lmao i’m so happy and surprised to see how this thing blew up. this style of poetry is actually an entire genre in hindavi literature. it is a type of folk poetry called kahmukarni, and it involves two playful female speakers seemingly speaking about their lovers and ending in a wordplay. they’re very earthy-sounding in their folk performances, and they are traditionally sung by women. here’s another one by khusrow that i like:
p.s. these are all from sunil sharma’s translations (which is prob as good as it gets in translation)
Sterek AU: Derek has been trying to make a move on his son’s babysitter for months. It seems impossible to him that Stiles doesn’t know how he feels. He just bought a damn puppy because Stiles said it might be good for Scott!
When he realises that somehow Stiles doesn’t know that Derek’s in love with him, his path suddenly becomes ridiculously clear. This time Stiles will be left with absolutely no doubt that Derek wants him. It’s time to make their little family official.
okay, fuckers, we did it. we got here. we finished. IT IS DONE. we have an unprecedented TWO pieces of art for this bitch now: andavs’ and nosetothewind94′s. um, i hate all of you for making me super sappy about this being the end because a lot of it is how much fun i’ve had with you during this and, yeah, that’s your fault. 100%.
Derek’s
hand clamps down on Stiles’ ass, hitching him closer, higher, and Stiles can
feel divots from his nails—claws—even through the thick fabric of his
jeans and groans. He leans back, rips off his hoodie, plants his palms on
Derek’s shoulders, pressing him harder into his bedroom door, then smooths up
his neck, into his dumb, messy hair and tugs at his stupid beard until their
mouths are clashing and crashing and Derek’s pulling him in again. A moan
beats up Stiles’ throat, tears him away and Stiles drops his forehead onto
Derek’s shoulder, clenches his hand around the back of Derek’s neck, still
riding the crests of his hips and pants out, “How are you so stupid hot, you
stupid hot hummingbird idiot?”
Derek
looks up at him, blue-eyed, crumple-faced, eyebrows furrowed in confusion or
disbelief or pure, unadulterated randiness—Stiles can’t exactly read his facial
expressions when he’s being all mythical. His dick gives a harrowing
twitch regardless of the emotion being expressed because Derek’s so into him
that he can’t keep his cool even a little.
And it’s
literally written all over his face.
Stiles
smirks and digs and grabs and accidentally scrapes his nails hard against
Derek’s abdomen in an effort to yank his jeans apart and down. The red
scratches on Derek’s skin disappear almost as quickly as they appear and Stiles
snorts. “You are every bit as unreal as I thought you were. Like a Drop Dead Fred that you bang.”
“He and
Phoebe Cates do make out,” Derek pants back into his mouth.
Stiles
pulls away. Blinks. Shakes his head. How did he get so fucking lucky? For real? “You’re just my favorite
person, you know that?”
Derek’s
lips start to kick out in a breathless smile and then he’s grabbing Stiles
close again, arching his hips, running his hand up into Stiles’ hair and
tugging his head back so he can look into his eyes and crush their mouths
together again. His teeth butt up against Stiles’ lips, smooth, sharpen,
invade and withdraw as different parts of Derek all blend together, every part wanting closer.
Stiles
slides his hand down into Derek’s pants, wraps his fingers around his perfect penis and then Derek’s pushing him back, off, reaching down his back
and pulling off his shirt, sitting on the edge of Stiles’ mattress and using
one shoe to kick off the other.
He grabs
for Stiles’ wrist when he only continues to stand there like a shell-shocked
dumbass, staring at the motion of Derek’s chest, the dusting of hair, the tight
nipples and dark trail of hair beneath his navel. Claws scrape but don’t
dig against the soft inside of his forearm and then he’s being tugged into
Derek, standing and kissing and stroking through his hair, down his neck, over
the backs of his shoulders and following his spine and then up to do it all over again because his hands just can’t find enough of Derek to touch.
Derek
shifts back on the bed and Stiles follows mindlessly, pulling Derek’s thighs up
around his waist and humping him into the mattress. Derek’s still all
motion, reaching behind Stiles and hooking a finger into his socks, pushing him
back by his chest so he can slide out of his jeans and boxers and then he’s
dragging Stiles back, rubbing his cock against the sweat-damp thatch of hair on Stiles’
stomach, his mouth open and catching on good, broken sounds and Stiles
reaches for his nightstand and Derek says, “Don’t—don’t need it.”
Stiles
blinks at him, says blankly, “What,” and Derek presses up into him and Stiles
barely manages to brace himself against the trembling that tears through him.
Derek’s hand grabs him tight around the vein-popped forearm that Stiles is using to
prop himself up, holding onto him like Stiles is all that’s grounding him.
Derek’s
teeth literally chatter as his body shakes and he says, “Condom, lube—don’t
need—don’t want it.” His hands slip on the sweat on Stiles’ arm, the back of his neck, grabbing and twisting and tightening and doing
everything to hold on as their bodies rise and fall against each other’s.
Stiles
swallows and presses into Derek’s chest to stop him for all of a minute because he
can’t think, not with Derek surging against him like that, fucking him
without fucking him. He rears back enough that he can press the heel of
his palm to his dick and perk an eyebrow curiously. “So what am I
supposed to believe here? That you, like… self-lubricate?”
Derek
stares at him. He’s debauched, mouth red and swollen and chest rising and
falling rapidly and his hips still hitching slightly, perfect penis having left
a slick smear across his abdomen, thighs gripping Stiles’ tight. He cocks
his head, raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “Really.”
Stiles
holds up his hands defensively. “Hey, fanfiction is a scary place, okay.”
shealwaysreads 