#I feel like I both missed something and put too much in

[gifsbysimplysonia]

Many thanks to @buckets-and-trees for putting this one on my dash.

Something @witchywithwhiskey is SO well versed at is environment building? I don't feel like that's the correct phrase, but I also can't come up with the right one lol. I'm not as good with words as they are :P But the entire opening of this story is so full of vibrant, rich sensory detail that I saw the whole thing play out like the opening credits of one of my beloved Hallmark / Netflix romance movies. Gritty sandy sidewalks, the sound of waves being a soundtrack to the walk, feeling her bathing suit digging into her skin and her thighs chafing (as a fat gal, I know that one well) under her dress. It was all just SO VIVID because the descriptions are so well written and I love being immediately immersed in Brambleberry Cove (how cute is that for a seaside small town name too, btw).

Seeing Steve Rogers for the first time in over 15 years made something loosen in your chest, anxiety uncoiling from around your heart and shaking free for the first time in a long time. A sense of safety and comfort washed over you, and you had the sudden thought that this was how you were supposed to feel about coming home. 

When I tell y'all I screamed into my pumpkin pillow at these lines because ... I struggle so much with describing emotion, no doubt because I am not good at feeling or processing it myself, right? LOL but this description of feeling safe and comfortable and the revelation that THIS is what coming home feels like...refer back to the GIF cuz omgggggggggggggggggg. So good.

The kids, a boy and a girl, both stared up at him with wide eyes, shyness and wonder clear in their twin expressions. They looked to their parents for permission before shyly revealing what flavors they’d like to try. Steve gave a deep, hearty chuckle at their timidness, and complimented them on their choices, which seemed to make them both loosen up a bit.

All of the physical description of Steve is TOP TIER but I love this moment being observed because it's one of those times where I feel like canon Steve comes through in someone's characterization of him. Steve being inherently good at noticing and respecting how shy or nervous people are - especially kids - and knowing how to ease that? Yes. All the yes. That is so Steve Rogers.

But you couldn’t leave without talking to him. Not when he was right there and it had been so long and you were dying to know everything that he’d done in the last 15 years since you saw him last. 

This makes me giggle because I, too, would be TERRIFIED of talking to THE Steve Rogers - let alone a Steve Rogers I had grown up with - but my nosy ass would want to know EVERYTHINGGGGG I'd missed with him lol

“Hey there, buttercup,” Steve rumbled, his tone as friendly and familiar as it had always been. All of a sudden, it felt like no time had passed at all. 

THE WAY I WOULD POOF INTO THANOS DUST IF THAT VOICE CALLED ME BY THAT NICKNAME, GOOD LORDT.

Still, a thought needled you as you stood across the counter from Steve—the knowledge that if you did let yourself break down and cry, he wouldn’t hesitate to fold you into that broad chest of his, wrapping you up in his thick arms and holding you so securely, the world might not seem so grim anymore. 

It's crazy to me lol cuz I am someone who will deny deny deny how I feel to my own detriment. But I'm reading about this person who actually ALREADY KNOWS HOW SHE FEELS from every observation she's had about Steve since she entered Seaside Scoops ... but I guess only subconsciously? But it's so funny to see the juxtaposition of her thoughts and feelings but then her logic coming in and trying to be like, I don't know why I am feeling these feelings. YES YOU DO, MISS, YES YOU DO.

You chalked it up to nostalgia and the rough time you were having, forcing yourself to take a deep breath and paste on a bright smile.

Having been in this position myself (and going through it again now in Q4 of 2024), I so badly want to hug her because she feels as though she has to hide how she's really doing and really feeling. But oh man, do I get it.

Steve is also still drawing in this 'Verse cuz the Seaside Scoops mascot is a shark Steve drew FOR HER back when she knew him originally and I THINK THAT IS SO PRECIOUS! I kind of want to commission someone to actually draw it now, hmmmmmmm.

“Is a dipped twist still your favorite?” he asked, clearly trying to change the subject and your smile dimmed just a little. The Steve you’d known had been shy about showing his art to anyone but you, and it seemed that you’d been gone long enough to be lumped in with everyone else. 

I want to die at how cute he is cuz this Steve still can't take a compliment, still has a memory like a steel trap, and a habit of making people feel special with his thoughtfulness. There's intimacy in someone knowing your order of anything, really ... ice cream, coffee, meal at the corner diner. And it's noticing deets that REALLY resonates with me and makes me melt as a reader *screams into my pumpkin pillow again*

You and Steve weren’t friends anymore, and you needed to accept that. It was unreasonable to hold him to a promise he’d made more than two decades ago, especially when you were the one who’d left and had barely tried to stay in touch between college classes and exploring your new city.

*sing song voice* hate thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis lol I don't know why on earth she didn't keep up her promise to stay in touch and stay friends with Steve but it makes me want to step on her stubbed toe >:P I get that "life happens," but as someone who felt like the one always following up with friends when they went off to live another life, I just ... he deserved better.

For a long moment, you simply stared at each other. Steve really had grown up and changed so much, the evidence in the weathered grooves of his forehead and the lines between his brows, but his eyes still looked the same—soft as clouds, warm as the summer sun. 

It's the continued reference to elements that remind me of the town and the summertime to describe him that I am so enjoying.

For a long moment, you couldn’t get over the way Steve had been able to read your mind, to pluck the thought that you were strangers to each other out of your brain and then tell you he didn’t want that to be the case. Your mind raced with questions. Did he still think of you as friends? Did he remember the promise you’d made all those years ago to always be friends? How did he know the exact right thing to say?  But then the rational side of your brain resurfaced from wherever your heart had momentarily buried it, and you remembered his farewell was a normal thing for people to say to each other. Especially people who hadn’t seen each other in a while and likely would again because they both lived in a very small town. That’s all it was, just a normal goodbye.  Not Steve Rogers somehow reading your mind because he knew you so well.

The longing? Is killing me. It's delicious but she KEEPS TALKING HERSELF OUT OF WHAT'S GOING ON which makes me want to again, stomp on her stubbed toe lol

Your mood was decidedly better, and you enjoyed the walk home, refusing to think too much about why exactly you felt lighter and happier and less miserable about being home in Brambleberry Cove than you had before going to Seaside Scoops. It was just the ice cream, obviously. There was no other reason.

"There was no other reason."

Me:

It was probably for the best, though. You were drunk and horny and if you weren’t careful, you would’ve gone home with Brock Rumlow. Just thinking about it made you grimace at yourself and your poor almost-decisions. 

EW, GURL, EW. Thank you, Bucky, for saving her from that and calling Steve.

The fact Steve is driving her home in his truck and there's reference to the salty sea air as well as the smell of the leathery interior of his truck is once again SO GOOD. I was immediately inside that truck, staring at Steve's profile myself, feeling what I also imagine is a not-so-smooth ride cuz I'm imagining an older truck lol Again, the sensory detail work is top notch.

She is BLITZED and saying all her inside thoughts out loud which at first makes Steve laugh but then when she talks about how he looks different but the same cuz his eyes are the same and the bump in his nose is still there and his lips are soft and full ... oof! The mood SHIFTS. Cuz he's like, yeah nobody else even saw those things BUTTERCUP *swoon* and in her drunkenness, she's all indignant and says well then they never really saw YOU, Steve and I am SCREAMINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG cuz OMG GURL JUST SAY YOU LOVE HIM ALREADY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! But Steve's response made me have to jump up out of my bed and take a lap around the couch cuz

“No, no one ever saw me as well as you did, buttercup,” Steve said, his voice low and warm, and your heart promptly rioted in your chest. 

THIS. IS. A. ROMANCE. MOVIE! I'm TELLING you! It has all the correct beats!

There was something so dizzyingly wonderful about hearing Steve say such intimate words to you in that deep, caramel voice of his, genuine affection shining through his tone. It took your breath away for a moment, and your brain short-circuited. 

All of this makes me think, ok we are about to get INTO it but everything takes a TURN. Cuz we find out they already had sex once. I guess it was both their first times and Steve, bless his heart, finished in 3 seconds. Because of that, he asked Bucky if it counted cuz he wasn't sure, and homegirl is PISSED at this revelation for some reason. It's a WILD turn.

“Don’t you dare,” you snarled, the words bursting out of you with a ferocity you’d never used in your life, let alone when talking to Steve. But you were furious all of a sudden, and it wasn’t until the words were spilling from your mouth that you understood why you were so angry. “Don’t you dare try to take this away from me, Steven Grant Rogers.” Your voice was seething and barely recognizable, but you couldn’t stop. “You were my first, and it was perfect—because it was you.” 

The way I legit sat here clutching my pillow like ... not knowing what to do for a good 30 seconds after reading this. Cuz of course she has to be DRUNK to reveal exactly how she feels about him, right? But that she is so VEHEMENTLY ANGERED by Steve inadvertently almost taking away "credit" or whatever? It's insane! Like, what more do we need to know she is IN LOVE WITH HIM?!?!

But crazily, we don't get into THAT conversation, they continue arguing about their first time lol! He insists she deserved better, she reveals he went down on her and gave her 3 orgasms which ... way to go, sir lol

The silence grew until it was suffocating, and you needed to break it. So you said the first thing that came to mind. Again. “You’re who I think about when I touch myself, Steve.” Your words drifted from your side of the truck to the other, carried on the light breeze floating through the cab. “I think about you and that night, and it gets me off every single time.”

The way I expected him to HIT THE DAMN BRAKES and them to go off a cliff at this point because THAT IS THE REACTION THIS CONFESSION DESERVES!

Instead, he tells her he thinks about her too so she undoes her seatbelt and almost makes him crash lol but he pulls over then REFUSES to give into the gorgeous woman literally BEGGING HIM FOR JUST THE TIP because ... Steve Rogers will not do that with someone who is drunk which is SO GEE DEE STEVE ROGERS it makes me wanna hug him and then kick him in the shins lol

Steve’s hand slid down from your cheek to wrap around the front of your throat, and you stilled immediately, something about the possessive, dominant gesture making you calm. That was new, Steve hadn’t done anything like that when you’d first been together, but you liked it more than you would’ve expected.

Nothing like when a kink comes out of NOWHERE to slap me in the face. LORDT.

“I won’t fuck you only to wake up tomorrow and find out you regret it,” Steve said, enunciating all his words clearly despite the fact that his teeth were grinding together “That you only wanted it because you needed to scratch an itch. When I fuck you again,” he growled, his words a promise. “I don’t want you drunk on anything but my cock.” 

Damn him for making nobility so hawt but also vocalizing how much he actually WOULD LIKE TO BE PHYSICAL WITH HER cuz straight up rejection could hurt if he didn't add that in.

You wanted to hear every flavor of your nickname on Steve’s tongue. You wanted to hear him whisper it like a prayer, and groan it into your lips while he kissed you. You wanted to hear Steve shout your nickname while he came with you. 

That whole section is just deliciously written.

What follows and I will not quote because y'all NEED TO GO READ IT FOR YOURSELVES is SUCH a ride. Because Steve won't pursue anything physical but he tells her, he holds no qualms about her pursuing her own pleasure...while in his lap...WITH HIS HAND AROUND HER THROAT.

THENNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN THEN THENNNNNNNNNNNNNNN he starts dirty talking and CHEESE AND RICE, Y'ALL! Better have your own pillow or sound absorbing something to use when reading this section cuz it is soooooooooooooooooooooooo

Cuz then SHE also starts voicing FILTHY thoughts and the give and take between the two is so incredibly fire. *fans self* I was literally sweating.

Eventually things wrap up and gentleman that Steve is, he takes her back to her rental and hangs out to ensure she gets in bed ok.

“I don’t regret anything we’ve done together, Stevie,” you mumbled, the side of your mouth hitching up in a lopsided smile. “I’m glad you were my first.” You lost the battle with your eyes and they fell closed. You also, apparently, lost the fight against biting back your feelings, murmuring sleepily, “I want you to be my last.”   For a long moment, Steve was quiet. He seemed to wait until you were just on the edge of sleep before responding to your drunken confession.  “Tell me that again when you’re not drunk, and I’ll believe you, buttercup,” Steve murmured, ducking down to press a kiss to your hand, still wrapped loosely around his wrist, before carefully extricating himself. 

THIS IS A ROMANCE MOVIE, YOU GUYS, I'M TELLING YOUUUUUUU. The way it so vividly plays in my mind.

I know not to be that reader that demands more or anything like that, but in the A/N it was expressed that this was an idea that has been with the author for a while and they just don't know if they will ever get to flesh it out completely. But I feel like we have 2 really full acts here ALREADY so there only needs to be one more ... it's such a rich setting, Steve is such a fully developed character already, and their relationship and this being second chance romance (which I am SO obsessed with right now) ... it's just something I REALLY REALLY enjoyed. Beautifully done, and actually because the almost sex is as hot as it is, it's actually a movie that has to be done for PASSIONFLIX so we don't get fade to black lol

@witchywithwhiskey this is a masterpiece and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for writing and sharing. As someone trying to write my own second chance romance, I feel like a lot of this is a master lesson in how to do it WELL. And of course thanks again to Aspen for putting it on my dash to begin with. It's one I know I'm going to revisit often (and have a few times already).

first and last

pairing: childhood best friend!steve rogers x female reader

summary: after more than a decade away from your home town—and your childhood best friend—you return. everything is exactly the same, but also, entirely different.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), fluff, angst, smut, drunken antics, some arguing, drunk masturbation (f) with an audience, semi-public, choking, dirty talk, praise kink, begging, boundaries, very light bdsm vibes, references to past sexual intimacy (piv sex, oral sex [f receiving]), nicknames (buttercup, baby), aftercare

word count: 8.8k

a/n: this is my entry in @the-slumberparty's Sundae Bar Challenge, and i've been working on it since june so i'm very excited to post it!!! i wanted to make a sundae i'd actually eat so i used the prompts Butterscotch (childhood friends) and Caramel (drunk/delirious/not in their right mind). it also might be a bit literal to have Steve working at an ice cream shop but whatever!!

i mentioned when i teased this fic that i'd thought about turning it into a much longer story/potentially saving it for a novel, but honestly i just don't know when or if i'll ever have time to do that. but these scenes don't necessarily follow right after each other, so if they feel disconnected, that's why. they're just the ones i wanted to write 😅

The sidewalk of Brambleberry Cove was warm from a full day under the August sun, the concrete gritty with sand beneath your bare feet as you walked the rest of the short distance to Seaside Scoops from your rental house a few blocks away. 

The sun dipped low on the western horizon, casting long shadows over the coastal town like stretching fingers reaching for the Atlantic Ocean. You could hear the steady sound of the crashing waves over the near distant sand dunes, their rhythm a background to your walk. 

It could’ve been a peaceful moment—you were back in your home town, surrounded by familiar sights and sounds and smells. But you were in a wretched mood, and all you could focus on was everything wrong with the world and your current place in it.

There was, of course, the throbbing pain in your big toe from when you’d stubbed it moments ago on the cursed, charming sidewalk, as well as the slight sting on the sides of your foot where your flip flop straps had torn. Your ruined shoes dangled from your fingers because Brambleberry Cove didn’t have a trash can on every street corner like the city you were accustomed to living in. 

In addition to those grievances, the straps of your bathing suit—which you hadn’t worn in far too long and hadn’t realized had become too small—were digging into your shoulders and hips uncomfortably. And, though you’d only been walking for five minutes from the little bungalow you were renting, your thighs were already beginning to chafe beneath the simple dress you’d thrown on. 

All told, you were not in the mood to appreciate the simple beauty of Brambleberry Cove. Instead of admiring the sun-bleached cottages that gave way to the small coastal shops lining main street, and letting yourself sink into the comfort of being back in your tiny beachside home town, you were fixated on everything wrong in your life—both in that moment and the larger scheme of things.

In your defense, though, there was a lot wrong in your life. There’d had to be to get you back to your home town after so long away. 

There was the dream job you’d lost, the ex who’d left you for someone else, and the friends who’d all promised to be there for you, but then vanished when you actually needed help. The only people who’d come through for you were your parents, who’d had a friend willing to rent a little Brambleberry Cove bungalow to you for a fraction of its normal summer price since it was already August and they weren’t going to make much more money anyway. 

You’d had to pack up and leave the city where you’d built your life for 15 years, and move back to your home town, which you hadn’t seen in nearly that long since your parents had moved out west shortly after you’d graduated high school. Being back home made you feel like you weren’t only taking a single step backward, but moving leaps and bounds in the wrong direction. It made you feel like a failure. 

But you tried not to think about all that on your short walk to Seaside Scoops, instead focusing on the pain in your toe and the digging ache of your bathing suit. 

By the time you saw the familiar neon sign for the ice cream shop, it felt like finding an oasis in the desert. You picked up your pace, ignoring the way your body protested, the soles of your feet no longer used to walking on the sandy sidewalk like you’d done countless times growing up in Brambleberry Cove. 

You could see through the window that there was a short line in Seaside Scoops, and you hurriedly pushed through the door of the shop. Once inside, you breathed in the familiar scent of sugar and hot fudge and reveled in the feel of the air conditioner ghosting over your sun-warmed shoulders. 

Surreptitiously, you shoved your ruined flip flops into the garbage just inside the door and got in line behind the couple with their two small children. You glanced around the shop, not really taking it in, and hoped whoever was working behind the counter was still lax on the ‘no shirt, no shoes, no service’ rule that had theoretically been in place since before you were born—but had never been enforced in practice. 

Finally looking to the counter, wondering idly if you’d recognize who was working or if it’d be some local teen that had been a baby the last time you’d been to Brambleberry Cove, you were shocked to see who was working at Seaside Scoops. Your belly swooped like you were standing on a boat on the choppy sea, your heart racing when you recognized the man behind the counter. At one time, he’d been the boy you’d shared so much of your childhood with, so many of your summers with. 

When you got a good look at him, you were almost surprised you recognized him so fast. He was no longer the scrawny teenager you’d left behind when you’d gone off to college and never looked back. He looked so different from the boy you’d known well enough you could recall his face in perfect detail, but, in so many ways, exactly the same.

On the whole, it was a shock to see the man Steve Rogers had become. 

Sandy brown hair fell on either side of his handsome, suntanned face, swept back like he had a habit of running his hands through it countless times a day. A short, well-kept beard decorated his strong jaw, bracketing a set of soft pink lips that were curved in a devastating grin. His bright blue eyes sparkled beneath the fluorescent lights of the shop, and when he spoke to the family in front of you in line, his voice rumbled like the distant roar of the ocean.

Seeing Steve Rogers for the first time in over 15 years made something loosen in your chest, anxiety uncoiling from around your heart and shaking free for the first time in a long time. A sense of safety and comfort washed over you, and you had the sudden thought that this was how you were supposed to feel about coming home. 

But you shoved that thought aside and continued your perusal of your childhood best friend, making note of all the ways he’d changed from the boy you’d known.

Thick, golden biceps were bare and bulging beneath the edge of his white t-shirt, and dense, brown hair covered corded forearms as Steve folded his arms on top of the ice cream case. He was tall—tall enough to lean over the case to talk to the kids with the couple in front of you, asking them about their favorite ice cream flavors and if they’d like to try anything new.

The kids, a boy and a girl, both stared up at him with wide eyes, shyness and wonder clear in their twin expressions. They looked to their parents for permission before shyly revealing what flavors they’d like to try. Steve gave a deep, hearty chuckle at their timidness, and complimented them on their choices, which seemed to make them both loosen up a bit.

Inexplicable heat flushed through your body at the sound of Steve’s deep laughter, and the easiness with which he interacted with the kids. You’d never been particularly good with children, mainly because you’d never had much of a chance to interact with any, and you’d never felt any particular desire to be around them. But seeing Steve looking like he did talking to those kids made your belly swoop again and something inside you pulse with a need you didn’t want to fully unpack.

Shoving those thoughts into a box in the back corner of your mind, you forced yourself to look away from your childhood friend and up at the menu that listed all the ice cream flavors. You’d been to Seaside Scoops hundreds of times in your life, if not thousands, and, at one time, you’d had the list memorized. 

Hopefully you still had that knowledge tucked away somewhere in your brain, because you weren’t taking in anything you were reading as you not-so-patiently waited for Steve to finish up with the customers in front of you.

It felt like forever, and by the time the family took their cups and cones of ice cream toward the side door that opened up into an outdoor seating area, you’d already cycled through three rounds of the same argument with yourself about why you should leave Seaside Scoops without talking to Steve. You couldn’t imagine your first conversation in 15 years going well.

But you couldn’t leave without talking to him. Not when he was right there and it had been so long and you were dying to know everything that he’d done in the last 15 years since you saw him last. 

Still, it took you a few extra seconds to gather the courage to lower your eyes from the menu board and finally look at your childhood friend. When you did, your gaze caught immediately on Steve’s, and your heart gave a little flip at the devastatingly charming smile on his impossibly handsome face.

“Hey there, buttercup,” Steve rumbled, his tone as friendly and familiar as it had always been. All of a sudden, it felt like no time had passed at all. 

“Hi, Steve,” you said, trying for the same casualness he’d achieved, but your voice sounded faint and faraway in your ears. The corners of your mouth flickered in a tremulous smile.

You couldn’t understand the surge of emotion filling your chest and rising in your throat, pricking at the backs of your eyes like you wanted to throw yourself into your oldest friend’s arms and sob about everything wrong in your life. 

The same deluge of emotion had hit you when you’d stubbed your toe on your walk to Seaside Scoops and you’d had to stand there by yourself, sucking in deep breaths of salty Brambleberry Cove air, nails biting into the flesh of your palms to keep yourself from breaking down. 

Just as you’d done then, you beat back the emotion, blinking your eyes rapidly to rid them of tears. Still, a thought needled you as you stood across the counter from Steve—the knowledge that if you did let yourself break down and cry, he wouldn’t hesitate to fold you into that broad chest of his, wrapping you up in his thick arms and holding you so securely, the world might not seem so grim anymore. 

You chalked it up to nostalgia and the rough time you were having, forcing yourself to take a deep breath and paste on a bright smile. Casting your eyes around Seaside Scoops, you pretended to give the place a real look, though you didn’t really notice much as you continued to blink back tears. 

“You work here now?” you asked lightly, looking at the new standee in the corner.

It was a cartoon shark holding up a sign advertising Seaside Scoops and their many ice cream flavors. But what caught your eye was that it looked a bit like the shark Steve had drawn for you when you’d gotten a bad grade sophomore year and wanted to cheer you up. It even had the same little sailor hat sitting perched on top of his head—which only made sense because sharks didn’t have blowholes, he’d told you at the time.

You’d smiled then, and you smiled again remembering it.

“Uhh,” Steve started, and you turned tear-free eyes back on your old friend, your gaze drawn to the way his bicep bulged against the sleeve of his t-shirt as he scuffed the back of his neck. There was a little bit of a sheepish tinge to his smile. “I actually own Scoops now,” he said in a rush, like he was confessing to something, though you couldn’t imagine what. “I bought it when Mr. Wallace retired down to Florida.”

“Oh,” was all you could think to say, glancing around the ice cream shop with a keener eye.

The shark standee wasn’t the only new thing in the place. Everything, from the tables and chairs to the menu board and counter, looked slightly newer than you remembered. Nothing was wildly different, which was why you hadn’t noticed it when you first looked around. Everything just looked better than it should if it had aged a decade since you’d last stepped into the shop.

Something about it made you think Seaside Scoops looked exactly like your memory of it—but the polished, perfect version in your head, instead of the place as it had been. Yellowed with age and a lack of upkeep. It was genuinely astounding what Steve had done with the place and it took you a few moments to find the right words, though they still felt pale in comparison to the bittersweet nostalgia in your heart.

“The place looks great,” you said with a half smile as you turned back to Steve. A small thread of pride wormed through your heart at seeing what your oldest friend had accomplished and your smile widened when he brightened under your praise. “I like the shark,” you said, hooking a thumb over your shoulder at the standee. 

A bit of pink tinted Steve’s cheeks above his beard, and he cleared his throat. 

“Is a dipped twist still your favorite?” he asked, clearly trying to change the subject and your smile dimmed just a little. The Steve you’d known had been shy about showing his art to anyone but you, and it seemed that you’d been gone long enough to be lumped in with everyone else. 

You swallowed back a lump in your throat and nodded. “Yeah, that’s still my favorite,” you answered, more than a little surprised Steve remembered your order.

Sure, you’d gone to Seaside Scoops together countless times as kids. It had been your hangout spot for most of your childhood, and even into your teen years. You’d study together over a cup of cookie dough with sprinkles for Steve and a cone of vanilla and chocolate softserve dipped in chocolate sauce for you. But that was more than a decade ago.

Your heart gave a heavy squeeze when you remembered the night before you’d left Brambleberry Cove, the way Steve reminded you of the promise you’d made as children—that you’d always be friends. Your stomach twisted into knots as you were confronted with the reality that you hadn’t kept up your end of the deal. You’d left, and you’d allowed your oldest friend to become a stranger. 

You wondered if Steve remembered the promise you’d made, the reminder he’d given you as a parting gift, or if he’d forgotten. You wondered if he’d ever want to be friends again.

Steve’s back was to you, his wrist flicking expertly beneath the softserve machine as he filled up a sugar cone with the twist of chocolate and vanilla. You forced yourself to push aside the memories of the past, blinking back more tears before Steve could catch them in your eyes. 

You and Steve weren’t friends anymore, and you needed to accept that. It was unreasonable to hold him to a promise he’d made more than two decades ago, especially when you were the one who’d left and had barely tried to stay in touch between college classes and exploring your new city.

With a great amount of effort, you kept your mind blissfully blank as you let your gaze trail idly over Steve’s broad back, unable to stop yourself from noticing just how wide his shoulders were, or the way they moved beneath the soft, worn cotton of his t-shirt. He really did fill out the shirt well, his sides tapering down to a thin waist. And his ass looked particularly good in the curve-hugging denim of his jeans. 

As Steve turned around, you raised your eyes quickly and arranged your expression into one of innocence. Steve paused, giving you a shrewd look like he would’ve done when you were teenagers and you were hiding something from him, but then he just shook his head and laughed under his breath, turning to the chocolate sauce where he’d dip your ice cream cone. 

“So, what brings you back to Brambleberry Cove, buttercup?” Steve asked, his gaze focusing on dipping your ice cream just right, a look of determination on his face that was endlessly endearing. 

You grimaced at the exact moment he glanced up at you, and he chuckled at the face you made. The sound was smooth as warm caramel and sent a new wave of heat rolling down your spine. 

“That bad, huh?” he asked, genuine interest in his tone.

Although there was a point in your life when you could’ve told Steve anything, and the urge to do so still lingered deep in your bones, you knew your relationship was different. You couldn’t dump all your problems on your childhood friend after not talking to him for 15 years. You didn’t even know if you were still friends anymore. 

Plus, there was a small crowd gathering behind you as the late dinner rush started to filter into Seaside Scoops. Even if you’d wanted to tell Steve everything that had happened to you in the 15 years since you’d last seen him, it wasn’t the time. 

So you just gave him a sad smile and accepted the ice cream cone from Steve’s hand, ignoring the butterflies and ticklish warmth that fluttered through your body at his touch. You gripped the sugar cone tight—but not too tight—so you didn’t fumble it. 

“Yeah,” you whispered in answer to his question, leaving it at that. There was an awkward beat, and your eyes dropped to the ice cream that was already beginning to melt despite the air conditioning in the shop. Thankfully, you had an easy way to move past Steve’s questions. 

You pulled some cash from the wristlet where you’d also stashed your phone and I.D., asking, “What do I owe you?” because you figured it must’ve been more expensive than what you remembered. And you didn’t want to risk looking up at the menu and catching Steve’s eye, not wanting any of the emotions or heat that seemed to flood you whenever you looked at him.

But a large, warm, golden hand closed over your fumbling fingers, startling you enough to look up into the sky blue eyes of your childhood friend. Your lips fell open in surprise as tingling warmth worked its way up your arm from your hand, wrapping around your heart and making it beat harder. 

For a long moment, you simply stared at each other. Steve really had grown up and changed so much, the evidence in the weathered grooves of his forehead and the lines between his brows, but his eyes still looked the same—soft as clouds, warm as the summer sun. 

“It’s on the house,” he murmured, his voice low and earnest, the thrum of some emotion you couldn’t identify laced through his words. “It was nice to see an old friend,” he said, giving your hand a squeeze before he pulled his away.

It wasn’t until Steve straightened up to his full height that you realized he’d been leaning over the counter, and your faces had been very close together. Heat crept into your cheeks at the realization that Steve had been in your personal space, and all you’d thought about was his eyes. 

Shoving all the money in your hand into the tip jar, you muttered, “Thanks, Steve.” As you zipped up your wristlet, you noticed that some of your ice cream was in danger of dripping onto your hand.

Without thinking, you licked quickly around the edge of the sugar cone, a soft moan slipping free when the cool sweetness of the ice cream hit your brain.

Steve made a strangled sound that dragged your attention away from your treat, finding your childhood best friend looking away and coughing into his fist, a deeper pink flushing his cheeks. You quirked your eyebrow in confusion when he looked back at you, but his expression gave nothing away and you had to wonder if you’d imagined the noise. It had almost sounded…aroused.

Shaking that thought clear from your mind, you gave Steve a smile and began to step away from the counter so he could help the next customer.

Steve’s eyes lingered on you, and he offered you one last charming, friendly smile, raising his hand in a wave. “Don’t be a stranger, buttercup,” he rumbled, his low words managing to reach your ears over the chatter in the shop. He gave you a long look, emotion swirling in those familiar eyes of his, and your breath caught in your throat.

The intensity of his gaze and the warmth in his parting words hit you straight in the gut, and you stood stunned in front of the register while Steve turned and walked to the other end of the ice cream case to help the next people in line. 

For a long moment, you couldn’t get over the way Steve had been able to read your mind, to pluck the thought that you were strangers to each other out of your brain and then tell you he didn’t want that to be the case. Your mind raced with questions. Did he still think of you as friends? Did he remember the promise you’d made all those years ago to always be friends? How did he know the exact right thing to say? 

But then the rational side of your brain resurfaced from wherever your heart had momentarily buried it, and you remembered his farewell was a normal thing for people to say to each other. Especially people who hadn’t seen each other in a while and likely would again because they both lived in a very small town. That’s all it was, just a normal goodbye. 

Not Steve Rogers somehow reading your mind because he knew you so well. 

With those rationalities ringing in your head, you dashed out of Seaside Scoops and it wasn’t until your feet had carried you to the next block that you remembered your broken shoes and stubbed toe and chafed thighs. 

But those problems didn’t seem quite so bad anymore. Not with the delicious ice cream cone in your hand, and the sunset casting Brambleberry Cove in gorgeous, golden light—and especially not with Steve’s warm, honeyed voice ringing in your head, calling you buttercup. 

It had felt so normal to hear the nickname roll off Steve’s tongue that you hadn’t even thought about it, hadn’t realized how long it had been since you’d last heard it. But, just as it had when you were younger, it filled your chest with a bright, golden warmth. You grinned to yourself as you strolled back to your little bungalow, licking up the melting ice cream as fast as you could.

Your mood was decidedly better, and you enjoyed the walk home, refusing to think too much about why exactly you felt lighter and happier and less miserable about being home in Brambleberry Cove than you had before going to Seaside Scoops. It was just the ice cream, obviously. There was no other reason.

“You’re staring.” Steve’s voice was low, the undercurrent of laughter in it almost mixing with the sounds of the distant waves. You could hear them through the open windows of his truck as he eased the vehicle down the winding road leading away from the docks on the north side of Brambleberry Cove. 

His comment dragged you out of your drunken haze, and you took a deep breath to get your bearings. Your lungs filled with the salty nighttime air of the sea and the earthy leather interior of your childhood best friend’s truck, a small smile curling the corners of your lips and your eyes sliding closed. When you forced them back open, you realized he was right.

Huh, you really were staring at Steve. 

Your head was swiveled to the side, your cheek pressed to the brown leather of the seat back, your eyes fixed on the profile of his face that was highlighted in the glossy silver of the moon and warmed by the golden light of the town’s street lamps. 

You couldn’t find it in yourself to feel embarrassed or ashamed for staring at Steve, though. And it was at that moment you realized you were drunk. 

It didn’t surprise you. After all, you were the one who’d thrown on some jean shorts and a cute top and then took yourself to Shanty’s, the only place in Brambleberry Cove to go if you were a local looking to avoid tourists. 

You’d been happy to see Bucky Barnes, your other oldest friend after Steve, manning the bar. But you’d been much less happy with him when he’d insisted on calling Steve to take you home after you’d downed more than your fair share of liquor. 

It was probably for the best, though. You were drunk and horny and if you weren’t careful, you would’ve gone home with Brock Rumlow. Just thinking about it made you grimace at yourself and your poor almost-decisions. 

Focusing back on Steve, you couldn’t fault Bucky too much for calling your old friend to pick you up—not when it had ended with you able to watch his side profile while he kept his eyes on the road. It felt practically shameful to indulge yourself so much. That is, if you’d had any shame left, but you’d drowned it all in alcohol.

“You’re still staring, buttercup,” Steve rumbled, the humor clearer in his tone. The edges of his mouth were flickering beneath the silvery golden light of Brambleberry Cove at night and you knew he was trying to suppress a smile. It was fascinating to watch, but then Steve rubbed his hand across his mouth, scrubbing through his beard, and it broke you free of your drunken trance.

“I just can’t get over how different you look,” you huffed, raising your arms and flopping them back against the seat in your best approximation of a shrug. “And how exactly the same.” 

Steve barked a laugh, the sharp sound bringing a smile instantly to your face. You’d never heard him laugh like that, and you couldn’t help but love that you were still discovering new things about him, even after knowing him all your life. 

He glanced over at you, his expression bemused like he was sure you were drunker than he’d thought. You probably were, but that didn’t stop you from being right, and you tried to convey that in the brief moment he looked at you. 

Steve’s gaze slid quickly down your body, not like he was checking you out—more like he was checking to make sure your seatbelt was still buckled and you weren’t in danger of doing anything ridiculous. You were only in danger of saying ridiculous things, at least, according to him apparently. He shook his head after he’d turned back to watching the road.

“You’re gonna have to explain that one to me, buttercup,” Steve said, a little bit of gruffness in his tone. He cleared his throat before he went on. “Usually when someone we went to high school with comes back, they tell me they never woulda recognized me.” 

You gave an unladylike snort, drawing another surprised laugh out of Steve before he bit off the sound to let you speak.

“Well those people should have their eyes checked,” you muttered scornfully, pushing yourself up from where you’d been slumped against the warm leather seat. You twisted your body in your seat so you were facing Steve, your eyes tracing the lines of his face from across the cab. “You still have the same eyes,” you pointed out vehemently, as if Steve was arguing with you, even though he wasn’t. “And your nose still has that little bump in it, and your lips are still so soft and full…”

You trailed off, realizing far too late that you were saying your inside thoughts out loud. Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, you watched Steve as he processed what you’d said—the way his fingers scratched a little nervously at his beard, those twin lines forming between his brows. Your gazed traced every curve and line and divot in his face, examining his expression, wanting to memorize it and save it for the rest of your life. 

“I don’t think any of those people noticed those things,” Steve murmured, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it over the slight breeze drifting through the windows while he drove through town. 

Your heart lurched at the implication of Steve’s words, but you couldn’t bring yourself to take them back, even if they were dangerously close to revealing something you hadn’t even had the courage to admit to yourself yet. 

Instead, you focused on your anger at the hypothetical people who weren’t recognizing Steve just because he’d grown up, gotten tall, gotten buff, grown out his hair and his beard and looked altogether very different to the skinny teenager he’d been.

“If they didn’t see those things, they didn’t really see you,” you muttered to yourself, indignant on Steve’s behalf, but trying to keep it to yourself. Apparently, you weren’t good at moderating the volume of your voice, because Steve snorted at your remark. 

“No, no one ever saw me as well as you did, buttercup,” Steve said, his voice low and warm, and your heart promptly rioted in your chest. 

There was something so dizzyingly wonderful about hearing Steve say such intimate words to you in that deep, caramel voice of his, genuine affection shining through his tone. It took your breath away for a moment, and your brain short-circuited. 

It was on the tip of your tongue to tell him…something. The thing you hadn’t admitted to yourself yet. But you were still you, and your brain tripped at the last moment, and instead you blurted, “Do you ever think about our first time?”

Steve choked on a snort, his eyes darting to you with honest surprise. You couldn’t blame him. You’d had no idea those words were gonna spill from your mouth until they were out, but you supposed they weren’t as bad as what you’d almost confessed, so you didn’t try to take them back or change the topic of conversation. You waited with bated breath for Steve’s response, and whether he remembered your night together when you were both 18.

When he saw you were anticipating his answer, he spluttered, “You mean when I came three seconds after getting inside you?” 

You began to smile, because he remembered, but then Steve continued talking.

“Y’know, I told Bucky about that once,” he said, his eyes fixed so fully on the road that you got the impression he didn’t want to meet your gaze and your stomach plummeted. “I was drunk, and didn’t know if it really counted as sex. Bucky was no help, of course—he said he didn’t know either since it was so quick.” 

Something new was swirling in your gut, and for long moments you could only sit there on the warm leather of the truck and stew in that hot, feral feeling. It must’ve showed on your face because, when Steve finally looked over at you after you’d been quiet for so long, the truck lurched forward, his foot pressing too hard to the gas.

“Don’t worry,” he rushed to say, guessing at what was upsetting you and guessing wrong. “I didn’t tell him it was with you.”

“Don’t you dare,” you snarled, the words bursting out of you with a ferocity you’d never used in your life, let alone when talking to Steve. But you were furious all of a sudden, and it wasn’t until the words were spilling from your mouth that you understood why you were so angry. “Don’t you dare try to take this away from me, Steven Grant Rogers.” Your voice was seething and barely recognizable, but you couldn’t stop. “You were my first, and it was perfect—because it was you.” 

Steve glanced over at you, something like shock written across his face, but when he looked back at the road, his brows settled low over his eyes. The muscle in his jaw popped and you knew he was grinding his teeth together, taking his time to gather his thoughts before he spoke. It took him a long moment to respond.

“You deserved better.”

The noise of your scoff was loud, even to your ears, and you strained against the seatbelt still buckling you into the passenger seat as you leaned toward your childhood friend.

“You ate me out until I came three times, Steve!” you cried, holding up three fingers as if the adult man your friend had grown into somehow didn’t know how many three was. “No man has ever made me come so many times in one night as you did then.” 

When Steve still didn’t look at you, just kept driving with his hands gripping the wheel and the muscle in his jaw popping, you huffed an exasperated sound and flopped back into your seat. Your back was to the leather as you crossed your arms over your chest and stared out at Brambleberry Cove through the open passenger side window. 

The silence grew until it was suffocating, and you needed to break it. So you said the first thing that came to mind. Again.

“You’re who I think about when I touch myself, Steve.” Your words drifted from your side of the truck to the other, carried on the light breeze floating through the cab. “I think about you and that night, and it gets me off every single time.”

Steve made a strangled kind of sound, like a growl that was torn free from his throat against his will. Then he was quiet, and he was quiet for so long, you thought that was the only reaction you’d get to admitting the truth. Until…

“I think about you, too, buttercup.”

The confession hung in the air between you, settling heavily onto the leather bench seat in Steve’s truck, the air rushing in through the open windows buffetting around it. 

You didn’t feel Steve’s admission sink into you. There was simply a before and an after. And in the after, you were moving. You were unbuckling your seatbelt and scooting across the seat toward Steve until your bare knee brushed against the denim of his jeans. 

He shot a startled look in your direction—which, in a distant part of your brain, you registered as completely adorable—before quickly pulling over to the side of the road. He was just throwing the truck into park when you slid into his lap, straddling his thighs and pressing your chest to his. 

“We should do it again,” you purred, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and leaning close. When Steve didn’t respond right away, just kept giving you that surprised look, you thought he might not have understood you, so you explained, “Have sex.”

Steve closed his eyes and a light tremor shuddered through his body as his hands settled respectfully on your waist, a few of his fingers brushing the skin where the edge of your tank top didn’t quite meet the waist of your shorts. Then, it was your turn to shudder, the feeling of his warm, calloused hands against your bare skin making heat flood between your thighs, your core warming and your body melting into your old friend’s hands.

“Please, Steve,” you whispered, tipping your head forward until your lips were a hairsbreadth from his, so close you could taste mint chocolate chip ice cream on his tongue and it took everything in you not to lick into his mouth desperately. Your voice was practically a whine as you went on, “Let’s see if we can do better this time.” 

Steve’s hands shifted to your hips, his fingers digging into your soft flesh hard enough to almost hurt, and you thought he was going to give in. But then he swallowed audibly, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and he pushed you gently away, his head tilting back against the leather seat so your lips no longer teased him with an almost-kiss.

“You’re drunk, buttercup.”

Steve’s voice was a delicious rasp, and you couldn’t help but shiver at the sound of it even as the meaning of his words settled into your drunken mind. You pouted at your childhood friend, hoping the fact that he hadn’t pushed you off his lap entirely meant he wasn’t saying no.

“And horny,” you said, the words slipping from your lips on another whine. Of their own volition, your hips squirmed on your oldest friend’s lap, trying to get closer, trying to find some kind of friction to work against the aching heat pulsing between your thighs. But Steve’s firm grip held you in place. “Stevie.” His name was nothing but a pathetic whimper. 

A low growl rumbled in Steve’s chest, and then one of his hands was abandoning your hip to cup your face, tilting it up so he could loom over you. The lines of his face were hard, stubborn, and the look in his eyes left no room for argument. 

“You know I won’t touch you when you’re drunk,” he bit out, his voice soft, but as firm as his hold on your body.

A memory slammed into you—you and Steve planning your first time together. You’d made a deal at the start of high school that if neither of you lost your virginity through all four years, then before going off to college, you’d lose it together. 

When the time came, you’d been a little nervous, even though it was Steve, and you’d joked that you could take some wine coolers to the beach and get it over with, just like all the other kids in your school. Even then, Steve had looked at you stubbornly, and said, without a shred of willingness to waver, that he wouldn’t touch you if you were drunk.

Back then, it had sent a shiver down your spine, and it had much the same effect more than a decade later in his truck. Your body trembled with arousal, and you pushed feebly against Steve’s hold—not really trying to break it, just enjoying the feeling that came from realizing how strong he was. Those biceps and corded forearms of his weren’t just for show.

“What about just the tip?” you murmured, the words tumbling past your lips before you could think better of them, knowing there was no use trying to argue with Steve when he’d made a decision. But you were clearly thinking with something other than your brain, because the words kept coming. “That’s not sex, just the tip—please, Steve.” You were begging shamelessly, but your shame and embarrassment were still nowhere to be found since you were still definitely drunk.

Steve’s jaw ticked so hard, you could’ve sworn you heard the muscle pop in the quiet of his truck as he ground his teeth together. 

“Buttercup,” he growled, a warning in his tone. “That’s not happening.”

Your fists gathered in the front of Steve’s t-shirt and you yanked on it restlessly, not trying to do anything more than annoy him. “Whyyy,” you whined, drawing out the word until it was nearly a wail. Unslaked heat burned in your blood and, while you knew why he was refusing to have sex with you, in the moment, you couldn’t understand why your oldest friend was torturing you.

Steve’s hand slid down from your cheek to wrap around the front of your throat, and you stilled immediately, something about the possessive, dominant gesture making you calm. That was new, Steve hadn’t done anything like that when you’d first been together, but you liked it more than you would’ve expected. Your lips were still parted, your panting breaths gusting out of them, your heart racing, and you were finally calm and quiet.

Your oldest friend’s eyes roamed over you, taking in your reaction. At first he seemed surprised, but then a glint of something you’d never seen before sparked to life in the depths of his blue eyes. You watched his gaze drop to your mouth, and nearly whimpered at the way the corner of his lips flickered in the ghost of a smirk. But then he fixed his gaze back on yours, pinning you in place with that stubborn look in his eye, though it was slightly dimmed in favor of that new, hungry glimmer. 

“I won’t fuck you only to wake up tomorrow and find out you regret it,” Steve said, enunciating all his words clearly despite the fact that his teeth were grinding together “That you only wanted it because you needed to scratch an itch.” 

Your lungs dragged in a soundless gasp and you finally understood his reticence, even if you couldn’t imagine ever regretting doing anything with Steve. But when you opened your mouth to protest, Steve’s fingers squeezed the sides of your throat. 

Your words died on your tongue, and your mouth went slack, your eyes going hazy with pleasure. You couldn’t have been more obvious that you liked the way Steve choked you if you tried. And he read your enjoyment easily from the expression on your face, that look of hunger sparking brighter in Steve’s eyes before he went on.

“When I fuck you again,” he growled, his words a promise. “I don’t want you drunk on anything but my cock.”

“Stevie,” you whined his nickname again, the name only you were allowed to call him, your lips forming into a pout. It hadn’t escaped your notice that he’d said ‘when’, and not ‘if’, about having sex with you again, but you didn’t want to push your luck. And besides, unslaked need was still burning brightly through your body, consuming most of your focus. “I need…something, please.” You let out a little whimper and squirmed in his lap again, unable to stop yourself.

Steve huffed a laugh, his thumb stroking down the side of your neck, over your thrumming pulsepoint, while the fingers of his other hand slipped half an inch into the waist of your shorts, only far enough to dig harder into your soft curves.  

“I’m not going to touch you more than this, buttercup,” Steve began, his voice a low, delicious rumble that you swore you could feel in the clenching of your core. “But I didn’t say anything about stopping you from touching yourself.”

Your eyes widened in excitement, and you wasted no time in acting on the implication in Steve’s words. Holding his gaze, one of your hands slipped free from his shirt and trailed down your body. When you reached between your thighs, the backs of your fingers brushed against a thick bulge in the front of Steve’s jeans. 

It twitched against your soft touch, and you gasped in delight, loving the proof that Steve’s body recognized you just as much as his mind.

But when you twisted your hand, intent on giving Steve’s bulge a friendly squeeze, his hand darted down from your hips to your wrist, his fingers circling around you and stilling your hand. “Buttercup,” he rumbled, another warning. 

A shiver raced down your spine and you reveled in the way it made you feel to hear Steve say your nickname like that. It occurred to you that it was new—you’d never heard him say it quite like that before, with frustration and arousal flooding his tone. 

You wanted to hear every flavor of your nickname on Steve’s tongue. You wanted to hear him whisper it like a prayer, and groan it into your lips while he kissed you. You wanted to hear Steve shout your nickname while he came with you. 

But the look in Steve’s eyes was stubborn again, and you knew you’d have to wait to hear all the ways he could say your nickname. 

“OK, Steve, ‘m sorry,” you mumbled, twisting your hand in his hold and pressing the tips of your fingers to the seam of your shorts, your hips jerking forward to seek more of the friction you offered yourself. 

Steve’s hold loosened, but he didn’t let go of you entirely, like he didn’t trust you just yet. But you didn’t care, your fingers were pressing into your clit through the thin denim of your shorts, and you were rocking your hips to grind against them, your wetness soaking through your panties almost immediately.

The moment when your fingers found just the right spot, you sucked in a sharp breath, your spine arching and your hips pressing down hard against your hand. Your head tipped back, your eyes narrowing into slits as you held Steve’s gaze. You moaned while you rubbed tight circles against your clit through your shorts.

“I’m going to come embarrassingly fast,” you huffed in warning, your chest heaving already with labored breaths. 

But Steve only smirked, a touch of smugness in the curve of his lips.

“Don’t worry, buttercup, I remember exactly how sensitive your sweet little clit is,” he rumbled, and you moaned loudly. His fingers flexed against your throat, digging in enough to quiet your sounds and making your eyes widen as your hips lurched in their rhythm. He chuckled at your reaction before continuing on.

“I remember sucking on your puffy little pearl, your thighs squeezing my head, my fingers buried deep in your tight, warm hole,” Steve purred, seemingly knowing exactly what to say to drive your pleasure higher. “I remember the exact way your pussy gripped my fingers when you came, like you wanted me deeper—deep enough that you could feel me in your belly.” 

“God, Steve,” you groaned, your head falling back listlessly on your shoulders, too heavy to keep it up. But Steve’s fingers dug into the back of your neck, and you understood the wordless command immediately. You lifted your head and caught your oldest friend’s eye while you kept rubbing your clit, pushing yourself closer to coming apart in his lap. 

“I remember how big your cock felt inside me,” you confessed, spurred on by Steve’s own filthy words. “I remember how long it took for you to sink your thick, fat cock into my tight pussy.” You paused only to take a quick, hitching breath. “I was already so close when you came, and I remember, I thought, maybe if you hadn’t been wearing a condom, maybe I would’ve come, too.” 

The lines of Steve’s face shifted, hardening, his jaw ticking wildly and his eyes going molten fierce, like the blue at the center a campfire that burns too hot to sit near. 

“Don’t fucking say that, buttercup,” Steve growled, his voice gravelly like he was chewing on seashells. “If I hadn’t been wearing a condom, I would’ve come so much faster—I never woulda made it all the way inside you. Woulda been coming with just my tip inside your warm, wet pussy, baby—woulda been too risky, buttercup.” 

Your eyes wanted to fall closed as you moaned, but you didn’t let them. You couldn’t tear your gaze away from Steve, not with that furious and ferocious hunger in his eyes, his desire for you etched into every single line and curve of his face. 

You were so close. You just needed a little more to push you over the edge.

“Fuck, Steve, I know I shouldn’t, but I love the thought of you coming inside me, filling me up, making me yours,” you confessed, the words bubbling up from the very depths of your soul. It was on the tip of your tongue again, that thing you hadn’t admitted to yourself. Instead of letting it free, you moaned, long and loud, your fingers rubbing faster against your clit and your hips grinding against your hand. 

“Christ, baby,” Steve gritted through tightly clenched teeth. His fingers were digging into your hip again, diving further beneath the waist of your shorts, nearly skimming the edge of your panties. His other hand tightened around your throat and dragged you into him, until your face was right in front of his and he could watch every twitch and change in your expression as you pleasured yourself. 

“Come on, baby,” he said, his voice urgent with need. “Come before I do something we’ll both regret.” 

The hand that wasn’t wedged between your thighs pressed to the center of Steve’s chest, just above his heart, and a moment later, you felt his warm palm cover it. He was still holding your throat, his fingers digging into the sides hard enough that you knew he could feel your fluttering pulse beneath his touch. And you could feel his heart pounding beneath your palm, the rapid pace nearly matching the frantic one in your chest.

“Come, buttercup, come for me,” Steve commanded, his eyes holding yours. For a moment, it felt like he could see straight into your soul. It was a scorching intimacy you hadn’t felt since that night you’d first been with Steve, and you were helpless to it.

“Stevie,” you cried his name as your pleasure rose up and consumed you, sending you over the edge into a earth-quaking orgasm. Your body writhed in Steve’s lap, your hips grinding gracelessly against your hand as you collapsed forward, leaning into the grip of his hand around your throat. You sobbed your pleasure, the waves of your release wracking your body for long moments.

Eventually, the final swell ebbed and the last of your energy receded with it. Your damp forehead fell against Steve’s cool, dry one and you struggled to catch your breath. His hand slipped from the front of your throat around to the back of your neck and he smoothed it down your spine. 

He held you close, whispering in your ear, “Such a good girl, buttercup, you did so good.”

Once you finally settled, Steve shifted, his beard grazing your lips as he pressed a kiss to your cheek. 

“Can I take you home now?” he asked.

You huffed a laugh and slumped against his chest, laying your head sleepily on his shoulder. “I don’t think I can move yet,” you said, slurring your words with tiredness. And drunkenness.

Steve chuckled, but made no attempt to move you. You only felt him lifting his arms around you, though his hands didn’t settle on your body. 

“If you see Sam while you’re back in town, don’t tell him I did this,” Steve murmured in your ear. Then you felt the truck rumbling to life and getting back onto the road and you realized where your oldest friend’s hands were. He was driving you home, with you still sitting boneless in his lap.

When Steve arrived at your rental house, not too long after, he helped you down from his truck and looped an arm around your waist, getting you into the bungalow. Thankfully, you were sated from your release in his truck so you didn’t try to proposition him again, just dutifully did as he said, changing into your pajamas in your bedroom while he waited outside the closed door. 

Then he let you lean against his broad chest while you brushed your teeth and washed your face, before guiding you back to your room and tucking you into bed. Last, he pressed a sweet kiss to your forehead that was so comforting, and made you feel so safe, your eyes fluttered closed and a soft smile curled your lips.

Before he could leave, your hand darted out and grabbed Steve’s wrist with surprising precision given your state and the fact that your eyes were closed. You dragged them open again, blinking away the bleariness until your childhood friend’s face came into focus. 

“I don’t regret anything we’ve done together, Stevie,” you mumbled, the side of your mouth hitching up in a lopsided smile. “I’m glad you were my first.” You lost the battle with your eyes and they fell closed. You also, apparently, lost the fight against biting back your feelings, murmuring sleepily, “I want you to be my last.”  

For a long moment, Steve was quiet. He seemed to wait until you were just on the edge of sleep before responding to your drunken confession. 

“Tell me that again when you’re not drunk, and I’ll believe you, buttercup,” Steve murmured, ducking down to press a kiss to your hand, still wrapped loosely around his wrist, before carefully extricating himself. 

You were snoring before Steve closed and locked the front door of your bungalow behind him. He walked down the short path to his truck, which sat at the curb, a subtle smile on his lips and a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

[s-4pphics]

WHERES ALL THE ANGST!!!!!

i needed something injected into my veins rq yayyy i wrote this in like 5 mins so it’s ass no context I GOT THE LAST LINE FFROM A PROMPT LIST BUT I LOST IT I NEED TO FIND IT BUT I NEEDED TO CRRYYY SOMEONE MAKE ME CRY PLEASEPELASS

vi being a piece of shit and projecting onto her sneaky link bc she misses yet resents cait I MISS EMO VI SO BAD …. OHHH MY SHAYYLAAAA

—

“C-Can you kiss me slower?”

“… What?”

“I asked if you could kiss me slower.”

“I heard what you said. Why’d you say it.”

Your eyes remain shut for your own protection. You fucked up the second you opened your mouth for anything other than the acceptance of her tongue. Your fists ache from how hard they clench on her back. Vi sighs before dropping her hands from your cheeks and rising completely from the bed. Only when you hear her rummaging through her liquor boxes do you open your eyes.

The arrangement she set up for the both of you had very simple instructions. You walk her home from the rink whenever she’s too fucked up to function on her own, and she eats you out in repayment, but you don’t speak about anything. No goals, no aspirations, no past hook-ups, no trauma, no nothing. You just guide her home, get your brains fucked out, then leave while she cries into her pillow. You never have the courage to ask what breaks her every night. When you first met, you attempted to keep the conversation light and goofy with every intention of cheering up a seemingly struggling individual. You would’ve never approached her if you knew this would be the outcome.

Vi’s especially cruel when she’s intoxicated.

You don’t know much about her, but on a good day, she’s caring and protective. You’ve only ever seen blips of that gentle side whenever somebody at the bar or rink tries drunkenly touching you in places they shouldn’t, but your heart never forgot even though she has.

“I hate when you do shit like that.”

She speaks with such calm conviction. Your face burns in embarrassment while your heart pounds in anxiety. You hate when she calls you out on your sensitivity. You’re not sure what’s happened over the past month. Maybe distance really does make the heart grow fonder. To say you missed Vi was, secretly, an understatement. Her warmth comforted you in a way your blanket never could.

“Sorry.” You say meekly, already reaching for your pants off the floor.

“Are you actually? It’s your second time doin’ it.” Liquid sloshes and you know she’s drinking from the source.

“I said I’m sorry. The fuck do you want from me?”

She scoffs with a bandaged fist clenched around her bottle’s neck, “I made it clear the second I met you, didn’t I?”

A distraction. A temporary fix. A midnight companion until she got her shit together. You know you’ve fucking heard all of it.

“I hear you, okay? My fucking bad—“

“What the fuck did you think was gonna come from this? I’m actually curious!”

You scramble to redress with a lump in your throat, trying your hardest to dismiss the beration she throws at you.

“You know what’s crazy about people like you? After everything we go through down here, you’re still so fucking trusting. Couldn’t sense danger if it was starin’ you right in the face, huh?”

Where the fuck did you put your bag? “Do you have to be such a fucking asshol—“ Your sob chokes when you drop to your knees and snatch your satchel from underneath her bed. Despite how small her space is, the door feels miles away.

“Don't you get it? I’m not a fucking fanasty, I’m not gonna save you, we’re not gonna be together—“

“FUCK YOU!”

“Yeah, fuck you, too. Maybe you shouldn’t have put your trust in someone else so much—“

You slam the door before she can spill anything else.

[hoseoksluna]

LITTLE JUICE | JJK

pairing: boyfriend!jungkook x wine!oc

genre: smut, pwp

rating: 18+

summary: when you get insecure about being constantly needy for your boyfriend, jungkook shows you that it's okay.

word count: 6.4k

warnings: the plot is TEENY TINYYYY in this one, pure filth, mirror sex, dd/lg, little space, new roles for the wine universe omg, jungkook is a caretaker, pet names, degradation kink, praise kink, dry humping, they're so in love it's sickening, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), fingering, squirting, daddy issues, heavy dom/sub dynamics, handjob, penetrative sex without condom, cowgirl, plushies used in a sexual situation.

luna's note: i'm so sorry i couldn't get this out for you on xmas day since i was so sick, but let this be a gift for the new year! i missed writing smut sooooo much, and i can't wait to get back to it starting january. this was so fun omg. i missed wine sm. my daddy issues be daddy issuing so this has something new in it, i'm super excited abt it!! i hope you like this and that you enjoy reading. make sure to let me know what you think in my ask box!! mommy luna is baaaaackkkkkkk. HAPPY NEW YEARRRRR. <3 (one day early but i felt like saying it idc) BIG MWAH.

luna's necessary side note: i missed u all so damn much wtf. OH, AND HAPPY BDAY TAEHYUNGGGGGG.

𓂃 ౨ৎ

taglist | join here: @jjk7k, @tkslovechild, @euphoricmyth, @cinmmongirl, @ririkookiemonster, 

@perfectiondazesworld, @https-mei, @bangtansonyeondanue, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, 

@hoseokkie-caeks, @kam9404, @fr0ggieth1nk, @parkinglot-nights, @sadgirlroo

The mirrors, lining the walls, are nearly all fogged up once you take a step inside the vast rehearsal room. A certain mellow, yet familiar song led you towards the right door—one that made your ears perk up in curiosity because it reminded you of something you’d heard a long time ago, but you couldn’t put your finger on it. Not until you rearranged your bobas into the crook of your elbow and slid open the door. 

The stuffiness of the room only added to the sensual aura of the song, and your legs nearly gave out on you. 

No BS by Chris Brown.

The song that started it all.

Jungkook, clothed in black from head to toe, seems to be locked in his own world as he moves his body in the center of the room, his chest and feet hitting each beat without a singular mistake or a misstep. And when the chorus of the song flows in, his whole figure follows suit. It rolls into the rhythm like the slowest, most passionate wave of the sea that splits in the middle and begins to course down your sternum. Your cheeks darken with a feverish tint. You feel every inch of his movements inside you as if he were there, and when Jungkook spins and sinks to his knees, propping only one Nike-shod foot on the floor, and he hip-thrusts before he continues those rippling motions to the last beats, the muscles of your thighs quiver on reflex and your dampened private parts flutter.

You did not expect to see that when you texted Jungkook you were going to visit him just because you finished work early and you could get boba before your favorite shop closed. You feel as though you just got blessed twice. 

TGIF, indeed. Never in your life had you ever thought you’d celebrate the work week ending like you are right now—with two bobas in your arm, cooling your heated skin, and with your eyes witnessing erotically angelic artistry in a humid room. And with your sensitive parts outright dripping, too, because the song ends, enveloping the room in a silence that welcomes in Jungkook’s heavy breathing as he slumps back onto his back, his chest lifting and falling in the air. 

You feel fuzzily faint. He made you wet in record time and he hasn’t even touched you. Nor has he looked at you. 

Instinctively, your hand grasps your mango boba and you press it against the side of your face. Smile to yourself as a lightbulb flicks to life in your mind. 

Leaving behind your purse, you take both of the delightful treats and walk over to him. His eyes are closed as he’s absolutely unaware of your presence, your steps soft and sly. His round, sweat-splotched nose puffs out hard breaths that move through you and you coo to yourself silently before you place both of your feet on either side of him. You squat down, careful not to let your bum touch his lap, and you get his boba ready, placing your own on the ground. And with the loudest roar you can muster, you press the drink to his glistening cheek. 

He yelps. His fear-filled eyes fly open, his hands quick to catch you as you tumble down on him in reaction, your lungs submerging the room in your obscenely loud giggles. Tears of laughter cloud your vision, preventing you from seeing the horror twisting his face, but the little you saw was enough to douse your body in extraordinary elation. The tapioca inside the long cup swirls as it swims ferociously in the thick, violet liquid, mimicking the roundness and the blackness of his pupils with utmost perfection. 

You swipe a finger under your eye, speckles of your glitter smearing its pad. You lean down, your laughter subdued as it slowly fades out, and you can see the horror smoothing out and transforming, seamlessly, into a relieved adoration that taps against your heart. You kiss him with the boba now cooling your cheek as well. Leave behind a hard peck on his perspiration-coated mouth that makes him softly hum into this physical exchange of love, and just before you draw away, he breathes out against you with his nose. And that doesn’t just tap on your heart, it knocks on it most warmly. 

You love him so much. Too much. So much that the simplest of his body and human reactions make you feel things. Things that normal girls don’t normally feel. 

Good thing you’re not a normal girl. 

You’re a messed up girl. And you’re a girl in love. Have been for the past year. 

“You scared the shit out of me.” 

Your mouth widens into a pleased grin, and the light bulb that shone in a bright yellow melts into a warm, dusky pink tinge that floods your spine—only because he squeezes the dip of your waist that you’ve been working hard at carving out. A new thing you’ve implemented into your daily routine after you’ve gotten a new job that doesn’t allow you to fuck him all day long like you used to. The sex has gotten even better with time as the wine of his love ripened and matured. To such an extent that you found yourself craving it more than you had in those times when you were just seeing him for sex. Two rounds aren’t enough for you—and you remember well that after two rounds you were usually too exhausted to even keep your eyes open. Now, because you have matured too, your vessel for his love and his liquid stars has grown, needing more to feel satisfied to the fullest. The new job kept you away from him, the long hours teased you. So much that your bathroom breaks were too frequent and obvious and you spent them locked in a bathroom stall with one hand in your panties and your other holding your phone to your ear while Jungkook guided you, his hand, too, in his pants, locked in the same place on the other side of the line, whispering encouraging, lewd instructions that sent you shaking over the edge in mere minutes. 

Instructions that got him in trouble at his workplace, hence why he had to come up with a solution. Because your thirst was never quenched in minutes. His voice was too pretty, and too soft. 

Gym five times a week for you, dance lessons for him, physical distance for the both of you. A perfect solution for a perfect problem. All that sexual frustration was released during those exercises filled with delicious pain and you went to work the next day free of that carnal lust swishing in your veins. You focused on your work, and you didn’t have to take long bathroom breaks. You didn’t even need a spare pair of panties in your purse anymore.

It worked—and it’s completely crazy to you that all it took for you to break your public purity streak was seeing him dance like that. 

You sit up and with your swift movement, the squelching sound of your cunt rubbing up against your juices sounds out across the room. Your cheeks heat up with a different shade of red as embarrassment runs down your spine, especially as Jungkook’s brows twitch upwards and his eyes widen, his large hands lowering down a little, following the curve of your figure that leads to his favorite part of you. 

Your hips. 

A blush scatters upon his cheeks, too. He heard it. 

He calls out your name, sweeping his tongue across his abruptly dry and chapped bottom lip. Your name, not princess, not baby. Your government name without any embellishment of adoration. 

You’re in trouble. 

Your embarrassment pinches you at the two dimples on the small of your back. “Y-yeah?” 

Jungkook opens his mouth, but he pauses for a moment. As if he could sense where the emotion touched you, his long and warm fingers find its icy traces that it left behind while still keeping the crooks of his thumb anchored on your hip bones. 

“Did you get wet for me?” 

A shiver cascades down the slender column of your back, a visible one for his eyes to see that coax out his softness for you, evident in the roundness of his bottom lip that he juts out, triggering your unprecedented shyness. What a drastic shift of dynamic in your relationship you perceive this to be. All along, for a year long, the atmosphere of your shared love has been nothing but an environment of safety, where you could unfold your sexuality as naturally and confidently as you wanted to without an ounce of coyness. Introduce an unyielding desire and a well-meaning solution for it into the equation and watch the change bloom. 

For some reason, you’re reminded of his past, now distant, liking of a certain degradation kink that once grew like vines across your intimate relations with him. The memories travel along your veins—the vulgar pet names, the calling out, the rough handling—and crest at your core, moistening the center of your panties even more as your walls pull in. And the way Jungkook takes that bottom lip between his teeth divulges to you quite clearly that he feels it. 

Which is a bad thing because you can’t lie about it. 

But… you can’t divert his attention from it. 

You slosh his drink in your hand. “I got you your favorite,” you chirp, the boba twirling beneath your hand while his identical pupils remain unmoving, unblinking, fixed on you. You manage a smile, but its staticness crumbles as soon as you realize that Jungkook isn’t really influenced by your change of topic. “Taro boba. I got a milk one, too. Mango. You wan—”

His hands descend down to your thighs, squeezing, halting the tide of your words, the progression of your trick. His fingers slip beneath the hem of your skirt and before you know it, he lifts you just a little bit to maneuver you and make you sit on the shaft of his semi. A low gasp gushes out of your throat as well as a leak of your dew not only onto the fabric of your underwear but onto the material that now clings to his manhood. 

He twitches, hardening beneath your pussy, and gooseflesh pricks your skin. 

“Mango? You always get Taro with me.” 

The glitter from your eye make-up that you smeared across his cheek during your kiss twinkles underneath the dimmed light and he doesn’t guide your hips to move against him. No, he rolls his own—ever so slowly, ever so discreetly. His hands merely hold you down, but nothing about it is forceful. Subdued pleasure springs up your sternum, pooling in your head, making you woozy as quickly as if he were pouring booze down your throat. And when he heightens the pressure enough that he twitches again, you recognize he’s doing the same move that is a part of the choreo he was practicing. 

Your heart hammers against your chest. Your nipples pebble against your cotton top, and Jungkook’s eyes fly to them, catching and taking in their aroused state, perhaps even coaxing it out of them. 

A sigh leaves his mouth. He fists the hem of your skirt, dipping his head into the current of the pleasure he’s giving both of you, and so do you. 

You just can’t help it; you can’t fight it. When your toe touches the surface of the wine of your shared love, nothing can keep you from taking a dip. And the same applies to Jungkook, too. In this case, he’s dripping in red, having slipped entirely into the current, one arm out of the water, fingers wrapped around your ankle, pulling you into the water. 

And something about his desire lessens your strange coyness. His lack of solution offering brings down the stigma, setting you free. And you missed him. You missed him terribly. Haven’t felt his dick in five fucking days. 

You place your hands on top of his. 

A small fire begins to burn within the snug blackness of his eyes. All of a sudden, the noises he stifled come out in soft, almost inaudible growls that cause your clit to throb and your nails to dig half-moons into the skin of his hands. A green light from you for him to enjoy this—and he does. Jungkook throws his head back, his pretty chin pointing to the ceiling, and his big chest heaves. 

It is only at this moment that his eyes leave yours just to bask in this forbidden pleasure. 

Anyone could walk in—the doors aren’t locked, nor are they shut at all. Anyone could think the practice room is available for personal use, without a single soul present. And anyone could see you riding the horsey because the sight of him lost in the vivacity of it all forces you most carnally to give him more. 

You hump him. 

“My friend got it the other day and she said it was delicious,” you breathe out, speaking of your unordinary choice of boba. The movements of your hips are small, minuscule, but hard enough that his knuckles get painted with a shade of ivory that sprinkle your chest with little shocks of joy and pride. A thick vein bulges on the side of his throat as Jungkook tries his best not to let out the entirety of his noises that his body is brimming with—and for that very reason, you grab his hands and place them very brattily on your perked, full breasts. “I wanted to try it and see for myself.” 

This feels good. This feels like the time before you got older and greedy. And the feeling is validated when Jungkook whisks his eyes back at you and grapples your tits, squeezing them so hard that it’s you who bites their bottom lip until you nearly draw blood, your body set on fire with a blue desire that kisses his big hands with such roughness that he whimpers. 

But the moment is ruined all too soon. 

A myriad of high-pitched voices is carried through the thick air, accompanied by giggles. You gasp, looking behind you, and before you know it, you’re up on your feet and Jungkook’s unopened boba is knocked to the side, now rolling sideways towards the mirror. 

You go to fetch it, but a strong hand on your arm prevents you from doing so. You spring back to your place in front of him and you glance up at him in confusion just to see him frowning down at you. 

Sweat drips down his temple. The tips of his brows almost meet in the middle, but swim away and relax at the sight of your puzzlement. The voices grow louder, your breath hitches in your throat and Jungkook’s hand lifts and pets down the back of your head, awakening the butterflies in your tummy as if he’s done it for the first time in your life. 

A yearning to kiss him consumes you. 

“Stay here,” Jungkook murmurs, keeping his hand wrapped around the back of your neck. “If they see us like this, they’ll walk away.” 

You nod, understanding if you were to do as you wished, the girls would’ve taken it as a sign to enter the room and perhaps mingle. But if they see you stuck in an intimate moment like this, they quietly and quickly leave without any unnecessary fuss. 

Smart man. 

“I’m also so fucking hard that I can’t even hide it,” he continues, lowering his tone even more. It penetrates you, making your clit thrum, and as your grin blossoms, so does a romantic shade of blush across your cheeks. You envelop your arms around his torso, propping your chin on his chest, radiate your love up to him, and Jungkook smiles down at you. “As per usual.” 

He kisses your forehead, lingering there for a beat longer before he lifts his head and focuses his gaze at the situation at the door. You don’t care much because you dwell on the hot and cold sensation he left in his wake from the warmth of his mouth and the iciness of his lip ring—something you’ll never get used to and something that will always ruin your panties. 

“They’re gone.” 

And so is he. Off to shut the door and lock it, peeking through the little rectangular window to check if anyone is around. Once the coast is clear, you sense him behind you as you bend to pick up his knocked off boba and you stumble upon his gaze in the mirror as soon as you straighten your spine. 

A hungry look is wrung into his features. 

The corners of his eyes droop in arousal, narrowed as they are. His pupils are blacker than the tapioca in your hands. His teeth nibble on his bottom lip impatiently and you flutter all over, taking in his state and his large stature towering above you. You could melt into him and never be found again, hidden in the crevices of his body that you still believe are there for you. Hidden forever, safe and sound. 

He’s delicious through and through—and it’s been five days since you last had a taste of him. 

Five torturous days. 

“You must be thirsty after all that dancing,” you say, breathless and thirsty yourself. His chest heaves, colliding into your back, and all those soft crevices of him touching you brings you back into that ravenous, greedy state you can’t get out of so easily. Dangerous, he is. Utterly, utterly dangerous. Erasing your clean streak like that. “Let me open it for you.” 

You go to turn around and fetch his straw from your purse, but he doesn’t let you. He encages you where you are by a mere placement of his hand on your hip, fingers back to gripping the fabric of your skirt. He can rip it off if he likes—he can buy you a new one and make your heart elated anytime. 

The idea hardens your nipples, making a show for him all over again. 

He pushes you flush against him, earning a sultry gasp from you. The fingers that gripped your skirt elongate across your mound while the other graze your chin, elevating it a little, ensuring a strong eye contact. 

You flutter. Can’t take it anymore. He has to take you home and fuck the shit out of you before you— 

“I am thirsty,” he purrs, his lips borderline touching yours. “But for something other than bubble tea. Care to guess what it is?” 

Your breath lodges in your throat. You know well what he means, but out of habit and out of personal pleasure you pretend to be dumb. You want to hear him say it—you want him to be as detailed as he was during those naughty afternoon phone calls that got him in trouble with his boss, who told him off for having long work breaks. You want him, his filthy mouth and even filthier, condescending manners. 

You want the old times—and for the sake of your desire, you remain silent. Twist your brows in feigned confusion. Widen your eyes a little. Puff out your cheeks. 

Your adorableness makes him twitch against your hip. Jungkook sucks in a breath. Takes the hand that caressed your chin and glides it down your neck, your chest, your stomach that flexes under his touch until he winds up at the waistband of your skirt. There he stops and he tilts his head to the side, sweeping his tongue along the pillow of his bottom lip. 

“What I want,” he starts, his breathing quickening. “Is the little juice that is in here.” He skims the pads of his fingers down your mound, beneath the hem of your skirt and along the sopping surface of your clothed feminine flesh. You mewl, your hips instinctively riding his fingers, following the sailing, back and forth motion. Your adorableness deepens with the influence of the sudden pleasure by the way it scrunches up your features and Jungkook whimpers again, stopping his motions when he feels you timidly soak his fingers. “I want it so bad that I can’t go one more minute without it.” 

You glance down more to see how big of a mess you’re making on his hand, but as attuned as he is to his role, brought about by his arousal, Jungkook takes your breath away with his following actions. 

He moves you closer to the mirror. Bunches up your skirt even higher so you have a perfect view of your panties, which have a large wet spot in the middle. Little rivulets of your juices flow out of their confines and down your inner thighs, proceeding to make a puddle on the hardwood floors beneath your feet. Jungkook’s fingers are shiny in the light, coated in your lustfulness, and he drifts them up and down that stain—over your swollen clit and sensitive lips. 

“See? Here. This little wet princess part of you is what I crave.”

And just like that, owing to his words, you flourish into the little girl you haven’t been safely dwelling in for months, sliding into that role as easily, tenderly and meekly as if you were slipping your feet into your fluffy slippers. You regress, beautifully, making sweet little noises into his neck as you go to hide in there, poking his drink into his hand, silently telling him to take it while you rub your sticky thighs together, eager to get the uncomfortable throbbing feeling away. And he does, solid in his own caretaker role, sinking down onto his knees, placing the drink on the floor against the mirror. But he remains there, looking up at you, eyes big and round, yet still steady, sure, mature and irrevocably dependable. And you sense those eyes to be telling you to take your panties off and give the Daddy what he craves. 

You hook your thumbs under the waistband of your underwear and drag it down past the middle of your thighs, letting him handle the rest, but you catch his eyes watering ever so gently—and the discovery causes your heart to skip a beat. He’s taken in the role you’ve slipped into, having watched it happen in real time in all its glory, and perhaps he’s nostalgic, or perhaps he’s just euphoric, but he takes the time to bask in it all. 

And he kisses the cotton fabric of your panties first before he kisses the soft flesh of your thigh. Drags it down. Lets it pool in his hands at your ankles. Peeks up at you. 

“The way you willingly give yourself over to me never fails to mesmerize me,” he purrs, pressing another kiss to your thigh without taking his eyes off of you. Your stomach jumps, energy-charged butterflies scurrying to the front of your stomach in longing to kiss him, too. “You’ve been feeling bad about being needy for me. Worked hard for weeks to be a good girl, but what you don’t know, princess, is that you were a good girl even when you called me up at work asking for me,” he continues, lips brushing against your skin with every pronounced vowel. He edges around your knee and begins to pepper gentle, wet kisses there. Your mouth falls open—and you discover this place is a spot of more sensitivity than your neck. You double over, grabbing a tight hold of his tousled, yet soft hair, and Jungkook moans against you. “And you’re a good girl right now for giving yourself over to me, even when you’re so careful about being horny for me in public.” 

Your body forces out the same kind of noises, so tender and pained, your heart rapidly kicking against your ribcage. Your arousal is heightened by his words carrying such devastating praise, even when the most inert core of you aches for such different debauchery—the very opposite of what he’s giving you. 

You leak for him, nonetheless. 

Unable to take it anymore, Jungkook cradles your ankles and carefully rids you of your ruined panties, half-stuffing them into the front pocket of his jeans. A tiny bit of the pink fabric sticks out of it and the sight intoxicates you, pulling you deeper into your little space. Even more so when he finishes his praise because he wasn’t done yet. Not quite. 

“And to see you be little for me so prettily again after such a long time,” he husks, spreading your legs far apart enough to see that gleaming rivulet make its way down the inner of your thigh. “That makes me the happiest man in the world, princess. I missed you. God, I missed you.” 

Jungkook leans in and, with his tongue flat against your inner thigh, he collects the little juice you leak for him. He moans at the taste, but the sound is broken by a cry marked by yearning for more. He doesn’t stop there—he delves immediately, without sparing a second, into your lap with such a verve that your back crashes against the still fogged up mirror. His mouth seizes your clit, making kissing sounds as he laps and sucks at it with a hunger that could never be replicated in the arts. You grip his hair tighter for support, almost sliding down the mirror while struggling to contain your noises, the pleasure permeating every inch of your body that is ultimately submitted to him. The pressure of the delight he’s giving you deepens when he places one of your thighs on his shoulder, helping you take it while he continues to moan into your pussy and eat her like she deserves. 

But you can’t take it. Not at all. Not when he begins to flick his tongue on your clit in a way that he does. 

Your foot slips, but Jungkook is in control. He makes sure you land on your bum safely and painlessly, not once ripping his mouth off your cunt. His eyes continue to be steady, fixed on you, narrowed into such thin, alluring slits that it hastens your sweet release. You hiccup as you take little breaths, overwhelmed by it all. Your cheeks burn, and the fire spreads down your limbs, leaping over to your boyfriend at work, who glows with a rosy tint. Jungkook pulls away a little bit, dripping in arousal and perspiration, and he allows you to see his technique in all its glory. 

The tip of his tongue stimulates your engorged clit with rapid, hard flicks. 

Your orgasm inches closer and closer. Jungkook pushes your legs all the way back until you’re a squished mochi that he can’t get enough of, and when he puts a bigger pressure on your little bud, it is your absolute undoing. 

Closer and closer, the orgasm takes over you completely. From the top of your head to your little toes that flex in your sneakers, you begin to shake uncontrollably as the highest level of the delight bursts upon your body. Jungkook’s noises grow in volume simultaneously, enraptured as he is by the view of his created paradise unfolding over you—and he never stops looking at you. 

Not even as you come down from your high. 

Not even as he, with your little juice dripping down his chin, turns you around and stacks one of your feet on the mirror while he keeps the other leg back with his hand. His limbs surround you, and as you blink through the blinding fog of your orgasm, you realize that you accidentally managed to match your shoes with his. High Nike dunks, black. The ones he got for you as well when he bought a pair for himself. 

Your hole clenches in the mirror. A stream of your little juice makes a larger puddle on the floor beneath you. 

“Look at you dripping for me, fuck.” 

Hooking your leg over his right limb, he strums your entire feminine flesh with the four of his fingers, the squelching and squeaking sounds of your pussy pulling a tortured groan out of him as if he hadn’t gotten a taste of you a mere minute ago. His other hand sneaks to your tits to feel them up, stopping at your pebbled nipple, which he fondles as he breathes against you, inhaling your scent. Your hips buckle, your drenched seashell sensitive from his feast, and Jungkook lets out a pleased chuckle. 

“My pretty little pussy. Always so sensitive from all my love, huh?” 

You nod, meeting his gaze in the mirror, and Jungkook grins before he places a fat, rewarding kiss to your cheek, the two of his fingers, middle and ring, one of them adorned with that white Miffy plastic ring, starting a series of circles on your clit. 

Your hips buckle again, the pleasure soft yet dizzying, overwhelming your senses. Jungkook tightens his grip around you, squeezing your breast. 

“Whose pussy is this, princess?” 

In the middle of it all, a light bulb flicks to life once again in your woozy mind. And a pleased smile, just like his, begins to grow on your mouth. But Jungkook is impatient and you’re not responding fast enough for his taste, so he lifts his soaked fingers and uses them to grip your mouth. 

There it is. 

“I asked you a question. Whose pussy is this?” 

You’d bite your lip if he weren’t squishing your cheeks together, but your satisfied smile reaches your eyes, crinkling them. That causes him to relax his hold and give you a chance to give him the answer he seeks. 

Little does he know you’re about to manipulate him into giving you the sin that you desire. 

“This slutty little pussy is yours. Yours and no one else’s, Dada.” 

His brows twitch and light unrolls across his face, softening his features in a way you’ve never seen before. He curses, momentarily rolls his eyes back, and he plunges his wet fingers into his mouth before he seizes your mouth in a compulsive kiss that thoroughly shuts off your brain. You taste yourself on his tongue, and you comprehend he licked off his fingers and didn’t swallow only so you could get the treat he had himself—because he busies his fingers by burying them inside your fleshy heat. 

And he fucks you hard and doesn’t stop even when you begin to make intense little noises into his mouth. 

You struggle to kiss him back when he curls his fingers and pistons into you with rapid jerks from this angle. His other hand tugs your top upwards, finds its way into the cups of your bra just so he could pinch and rub your nipple in the way that you like. And when his tongue flicks against yours and his mouth purses softly against yours before he deepens the kiss, your orgasm hits you so unexpectedly that you’re as surprised as him once you come apart all over not just his hand, but the mirror, too. 

You splatter it with your little juice and even then, Jungkook doesn’t stop. Growling with heavy breaths, he strums your clit as fast as he can until there’s nothing left you can give to him. 

You slump against him, high on the complexity of yours and his aphrodisiac love. Specks of your glitter—your small shooting stars gravitate down to your flushed cheeks, and then his fingers are in your mouth, traveling far down and deep until you grace him with the sound he likes. You gag around them and he nods, pleased, smirking. 

“Good girl. Your slutty little juice tastes good, doesn’t it, baby?” he asks, and your stomach springs, your drunken feelings intensified by the fact you finally got what you yearned for. “Your mouth makes me fucking crazy. Dada, slutty pussy. I’m gonna lose my mind.” 

You mewl, your eyes heavy, but you want more—you want his cock, and he can feel it, he knows it. He knows it when he pulls out his fingers and kisses you as if the world was meant to end in the next minute. He knows it because he withdraws and he tells you. 

“Dada’s gonna fuck that slutty little pussy of his, hm?” Jungkook murmurs, and then his zipper is down, and just like the old times—he doesn’t rid himself of his clothes and gives you a brand new world with his strokes just the way he is. 

Fully clothed, with his hard drooling cock poking out of his unzipped jeans. 

He presses you against your wet juices on the mirror, spitting on his hand and lubricating the tip of his manhood. He enters you and you gasp, fogging up the mirror with your breath, and the hand that holds your head steady against the mirror buries into your hair while the other wraps around your hip. He sheathes himself inside you slowly whilst your eyes flutter shut at the feeling of finally being stretched out by him and once he bottoms out, it’s over. 

Your life is over.

“Dada’s pussy always so tight.” 

He pounds into you religiously—creating a new order for this brand new world. Hard, merciless strokes that scramble your brain and turn it into a mush. Your ass ripples with each collision and his noises melt into yours, a hymn for the utopia he’s fucking you into. And then he’s lifting you from the mirror and keeping you flush to himself, staring at you in the reflection while your tits spill out from your bra, bouncing, and Jungkook can’t get enough. Both of his hands drag down your straps, freeing your breasts, and he’s groping them, pinching your nipples without ever stopping the entrancing snapping of his hips. 

“Pretty princess getting fucked. Look at you. So pretty and all mine.” 

And then his Miffy-adorned finger is back on your clit, rubbing hard circles, and your personal world is finished—because your pleasure is his ultimate undoing. 

The smacking of skin quietens and his hips begin to roll—a languid, staccato version of his choreo that got you all needy and wet but an hour ago. Jungkook whimpers into your ear how much he loves you, over and over again, as he stuffs you full of his cum, and he doesn’t stop rubbing your swollen little clit until you come all over his twitching cock. 

And he doesn’t pull away. 

He holds you like this, panting into your neck, his grip still tight, still evoking a sense of safety you won’t find anywhere else. Your drowsy eyelids flit, consider yourself well-spent, and the thought begins to sing a celebratory song in your chest—because all that hard work paid off. 

You’re no longer greedy; you’re gratified after the first round. 

Jungkook kisses the nape of your neck. “We should go before Bunny and Vinny start wondering where we are.” 

The song wraps around your heart, which dissolves at his words. Jungkook pulls himself out of you, but you swivel around and throw your arms around him, catching him off guard. His still erect and wet length brushes against your thigh—and the contact makes you quiver in his arms.

“I feel good,” you explain into his ear. “I don’t need more.” 

Jungkook chuckles. Wants to look at your face and he smooths your hair back, grinning at you. “I’m proud of you, princess, but look,” he says, glancing down. You follow his gaze down and perceive he’s talking about his private parts. “I’m still hard.” 

His cock twitches at his words and twitches once more at the sound of your giggles—happy, happy giggles because the stigma behind your neediness withers and completely disappears, never to be found again, only because Jungkook isn’t embarrassed or afraid to show you he needs more. Your chest becomes light, light enough that you think you grew a pair of wings to fly around the room with.

“Gym, Gguk. You have to hit the gym more often,” you joke, knowing his work out schedule transcends beyond the five days you spend at the place. 

The corner of his mouth curls as mischief twinkles in his eyes, divulging to you that he likes the way you challenge him. 

“Oh yeah?” he questions, lifting his arm, pulling back the oversized sleeve of his T-shirt to flex his biceps. Your cheeks heat up at the strong mountains that appear and your hand can’t help but to knead it. “These aren’t big enough for you, huh?” 

You scoff and shush him at the same time, leaning over to plant a singular kiss to his muscles. Jungkook uses the opportunity to hide you in his embrace and you both sputter into laughs and giggles. He pecks your hair, but something interrupts your sweet moment. 

“Look at the mess you made,” he says, pointing at the mirror, and you gasp when you turn around. 

An imprint of the side of your face is left behind on the reflection. Foundation, mascara and glitter amidst the little pearls and rivulets of your juices. You worry what you look like now if your make-up is smeared to this extent, but it soon is washed away from your mind when Jungkook crawls forward and makes a heart on the wetness of your slick. 

He takes a picture of it and then he cleans it off with his gym towel. The floor, too. 

At home, you fuck him hard for it. 

With his Taro boba in his arm, Vinny on his chest and Bunny in the crook of his other arm, you ride him until your thighs burn and he resembles the prettiest rose you’ve ever laid your eyes on. Having come more than enough on his cock, you jerk him off while you flick your tongue on his tip, and he moans, flushes and convulses until he spills all over your hand and his stomach. Ropes of him cum reach the plushies, too, as he can’t stop coming and, growing feignedly jealous, you swallow him, longing for him to drip down your throat. 

He comes so much that your belly is full and he’s as gratified as you were in the practice room. 

And after a quick shower, you both drift off to your brand new world unexpectedly, the events of the day having exhausted you enough that you fall asleep within the next heartbeat. Vinny and Bunny tumble on in the washing machine while you and Jungkook dance in the new paradise, having stepped into the role of parents having a date without the kids. No stress, no stigma—just the freedom of being loved right. 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

BACK to masterlist

[triptychcryptid]

Okay, so you know those AUs where Older Stans meet Younger Stans? What about one where Grunk Stans accidentally get transported back to the 1960's and see their little selves out with Filbrick, who's being...well Filbrick.

They arrive just in time to see Filbrick berating like 9 year old Stan for something, Stan crying and he walks off, leaving Ford to comfort Stan. Grunk Ford is PISSED and makes a move to chase down Filbrick, but Stan's already on him. Out of sight of the boys, Stan drags their father off and basically has an all out brawl with him because now he's got way more fighting prowess than their Dad, and he's been in many life or death fights. He's got a lifetime of being treated like shit by this man to make up for.

Meanwhile, little Stans notice their Father left them and start to panic, as kids do. Grunk Ford (against his better judgement) goes up to them and gently asks what's wrong. Stan's too distraught to say anything so Little Ford just says "Sorry Mister, but have you seen our Pa anywhere? I think he just lost us, and we're not sure how to get home from here..." Grunk Ford feels a familiar twinge of sadness. He desperately wants to hug the younger boys but doesn't. "I'm not sure that I have. Do you live nearby? Maybe I can help you get home." He of course knows exactly where they live, but he's trying not to be creepy. XD

Little Ford nods, wiping a tear from his face and tells Grunk Ford where they live. Ford pretends to think for a second. "Oh, is that where the Pawn Shop is? What a coincidence, I was just on my way there. Why don't I take you boys home?"

He takes them home and Little Stan and Ford thank him. Before he can leave, Little Ford grabs his arm and ushers him inside, despite his protests. Caryn is watching the store and greets him. Little Stan explains what happens, and Caryn comes out from behind the counter.

"Oh, thank you so much for bringing my boys home! I'm so sorry for the trouble."

" Oh, no trouble at all." Ford replies. Caryn holds out her hand to shake. Before he can figure out how to get out of it, Caryn grabs his hand enthusiastically, then gasps. She looks at him for a second, then tells the boys to go play in their room. They oblige and as soon as they're out of earshot, she drops Ford's hand and holds both hands to her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes. "...Stanford?"

Ford's eyes widen as he tries to figure out the best way to play this. In the end, he decides to just go with it. "How did you know? Was it the fingers?" Caryn shakes her head slowly.

"No, honey, I'm psychic, remember?" Ford scoffs.

"What? That wasn't real! You just used that as a scheme to get money." Caryn smiles.

"Well, THAT part's not real. But I have Psychometry, Stanford. If I touch something, I know everything about it. The only person who ever believed me was Stanley, and I swore him to secrecy." Ford rolls his eyes dismissively. He's too old to be taken in by his mother's cons now. She puts her hands on her hips and raises an eyebrow.

"You dated an alien with two heads and six arms? You haven't even told Stanley that. AND you have tattoos?! Stanford!" She chastises him. Ford stares at her and opens his mouth, but no words come out. Caryn's face softens again and her eyes well up with tears. "I'm so sorry about what happened to you, honey. I'm so sorry." She pulls him into a tight hug. He hesitates, then reciprocates. He missed how warm her hugs were. How comforting. She pulls back slightly, gripping his forearms.

"Where's Stanley?" Before Ford can answer, Stan comes into the pawn shop, hauling an unconscious and bloodied Filbrick. Stan barely has a scratch on him, save for his raw knuckles.

"Hey there Ma....m. Is this yours-" Before he can even finish, Caryn has him in a tight hug, tears streaming down her face.

"Oh, Stanley! My poor, sweet boy! I'm so sorry, Sweetheart. I'm sorry for everything you've been through." Stan looks at Ford and mouths "what the fuck" at him. Ford just smiles and shrugs.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Click, Click, Click

Prompt Day 29: Fairytale | Word Count: 734 | Rating: T | CW: Post-Apocalyptic | Tags: Canon Divergence Post-S4, Hurt/Comfort, End of the World, Survival, Just the Two of Us, The World is Bleak, But We're Together

Set in my connected one-shot End of the World AU 'verse, but can be read standalone.

"If I click my heels three times, do you think we'll get to go home?" Eddie asks, and Steve laughs a little too loud. He shouldn't. They're hunkered down, hidden out of sight, in an abandoned house.

It's been 813 days. 

At least Eddie thinks so. He's tried to keep track, but there were a few days where he was feverish and barely lucid. 

Eddie knows it's at least been two years. That much he's certain. But he can't ask Steve. Steve won't talk about it. 

Because Steve thinks there's a way to fix this, a way to revert everything back to the way it was, and Eddie knows that's not true. That's a fairytale. Especially after 813-ish days.

"You could at least try," Steve banters back. He's tired, they both are, but he's still got his sense of humor. At least most of the time.

Steve's filthy, not that Eddie isn't, but seeing Steve Harrington with greasy hair hanging in his eyes wasn't something Eddie ever predicted he'd see in his lifetime. Running water is a thing of the past, and they haven't exactly found a safe source of water to bathe with in a while. Everything they find has to go to drinking.

Running water. A luxury he took for granted, even in the worst parts of his childhood. On a long list of things he misses from the real world, running water is near the top. If they ever get back to their version of Kansas from this shitty version of Oz, Uncle Wayne instead of Auntie Em waiting, he's taking the longest, hottest shower in history.

But for now, they're still following this shitty yellow brick road, but it's more as if they are in the book version of Oz, not the story MGM polished to a sanitized shine. No lions, tigers or bears.

That'd be preferable, honestly, after dealing with demogorgons, demodogs and demobats, oh fucking my, indeed. 

Eddie's given up hope that they'll ever find anyone else out here ever again. But at the same time, they can't be the only survivors. That's too implausible. But it sure feels like that now. Steve keeps them moving. Searching. He hasn't given up hope.

And Eddie'd never give up on Steve having hope, so they'll forge ahead. As long as Steve doesn't start hacking off his limbs to become the tinman, well, then they're still ahead, no matter what this world is, or isn't.

"That stove looks like something out of Hansel and Gretel," Eddie comments, and Steve laughs again. There are dishes piled on top of it. So, Eddie thinks someone survived here, at least for a while.

"I'd eat some Hansel or Gretel about now," Steve says, flippantly, and Eddie grins. The world is bad, but it hasn't gotten that bad, which Eddie is grateful for, because he's the only other person around to end up in said stove.

"I'd settle for some of the witch," Eddie banters back, and Steve smiles. They're okay. They're still okay, Steve sitting next to him, clicking that stopwatch he always keeps in his pocket. 

Click, click, click.

The numbers ticked over an hour. And Steve kept trying.

He's reset it so many times since.

Eddie isn't sure he fully believes the tale that goes with it, but Steve does, so he'll never contradict it. Time travel? Eddie had died? And now, instead, everyone else died? Vecna taking over the earth is Steve's fault?

There ain't no way. Eddie will never believe that.

Steve's just cracked a little. Which, understandable. They've been through hell and back.

Click, click, click.

Nothing happens. Nothing ever happens.

Steve puts the stopwatch back in his pocket, buttoning the pocket closed. A nightly ritual that never produces any results. Even still, Steve's determined to keep it safe. Eddie thinks the only thing Steve protects more than the stopwatch is Eddie himself.

"Tell me a story," Steve demands, and lays his head down next to Eddie's on the bunched up duffle bag they are using for a pillow.

It's not much, but it's better than the ground.

Eddie's imagination hasn't truly run wild in a while. Maybe not since before he ever heard the cursed name Vecna, ripped from the game he once loved, and thrust right into the real world. With real consequences.

But he misses telling stories.

So, he'll try. For Steve.

"Once upon a time..."

If you want to write your own, or go see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

[miladydewintcr]

Your addition about Tevinter fashion was so interesting that I can't help but ask (and my apologies if it was something you spoke about before but I missed) — what are your favorite bits of fashion details in Veilguard? Doesn't have to be just Tevinter :)

This is so sweet?? Thank you!! I'm honestly always about 0.5 seconds from rambling about this stuff at any given moment, but I rein it in mostly.

I've talked about Neve a little on here, mostly in the tags on other posts. This post by @icescrabblerjerky talks about Neve's fascinators and how they're inspired by old noir detectives, and I talked a bit in the tags about how her collar in that same outfit mimics the upturned trench-coat collar also associated with old-timey detectives (Sherlock is the most famous example I can think of). The outfit we first meet her in is also very much trench-coat-adjacent imo.

I will try not to go overboard here but !! Some of my fave other little details!

The Viper's hat! It's a tricorn-- always fun! BUT it works really well here, especially, because actual vipers have triangular-shaped heads? (I am not a snake expert and I believe there are exceptions? But generally) Also-- the little diamonds on the sides of the hat look like snake eyes? And the arrow-sort-of shape in the centre seems like it could be a nod to adders- which are a kind of viper. They have an arrow-like shape on the top of their head! Essentially, this man not only gave himself a cool nickname, but he is literally wearing the Thedas equivalent of a Batman outfit. He fully committed to the aesthetic, and I love him for that tbh.

Emmrich's coat is designed to mimic a ribcage! And not just here- this motif pops up in both of his Hero of the Veilguard armour sets, as well! I also noticed in his cosplay guide that this first outfit we see him in has a sort of waist-chain (more on that in a sec!!) with a gold tailbone that sits above where his real one would be?

And of course there are little skulls all over him, too. It's very reminiscent of the memento mori movement- 'remember you must die'. Historically, this was a way of coping with the inevitability of death in a world without a lot of the scientific advancement we have today. Death was a part of everyday life, even more so than it is for most of us today, but it was still scary. So people made art about it! And jewellery! And songs! As a way to cope with it all, and also sometimes as a way to remember lost loved ones. To have Emmrich, who is afraid of death, embrace this idea in his fashion is just... chef's kiss, honestly. Because it was always a way of trying to face death head-on? And acknowledge it, and make it hopefully feel a bit less terrifying.

Although Emmrich's overall style is very Victorian-inspired (the silhouette, the waistcoat, the chains etc.) a lot of his jewellery actually seems reminiscent of older memento mori pieces? There are some examples held by the V&A Museum that date back as far as the 16th Century that I could see him wearing. It's a really nice touch if that is indeed the inspo, because the Mourn Watch pride themselves as keepers of history. So to wear jewellery like this every day, an eclectic mix of time periods, all tied together by this single thread of remember you must die? It's so incredibly fitting for them!!

Also re. the waist-chain. I'm referring to it as that instead of a belt because to me it looks like the kind of thing you'd hang a pocket-watch on? The looping style is very similar. It's of course a lot bigger, but I think it might've influenced it?

This has gotten really long so I'll stop now, but please know there are a hundred little things I haven't even touched on! So much care was clearly put into each and every character's design, and it brings me so much joy!

[shuaboo]

literally in love with hung hanbin i mean hung sanbin i mean sung hanbin… so here’s hanbin fuckin’ u in his hoodie <3 (specifically the first one from this post) this ain’t proofread

he loves giving you his hoodies to wear, because he thinks u look so cute absolutely being swallowed in it. he always makes you put on the hood and giggles cuz you’re practically drowning in it. he also love love loves to leave hoodies at home so when you start to miss him, you have something to hold onto that reminds u of him <3.

it also kinda (really) turns him on… like when he looks at you wearing his hoodie he just wants to stop whatever you’re both doing and fuck you.

recently, hanbin has been quite busy with practice and his other schedules. you two haven’t really spent much time together except for cuddling and sleeping together.

today, hanbin was let off early from practice. he texted you to let you know that he was coming home early, just to update you because he knows you miss him as well. he is absolutely filled with excitement and joy, cuz he can’t wait to spend time with his pretty baby <3.

hanbin arrives at your apartment, breathing in it’s familiar scent. he feels right at home already, all he’s missing is you.

as if you sensed him wondering where you are, you appeared from your shared bedroom. grinning from ear to ear, you run to hug him. he’s smiling just as hard and lets you wrap your legs around his torso.

while you both hug, it suddenly becomes clear to him that you are only wearing his white hoodie and his favorite lingerie underneath.

he coos and goes to sit both of you on the couch, with you now straddling his lap. “naughty baby… why’re you only wearing my hoodie, hm? and this pretty lingerie set. you know i love this one, huh?” he has a cheeky grin on his face, giving your ass a firm squeeze and giving you a kiss on the nose. you squeal at the contact, and nod. “mhm! figured you would need to relax, so i dressed up all pretty for you. but i really missed you so i put this hoodie on too~”

yeah that’s literally all it took to get you here. in a mating press while he bullies your cervix with his cock. he’s completely ripped off your lingerie (rip his favorite set), but he kept the hoodie on you. he zipped it down a little so he could have access to your tits, and he makes you puts the hood on.

fuck, he’d be lying if he said you didn’t look perfect at that moment. the way the hoodie would slightly move up whenever he thrusts in you… the way his hoodie hugs your frame, it just sits well on your body. and don’t even think about covering your face, either. he’s going to grab your wrist before you can even put it on your pretty little face.

he’s groaning so loud and cooing at the sight of you. so cute and so submissive, all for him. “f-fuck… pussy’s so tight, baby… feels s’good, shit.” “mmm, my pretty baby… all covered in my hoodie. you know exactly what that does to me, don’t you?” ARGHDDHHSHEHWJA

for hanbin, this was the best way to end an impossibly tough week. having you beneath him, writhing and squirming because his cock just feels so so good…

[randomfandomisuppose]

Honestly a batfam fic I want to see, as someone who immigrated to a new country and had to learn a new language, is one where there’s a language barrier between Damian and the rest of the batfam. Also I think not a lot of people talk about how huge of a thing it is to suddenly be uprooted by one of your parents and moved halfway across the world like I was.

By language barrier I don’t necessarily mean that he only speaks Arabic (although that would also be fairly interesting) but also in the sense that even if he is fairly fluent he learned English from a textbook and doesn’t understand any slang or even random things in everyday use.

He gets confused by sayings he hasn’t heard before. He doesn’t know/remember the word for random household objects. Occasionally he pronounces a new word in an odd way. He meets someone with a strong accent he isn’t familiar with and suddenly he has trouble understanding what they’re trying to say. He tries to say something to someone else and suddenly blanks because the word he’s thinking of doesn’t exist in English. Sometimes he directly translates a word or saying into English and everyone else is slightly confused.

Something else I’ve also experienced is kinda feeling out of place because there are some things that I can’t share with people. Not in the sense of “oh I can’t tell them about it” but in the sense of “this is only funny in my own language” or just kind of feeling like an “other” because everyone around you is speaking their first language and you’re over here speaking your second, third or even fourth language.

Just people talking about the things they did or liked as kids and just not being able to relate at all cause you had completely different experiences. You learn their pop culture references and the everything into the intricacies and smallest details of their culture that they don’t even think about but they don’t know where your country is on a map, they don’t know how people speak there, the food, the cities, anything really. You spend your time learning everything about their culture, but it just feels so one sided because you’re speaking their language and they don’t speak a word of yours. Both literally and metaphorically. You are tuning yourself in on their wavelength constantly and not a lot of people will ever make much of an effort to tune into yours.

There is no one around you that you can have a conversation with in your own language, apart from maybe family, and you can’t easily find books in your language. The more you surround yourself with people from your new country the more easily you can feel like you’ve lost contact with your own country and your own language. The longer you stay in a new country the more you feel like if you went back to your own country you’d be just as out of place as you feel in the one you currently live in.

It goes the other way too. The more you look and sound like you fit in the more uncomfortable it gets because people like to put you in one box or the other and a lot of people don’t understand that you might never completely feel completely like one or the other is “your country”. You’ll never be completely the same as the people in the new country. You may know all the same cultural references as they do after some time but you don’t have the same emotional basis or nostalgia around it as they do. You don’t have the same acquired tastes as they do. There are things from your old country that used to be a common thing where you came from but just do not exist there.

You end up missing the dumb things. The differences in the trees. The food. The dumb children’s characters. The holidays. The dumb little sayings that people would have. Body language and verbal cues that people in your new country just do not have. The way buildings are built. The way the weeds in the pavement are different. The way even the DIRT has a different composition. The way the seasons aren’t the same, the difference in weather and temperature throughout the year. The shittiest, cheapest candy they sold in every store but don’t sell here.

This is all stuff I’ve experienced before myself and I think it would be fun for Damian to have some of the same experiences with it.

[jspenft]

Home alone on Satoru's birthday.

I know I'm coming back after what, one? Two years? I don't know anymore. But I just had a fic idea and fuck, need someone to write it asap.

(English isn't my first language, and didn't proofread, pls be lenient)

It's a 𝙎𝙖𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙪 𝙂𝙤𝙟𝙤 𝙭 𝙛𝙚𝙢!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧, and I'm sorry but Suguru is mean in it (don't blame me okay it just happened in my head😭).

Okay so basically, you're in a distance relationship with Satoru, or like he's away for missions (or business trip if NoCurses!au).

He's been away for so long, it's been weeks, you text, call, sure, but it's not enough, you miss each other so fucking bad. He sends you texts of the lines of: "I put your perfume on my pillow but nothing compares to you :( Need your arms around me sweetheart" "Miss you🩵" "Love you so much", and you needed him as bad.

Plus his birthday was approaching so fast, and you came up with a fucking great idea (not to be presumptuous, but you're pretty proud of yourself).

The idea: buy a plane ticket and surprise him.

Simple right?

You thought...

Days goes by and you plan everything: buy the plane ticket✅ book a room in the hotel he's staying (even though it's just to gain access to the hotel corridors and knock on Satoru's door)✅ making his favorite pastries✅ hell you even planned to wear those clothes he loves you to wear✅ everything was going to your plan.

You knew he specifically asked (ordered) to have the day off on his birthday, so the field was clear for you.

You both had planned a facetime that day (even though he would've liked to stay on call all day, you convinced him to move the call to late afternoon. Your excuse was lame, but he thankfully believed it.). But what he didn't know, is that when you'll call him, you'll be in front of his hotel room at that time. You giggle already imagining his reaction.

A few days before, just to be sure, you texted Suguru asking him to subtly encourage Satoru not to leave his hotel room at the time you'll be there. He agreed.

The day comes and you're so excited.

You're ready to go, check everything.

But shock is written all over your face as you inspect your wallet:

𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙩 𝙜𝙤??

You are surprised at first, thinking that you must have put it somewhere else. But the more time you spend running around the house, the more horror replaces the initial shock on your face.

You really try to remember, but no, you really put it in your wallet! So how did it disappear!??

Time passes and the house is in distraught, you turned everything upside down, but still nothing.

Last resort: buy another ticket.

You run and scroll through the airline's website on your computer and: the flight is sold out...

𝙎𝙊𝙇𝘿.𝙊𝙐𝙏.

You start crying, why do these kinds of things only happens to you?

In the end, you decide to go to the airport anyway, because who knows? Maybe there will be a last minute cancellation and you'll have a free seat? spoiler alert: no.

You're crying, trying to hide your sobs from people.

For fuck sakes this isn't home alone! So why did this happens to you? All you wanted was making your boyfriend happy on his birthday, was that too much to ask for?

You spend the rest of the day sobbing in your bed. You may be overdoing it a bit, thinking that it wouldn't be a big deal for others, but you can't help but feel bad. Seeing something you've been preparing for so long slip through your fingers so easily, and that because of a poor plane ticket: it frustrates you to the highest degree. You miss Satoru so much.

You have no other choices than accept your fate. You already wished him an happy birthday at midnight, and all that's left is to wait for the facetime you had planned for late afternoon. You're already practicing fake smiles and hiding your swollen eyes.

Imagining yourself with him almost makes you shed a tear. Facetime is good, but nothing compares to being in each other's embrace.

You're suddenly brought out of your reverie by a message notification. Message from Satoru to be precise, you know it cause you have a specific ringtone for him.

You open his text, and begin to start rubbing your eyes, not believing what you're reading.

𝙏𝙤𝙧𝙪🍡🩵. 𝟰:𝟮𝟮𝙥𝙢 :

"𝘚𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴!! 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥! 𝘚𝘶𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺!!!! 𝘊𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵?😁 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭💅🏻💅🏻💅🏻 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘪'𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺! 𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘦'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨!🥳 𝘞𝘦'𝘭���� 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺? 𝘓𝘶𝘷 𝘶𝘶𝘶🥰"

...

...𝘿𝙞𝙙 𝙎𝙪𝙜𝙪𝙧𝙪 𝙂𝙚𝙩𝙤... 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙡𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙩??

You can imagine anything from there.

But I can think of the reader so shocked that she doesn't answer Satoru's call, or the following ones. She ends up picking up, but is very evasive in her answers. Ofc he asks her what's wrong, and so she explains to him.

Everything.

How she planned everything down to the last millimeter, how Suguru was in confidence, but he decided to stab her in the back by stealing her surprise. (Because yes, maybe the missing ticket is a coincidence, but the idea of ​​surprising Satoru, that, Suguru stole it from her).

Now imagine Satoru not believing you? Telling you his best friend wouldn't do that. "Why are are you lying?".

You'll sob, maybe even Shoko will hear the news and call you. You'll ask her "What? You don't believe me either?" but she believes you.

I don't know why Sugu would do that tho. Maybe he felt like the new girlfriend was stealing his best friend?

Just dreamed abt this fic, hope you like the idea.

[poeticallyspiteful]

the way things change (ch. one)

ethan landry x reader

fluff/angst

cw: mentions of broken bones, blood loss, nerve damage, scars, burns, hand tremors, physical therapy, wheelchairs, chronic pain, a feeding tube, ptsd, the panic attacks, paranoia, nightmares, insomnia, murder?? like it’s scream, alcohol consumption, allusions to sex, i think that’s it but lemme know if i missed anything

summary: after almost a year of recovery, ethan’s helping you push yourself into some immersion therapy—you’re not loving it.

notes: i hope y’all like the first official chapter, apologies for the ending, it was getting too long so i had to cut part of it to move it to the next chapter. enjoy!!

"do you think this is cute?" you stepped out of the bathroom, lifting your arms as stiff as a mannequin. your party clothes were comfortable but this was the first time in months you've really gotten ready; you couldn't help but feel a stranger in your own clothes.

three broken ribs, severe blood loss, nerve damage in your hands, and a shattered knee— not to mention the scars from burns and cuts and stabs that littered your body from head to toe. you were left quite literally broken into pieces after that night.

but, miraculously, you survived— even if that meant the recovery was mind breaking.

the hand tremors, the physical therapy, the wheelchair and the cane it had been traded in for. the scars, the random, blinding pains, being fed from a tube for months because stomaching food was nearly impossible. the ptsd, the panic attacks, the paranoia and the nightmares that turned into crippling insomnia.

the farther down the road you traveled, the more it seemed like a tunnel with no light at the end.

however, you had ethan. and he made everything infinitely better.

even now, you felt your muscles relax as he looked up from his phone, a small smile breaking out on his face at the sight of you.

“you’re gorgeous.”

you rolled your eyes as you fought back a smile, cheeks heating. “that’s not what i asked.”

“i don’t care. you’re gorgeous,” ethan said, closing the space between you and putting his hands on your hips.

you bit the inside of your lip to cinch your grin as you leaned into his touch.

“this is unfair, you can’t be cute when i’m supposed to be mad at you.”

ethan scoffed, tugging you forward until you were flush against his chest, his arms fully wrapped around you like a cocoon. “i’m making you follow your therapists instructions and attend a small party for an hour. you’ll live, princess.”

“so mean…” she mumbles against his chest, wrapping her arms around his torso.

“i know, i’m horrible. let’s go.”

the second you walked into the god awful frat house, a wave of nausea overcame you. the stench of beer wafted through the room, mingling with a sweaty, musty undertone.

"you said this was supposed to be a small party?" you asked, as a very drunk boy stumbled past you, nearly knocking you over. ethan pulled you tight against his side, though the packed room makes you both felt like you were overheating.

"yeah, on second thought, chad's not a very good judge of these things,” he says, eyes trailing after the drunk that almost ran you down.

you lean against him, looking up through your eyelashes with the needy look he can never deny. “can we leave? please?”

ethan furrows his brow, frowning at you. “we can still have fun! c’mon, just an hour. less than that! just 50 minutes now.”

you whine exaggeratedly as he leads you to a less crowded corner. “last time i was at one of these, someone stabbed me, so i feel i have good reason for hesitation.”

ethan’s expression softens but he does not relent. “you told me not to let you bail, baby. c’mon, let’s get you something to drink.”

blood. so much blood—coating your hands, soaking your dress, filling your senses and splattering on the floor.

“baby? bab— hey, hey, it’s okay.”

ethan’s face blurs and it feels like you’re swaying even though you know your not. it all happened so fast, the room was spinning so fast, everything was moving so fucking fast.

“hey! can you hear me?” ethan again. god, he sounds so worried. you hope he’s not too worried.

you managed to focus your eyes and see that he’s moved you to his lap, his hands covering your own as they press onto your wound. something is soft under your fingers now—his flannel, you realize—and in the same moment you realized your blood is soaking through that too.

“yeah,” you whisper. “i hear you…”

“the ambulance is on its way, just stay awake.”

“where— where’d he go?” you slurred. whether it was from the blood loss, the alcohol, or the panic, you weren’t sure.

ethan shakes his head, pressing down harder on your stomach as he saw your eyes lose focus again. “he ran away, he’s gone, you’re okay.”

she shut your eyes tight as the room started to swim again. “said you… coming…” you managed to murmur, though the blood that had snuck past your lips wasn’t doing any favors for your speech.

“what?”

“he said you had it coming.”

“what do you want to drink?” ethan asked softly, one hand gripping hip as he plucked too red solo cups off of the tower that say on the drink table.

you hummed doubtfully. “i don’t know if i want to drink tonight. maybe just a diet coke?”

“fine by me.” he presses a kiss to your temple before pulling away, pouring two cans of diet coke into two cups.

“you can drink,” you said quickly, suddenly worried you were ruining his night. you knew ethan was never much of a party person but you wouldn’t blame him for wanting to get out of the house, away from you, away from all your trauma and problems and—

“i don’t mind staying sober,” he reassures. “plus, when we’re back at my apartment, we can drink wine, watch a funny movie, and make out until we fall asleep.”

you smile, leaning into him and taking your soda from his hand. “that sounds nice.”

ethan hummed, kissing the top of your head as it rests against his chest. “40 minutes.”

you bite your lip, looking up at him, wrapping an arm around his middle. “what about 30 if i make it worth your while?”

“i’m not some slut,” he chides, a smile creeping on his face.

“i believe i’d be the slut in that situation.”

“oh really—”

“well if it isn’t mr. and mrs. landry!”

and there’s chad. more specifically, a super excited, super loud, and super drunk chat.

“hey, man,” ethan greets, pulling away from you to give his roommate a one armed hug and a pat on the back.

“what are you guys doing here?” chad asked, pulling you in for a hug with just as much excitement. “you haven’t come to one of these all year.”

“yeah, we’re not here for long,” you said, forcing a smile that chad was too drunk to call out. “just wanted to say hello and grab a drink.”

chad nods, head bobbing to the deafening beat of the music playing. he smiled at you, that broad, blinding smile and leaned in to hug you again, holding you against him for a moment longer.

“i’m proud of you,” he slurred whispered, patting you on the back hard enough to make you cough up some phlegm. “you’re doing really good.”

“thanks, chad.” you laughed as you pulled apart. “now go back to partying! your fans must be missing you dearly.”

he laughs, though it sounds more like a giggle and shouts something unintelligible at you as he walks back into the crowd. once he’s gone, your shoulders slump a bit again, leaning against ethan once more.

“i socialized, i’m done, we can leave now.”

“nope. we still have 35 minutes left.”

“what are you, the timekeeper?” you grumbled, feet feeling like cement blocks as he guided you out into the common area, away from the dance floor but still plenty claustrophobic.

“well, i did start a timer when we got out of the car, so yeah,” he quipped, “i am.”

“you’re insufferable.”

“you love me.”

“mhm.”

[bakudekuficlibrary]

Does anyone have hockey player X figure skater Bakudeku fics? it dosent have to be katsuki as hockey player and izuku as figure skater it can be one or the other for any of them!

BakuDeku: Hockey Player/Figure Skater 6 Works

Shut the Puck Up and Kiss Me, You Lutz! by SweetSide ( E | BKDK | 30,826 | 10/10 )

Bakugou Katsuki's not the first hot-headed hockey player Izuku has encountered in his figure skating career, but he's certainly the loudest.

At first, Izuku can't believe such a guy has the power to turn his head and his heart, but there's just something about him and it doesn't take much for Izuku to realize he can't resist, because he doesn't want to.

skating on the thin ice (of modern life) by starkliquors ( M | BKDK | 40,121+ | 7/9 )

Bakugou Katsuki. Alpha. Hockey Captain. Doting Father. Media Disaster.

Midoriya Izuku. Omega. Ice Staking Champion. Badass Coach. Media Darling.

Eri. Unpresented. Along for the ride.

[Hiatus] Winter's Fray and Dulled Blades by Reapz ( Not Rated | 58,781+ | 9/24 )

Izuku, championship winning solo skater, is expected to perfectly land quads if he hopes to make it passed the Olympic qualifiers and seriously compete for gold.

The issue? His coach had decided he would be eliciting the help of Katsuki, center and captain of UA’s competitive D1 hockey team.

Estranged childhood friends are reunited after years for this new training regimen.

Triple Axel by serenetaflowers ( G | 2,724+ | 3/? )

Izuku Midoriya wants nothing more than to be a pro ice hockey player, and with selection for Japan’s Winter Sports Association Under 21s Program less than 3 months away, Izuku is under a lot of stress with practice being his only form of escapism.

Katsuki Bakugo has been figure skating ever since he was a ‘brat’ and his only goal is to become the number one figure skater on the planet; he too wants to be selected for the program.

The program has a brutal selection with only 50 spots up for grabs so the pressure is on for both Katsuki and Izuku.

The only problem is that UA campus’ rink is only available for a set number of hours after its closing time.

Tensions rise and will both put their differences aside so they don’t end up biting each others’ heads off before the actual selection process?

all I've seen since eighteen hours ago was green eyes and freckles and your smile by wonder_lyn (orphan_account) ( T | 2,415 | 1/1 )

Hockey player Katsuki Bakugou and figure skater Izuku Midoriya are in love.

The rest of the world just doesn't know that yet.

aka the reason my search history is full of hockey rules and ice skating techniques

[Abandoned] The Rink Rats by bookaddicted74 ( T | 7,599+ | 8/? )

Izuku Midoriya begins his journey at UA University at the ice rink. Between being a hockey fan and figure skater himself, he finds himself constantly in the same place as a certain short tempered, blonde hockey player. On top of his athletics and fanboying, Izuku sees Bakugou in section 1A of Physics where it seems like everyone knows each other. How will this relationship develop? Read more to find out!

In less dramatic words, all of class 1A is in the same section of physics and a lot of them are involved in figure skating or hockey. Bakugou and Midoriya are the Romeo and Juliet of the ice rink and a lot of shenanigans ensue. This fic’s main plotline follows the relationships formed in class 1A (both platonic and romantic) with Bakugou and Midoriya being at the center of it.

Fanart, AUs, & Special Mentions:

habken (battle of the blades AU) figure skater bakugou hockey player deku

starrywhitewall figure skating AU

limesicle ktdk figure skating AU

jollykings_ bkdk ice skating AU

'tis the season to read about fictional gays on ice. if I missed any, feel free to comment 'em below!

~ Gabs ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

[hsangel64]

bandmates pt. 10!

synopsis: a couple of weeks was all it took

warnings: some angst, cussing

a/n: i am not too sure how long this story will go, but i think the way its going it’ll get another story, maybe!!

after everything happened you packed up a bag and texted abby to stay for a couple of days to cool down. she told you of course and offered to let you stay for however long you would need. ellie had been texting you all morning, you had turned on do not disturb but she still seemed to get her way around it and i couldn’t stop checking my phone. text after text you finally gave in and texted back.

you sighed and rubbed your face. what did you just do, you can’t believe you agreed. she texted you a coffee shop, it being your guys’ favorite coffee place to go to, and told her to meet her tomorrow morning. you shook your head at yourself and turned your phone off. no more of that for today.

———————————————————————————

it’s finally tomorrow morning, after an agonizingly long sleepless night, it was the morning. you had gotten ready and felt the nerves pick up. you changed your shirt about a million times now. you really didn’t want to see ellie and don’t know why you agreed but you love her too much to be gone for too long.

you checked the time grabbed your bag to head out. it was 9:30am and ellie wanted to meet around 10:15 so you had some time to walk there and get yourself together. you felt your heart beating a million miles a minute, you didn’t know if you’d start screaming or crying at ellie, maybe even both.

you made it to the coffee shop and didn’t even realize it, you stared at the door before taking a huge deep breath and going in.

———————————————————————————

ellie’s pov

she couldn’t believe what had happened, it all happened so fast. you had ran and she didn’t have any time to process what you had said.

“ellie you fuckin idiot.” dina yelled at her and ran after you. she just stood there for what felt like forever. jesse didn’t ay anything and just went after dina. she came back from her senses and realized you left, ellie ran to your room and saw dina on the couch with her head in her hands and jesse comforting her. they both heard her come in and immediately changed moods, dina got up and pushed ellie.

“you’re a fucking asshole you know that? you are a shit friend, girlfriend, all of the above.” her chest going up and down as she paced around the room trying not to beat up ellie.

“you better fucking fix this ellie or i swear to god you will never see either of us again.” she pushed her way out of the room and stormed off. jesse got up and walked towards ellie, he put his hand on ellie’s shoulder and said, “fix it ellie.”

she was left in the room alone for about 2 minutes with just her thoughts before cat barged in.

“hi baby! you did so so good.” she tried to kiss her but ellie pushed her off and mumbled a fuck off. she ran out of the room and ran to her car. ellie didn’t even grab anything just made it her mission to try and catch you at the dorm. she knew you were going to run off. she drove quicker than she thought she even could, she made it to the dorm within 10 mins as the drive regularly was 30 mins. she barely even parked and ran up the building, she even took the stairs trying to catch you. she reached the door and called out for you, for anyone, complete silence filled her ears. she sighed really loudly and realized she missed you. ellie dragged herself to the couch and fell into it, sobbing into herself. she felt pathetic, she knew what she did and felt like utter shit. dina was right, she said over and over and over again in her head. she had to do something.

———————————————————————————

it had been almost two weeks since ellie had seen you, she had been texting you every chance she gets she texts you. you never answered of course, just sulking in your own feelings. ellie tried everything, she sent you flowers after hearing where you were staying, she tried to catch you after class, she called and called and called, but to no avail you never answered. she was running out of things to do with dina yelling on her back about fixing things, she didn’t know what else to do. she figured it was the end and she was ready to accept the fact that you would never be with her again. dina had come home and seen ellie on the couch with her head in her hands. she sighed and made her way towards her.

“why don’t you just tell her the truth, try and get her to go to get coffee and explain all that you feel.” ellie looked up at her and sent a small smile her way. “as much as i don’t like you right now, i still love you and i want to try and help.” they hugged and spent some time together that ellie very much needed.

they spent the rest of the day watching movies and just spending time together, dina ended up falling asleep while they watched interstellar.

‘she always said it was boring…’ she thought and laughed to herself. she thought for a second and texted you about coffee tomorrow morning, it took some convincing but you agreed and she felt good about this, she was going to get you back even if it took just starting over.

———————————————————————————

taglist: @gold-dustwomxn @lil-elliesgf @elliestears @cjrights @hopelesssheaven @depressedbratsworld @amberputh

a/n: hey guys! this is a shit chapter but i’m hoping the next one will be the last and better! this was just a filler from not posting in awhile!!

[charleslelurk]

lestappen + edging + ruined orgasm!!

For you 😘 Probably sappier than "ruined orgasm" would normally be interpreted, but that's sort of my MO

Lestappen + edging + ruined orgasm

From here

If Charles loses his mind, this is how it will happen. Right here, right now. 

Charles has no idea how long Max has been at it. He'd let Charles come once with his mouth, hours ago, to take the edge off, to make this possible, and now he's brought Charles nearly there again a half dozen times. He keeps switching between fucking Charles and licking him, has fully eaten his own come from his first orgasm back out of Charles and slicked him all back up again with spit. 

Charles's entire body is quaking, muscles having minds of their own as his body feels overwhelmed, a live wire ready to snap and crackle. Max has to pin his legs down with an iron grip around his thighs every time he goes back in with his tongue because Charles can't stop from kicking his legs out to attempt to relieve some of the way his body feels on fire from Max's ministrations. 

Max pushes his cock back into Charles. 

"So good for me, so good," Max lisps, and Charles throws his head to the side, eyes closed. Even hearing Max speak feels like too much at this point, knowing he is pushing those words past his puffy lips that have been on Charles's rim again and again tonight. Charles needs to be put in a deprivation tank if he is going to survive this. He is sweating, chest bright pink, cock painfully hard and leaking, mind delirious. He's going to kill Max.

Max grinds into him deeply, not even thrusting, knowing that would end his playtime with Charles. Instead, he presses his hips flush to Charles's and pushes him up the bed with it, uses his hands on Charles's wrists, pinning them above his head, as leverage to force his blunt cock as far into Charles as it will go. Charles is shaking with it; the feeling of being full is everything he needs but also what is lighting him on fire. He's oversensitive and grinding his teeth and knitting his brows and tightening his abs and moaning like he's in pain and–

Max pulls his arms to trap both of Charles's dainty wrists in one of his hands and reaches between them to gently hold Charles's angry cock. Charles just about chokes, could not imagine it could get worse, but Max hasn't touched his cock since the first time he'd pressed into Charles and he'd nearly forgotten his cock existed for the last twenty minutes with how much the rest of him feels like bubbling lava. 

"Max, I–"

Max removes his hand quickly, instead runs it up Charles's side from the dip of his waist, across the washboard of his ribs, and into his arm pit. 

"Color?" Max asks. 

Charles closes his eyes again, focuses to get the right word out of his mouth. "Green."

"Good, good."

Max is still grinding his cock into Charles, slowly and deeply, like kneading bread dough. Charles has proved for hours though. He feels like he's sinking into a tar pit, outside his body as he tries to bear it, tries to be good for Max. He will get to come when Max wants him to, and it will be worth it, it always is. He tries to breathe deeply, past the way his slowly building orgasm is about to bubble over again and he won't get to come again. 

"Charles?"

Charles thinks he hums in response.

"Charles, open your eyes for me."

Charles does. He yanks up his eyelids to allow the light in and see Max above him. His hips have stilled as he looks down at Charles with a knit brow. 

"Color?"

"Green," Charles says quietly. He's fine, he can do this. He just needs his skin to stop feeling like it's going to be peeled off if Max doesn't let him come soon. 

Max pulls out and Charles shakes with the feeling of being empty, missing the pressure and stimulation of something inside him even if it was way too much, had his blood burning and his dick aching and his chest heaving. 

Max pins his legs down and Charles prepares to feel Max's lips on his rim again. Despite himself, he clenches his muscles, preparing for the next torture. He closes his eyes. 

He jerks in surprise when Max presses a gentle kiss to the inside of his thigh, just a brush of lips against his sensitive, ticklish skin. 

"Baby?" Max sounds worried. 

"Max?"

A rough hand strokes down his thigh, his legs no longer pinned. "You're coming."

"I am not."

The hand keeps stroking his leg. "Yes." Max's voice is quiet with shock, but also like he doesn't want to scare Charles, like he's a deer ready to wave its tail in surrender. 

It's not possible. He can't imagine what Max thinks he's seen, how he could mistake it. Charles would know, his body wouldn't still feel like this, ablaze and as hot as the sun's surface. 

Charles peels his eyes open again to look down his body at Max. He follows Max's gaze to the spill of come on his stomach, silvery and glistening, his cock spilling the last of his unsatisfactory orgasm onto his skin. 

Inexplicably, Charles whines. 

"Charlie?"

Max's hand running up and down his thigh is suddenly too much, it's all too much, Charles can't do it anymore. 

"Red," he says, and then lets out a heaving sob from his chest, closing his eyes again. 

Max immediately tries to bundle Charles into his arms, but Charles is too overwhelmed, it just makes everything worse. "No, no, no, no, no."

Max finally figures out Charles is saying no to him and puts a few inches between them. "Baby, what can I do?"

But Charles can't articulate anything else past the way he still feels wound up even though his dick is soft, and somewhere in his abdomen his orgasm still feels mostly built and none of it was worth it. 

Charles finally tunes back into Max when a bottle of water is shoved into his hand. The shock of the cold plastic snaps him out of it for a moment and his eyes stop watering for long enough for him to get the cap off and chug half of it. 

"Can I?" Max asks and Charles blinks a few times and realizes Max is perched on the edge of the mattress, a warm cloth in hand. He wants to clean Charles off.

"I– I don't know." He doesn't realize until the words are out of his mouth that he is speaking French, but it's simple enough that Max can understand. Charles still feels overwhelmed, his brain stings to use too much and his skin is sort of on fire still. He's mouth-breathing he feels so out of it, panting like a dog trying to get a respite. He thinks if Max touches him, he might start having a fucking breakdown all over again.

Max offers the cloth to Charles instead and Charles takes it with a shaking hand. Max watches Charles fumble through wiping off his own stomach, hands twitching like he wants to help the whole time. 

They don't immediately go to bed. Max makes Charles eat, and then makes Charles do his skincare routine so he won't be grumpy in the morning. Doing something a little normal helps calm Charles down even though he can still feel the live wire in him somewhere, like he hasn't come all week long. 

By the time they are back on the mattress, Charles can bear to have Max touch him again. And his brain is working enough to talk. Max questions him about how it felt, all of it. 

"But were you overwhelmed good, or overwhelmed bad?"

"I was being so overwhelmed I was going somewhere else." Charles says into Max's chest, face buried against the soft cotton of his Red Bull t-shirt.

Max takes a shaky breath. "That's when you should use your safeword, of course. That's bad bad."

"I wanted to come when you wanted me to come. I wanted to go as long as you wanted."

Max laughs without humor, chest jumping against Charles's face. "Charles, you don't push through like a workout, that's how you get hurt."

"Oh."

Max cradles the back of Charles's head to hold him more firmly against his chest. "You have to take care of yourself." It sounds like I love you.

[wizardnuke]

bf says ive been going thru it and doing really well at that. bursts into tears.

[shikai-the-storyteller]

I'm so burnt out and stressed about a variety of things lately, but a funny / sweet coincidence recently happened that I wanted to share:

Last week, I had a university student reach out to me (via my work email) asking for resources / advice on their research paper because I've written a lot of articles about the thing they're writing about. (I just got back to them today and they were real sweet, I'm excited to see how their paper turns out)

A week or two ago, I had someone reach out to me on RA asking for some specific clip info / date info because they were doing a research paper about Pac, and today I saw that they published their paper and put a special thanks to RA in the notes :')

I just think it's very sweet and a funny coincidence that my work (professional and fandom work) is getting cited in research papers. It made me smile a lot, I genuinely love that.

[kurthorton-moving]

I dont think i have ever mentioned nick on this blog bc hes an oc that has. Nothing to do with kurt or in common w him but looking at him next to kurt actually is so interesting to me because they're both around the same age coming from abusive homes and trying to just do what they have to to survive and theres so many interesting parallels between them