#anyway make a sourdough starter. you wanna do it. you wanna do it so bad

[kkujo]

sourdough is genuinely one of the best hobbies you can get into for ur mental health imo. like. it's pretty involved in the sense that you have to feed ur starter every day, so it gives you a sense of purpose. it challenges you in a gentle way bc finding the best techniques for you & ur starter takes some trial & error, but even if it's not 100% perfect, the bread is still gonna taste good. my first loaf was flat & dense and the crust was rock hard but it still tasted good and i was still proud of it!! having a hobby where you make something from nothing is so great. when you get the hang of it and find techniques to improve, you can make super yummy beautiful bread for ur family and friends and it's so rewarding!! and it makes other people happy too!!!

[recurring-polynya]

Writing/Art Update 2/14/2023

Welp, the great "don't force myself to write when I don't wanna" experiment is over. I got real heckin' depressed and it was bad, so I started making myself write again, and it lifted. Perhaps it's a coincidence, I don't know, but this sort of holds with how the last four years of my life have been going. Trying to scrape dregs out of an empty jar isn't exactly fun, but it's what I gotta do, I guess.

Anyway, the good news is that I'm not being too mean to myself. I stole @bleachbleachbleach 's method of requiring myself to write one sentence on my WIP every day. I've managed to make it every day. One of the main things that happened (and this sort of thing always happens when I set goals) is that I realized that if I did only one sentence a day, it would take me forever to finish, which has pushed me to do more than the minimum. For the first few days of the week, I was doing about 100 words a day, which is still very paltry, but I think I've done more than that the last few days.

The thing I am working on is a story I started in 2019, which I have always been very fond of, except that it's a mess. The first paragraph is in a difference POV than the rest of it. It's mostly written in the present tense, except where it's not. Most importantly, it just sort of stops where I ran out of ideas. It's possible this was not the best possible project for me to dive into in my current mental state. I've been working on it, but I feel like it keeps getting worse 😂. Like, I re-wrote that first bit, and I just don't like it as much. Also, even though I know I should never, ever, never ever write in the present tense...I... think it works better that way? I'm seriously considering switching it back?? Also, it is primarily a world-building story, and as soon as I started on it, I realized that there were a bunch of holes in my world-building and it's been so hard to make any kind of decisions about anything. (I spent a week trying to figure out if this one guy has a wife or not. It seems like a thing I should just be able to decide except that it's also sort of the entire crux of the story)

At least I didn't have to start from nothing. The original story was about 2900 words, and my intuition is that the final product is going to end up between 5 and 10k. This is a great size for a story, the easiest size of story to write, and I'm honestly just mad that I'm so bad at all of this, and I'm worried that at the end of the day, the thing is gonna suck because I've lost my touch. Anyway, right now, it's 1768. It's nowhere near what I know I'm capable of when I'm on (when I'm really fucking on), but I'm faking it 'cause I have to, and it's going okay, I guess.

I don't know what's up with my art, either! I just don't really have any ideas I'm excited about! I did a tutorial this week with some pastel brushes, and then I turned around and did a Valentine's Day art project with the same brushes. I feel like it's probably a good time to do some skillbuilding, but, man, skillbuilding kinda sucks. 😂

The one good thing that did happen this week is that I finally made a decent loaf of sourdough! Look at these guys!!

They were so springy and good in the middle and nice and crusty on the outside! The secret turned out to be a combination of getting my starter more active generally, and actually following an every-six-hour feeding schedule the day before I baked it (the last feeding was ten hours because it was overnight and I had to get my kid off to school in the morning) It was 100% naturally leavened (no commercial yeast at all). I followed this King Arthur recipe.

The discard recipe of the week was Little Spoon Farm Blueberry Muffins, which were every bit as good as the recipe promised, if you like sweet, cakey, grocery-store style muffins. Little Spoon Farm is becoming my go-to for discard recipes, they haven't missed yet.

[rodeoxqueen]

SMELLS LIKE QUARAN-NEROKIRI SPIRIT 

Nero/Kyrie

“In quarantine, Nero and Kyrie spend time together.” 

Rodeo’s Two Pieces: 

First time writing for Nero/Kyrie. Tread lightly with my take of their dynamic. 

(I)- Dalgona Coffee and Cookies. 

Despite how everything was shut down and the grocery was found vacant of basic necessities, Nero was grateful to at least be with someone he loved the most. 

“Look, we probably need some time off from kickin’ demon ass anyways,” Nico explained, smoking a cigarette during the video chat. 

“Yeah, not like demons care about being six feet away. People don’t even do that.” Nero looked at himself in the little square in the corner of his phone. Clad in a grey hoodie, he hadn’t even bothered putting on anything over his boxers. No one had come to visit since the mandate to stay inside, what was the point? 

Nico was in her garage again, from what he could see in the camera view. Cigarettes and old cups of coffee littered her desk, warbled country music playing off-view. 

“Who knows, maybe I’ll make something to fix that. I was thinking a mask-gun, rapid-fire reloading.” 

“Artisan of Arms, huh?” Nero laughed, getting up from his bed. 

“You fuckin’ bet. Now I gotta go. Got some things to weld.” 

“See ya, Nico. Stay safe, alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He gave a peace sign before pressing “end video call.” 

The video chat ended and Nero tucked his phone into his pocket. Even banter just wasn’t the same virtually. 

“Who was that? Nico?” Nero made it down the hallway to see Kyrie, bustling about getting things from the cupboards. 

“Yeah, still building stuff as usual.” 

Kyrie had been in their apartment’s kitchen, deciding to try her hand at some recipes she saw online. A bag of flour, too many bowls, and more chocolate than Nero remembered buying, all laid out on the table. 

Just when he wanted something to eat, he’d have to wait or his girlfriend would practically make enough to feed an army and be surprised when he didn’t want anymore. 

He opted for a cup of water instead. 

Nero admired her hair, how it looked when it wasn’t in a ponytail, how it sat perfectly on her shoulders. Seeing how she started to measure some ingredients, he took the hair tie on his wrist, careful fingers bringing it into a low ponytail. 

“Oh, thank you.” She commented, opening her booklet of recipes she had handwritten. Neat, slanted cursive in a smattering of blue, red, and black read out recipes for cookies, cakes, and bread. 

“You look busy, planning to make all of those?” Nero rested his chin on her shoulder, shrouding her with warmth. 

“Well, I don’t know how long we’re going to be stuck at home, might as well try some recipes out. Maybe we can deliver some to the orphanage.” 

“That is if I don’t eat all your prototypes first.” She laughed, birdsong to Nero’s ears. 

“As long as you help me I don’t mind if you do.” Kyrie handed him a measuring cup. Nero sighed, taking it. He always lost count of how many cups of flour he was supposed to put in the bowl. 

A jar of porous dough caught his eye as he sifted some baking soda in his white mixture. He took it from Kyrie’s side of the island. 

“Whoa, what is this? A science experiment?” Kyrie chuckled, watching Nero scrutinize the date on the white tape to the top of the mason jar. 

“No, it’s a sourdough starter! It’s basically wild yeast. We can make bread with it since people bought out all the dry yeast in the grocery store.” 

Nero shook it with curiosity and then opened the silver lid, making an “eh” face at the smell. 

“It’s yeast alright.” 

Kyrie continued whipping up the sugar and butter mixture, Nero helping himself to a handful of chocolate chips. 

“Have you talked to your uncle and father? They must be staying at the shop in Redgrave.” 

Nero shrugged. 

“Most likely, I haven’t talked to them yet. Dante probably didn’t pay the phone bill and Vergil doesn’t know how to use the phone anyways.” 

“Let’s just hope they’re getting along during this time.” 

Nero thought back to all the “family outings” he had since his uncle and father returned from hell, mostly just jobs becoming contests of strength that turned to friendly family fights. Endless banter and elbowing. 

Honestly, compared to that, standing next to his girlfriend while they shaped cookies for the oven was heaven. 

Once the chocolate chip cookie dough was done baking, Kyrie insisted they make some whipped coffee while they cooled.  

“I thought you didn’t like coffee, Kyrie.” She stooped down to find something in the lower cabinets. A robotic hand that was colored dark blue and black, his old Devil Bringer, appeared with a tiny whisk duct-taped to it. 

“Yeah, but that TikTok made it look so good.” Nero handed her the glass container of instant coffee. 

Turning on the Devil Bringer, the tiny whisk spun to life, rapidly mixing sugar, coffee, and water together. With her back turned, Nero popped a thing of cookie dough in his mouth. 

“Honestly, Nico should have patented these Devil Bringers, make a bunch of money, and maybe she’d stop trying to rip me off all those times.” 

“Support local businesses, Nero.” 

He looked over her shoulder, surprised at how an abysmal brown mixture had become fluffy and thrice its previous volume. 

Two cups of milk poured, the practically instantly whipped coffee laid on top like a decadent Mount Everest next to a still-warm plate of cookies. 

“Cheers!” Kyrie clinked glasses with him, stirring her mug vigorously with a spoon. He copied her, taking a sip of surprisingly light and sweet coffee. 

When he lowered his cup, Nero both revealed to the world a mustache of whipped coffee. 

Kyrie snorted into her cup, covering her mouth as she bit back a laugh. Embarrassed, Nero went to wipe it off when Kyrie pecked him on the lips. She drew back to reveal an imprint of the ‘stache on her own upper lip. 

“We match now.” Kyrie giggled, helping herself to another gooey cookie. 

Half a plate of cookies and two mugs properly drained of its contents, Kyrie and Nero loaded up the dishwasher to do the work. 

“This is coffee, why am I tired?” Kyrie yawned. 

The couch was this god-awful IKEA purchase that took hours for Nero to just figure out what the instructions meant. But right now, it perfectly supported both of them while they slept away their food coma. 

(II)- Curl Up And Dye. 

After the second time the mandate got lengthened, Nero could sense that Kyrie was starting to wane in her ever-positive attitude. The news had nothing good to say, and the number of shows they had binged left them indifferent to watching anything more. 

They did a lot of singing during quarantine, Kyrie always being the musical one. Evanescence was one of their favorites to sing together, Nero’s guitar skills and Kyrie’s ability to hit those high notes left many memorable nights of laughter. 

After a while, Kyrie began to just sit on the couch a lot and have Nero pay her company. 

“What’s wrong?” Kyrie sighed heavily, curling into Nero’s hoodie as he opted to stay shirtless. 

“I don’t know Nero, it just feels like everything is the same. We go through the same things every day and I just feel...trapped.” 

Nero kissed the nape of her neck, humming in agreement. 

“Look, I’m usually the one going to you for stuff like this but...it will get better. It’s been a really hard time for all of us, and we’re just watching everything go downhill. It’s not a good situation but, you got me. Always. And there’s still a lot of things we can change up if that helps.” He stroked her hair and rubbed her back, feeling her take a deep breath. 

“You’re right Nero. That really did help. Thank you for listening.” 

“Of course.” 

While he scrolled on his own phone, he didn’t heed all the things Kyrie was watching. She touched her own long hair, seeing the way other people recorded their own home-salon trims. 

“Things to change, huh?” She mumbled. 

So here they were now. 

“It looks so bad!” Kyrie exclaimed, her face in her hands, hair on the bathroom sink. Nero shook his head. 

“No it’s not, Kyrie! You look fine, just let me fix it!” In the mirror, Nero cringed at the way her hair was ridiculously over-layered. 

“Um, what did you try to do-” 

“Curtain bangs! Oh Nero, I shouldn’t have tried to change up my hair!” Kyrie was thoroughly upset, seeing how her bout of bravery lead to her bangs being mauled by her own hands. 

Nero hugged her, noting that she had been wearing his shirt while she trimmed her hair. 

Okay that shirt’s gonna itch for a while until all the hair comes out. 

“It’s okay, let me see if I can fix it.” Kyrie blushed in the mirror, groaning at how bad her hair was cut. 

“There’s no way you could make it worse than what I did.” 

Nero gingerly took the scissors Kyrie put in the sink, a little bit too small for his hands but good enough. Although he was no stylist, he could tell where Kyrie had either cut too much off or unevenly. 

Eventually, they did manage to cut it in a way that hid the previous mistakes. Kyrie took another deep breath. 

“I shouldn’t have been so impulsive.” She murmured, arms crossed. 

Nero chuckled at her rare emotional outburst. He was glad to have been able to be there for her. She always hid how she felt, helping others her way of expressing herself. Now with no one around but him, he totally understood that she felt helpless. 

No one liked being helpless. 

He kissed her cheek and a lightbulb went off in his head. 

“You wanna dye my hair?” Kyrie turned around in surprise. 

“What?” 

“I mean, who knows how long this shutdown is gonna be, it’ll be fun,” Kyrie noted how Nero had forgone shaving, his peach fuzz becoming something more. 

Honest blue eyes peered at her, wondering what she would think. Her surprise softened to a sort of relief in their solidarity. 

“What color, Nero?” 

“Neon green-” 

“Nico’s going to make fun of you.” Kyrie giggled. Nero shrugged nonchalantly. 

“I don’t mind it.” 

(III)- Can’t Get Out Of It, Get Into It. 

“Nero, you look so fucking ridiculous.” 

“Shut up, Dante.” 

His uncle finally managed to figure out how to work the virtual chat on his fossil of a computer, and Nero was already prepared to end the call. 

His father sat slightly off-camera, not in the mood to entertain Dante’s antics to ridicule his son. Although, he did look oddly radioactive with his washed-out green hair and strong quarter-past five o’clock shadow.  

“Quarantine did not do you a favor, good lord,” Dante commented, kicking his feet up on his desk. Nero flipped him off. 

“Good to know you’re still living in shambles, not surprised neither of you cleaned up after yourselves.” The number of bottles on the floor was a travesty and the couch littered with poetry books Vergil had slowly begun to hoard. 

Nico entered the zoom call, smoking another cigarette Nero was lucky to not have to smell. 

“Nice broccoli head.” 

Nero flipped her off as well. Kyrie came into view, smiling at her boyfriend’s family and their shared friends. Nero decided to get a drink, clicking a few buttons before letting Kyrie have the seat. 

As they discussed how the business would continue with Devil May Cry, Kyrie sat next to Nero. 

It was mainly business, until it got to a certain line that Dante said. 

“I don’t know, it just feels like things are just going to keep staying like this. Hate to break it to you Nero, but it’s going to be tough for a while.” 

Kyrie finally heard enough, scooching Nero aside so she could talk. 

“Kyrie, wait-” 

“We’re going to get past this. As long as humanity still keeps coming together for the sake of benefiting each other, and we keep working to make sure to keep safe, we will get past this. We just have to keep hoping, and sure, hoping isn’t always going to make you feel better. I would know. But in a time where we do feel helpless, we should connect with other people in a different way. That’s why we succeed, we keep moving, we keep adapting! And hope, hope keeps that going.” 

Kyrie took a long breath. Looking at the dumbfounded group, she waited for a response. 

“Um, Kyrie. You were muted.” Nero finally said. Kyrie realized her blunder and how Nero’s hand was attempting to unmute them. 

“Oh.” Kyrie flushed, looking embarrassed. 

“I have no idea what you just said, but that’s okay.” 

“I’m sorry, that was so awkward.” 

“Don’t worry yourself, Kyrie. I bet it was real sweet whatever you had to say,” Nico assured. 

The zoom call was full of laughter since, a business call turned to a time to discuss how each person was doing. 

Dante and Vergil had spent days and nights sparring, Vergil learning more about humanity from Dante, and “making their own pizzas.” 

Nico had continued welding and making weapons for her own curiosity rather than based off of commission-based instructions. The van finally had the vinyl player fixed and she apparently gave herself a stick-and-poke. 

“So what did you two love birds do?” Nico asked, lighting another cancer stick. 

Nero and Kyrie looked at each other, smiling at their shared memories of this strange period in human history. 

“Where do we even start?”  Kyrie said, thinking of all the days and nights that seemed to breeze by and also slowly progress. 

Nero ruffled his longer messy green hair, Kyrie tucking her curtain bangs behind her ear. As they were two peas in the pod, Nero had decided to get another set of gray sweats for Kyrie, matching finally. 

Kyrie bit into a cookie, offering Nero some. 

“Smells like quarantine spirit, huh?” Dante finger-gunned.

Nero chuckled. 

“Hell yeah.” 

[teaspoon-full-of-sugar]

kissed by mist and can dew attitude

pairing: harry styles x reader (farmers market au)

warnings: awkwardness!! shy!baker!harry, mentions of the qu*rantine, drug use, harry's chest hair, giggly, sweet high sex, some dirty talk :) unprotected sex

word count: 3.4k

synopsis: harry is an idiot, and y/n is a bit of a tease

author’s note: you can read this for a little background to this au (but it’s not really necessary; i tend to over explain things anyway, so you can get a pretty good understanding just from this) literally no one asked for this, but market season is coming up again, and i missed writing about these two :( hope you enjoy! xx

masterlist

—

Harry is so tired of being cooped up in this house.

Don’t get him wrong, he loves staying home.

He is normally the introvert that puts all other introverts to shame. He loves staying at home, he loves hiding away after a stressful day at work, he goes out of his way to not talk to anyone while he’s out, and he very rarely ever goes out on the weekends. He loves just being able to stay at home, relax, and not worry about anyone bothering him.

But, at a certain point, it becomes too much; now, he just wants to get out, go for a walk, go to the grocery store, talk to someone other than Y/N, just do something, anything, other than staying at home. Yes, it’s for a good reason, and he doesn’t want to be responsible for the illness spreading, but it’s also straining on his mental, physical, and financial health.

He honestly wants to go back to work.

Since this entire situation started, Harry has only had a couple of shifts at The Sweet Spot, since, apparently, cafes are “essential businesses”, but the nutrition store next door isn’t (the world definitely has their priorities straight). Honestly, it was kind of nice; he didn’t have to schmooze any customers, since he only saw the delivery drivers. There was the occasional ignorant person who would come up to the doors and pull on them, despite the very clear signs saying that they were not open to the public, only to find them locked, and Harry very happily told them to go away.

However, Marty couldn’t afford to have him take up any more shifts, which he completely understands, so he’s been stuck home for weeks.

Needless to say, both he and Y/N have been getting a little stir crazy.

They tried to keep a somewhat healthy lifestyle in the beginning, hiking the nearby trails or walking at the park, but everything started to become too crowded. They even went cycling, but Harry proved to be even more of a klutz on a bike than on his own two feet, resulting in a bump on his head and a scraped elbow, which is still healing beneath a floral printed plaster.

Y/N’s had some failed experiments, leading to several four-hour kitchen clean-ups, and she also started a “Fermentation Station”, with dozens of glass jars filled with fermenting fruits and teas, the smell of yeast strong in the air. She was so proud of herself the first time she made carbonated water from things they already had in the house (“Look, Harry, it’s so convenient”). She ended up adding more and more things to her collection. They argued about it for a couple of days before she finally settled and moved her jars to the back porch after the kitchen started smelling like alcohol.

While Y/N has her experiments, Harry stress-bakes. He can’t even count how many loaves of bread, fruit pastries, cookies, and cakes he has made. He made crepes using sourdough starter. That’s how bored he’s been. He waited five whole days for his starter to mature, just to make four crepes between himself and Y/N.

But, there’s only so many things to do before you’ve completely run out of ideas.

On this particularly boring day, it’s two in the afternoon before they finally get out of bed, no thanks to their terrible sleep schedules, and they move onto the couch, which is officially broken in after how many hours they’ve spent on it. It’s sunny outside, bright and warm, the bright light beaming through the large bay windows in the living room, making staying inside even worse.

Y/N convinces him to paint his fingernails (and not just his toenails), and he happily indulges her. It’s nice feeling pampered for once, and whenever Y/N gets into her let’s-have-a-spa-day moods, she goes all out. While his toenails, painted with a pretty green color called Can Dew Attitude and a shimmery top coat on them, dried, she put some all-natural mud mask on his face, that bubbled and seeped into his skin.

“This is great for your pores,” she says as she puts a lukewarm cloth on his mask. “Not that you have bad skin. It’s better than mine, you ass.”

He just smiles, feeling the clay crack, and leans into her touch. She’s gentle, waiting until most of it is soft and pliable before she wipes it away. As she dries his face, with a towelette that smells like lavender and honey, his freshened skin, flushed and smooth, glows in the afternoon sun, his pretty eyes magnified behind a pair of thick, black framed glasses. Y/N sits across from him, her leg tucked up underneath her with his hand steady on her knee.

“It’s not gonna, like,” he pauses, glancing warily at his nails, “poison you or anything, right?”

“What?” She laughs, putting an oil around his cuticles. He leans forward, watching her carefully. He readjusts the headband, inadvertently pushing it back a little too far, until some curls slip onto his forehead. She hits the bottle of Kissed by Mist against her palm, the pale pink polish making a nice ticking sound. She starts on his nails, but not before making a comment about how cute his little pinkie is, which makes him flustered.

“It’s not gonna poison you when I, ya know, like… when I…”

He motions with his free hand, grouping his ring and middle fingers together and curling them, and he bites on his cheek, brows furrowed, trying to see any changes in her expression. He stops and shakes his head, a frail blush creeping up to his ears.

“By the way you’re reacting, ‘m assuming it’s not a thing,” he sighs.

“No, the polish will not poison me when you finger—“

“Shh,” he hushes her, pressing his hand against her lips. She pushes him away.

“Harry, we are the only ones here,” she says, finishing his right hand.

“Ya know what that mouth does to me,” he mutters.

“Really? You get turned on when I say, ‘finger me’?”

“Ya know I do,” he pouts, grappling for her. His hands twist the thick cotton of her jumper for only a second before she’s scooting away, swatting at him.

“No, H, your nails are still wet,” she says, and he groans, sinking back into the couch cushions.

“So bored.”

“Everyone is,” she says, filing down his left thumb nail.

“Wanna get high?”

He just wants to stop this feeling of absolute boredom. It’s better since Y/N is here with him, but it’s getting to a certain point where he’s willing to do just about anything to feel, well, anything.

One night, they tried her “prison wine”, which was just cranberry cocktail and yeast that fermented for a couple of days; it tasted worse than it sounds. It did, however, get them very drunk, and they woke up the next morning with pounding headaches, upset stomach, and purple stained lips. It was honestly the worst hangover he’s ever had, and he vowed to never try it again.

Getting stoned has then become a regular thing. On those horribly boring nights where they had absolutely nothing to do, where they’ve both been on the couch for hours, not being able to find the willpower to move, and on those nights where they just wanted to feel and simply be elsewhere, they found solace in the warming daze.

She grins.

“Sure, I think we still have some gummies,” she says, moving toward their “special” drawer in the side table.

“Only a half this time, lovie,” he says as she turns back, and she rolls her eyes.

“They were a lot stronger than the other ones,” she says, ripping the poorly stuck tape from the plastic packaging.

“I know,” he smiles, popping the candy in his mouth. She sits back down beside him, her leg thrown over his lap. He moves his hand dangerously close to her inner thigh, his fingers dancing along the length of her thigh until they reach the hem of her panties, tugging at the material until it snaps back. He’s so close to feeling her warmth, if only he moves just a little further, but she yanks his hand back, puts it on her knee, and gives him a smug little smile, continuing her work.

It takes an hour, or two more coats of nail polish, for the edibles to kick in, but when they do, Harry thinks he pissed himself. Forgetting about Y/N’s leg across his lap, he mistakes her warmth as pee, and he jerks up, jolting her. She looks up at him, blinking. There’s a strip of white polish on the side of his thumb.

“You are so good at this,” he says slowly. He honestly couldn’t imagine painting such tiny details if he were sober; he doesn’t know how she’s doing it stoned. She’s swaying and blinking slowly, but she looks focused, her brows furrowed.

“You’re good at this,” she mumbles.

“What?” He laughs.

“I don’t know,” she says. “It’s easy if I can concentrate.” Her eyes flicker up to his, a smirk curled over her lips.

“‘M I distracting you?” He raises a brow.

“I can feel your cock,” she says.

“Please, don’t say cock while you’re touching my cock,” he says, readjusting his growing bulge. She just chuckles and moves her foot along his boxers, where his semi and the top of his thighs connect. His hips twitch.

She barely caps the nail polish before she tosses it to the side and straddles him. He cups her hips, the fact that his nails are still wet long gone from both of their minds. She holds him by the neck, tilting his head back. Before she can capture his lips, he hesitates, his hands tracing along her thighs.

“Are you sure?”

Even though they’re practically living together at this point and have had sex plenty of times, he can’t help but ask her that same question every time. He’s never been one to feel secure in himself, and to have someone who is so open and willing to trust him, it’s overwhelming and intimidating sometimes.

“Of course, H,” she says, nibbling at his bottom lip, and then, he kisses her, fully and profoundly. He could just melt into her, his senses consumed by her warmth and love. He wouldn’t go as far as saying that the sex is better than when they’re sober. It’s great all the time, but there’s something about being high, with his skin buzzing and all of his senses heightened yet dulled at the same time, that makes the experience different. It’s different because he’s not worried about what he’s doing and saying; he’s focusing on the feeling, all of the sensations and simply her.

She tries to pull his shirt over his head, but it gets caught on the chain around his neck, and she tugs a little too hard, yanking it tightly around his throat.

“Easy, Y/N,” he laughs, holding onto her wrists. “I know you’re eager to get me naked, but I think you forget that I am also precious cargo.” Her lips sink into a pout, and he’s able to get the shirt off, throwing it off to the side, his headband going with it.

“You are precious,” she says, squishing his cheeks together. She cups the back of his neck and pecks his lips, gentle and loving. “Love these little baby hairs,” she says, running her hand over his skin, teasing and tugging on his chest hairs.

“They’re not baby hairs,” he says, pouting. He teases his hands along her hips, nails digging into her fleshy skin. “I am a man.”

“Oh, I know,” she chuckles, feeling his hips jerk up, pressing his swelling bulge into her. He wraps his arms around her waist, fingers tracing along the expanse of her back, and nestles his face into her chest. She shifts further up on his lap, fingers carding through his soft hair. Being far too lazy to take it off, he sucks on her breasts through her worn tee, her nipples hardening in his teeth. She pushes his boxers down and readjusts herself over him, rubbing her clothed pussy along his pulsing cock. She tugs her panties to the side, and he moans at the sudden warmth, her arousal coating him.

“You like that?” She asks breathily, rocking her hips faster. “Like feeling me drip onto your cock?”

“What if I just—” She teases the head of his cock, just barely pushing him inside before she pulls out. He can barely make a sound, his throat tightening when

“You like it when I tease your cock? Can feel you throbbing.” Her eyes roll back at the burning feeling of him just breaking past the barrier of her tightness. “So needy for me, bubba.”

“Such a dirty mouth,” he moans.

“Tell me, babe.” She holds him by the jaw, the pads of her fingers pressing perfectly into his pressure points, and he struggles for breath, making his head even lighter and obscured. He grins. “Tell me how much you love my pussy,” she says as she sinks fully onto him, her walls swallowing him easily.

“Fuck,” he moans, long and drawn out. His head falls onto the couch cushions, eyes closing to savor the feeling of her gripping him, but she pulls him back, forcing him to keep eye contact. “I love it; love you more, though,” he says.

“Say it,” she coos.

He blushes, heat spreading from his chest to the tip of his ears. He has never been vocal when it comes to sex; he always gets flustered and anxious when having a normal conversation, so he couldn’t even imagine how how awkward he would be while trying to talk dirty. It’s even more difficult because of how much she’s teasing him, slow and languid movements up and down his cock, his head just barely inside her before she comes back down, her hips grinding against his. She has this look in her hooded eyes, a lustful and greedy look, that’s telling him to give in to his instincts.

“Love y-your pussy, baby,” he moans.

“Yeah?” She starts riding him faster, her walls milking him. He groans. “Tell me how it feels, H.” She smirks, like an actual full blown, teasing smirk; she knows exactly how good she’s making him feel. She likes seeing him so flustered and babbly and incoherent.

“So fucking good, so warm and wet, perfect for me, lovie,” he says, and she grins, teeth bared. She kisses him, messily and harshly. His arms wrap tightly around her waist, stilling her hips, and a hand travels up the length of her spine, beginning at the curve of her bum, dipping momentarily beneath her large tee, before moving up to the back of her neck, pressing her lips tighter to his. He cradles her head while he moves onto the floor, but it’s not nearly as graceful as he hoped it would be. They crash to the ground.

“Oh, god,” she squeals, and her walls squeeze him painfully tight. Her nails dig into his back.

“Wha’s wrong?” He wipes the sweat from his forehead, fingers raking through his hair.

“No, no,” she stutters, hands moving onto the swell of his ass, keeping him still. “You’re so deep.”

He swears his arms are going to give out at the sound of her sweet little whisper, her voice weak and broken.

“H-how deep?”

He can’t help the break in his voice, and embarrassment floods him. He’s honestly trying his hardest to sound sexy, but he just sounds like an idiot.

“As deep as the ocean,” she mumbles, and she looks so positively fucked, out of it and dazed with hooded eyes; he honestly doesn't even think she realizes what she said because when he starts laughing, she gives him the cutest look, her brows furrowed, lips curled. “What?”

“Congrats,” he says, leaning back and onto his knees, his arms curled under her thighs, knees hooked over his arms. “You almost just made me go soft. Never done that before.”

“Shut up,” she says, grinding her hips into him. His thrusts start slow, deliberate, but the more she reacts to him, the more she bucks and grinds, the faster they become, until he can’t anymore, driving his cock in with fast, precise thrusts.

“You look so good like this,” he says, groping her breasts over her tee, nipples swollen and hard. They move with every thrust of his hips.

“Thanks, it’s the shirt,” she says breathily, a weak smile on her lips. “It covers up all my ugly parts.”

“Tha’s not what I meant,” he says, frowning. He leans over her, hands on either side of her head, and she lets out a weak moan as his cock moves deeper inside her. “Look beautiful all the time.” He genuinely looks sad as he brushes away a bead of sweat from her forehead. “You don’ have to take your shirt off when we have sex, not if you don’ want to. I take it off normally because I thought it would be more comfortable for you, and, le’s be honest, your tits are amazing, and I love seeing your curves and your—”

She suddenly pulls him in for a kiss, ceasing his ramblings. He’s cute when he gets all nervous; despite the fact he’s balls deep inside her, he’s still a worrier. It’s sweet that he’s concerned about how she’s feeling, even though he’s not fully present, with red cheeks and hooded eyes, chest heaving for breath. She raises her hips, grinding up into him, her swollen clit just barely grazing against his abdomen. She clenches around him at the sharp, sudden burst of pleasure.

She raises her feet from the floor, and he presses her knees to her chest. The sound of him fucking himself into her wet cunt fills the air, obscenities and pleasured whimpers joining. Not having the energy to kiss fully, he traces his lips along the curve of her jaw, tender and messy. His thrusts become sharper and deeper, knocking the breath from her lungs with every move of his hips.

“Oh, god, ‘m so fucking wet.” She laughs, feeling through her soaked curls to her throbbing clit. She really is; her arousal drips onto their thighs and into the carpet. Her head spins, burning pleasure building as he grinds into her and spreads her legs further apart.

“Fuckin’ hell—” He whines as she tightens around him, her fingers rubbing her little clit raw.

“‘M gonna come,” she moans, tugging at his hair. “C’mon, baby,” she coos, “want you to—” She swallows thickly, her breathing shallow. Her eyes roll back as she pinches her poor swollen clit, her thighs trembling. She meets his thrusts, eager for her impending orgasm. “Want you to come in me, wanna feel your cum in my—”

She lets out one loud moan, her body trembling and shuddering beneath him as pleasure rushes through her, leaving her limbs tingling and her mind muddled. They bask in the afterglow, their breaths in sync and deep, and he slumps onto her, wrapping his arms around her, tracing his hands over any piece of skin he can. He just wants to savor this feeling, the closeness, the warmth, the tenderness.

Her hand suddenly fishes over to the caramels that Harry made a couple days ago, which have been taunting her in a faux-crystal bowl on the coffee table for the past couple of minutes. The make-shift wax paper wrapper crinkles, and the sound makes him look up, his eyes still hooded, movements languid with exhaustion. He opens his mouth sleepily, and she rips the caramel in half. They both moan at the same time at the taste and fall into a fit of giggles. He moves to his side, his chest pressed to her back, softening cock pressed to the curve of her bum.

“Sorry,” he says, “messed up your art.” He flashes his nails, the pink paint still soft and pliable, littered with nicks and dents and imprints from the couch cushions. She hooks her fingers through his and tugs his hand down to her lips.

“Worth it.”

—

[crewhonk]

Quarantine

Summary: Steeb is worried about his girl during the pandemic. we got a little angst! we got alot of fluff! goofy!domestic!steebie!!!

AN: This is bad!!! lol!

________________________

You’d never wanted to be a housewife. You’d always been driven and you’d always worked hard and even though you loved being home, it really wasn’t somewhere you had ever wanted to work.

And then the pandemic happened, and not only were the classes of your final university year been cancelled and put online, but you’s also been laid off from he two jobs you worked in between classes and studying and spending time with your boyfriend. You knew realistically, you didn’t need to worry about rent or anything— you boyfriend had enough money and generosity to sweep in and take care of you. Hell, he practically lived in your shoebox apartment in Manhattan anyways.

Didn’t mean that you were happy with the situation.

So, you spent your days cleaning, and watching Tiktoks and learning the dances, and once you’d learned them all, sat down and watched all of your comfort movies three times before deciding that your favourite hobby was putting your headphones in, sitting on your fire escape and staring.

Yeah, the house smelled like bleach and you weren’t doing well.

The days melded into one long continuous time period, only interrupted by going to bed once the pink of the sunrise shone over the buildings and when your boyfriend would come home once every few days. You understood— hell, he was one of the most iconic people in history, and despite retiring from combat, still had obligations to the public and to his team, the Avengers.

Steve Rogers was a grumpy hero of a man and you loved the hell out of him, and he you. However, you’d been distant lately, dealing with the changing world and the circumstances only exasperated by a government who didn’t lead and he understood that. The trauma you were dealing with was not unlike when he’d woken up from the ice. You and millions upon millions of people were being shut in and kept out of touch with each other and the world around you with the knowledge that you’d be let out of your home and released into a completely different world— one which you didn’t know how to live.

He saw the sag in your shoulders and how your eyes were unfocussed and how the corners of your lips were almost always turned down save for the few days where you could put on makeup and brush your hair and maybe even put on jeans to feel something. You’d made loaves and loaves of bread that he would bring to the compound and have to explain that he had a friend who had just made too much and left them on his doorstep. You had yet to tell the team— his whole life was exposed to them constantly, and save for his three best friends, nobody knew about the grumpy, domestic soft couple that was Steve Rogers and YN YLN. Bucky, Sam and Natasha would make frequent stops and while it took a while for them to accept you, they eventually did (once they realized that you refused to let Steve pay for anything or post anything about him).

So, he walked down the hall and fiddled with the keys in his hand nervously— not knowing which mood he’d have to be dealing with today but willing to give you any form of comfort you needed today. Being immune to the virus was a blessing, he knew— he could still work and the compound had been locked down since late February, all staff who wished to stay did, and those who did not, returned to their homes with the promise of a job waiting for them when things finished.

He twisted the key into the apartment of your door and was met with the sweet and sharp smell of lemon clorox. You’d been cleaning, obviously. Every surface was sterile— free of dust and any other blemishes. The floors were swept and mopped, and the windows were open, letting in the sounds of New York flow through the place he’d begun to call home. Walking into the kitchenette, he noticed that your sourdough starter had been moved, and that there was even a few new jars of pickles, onions and asparagus being fermented or pickled or whatever the new Quarantine Trend was.

“Princess?” He called, placing his keys on the counter and pulling off his jacket to throw over the back of the chairs pushed into the small kitchen table you two never ate at. Instead, he cocked his head at the thousand piece puzzle you both worked on when you had the patience, picking up a piece, squinting and placing it in its spot. He hunched over the table, not willing to commit and sit down, but stared at the picture hard, fingering through the pieces int he box and sighing though his nose.

“Fucking cats.” He cursed, frowning when he couldn’t find a spot to put the piece in between his fingers. You’d both done all the easy parts, and now it was trying to discern the blurry spots in the background and the melding of colours on the kittens tummy.

He jumped slightly when he felt your hands on his hips, wrapping around his torso and curling up over his chest, resting over his stuttering heart.

“Hi, Sweetheart.” He crooned, dropping the items in his hands and turning in your arms. He pulled you tight to his chest and rested his cheek on your wet, fresh smelling hair. Your t-shirt and leggings were slightly damp, you having just thrown on anything in a rush to see your guy.

“Hey, Stevie.” You mumbled into his shoulder and he nudged you until you lifted your head. When you did, his eyes roved your moisturized skin and the appearing freckles you were getting over your face from you time on the fire escape and in the sun. It was colder today, and he pulled you closer when you shivered at a particularly cold breeze that made the light curtains flap into your living room.

“You look fresh today. How’re you?” He asked, dipping his head and pressing his forehead to yours, noses brushing against each other. It was moments like these that he loved more than most. He could feel you shrug in his arms.

“You know.” You said offhandedly. “Life.” You’d long passed the point of explaining your feelings about everything to him— not wanting to rehash the same feelings of anger and fear and grief over and over again. He nodded and tilted his chin, pressing his soft lips against your own and sighing. His hand caressed your cheek and his thumb wiped your cheekbone as he kissed you slowly. The warmth that filled you at his tender touches was not unlike sun-warmed honey, filling every corner of your body. He pulled away too soon, and you chased his lips with your own, giving him one last slow kiss before wrapping your arms around the back of his neck and brushing the hair from out of his eyes. Sure, he may be an avenger, but not one single person in that building knew how to cut hair.

Not that you were complaining.

“I know.” He whispered, wishing with every fibre of his being that he could do just one thing that would ease the weight off of your shoulders.

“How was work?” You asked, pulling away to push the jars and bottles back against the wall of the counter, opening some lids before fastening them once more, not wanting any of the mason glasses to explode. He didn’t miss the way you would avoid his eyes when he talked about the outside world, or the monotonous tone you used when you asked the question.

“It was alright. Clint’s gone out to the country side to wait everything out with Laura and the kids. Tony’s gone too.” He said, opening the fridge to pull out the orange juice. “So all that’s left of the team is me, Nat, Sammy, Buck and Wanda. Also Peter brought this aunt to the compound, he wanted to get her out of the city and away from everything.” He hashed out and raised the carton to his lips, managing only two gulps before you slapped his arm and shoved a glass in his face.

“You’re an animal.” You joked half heartedly and he snorted, taking the glass. “So, May is living at the compound?” You asked, discreetly moving to the freezer and digging around for what you would want for supper.

“She is.” Steve confirmed, cocking his head and watching you nod your head.

“And Tony let her?”

“Well, she’s doing the two weeks of quarantine in her room which is on the opposite side of the guest floor. She basically has the whole floor to herself though.” He shrugged, lifting his chin and watching you react, just as the pieces were starting to click.

You hummed.

“You’d stay with me though.” He said over the lips of the glass in his hand. Your eyes shot to him and a blush dusted your cheeks slightly at being caught.

“Pardon?”

“I still have a room there, and I share my floor with Buck. Who is also immune to the virus, so you wouldn’t be stuck in the bedroom. You’d have a small gym, and a few balconies and a kitchen probably three times this size.” He said, nonchalantly. A smirk slowly spread across his face as he watched you look up at him from through your lashes before shaking your head and pushing him to the side so you could get some canned veggies from the pantry.

“You’d also have fresh food. That you wouldn’t have to go out and buy. You wouldn’t have to worry about running out of pasta, or canned food. You wouldn’t have to be in survival mode.” He crooned, coming up behind you and moving your hair to the side so he could pepper kisses over your shoulder and neck.

“We even have hand sanitizer and toilet paper.” He joked and you finally cracked, throwing your head back and laughing. You turned around and squeaked slightly when he picked you up and sat you on the counter. He shoved your legs open and wiggled his way in, resting his large hands against your hips.

“YN?” He ducked his head so you’d look at him. When you did, he offered you a small smile. “Wanna move in with me?” He whispered and you turned red. Sure, he’s been staying at your apartment a few nights a week, and sure, you’d been dating for a year, but because you were you, you’d always had a little twinge of doubt in your mind about whether or not he was being serious. Hell, you hadn’t even met everyone in his life yet- you’d never stepped foot in the compound for heavens sake.

“I don’t wanna be a bug, though.” You mumbled and he huffed before holding your face in his hands.

“You could never.” He affirmed, kissing your nose quickly and staring you down. “Buck loves you, and Nat adores you and Sam wants to be your best friend. You’re alone in this small ass apartment and I can’t help but worry about you. At least I have my people. You just got me and FaceTime with your family and my love, that’s not enough. I know it’s driving you insane.” He whispered and wiped the tears that welled in your eyes quickly.

“I don’t want to be in your way, or somehow make you associate me with work and then fall out of love with me and I know it’s stupid you don’t have to look at me like that. Plus, they’re starting to lift restrictions so—“

“You and I both know things are going to get worse before they get better.” He scorned and he tilted your face to look up at him. He pressed closer to you and you looped your fingers though the loops of his belt. He gave you a quick, open mouthed kiss before pouting his bottom lip.

“Please move in with me. I want you there. I want you out of the city and in my king sized bed and making a mess out of my balcony with your plants and gardens and I want to have movie nights with you and Buck and I want your stupid little Fermentation Station taking up Hal my counter. Please, baby girl. Come home with me.” He pouted, giving you his full puppy-dog eyes. You groaned, thumping your head against his hard shoulder.

“A king sized bed would be way better than that double bed.”

“The sheets are made out of such thin silk hey don’t even have a thread count.” He murmured and you groaned.

“I bet the pillows are those temperature regulating ones.” You hummed and he nodded, biting his lip.

“Fluffiest things you’ll ever rest your head on.” He kissed your neck and you giggled. “Wait until you see how thin the TV is.” He joked, and you played along, moaning.

“You don’t even watch TV on your laptop?” You gasped breathily. He nodded, biting his lip and your hand curled in the hair loosely at the base of his neck.

“How big?” You whispered and he leaned in, brushing his lips over yours as he spoke.

“82 inches. Surround sound.” He whispered, leaning down to pepper kisses over your throat.

“Oh, Lord take me now.” You yelled, throwing your hands into the air, making him laugh. He smiled down at you— you with new, bright eyes and an easy smile on your face from he idea of getting out of this small apartment and into Steve’s home.

“Seriously, come home with me. I can get a van and some people to get your things tomorrow if you want to pack a bag tonight.” He asked, his expression turning slightly nervous at your silence.

“I can pay for groceries—“

“I don’t even know where they come from. One day the fridge is empty the next day it’s full. I don’t pay for it and neither does Bucky.” He shrugged. “Seriously. Come on. I’m sure Bruce or Tony even have a job you could do if you get too bored.”

You perked up at the idea of working again and he rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t make it in the 40’d you know.” He joked. “You work too hard.”

“Bite me, Rogers!” You pushed him away from you, jumping off the counter and leaving the kitchen.

“Don’t tempt me!” He shouted back and you laughed, walking across the room to where you’d planted your dresser. You grabbed a bag from under your bed (which was also in the living room) and began throwing clothes into it.

“You can bite me all you want when I’m stuck in your room for two weeks.” You joked, throwing a wink over your shoulder and making him groan under his breath. The idea fo you in his silk sheets, marked up and nowhere to go was a very welcome image he was almost 100% promised.

“You’re a minx.”

“And I’m your new roommate too!” You chirped and Steve, for once, welcomed the blush that crept up his neck and onto his face. Maybe, there was a silver lining to all this COVID bullshit.