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commentboxed for the kink meme ♥
Your name is Dave Strider, and you're pretty much sure your younger ectobiotwin sister is making out with a guy on your front steps.
The only question this poses is how badly you wreck her chances with him (and subsequently, his chances with her). Irreparably? Prohibitively? Superfluously? Or just substantially?
You decide to shoot for 'substantially,' since you haven't met this guy yet.
So when you open the door, all you say is, "Hey, Rose, Dad wanted me to tell you to pick up all your Squiddles from the living room floor," instead of "Hey, Rose, you left your dead stuffed cat out of the mausoleum again; Dad's mass hacked."
It's still enough to make her break away and turn around. You look past her and her seething, barely-contained rage to the guy she was just macking on.
He's pretty, which is definitely not a good thing. He might actually be wearing eyeliner; it's hard to tell in the porchlight. Either way, you probably should have come at this one with 'irreparable' in mind.
"Aww, you have a Squiddle collection?"
Yeah, you definitely should've been gunning for irreparable. You probably should have gone for the wizard porn + dead cat obsession combo.
Rose's scowl morphs easily into a smirk, then melts into a bright smile as she turns to face her date. You lean in the doorway like a jerk.
"I wouldn't call it a collection, precisely, but I suppose I'm possessed of a number of stuffed Squiddles."
"You'll have to show me sometime," the douchebag says, and you make another tally mark under the 'strikes against Babyface McMaybelline' column. There are no marks in the other column, which is labeled 'votes in favour of my sister getting laid.'
She's way too aware of you standing back there to linger and keep talking, so she settles for a deliberate kiss on the boy's cheek, which is probably baby-butt soft and just as powdery, before turning to push you into the house with a disdainful hand. You go, but you force her to duck under your arm before you close the door, so you have a good, long second to look at the guy as he's descending the steps.
He glances over his shoulder, and you cock an eyebrow over the top of your shades. Gratifyingly, he hurries a little faster.
You shut the door, turning around to folded arms and a tapping foot.
"Dave, do you have a problem with my dating?"
"Jesus, yes. I talk to my therapist about it every week; she says it's emotionally draining for me to put up with, and that you're a terrible sister if you keep seeing other guys."
Rose's mouth quirks, down or up, you're not sure. "Other guys besides you?"
"No, other guys besides John. I want you to date John."
Now she looks genuinely curious, and you wonder if you've just done a bad thing. What if she seriously wants to date John? It could be worse, but fuck, best friends and sisters are not a thing that should be happening.
"Why would you want me to date John?"
You walk past her, into the kitchen, and return to slaving over the pizza you were making. It's half-Hawaiian, half-supreme, like always. Her heels click after you.
"John is a 'nice guy,'" she begins, answering her own question. "You could rest easy knowing that he wouldn't hurt me, and since he's your friend, you could keep a close eye on our relationship as it develops, yes?" When you wordlessly offer her a slice of ham, she accepts it and smiles triumphantly. "You're sweet, Strider."
"Actually, I was thinking that John was as close as you could get to being a lesbian, since you won't actually date girls."
Extravagant eyerolling. She swallows the ham. "Who said I wouldn't date girls?"
You grin briefly at the pizza. Victory secured.
"Oh, my bad. I guess you just don't bring the girls home. I wouldn't, either, if I had a brother as hot as me."
It works; she smacks you in the shoulder with a halfhearted backhand and starts for the stairs, taking her headband off. "I'm taking a bath. Call me when the pizza's ready."
That's a tally in the 'Dave Strider is a slick motherfucker column,' right beside the 'Rose Lalonde got lucky' column. Hot shit.
from here.
The only question this poses is how badly you wreck her chances with him (and subsequently, his chances with her). Irreparably? Prohibitively? Superfluously? Or just substantially?
You decide to shoot for 'substantially,' since you haven't met this guy yet.
So when you open the door, all you say is, "Hey, Rose, Dad wanted me to tell you to pick up all your Squiddles from the living room floor," instead of "Hey, Rose, you left your dead stuffed cat out of the mausoleum again; Dad's mass hacked."
It's still enough to make her break away and turn around. You look past her and her seething, barely-contained rage to the guy she was just macking on.
He's pretty, which is definitely not a good thing. He might actually be wearing eyeliner; it's hard to tell in the porchlight. Either way, you probably should have come at this one with 'irreparable' in mind.
"Aww, you have a Squiddle collection?"
Yeah, you definitely should've been gunning for irreparable. You probably should have gone for the wizard porn + dead cat obsession combo.
Rose's scowl morphs easily into a smirk, then melts into a bright smile as she turns to face her date. You lean in the doorway like a jerk.
"I wouldn't call it a collection, precisely, but I suppose I'm possessed of a number of stuffed Squiddles."
"You'll have to show me sometime," the douchebag says, and you make another tally mark under the 'strikes against Babyface McMaybelline' column. There are no marks in the other column, which is labeled 'votes in favour of my sister getting laid.'
She's way too aware of you standing back there to linger and keep talking, so she settles for a deliberate kiss on the boy's cheek, which is probably baby-butt soft and just as powdery, before turning to push you into the house with a disdainful hand. You go, but you force her to duck under your arm before you close the door, so you have a good, long second to look at the guy as he's descending the steps.
He glances over his shoulder, and you cock an eyebrow over the top of your shades. Gratifyingly, he hurries a little faster.
You shut the door, turning around to folded arms and a tapping foot.
"Dave, do you have a problem with my dating?"
"Jesus, yes. I talk to my therapist about it every week; she says it's emotionally draining for me to put up with, and that you're a terrible sister if you keep seeing other guys."
Rose's mouth quirks, down or up, you're not sure. "Other guys besides you?"
"No, other guys besides John. I want you to date John."
Now she looks genuinely curious, and you wonder if you've just done a bad thing. What if she seriously wants to date John? It could be worse, but fuck, best friends and sisters are not a thing that should be happening.
"Why would you want me to date John?"
You walk past her, into the kitchen, and return to slaving over the pizza you were making. It's half-Hawaiian, half-supreme, like always. Her heels click after you.
"John is a 'nice guy,'" she begins, answering her own question. "You could rest easy knowing that he wouldn't hurt me, and since he's your friend, you could keep a close eye on our relationship as it develops, yes?" When you wordlessly offer her a slice of ham, she accepts it and smiles triumphantly. "You're sweet, Strider."
"Actually, I was thinking that John was as close as you could get to being a lesbian, since you won't actually date girls."
Extravagant eyerolling. She swallows the ham. "Who said I wouldn't date girls?"
You grin briefly at the pizza. Victory secured.
"Oh, my bad. I guess you just don't bring the girls home. I wouldn't, either, if I had a brother as hot as me."
It works; she smacks you in the shoulder with a halfhearted backhand and starts for the stairs, taking her headband off. "I'm taking a bath. Call me when the pizza's ready."
That's a tally in the 'Dave Strider is a slick motherfucker column,' right beside the 'Rose Lalonde got lucky' column. Hot shit.
from here.