Be warned! This blog contains Teen Wolf, Bones, Kurt Hummel, Blaine hate, WWE and many other fandom-related things leaning heavily to the side of slash.
I also reblog about feminism, equality, LGBTQ issues, rape-culture, fat-positivism, mental issues and art.
Also, there will be cats.
You and me both anon, you and me both.
Boyd liked to think he was patient, resilient, resistant. Immune to quite a lot of things. They were all trained traits, strengthened by the fact he spent most of his school life alone, and they only grew with his time as a part of a wolf pack in a town that could hardly go a week without a supernatural emergency.
What it didn’t prepare him for was Stiles and his goddamn mouth.
Even before they got together Boyd could hardly peel his eyes away from those plush, glistening lips, the perfect cupid bow of his mouth. It drove him half mad: the way Stiles would catch his lower lip between his teeth when he was nervous, how pretty red and swollen it would be after; the way Stiles’ mouth would be slightly open, showing the way he’d drag the tip of his tongue over the edge of his teeth when he was deep in thought. The way Stiles wrapped his mouth around everything and anything within easy reach when he was pouring over a book: pens, the cuff of his shirt, the strings of his hoodie, a straw of his drink, his fingers that one time he had nothing else to chew on.
It was maddening when Stiles wasn’t conscious of the effect it had on Boyd. But now, three months into being together and countless times Boyd got caught staring and explaining just what Stiles was doing to him. Now when Stiles knew exactly how worked up it got him it was pure torture.
It didn’t even matter that they were in the middle of a meeting and that half the room could smell Boyd’s arousal. He couldn’t even remember the reason for them gathering at the loft. All he could focus on was Stiles, perched on a stool across from Boyd and nibbling on the pad of his thumb.
Boyd could see clearly the white of his teeth as they closed around the digit, lazily, dragging against it until they would snap silently on empty air. How Stiles would flick his tongue over it and suck it back in again only to repeat it all over. And it would all seem absentminded, the way Stiles always seemed to need something in his mouth to stay focused, if not for his hot, amber eyes dead set on Boyd.
Oh Stiles knew exactly what he was doing, knew what buttons he was pushing and how hard in his jeans Boyd was. And he knew, too, what would happen after, when Scott will finally snap and throw them out. When Boyd will hardly have the patience to let Stiles drive them to his house, when he won’t give him time to get undressed before he’ll tear at Stiles clothes, When he’d back Stiles into the first free wall, his back to Boyd’s chest, and there won’t be any fumbling, just a deep guttural groan as Boyd will sink into him. Because Stiles was ready for him, wet and open all through the meeting and driving Boyd to the edge. Ready for the bruising clamp of Boyd’s fingers on his hips, for Boyd’s mouth wet, hot and sharp on the skin of his neck. For the sharp slap of their bodies, and the hard and deep drag of Boyd’s cock because Stiles knew exactly how to make him lose control.
Kinda curious how many people this is true of.
Specifically Blaine for me: how the character is written, how the character is treated by the other characters (problematic behavior never called out, etc.), how much screentime the character was given, and how many fucking songs Blaine has butchered.
literally 100% same