbow patches, a cliché you mocked when you were 16. You have married a woman, I have never even seen and divorced her before I could ever do it. You are a professor at Columbia and not an awkward high school student anymore, who I drove to school with every morning and who stole my wine from the shelf for a night out with friends. You are not 12 anymore and get scared of Child’s Play, so you sneak into my bed at night. You are not 9 anymore and beg me to go to a real hair salon because you are embarrassed about your bowl cut. You are not 7 anymore and hate your tooth gap.
You are not 5 anymore and love playing with your swing at the apple tree – you are not my Obi-Wan anymore.
It pains Obi-Wan’s heart to see the old man so desperately trying to find the right words to express his agony. He kneels too and takes the last book out of Qui-Gon’s hand, carefully, only shortly brushing skin against skin. It is Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, the book Qui-Gon used to read to him when he was a toddler and now the older man is clinging to it as if his life depends on it. Diamond tears running down his wrinkling cheeks, fighting his voice.
“It is fine. Everything is all right. I’ll just take my old room.”, Obi-Wan assures, hesitantly grabbing the older man by his shoulders, and pushing him to his chest, unsure, an embrace of strangers. “I’m here.”
“You will not fit anymore. The bed is too small.”, cries Qui-Gon into the shoulder of his son, all the hardness of the years breaking down. All Obi-Wan can do is murmur a soft “Sorry” into his father’s hair, caressing him gently.
=
Convenience store sandwiches. Obi-Wan stares down at the plastic-wrapped packages and sighs. Two Rows of tasteless bread, glued together by mayonnaise, that has already diluted into egg and grease again, and sometimes a pitiful lettuce peeking out – if you are lucky.
Still, he is indecisive, letting his hand hover over one of the sandwiches. For some reason, he keeps buying them as if they will taste any different this time. They were his normal midnight snack when everything was closed except for the 24/7 discounter a walk down his street in New York.
In Tatooine, it is not any different. Qui-Gon has fallen asleep in front of the TV, a model from the 90s while watching some Game Show about parents guessing their kid’s lover, a ridiculous concept and yet so close to the truth.
After Qui-Gon’s heavy breathing turned into snores, Obi-Wan picked up a quilt blanket from one of the neatly folded stacks in the living room and put it over Qui-Gon, softly as if Qui-Gon was a child. He lifted his dad’s head, pushed a crocheted pillow underneath it, and kissed his forehead. Then he went to the kitchen to scan the fridge for a possible dinner solution. Except for two jars of pickles and a piece of margarine, it was empty, after a quick search a loaf of bread was found in the kitchen cabinet. He sighed. So, he figured, he could just drive to the new convenience store and buy some dinner while his dad got some well-deserved rest.
An electric bell pings as he crosses the opened door and one look over his shoulder informs him, that he has 20 minutes left to search for groceries before the store will close, fucking Tatooine. He strolls down the aisles, scanning the rows for necessities, a shopping basket dangling from his arm. For a supermarket, that barely measures two rooms, they have an astonishing variety in their alcohol collection. A Limoncello opens it on the top shelf and two steps away a Johnny Walker Black Label is just waiting for someone to take it.
“Kenobi?”
Obi-Wan grabs a beer, pushing it into his shopping basket, before turning around. Smiling through the pain, he thinks, and the next moment shame heats his cheeks.
It takes him only a second to recognize the man behind his back. Towering a few inches over him, still wearing his biker gang leather jacket just like in high school, grinning, is Anakin Skywalker. He still styles his hair in long loose curls, that make him look like a Movie Star from the 80s, though the roots have started to grow grey over the years, his eyes still gleaming with a friendly spirit.
“Kenobi?”, the man asks again, this time with a crooked grin, finger grabbing a beer next to Obi-Wan.
“The one and only.”, Obi-Wan answers. His voice sounds hoarse, embarrassed to be found in the liquor section, and the opposite of content to see an old friend again, so he pushes the basket behind his back.
“How long has it been? Nineteen years? Too many, anyway.”, Anakin grins, grabbing himself a bottle from the shelf, no shame in his action. His eyes roam over the label, before taking another one. “I thought you moved to New York, married a nice chick, and live your best life as a rich man there.”
“How would you know?”
“The press wrote about it, was hard to miss.”, Anakin grins again and raises his hand defeated. Obi-Wan sighs, as if Anakin self-centered Skywalker has read articles about him. At seventeen the man had barely thought about anything else than how to get into other peoples’ pants and his motorbike, why should that suddenly change? They have never been great friends anyway, barely greeting each other when they had met in the hallways. Anakin was two years his junior. Fate had diced them up once at a tedious party, letting them share one deep conversation, nothing more.
“Obi-fucking-Wan Kenobi, ex-president of the science club of Tatooine High, now suddenly an accomplished Physics Prof at Columbia.” Anakin lets his head fall back as laughter shakes his body, curls tangling around his sharp jaw. “We all thought you’re gonna win the Nobel prize one day, turns out we weren’t so far from the truth back then.”
Then he turns to Obi-Wan and his smile broadens. “I’ve got an idea. This lush is shit in here, convenience store shit. Often tried it and it won’t get any better this time, wanna go out for real? For the sake of the good old times.”
What go old times, thinks Obi-Wan. They have been acquaintances, not friends, but he lets himself be dragged out of the supermarket.
Half an hour later they sit in an Irish Pub, Yoda’s, a five-minute walk down Jefferson’s Alley. The area around Jefferson's Alley is a seedy neighborhood with tiny houses, crammed around square shaped backyards, like tenements, and no green can be found. The houses look grey and desolate in the light of the street lamps. It’s where Anakin has grown up, isn’t it?
As a teenager, Obi-Wan often hung around here, cycled around, played baseball in the yards with some other boys, and threw stones at Quinlan's window, a friend of his who had lived around. Now, Quinlan Vos was gone, married, a tattoo artist somewhere in Philly. He should visit him some days, thinks Obi-Wan, and focuses his eyes on his surrounding again.
Anakin and his friend had been rather infamous around here. For hours they would be lying in wait on the lawn in front of houses, spyglasses in their hands, just to catch a glimpse of the white plaid skirts, or rather a glimpse under the skirt of the neighbor’s girls.
The entrance to Yoda's is a staircase to the basement. Well-trod wooden steps and a time-worn railing lead the two down. The interior is filled with a cozy atmosphere, a jukebox plays in the corner, to the right a pool table, and on the left outside the bar counter, behind which stands a grim old man, a pipe in the corner of his mouth. With the deep wrinkles on his face, the man looks like he is over 80, with one carved crutch in his hand, and the other one on his pipe.
“Should I order something for you, my old friend? A Guinness?”, Anakin asks looking at Obi-Wan. He sits down straight at the counter and peels himself out of his leather jacket. It is thrown without caution over some chair nearby. The jacket used to be Skywalker’s treasure, the statement piece that dominated every outfit, his holy grail to impress every girl – or boy.
Obi-Wan only nods, testing the waters, and sits down on one of the barstools. After the grim old man taps two glasses of beer and pushes them over the counter, Quinlan turns to Obi-Wan, grinning, He grabs himself a pint, toasts it to his friend, and drinks off the foam with a deep swig. “So”, he says, wiping the foam from the corner of his mouth with one hand, “How have you been?”
“Comme ci, comme ca.,” Obi-Wan only offers with a small grin, tasting his Guinness, not wanting to dive deeper into the topic.
“Life is a bitch sometimes.”, answers Anakin, “I stayed here, and started taking shifts at Watto’s workshop after my graduation. I am now officially co-owner even though the old man rarely gets his hands dirty nowadays. But what did I expect.” Obi-Wan pads Anakin on the shoulder with the same pads he hates, but what else should he do to console him? He cringes inside at his inability. The other man turns his head to him and states, „You know what, I was jealous of you, all these years. You got to leave this shit hole.”
“There is nothing to be jealous about.”, starts Obi-Wan, “I resigned last week, no longer Prof at Columbia, I’m jobless for the first time since my Ph.D. I said ‘fuck you’ to my friends, moved out of my condo and now sleep in my childhood bedroom. After living in New York for fifteen years, or any other place, you realize that all cities are the same, all the same, shit holes.”
Anakin has laid down his head on the counter, staring at Obi-Wan from the side, one of his curls falling into his forehead, the others framing his sharp countenance. He still has the 80s movie star vibe to him, even nineteen years later with the first few grey strands and wrinkles next to his eyes. “I thought you married a nice, rich chic, living your best life there.”
Obi-Wan shakes his head. “Divorced?” It feels weird to nod now, admitting it for the first time in over a year even though it had happened so long ago. He takes another sip from Guinness. Anakin raises his head again, suddenly stating out of the blue, “Me, too.”
Obi-Wan raises a brow, the heartbreaker fucking Prince Charming is divorced? It does not fit into his view of the world. Back in High School Anakin could have had anybody with one snap of his fingers, how does it come that he is not a happy family man now? “I mean, I married.”, tries the other man, “Everybody else did it when the time came, so I did it, too. Saw Padme again, started a relationship, and proposed when it was reasonable. 9 nine years, that was how long our happiness lasted. I am a father now.” He sighs and taps on the counter to order himself another pint.
“Padme Naberrie?”
“Yes. You graduated together, didn’t you? She was on the top, perfect GPA, and had endless opportunities but she stayed here and went to the Community College. Later, working here at the local hospital. A nice girl with a golden heart, my mom loved her and that is the most important thing to me. Now she is the mother of my twins.” Anakin looks sad when he adds. “Nothing more I could wish for.”
“What happened?”
“I lied to myself and at some point, I could no longer pretend.”, states Anakin vaguely and drowns down his pint. “But what about you? Are you a father?”
“Yes.”, he answers fast without thinking about it. “A daughter – I mean, ehm, my cat.”
He expects Anakin to behave strangely now, be angry or disappointed, to tell him how dare he compare having a cat to having a kid as if it’s the same, but he does no such thing. Instead, Anakin asks softly. “What is her name?” Anakin uses the present form, not the past, not like Obi-Wan has lost her. Somehow Obi-Wan wants to hug him for that.
“Arfour.”
Laughter burst out of Anakin, which shakes his whole body. “You still love that Sci-fi series, don’t you? How was it called again? Star Destroyer? Something with Star.”
“How do you know- ehm, how do you remember?”
“Seriously?” Anakin looks jokingly offended. “Your whole locker was plastered with stickers from it and –“Anakin grins evilly. “I remember you having a crush on the main character. You would doodle pictures of him in your notebook when you would think nobody notice.”
“But you did?”
Suddenly Anakin’s expression shifts back to sad, his lips are pinched, and his eye bags are visible like he has trouble sleeping. “As I said, I was a liar for great parts of my life. The best probably and now it is most often too late to break free with the truth. All it does is getting people hurt who have been comfortable for years, who have settled down and fought for their luck. Who am I to suddenly destroy that because I have decided to speak the truth now?”
“Is that why Padme left you?”
Anakin buries his face in his hands before continuing more silently. “I, ehm, I slept with men during our marriage. Most often I would meet them through my work, I repaired their cars and they flirted with me. Later I would come to visit them in their hotel rooms and they would fucked me like a common whore on the cheap bed or against the shower while Padme set at home caring for the twins. That was what I wanted, no love, just the nagging in my heart to stop, the feeling that I was missing something.”
“She found out?”
Anakin nods. “I’m sorry, I feel ashamed for it. She found out one night, found the texts on my phone, screamed at me, packed the twins, and drove to my mother. I spent that night alone in the living room, asking myself why I was so fucked up as a person, why I could not be like all the others, happily married, a content father, why I always felt like there was missing something, why I was such a liar.”
He pauses, then he continues. “You know what is the worst? She came back the next day, told me she forgave, hugged me, and let me, the bastard, cry on her shoulder. She told me that she understood me, understood why I married her, understood why I always felt absent, understood that I loved her just not like that, and that I had tried my best. She felt sad for me, not for her and her wounds, for me, that I’ve been lying to myself my whole life.”
Anakin orders another pint. “Another one for you too?” Obi-Wan only nods.
Then he leans close, cups Anakin’s cheeks and kisses him like Satine has kissed him all those years ago, open-mouthed with tongue and everything, pouring all the suppressed sadness of the last months into the contact. Anakin responds in the same manner. It is not tender, it is harsh, and demanding, everybody grabbing what they want from the other, Obi-Wan’s hands in Anakin’s locks, and Anakin’s fingers sneaking under Obi-Wan’s grandpa sweater.
It grows messy quickly, threads of salvia connecting their lips, them rutting against each other like teenagers, that found out what their crotch is used for the first time, fabric rubbing against fabric. It is not about Anakin’s coming out, it is not about Obi-Wan’s divorce, and most definitely it is not about finding love in each other. It is about forgetting the pain, the suffering, the agony, freeing the emotions, that were locked inside. It is a happy, sad, angry kiss, with biting, tongue, and sometimes a moment of tenderness, when one of them needs it.
“Your house?”, Obi-Wan asks breathlessly before leaning in again. Anakin nods and grabs Obi-Wan by the hair, forcing their mouths together.
Later, laying in a bed together, Anakin’s arm possessively around Obi-Wan’s waist, they stare at each other in silence, a silent smile on their lips, that Anakin wishes to kiss. It was Obi-Wan’s first time with a man, Anakin noticed it, Obi-Wan sees it in his face, and they choose not to talk about it. Rather, enjoying what they have as long as it last.
=
As the sun raises, Obi-Wan finds himself in his kitchen again. “How did you sleep?”, asks Qui-Gon, taking a seat on the only chair in the kitchen, his voice high-pitched and still unsure. The old man has wrapped himself in a cardigan, blue and crocheted, the long gray hair is muddled together into a low-bun, yesterday's green cup in his trembling hand.
"Good," says Obi-Wan, turning away from the sink to his father.
Crockery is piled up in front of him, cheap porcelain with kitschy floral patterns. Primroses, which entwine around a single daffodil. Obi-Wan never liked the painted plates, but they have been cheap, a bargain in a Goodwill in Philly and they have been doing their job ever since. Qui-Gon liked the nostalgia he associated with them. Christmas dinner with some stubborn British great-aunt, he had, a Dolores Umbridge-like person from the outside but with a warm heart. So, Obi-Wan tries his best, puts on a crocked grin, one lifted corner, hums, and does the washing-up.
"And the bed still fits? No problems with the mattress?" asks Qui-Gon again. He has lowered his eyes, fiddling with a sleeve of his cardigan, where a hole still needs to be filled. He twirls the yarn thoughtfully between his fingers, furrowed eyebrows, too shy and unsure to look up into his son’s face.
"No problems," says Obi-Wan, leaning against the stove, trying not to think about last night in Anakin’s bed. He turns slightly to his father; his head tilted to the side and tries to smile. It feels convulsive and unnatural, yet he assures in a calm voice, "All right."
"I woke up in the middle of the night," says Qui-Gon, continuing to stare at his hands, which are busy with the cardigan. “You were not there anymore. I thought you might have left again.”
Obi-Wan stops moving, the dishwashing sponge hovering in the air, and the hot water continues to drop down on his skin. He clears his throat, tries to get rid of the bitter taste on his tongue, and lowers the sponge. "I was shopping," he explains and points to the fridge, "I just refilled what you were missing."
"Thank you," Qui-Gon says quietly, almost hoarsely. Again, he lowers his gaze to his hands, which play with a thread. Soon there will not be much left of the cardigan. "You didn't have to do that. I'll get along all by myself. "
"I know, Dad." Obi-Wan shifts back to the sink, his back turned to his father, absently biting his lower lip. “I know you are capable.” His voice is hoarse when he tries to speak again. “I met someone.”
“While you were shopping?”
Obi-Wan nods weakly, trying to hide his face from his dad, unsure of his reaction. “I felt like a liar for a long time in my life, stifling, chained in a corset. That person showed me the way out. I know at my age, finding true love is unlikely and it is not about that, it’s about trying, finally speaking the truth even though it might hurt yourself.” He pauses. “That Person is a man, ehm, his name is Anakin and I would like to introduce you two.”
“I would be honored.”
When he turns around, he can see Qui-Gon smiling, he is still shy, but it has gotten better. They are on the way; they just have to keep trying and fighting. One day, they might be able to smile like they used tp, happy, but it feels daring to say that.
(To be honest, I have soft spot for this Obi-Wan, maybe I come back later and write more for him, grant him some more happiness. It's a draft, will be rewritten someday, maybe more cleaned, made more suitable for Ao3, let's see. Untill then enjoy!)
#obikin#sw au#sw thoughts#star wars fic#sw fic#obikin fic#obikin au#sw the clone wars#satine kryze#sorry I did not mean for you to become some sort of villian#sw fanfic#star wars inspired#obi wan x anakin#felix's weird thoughts and drabbles#obi wan needs a hug#anakin needs therapy#honestly he does even here#why did you cheat on Padme again?#don't expect a redemption arc for that from the author#in a part two you will have to say sorry#star wars au#Obi-wan deserves a happy ending#Qui-Gon is Obi-Wan's dad#this is no parenting 101#author has no idea of parenting#obi wan kenobi#idk what to tag help#ok enjoy
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task; the news
location: carmen's new apartment, bolton, NY.
date: friday september 2, 2005
it was late by the time carmen got home that evening, and dark as she stepped into the apartment, an action that still felt like trespassing even though she'd spent more than a handful of nights there. a morbid part of her wondered if it would ever feel like home, or if that would also be woodrow house, with its imposing facade that belied that warm, inviting home she had always loved. there was nothing wrong with the apartment, it was high spec, top of the line the real estate agent had told her. but it felt cold and unwelcoming with its clean lines, bright white kitchen and rows of floor to ceiling windows. the unpacked boxes that still lined the living room and hallway didn't help things much. carmen knew she was putting off unpacking, even though she'd never been particularly prone to procrastination before, but it was as though she was going to change her mind and go running back to richard. leaving had been the second hardest thing she'd ever forced herself to do. telling richard had been the hardest.
she shook the memory of her departure from her mind as she turned on the light, illuminating the living room of her new apartment. it had been a long day, longer than she meant it to be. although she had voiced her intentions to leave the woodrow foundation behind to richard, she had not yet put the wheels in motion for her resignation. there were too many things that needed to be dealt with her. carmen had dedicated more than a decade of her life to the foundation, and although it had existed before her, and would go on existing after she left, she was so closely entwined in the dna of the organisation now. unpicking that would take some doing. then there would be the question of; what next?
kicking off her shoes, carmen helped herself to a glass from the opened bottle of cabernet sauvigon that sat on the kitchen island from the night before. she was just about to take a seat on the hastily-built ikea couch - currently the only place she could take a seat, the dining table currently bereft of chairs - when she noticed a pile of mail littering the floor by her front door, visible now the light was on.
she wandered over to sort through the pile, sure that it would be mostly advertisements and junk mail that would be quickly consigned to the trash. her suspicions were proven to be correct, right up until the last letter. it was handwritten, her name embossed on the envelope in a cursive she would recognise anywhere, on stationery she would know through touch alone.
the effect of the letter was instantaneous. the full glass tumbling from her grasp and to the floor, shattering as the scarlet wine pooled at her bare feet. she hadn't even moved to open it but somehow carmen knew exactly what it contained. there was no other reason for the formality. still as the letter remained unread, it was like that old thought experiment. she both knew and didn't know. and she could go on existing in this state forever, holding two possible truths in her mind indefinitely. but even a few seconds of living in that state was impossible to bear.
with trembling hands, she forced herself to peel open the envelope and unfold the letter within;
Dear Ms. Carmen Alvarez, It is with a heavy heart that I write to you today to convey the most unfortunate news...
as she read, carmen felt her world slowly tilt off its axis, the sensation of the ground sliding from beneath her feet overwhelming her until she felt her knees hit the ground, crunching into the broken glass and discarded wine that she had all but forgotten. though it wasn't conscious, she knew the tears had already started to fall from her eyes, blurring the page as she reached the bottom of the letter. she always knew she'd go back to woodrow house, but she was supposed to go back to apologise, to make her amends. she was supposed to have more time.
she crumpled the letter in her fist, suddenly incensed by the formality of it all, by how cold and impersonal it was. it had only been two weeks since she had seen mrs. tristan, and she only lived a short drive away. she had lived with that woman for more than half her life, but in this earth-shattering moment it meant nothing. how could it be that only days ago she had been standing across from richard, metres from his beating heart and brilliant brain, watching as she betrayed them both. watching as the expression contorted on the face of the man who was the closest thing she would ever come to a father. now that man was gone, and the memory carmen was left with was just how disappointed he had been in her.
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The Pastel Ladies - A Delightful Duplex by Harlequin Eyes
I built this duplex a few years ago, inspired by a house I drive by occasionally. In my mind the homes are occupied by two elderly sisters. Each side has a living room, kitchen, half bathroom, full bathroom, main bedroom, secondary bedroom/study/bonus room, small back yard, and a tiny front porch off the main bedroom where the sisters sit and chat over tea and coffee. It's definitely got a lot of "cool grandma" energy but you can make it over however you want.
This has been in my game for a while, and I've modified it slightly to work with the upcoming Sims 4 For Rent Expansion Pack. More pictures under the cut!
DOWNLOAD
Packs Needed:
Discover University
Island Living
Get Famous
Seasons
Cats & Dogs
City Living
Get Together
Realm of Magic
Strangerville
Jungle Adventure
Parenthood
Spa Day
Paranormal Stuff
Backyard Stuff
Kids Room Stuff
Romantic Garden Stuff
Movie Hangout Stuff
Cool Kitchen Stuff
REQUIRED CUSTOM CONTENT: (Files are included if I couldn't find a source)
Dishwasher Pro recolor by me (included)
Autumn Pumpkin, Contact Solution, & Gelydh Shop Head by ajOya (included)
Barbie Doll & VHS Box
Make-up Bag & Soft Glasses Case
Lemon Timer
Hair Dye Box
Make-Up Tray
Butter
Toaster (red IKEA-looking one)
DIY Container Mug
Hemnes Vanity
5th Avenue Deco Globe
Magazine - Arts/Music/Architecture
Eyeshadow (6 color pots)
Open Book - Simlish
Tawashi
Coffee Table
Animated Birdbath
Penchant For Plaid Wallpaper
Bistro Tea Set
Fishermen's Nook Set
Woven Chest
Crystal Ball
Get Famous Clutter
Parenthood Bathroom Clutter
Vintage Glamour Clutter
BRIE Reading Glasses
Hatch Mowed Grass by BritStep (included)
Floral Wallpaper by DWS (included)
Freed Eco Decor
Family Fun Stuff Conversion
Pillow Galore Collection
Samspelt Deer
Upright Piano
Sputnik Toaster
Eco Kitchen Stuff
Striped Wallpaper with Wainscoting
Umbrella Stand Collection
Amber Glasses
Plant Life Kit
Cathrineholm Lotus Inspired Kitchen Recolors
Steaming Cups
Shabby Chic Round Pillow
Cottage Garden Set
Sheer Will Curtains
Mid-Mod Seema Chair & Mid-Mod End Table
Kitchen Goals
Study All Night Clutter Item
Luminous Lotus
Binge Inking Stacked Books
Luminous Ball in Lotus Flower
Spring Fling Paintings
Rifle Paper Company Window Valance
Moravian Star Lamp
Under Stairs Bookshelf
Slot Fixes
Tastefully Tacky Paintings
Sims 2 to 4 Mask Conversions by unknown (included)
Ornate Display Stand
Christmas Gifts 2018 - Sweets
BV Souvenirs & Collectibles
Simplistic Curtains Add-Ons
Additionally there are items from the following sets by Peacemaker_IC:
Annabel Bedroom Suite
Atwood Living
Caine Living
Cats & Dogs Siding Recolors
Coba Bedroom
Colour Me Rugs
Country Crafter Build Set
Elsie Bedroom
Essa Kitchen
Futura Living
Geomertic Murals
Graciously Georgian Set
Grove Furniture Collection
Hamptons Getaway
Hamptons Hideaway
Hamptons Retreat
Mid-Century Abode
Mid-Century Eclectic
Mina Kitchen
Myra Living & Study
Oasis-Chic Dining
Oasis-Chic Living
Ornate Tiling
Paranormal Add-Ons
Roarsome Bedroom
Rock'n Rockers
Shrunken Coffee Tables
#the sims 4#sims 4#ts4#sims#sims 4 build#sims 4 duplex#ts4 build#ts4 duplex#sims 4 for rent#HarlequinEyes#Harlequin Eyes#ajOya#AroundTheSims#Bakie#b5studio#Joolster#BrazenLotus#RightHearted#tenikah#simsi45\#Helen-sims#illogicalsims#Blackgryffin#littledica#madhox#Menaceman44#Nynaeyedesign#Peacemaker_IC#Max20#pocci
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now i wanna try and make how i see catra's house in asdlm in sims (and a bunch of your other fics too because i always see them so vividly), this is really interesting i always saw the backdoor as a big sliding glass one
honestly now im tempted to do it too XD in my head theres basically an entire window/sliding glass door wall in the living room, but like, everything looks different to different people. i don't usually describe environments in detail unless those details mean something, so a lot of my "settings" are vague and open to the reader. it's really interesting to see how those things are interpreted.
like in chapter one of AMLAIT, i don't describe catra's bedroom at all (although it does come up a bit in chapter 5), but in chapter three i mention adora has ikea furniture and laundry on her floor because that gives a peek into her priorities, financial situation ig, and executive dysfunction lol. honestly its mostly there because of the adhd XD but i still dont lay out which furniture she has and where because your brain will fill in some of that stuff when you hear "bedroom" and its just bad writing to give you a floor plan when not relevant.
this also feeds into something else i call the Default Apartment, which is that every fictional apartment has pretty much the same layout in my head (when i write and often when i read unless other details are given), so catra's layout in Hurricane Adora is actually "the same" apartment as they have in catcher: in the sense that the front door leads to the living room, with the kitchen and dine-in table on the right (fairly open concept), and the back wall has the bedroom and bathroom. if you say apartment, this is what i picture immediately, and it's literally just because it was the layout of my family's apartment (for 2 months!) when i was five. (also i want to note that even though they share that layout, the apartments are veryyyy different in size/finishing in my head, its just that layout)
interestingly, thats not the layout of the apartment in AMLAIT? that's my default but just Not This Time for some reason. given the details i have/will describe over the course of the fic, it could be laid out any number of ways, but in this the apartment opens onto the living room from the side (different orientation than usual), the kitchen is on the left, the laundry is on the back wall along with the dining nook, and then catras bedroom in on the back wall and leads to the small hall with scorpia's next to catra's, a bathroom opposite, and entrapta's at the end.
who knows, maybe i will make something just to compare some general floor plans in my head XD i have no idea why my brain lays things out this way.
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Here are some photos of the first task we had to do that I forgot to upload first. We were tasked to make an Ikea inspired dining table and chairs with a fruit bowl. I ove how mine turned out and added textures after learning how to do them. I think they add so much to scenes and really help make certain things pop. I might end up adding a few of the 3 models to my final scene like the places Matt, glasses and fruit bowl to help add some clutter to the kitchen.
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How do u imagine James' house on NYPW? I mean, I imagine it like a mansion, but could you describe it a bit pretty please? 🥺💕
Okay!!
So when I imagine it, it's like...smaller than a mansion but bigger than a normal house. Like have you ever seen those developments that are built for really rich people and all the bouses kind of look the same and they're all REALLY big but not quite mansions? I imagine the house is like that. Probably stone on the front, with a front step or a small porch. Not much in the way of landscaping outside, just the lawn and maybe some bushes near the windows. No flowers or gardens or anything.
There is an attached garage, probably built for three cars where James parks his truck and he probably has other cars in there as well. There is a door in the garage leading into the laundry room of the house which then gives way to the kitchen.
Through the front door you enter into a bit of a foyer, like where you hang your coat and leave your keys and stuff.
And I also do this silly thing where I go to IKEA and I look at the room displays there for inspiration. So James' kitchen is very open concept. It's got a large kitchen island in the middle where you can sit and eat, and I think his counter tops are probably white marble. In the kitchen there is a sliding glass door that leads outside onto the back deck that has a glass table surrounded by chairs and there is a pool out there as well.
From the kitchen you have a clear view into the living room that has two large couches, a loveseat and a coffee table in between them. He also has a television there on a television stand. I don't know what color the couches are. Probably dark colored? They are not very comfortable.
The whole house sort of has an emptiness to it though like it's not very decorated, and you can tell no one really spends a lot of time there.
Off the living room there is a two-piece bathroom, just a toilet and a sink with a mirror.
Another room on the first floor would be the dining room but nothing really happens in there so I don't know much about it. It probably has a long table in it that has never been used
The second floor is where the master bedroom is and three (possibly four) other rooms, with a full bathroom at the end of the hall for guests.
The master bedroom is the largest, it has big windows, and I can't remember if I said he had a California king or a regular king bed, but there's a big bed in there. The bed is comfortable. In the corner of the room is an arm chair with a small table next to it. (Think of like...the Cuck chair from a hotel room.) There are two bedside tables on each side of the bed and the one on the side James sleeps on has a phone and an alarm clock. There is nothing on the other one. I believe I said he has a television in his bedroom as well, that would be on a television stand on the wall opposite the bed. (If it exists)
There's a bathroom attached to the master bedroom that has black granite counter tops and a white tile floor. It also has a large tub as well as a stand up shower with a glass door. I think the faucets and light fixtures are probably gold since this is the 90's. The counter has two sinks, and a large mirror across the back. There's also a towel closet in the bathroom and of course a toilet. The bathroom has a window in it as well.
There are two guest rooms (I think? There might be three idk) that are set up for guests but are mostly empty, just having plain full size beds in them with a bedside table and a dresser. These rooms are VERY plain and unlived in.
The room at the very end of the hall across from the guest bedroom is James' music room. It's got a collection of guitars in it as well as a black sofa against the back wall and a stool that can be moved around the room. This room is the most lived in aside from the bedroom. It's very cluttered and full, it's also the room James spends the most time in with his friends. There are posters hung up on the walls from other bands as well as some Metallica memorabilia. Mostly just a collection of things that James likes, stuff that makes him happy.
There is an attic and a basement but I think the attic is probably empty and the basement is probably unfinished and just used for storage.
Anyway I hope this helped and wasn't boring lmao.
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