#buy popsicle sticks

[snowbites-popsicles24]

A Taste of Childhood: Rediscovering Our Favorite Popsicles with “SnowBites" 

Introduction: 

In the hazy, sun-drenched days of childhood summers, there was always one thing that brought pure, unadulterated joy: popsicles. Those vibrant sticks of frozen delight were the epitome of happiness, the sweet antidote to sweltering afternoons spent playing outside. 

Childhood Memories: 

As adults, we often find ourselves yearning for the simplicity and joy of those carefree days. Whether it was running barefoot in the backyard or playing tag with friends until the streetlights flickered on, summer was a magical time filled with endless possibilities. And at the heart of those cherished memories were popsicles – those icy treats that brought instant refreshment and boundless joy. For many of us, the mere mention of flavors like mango, grape, or orange sends us spiraling back in time, to a place where worries were few and pleasures were simple. Each popsicle was more than just a frozen treat; it was a tangible symbol of the innocence and wonder of childhood. 

Magic of Popsicles: 

There was something truly magical about the first lick of a popsicle, the way it melted on your tongue, leaving behind a trail of icy sweetness. It wasn't just a snack; it was a sensory experience that awakened the taste buds and ignited the imagination. Whether you were savoring the tangy burst of a citrus popsicle or indulging in the creamy richness of a chocolate-coated treat, each flavor was like a small piece of paradise on a stick. And as you licked and slurped your way through the sticky summer days, you couldn't help but feel a sense of pure, unadulterated joy – a feeling that lingered long after the last traces of popsicle had melted away. 

SnowBites' Nostalgic Offerings: 

And now, as we navigate the complexities of adulthood, there's comfort in knowing that we can still indulge in those nostalgic delights. With our dedication to capturing the essence of childhood joy, SnowBites brings you back to those simpler times with every bite. Our popsicles are more than just frozen treats; they're portals to a time when the world was full of wonder and anything seemed possible. From classic flavors like blueberry and grape to more adventurous concoctions like mango green, SnowBites offers a tantalizing array of popsicles to suit every palate. Each one is crafted with care, using only the finest ingredients to ensure that every bite is a burst of pure happiness. 

Variety of Flavors: 

One of the joys of childhood was the sheer variety of popsicle flavors to choose from. Whether you were in the mood for something fruity, creamy, or chocolatey, there was always a popsicle to satisfy your cravings. And with SnowBites' extensive range of flavors, the possibilities are endless. Perhaps you prefer the tart tanginess of a lemon-lime popsicle, or maybe you crave the tropical sweetness of a mango green popsicle. Whatever your preference, SnowBites has covered you with our diverse selection of popsicles, each one more delicious than the last. 

Evoking Memories: 

But it's not just about the flavors; it's about the memories they evoke. It's about the sticky fingers and the laughter shared with friends. It's about the anticipation of hearing the ice cream truck rounding the corner and the excitement of choosing your favorite flavor. With each lick of a SnowBites popsicle, you're transported back to those lazy summer days of childhood, where the only thing that mattered was the promise of another popsicle and another adventure. 

Conclusion: 

In a world that's constantly changing and evolving, there's something comforting about the timeless appeal of a popsicle. It's a simple pleasure that reminds us of the joys of youth and the magic of summer. So the next time you reach for a SnowBites popsicle, take a moment to savor the taste of nostalgia. Close your eyes and let yourself be transported back to those carefree days of childhood, where the sun was always shining, and the popsicles were always delicious. Because when it comes to evoking memories of summers past, SnowBites popsicles truly are the taste of childhood. 

[crabsnpersimmons]

testing out the popsicle stick and skewer structure (ignore the whack tape job, the final thing will be glued, i'm just testing out the arrangement of the sticks and whether or not they can hold the weight of the pins—but seems to hold up pretty good!)

Sun: Are you done yet? You're taking FOREVERRRR!!

i have also learned that i need a better way to cut popsicle sticks

[1roentgen]

.

[twistedappletree]

it’s so frickin hot i’ve resorted to eating ice cubes

[caught-in-2k]

"you have some pretty big shoes to fill" SO I got big feet too ill live

[lazyalani]

| Blue Lock

| When they like you

| fluffffffffff, fluffiness, just random thoughts and ideas

Ft. Rin, Sae, Nagi, Reo, Chigiri, Barou, Kunigami, Bachira, Isagi

| Blue Lock Masterlist

| Main Masterlist

RIN

Definitely tolerates you more than anyone else. This man has a patience of a lady in her worst mood during period. Let's say you aren't the best in english as most japanese are, or even as worse as bachira, he'd take time to actually try to teach you rather than wait for you to try and pronounce words that would make his ear irk. He'd even share his twin popsicles with you. And maybe, just maybe, he'd watch you fall asleep on your desk.

SAE

He'd buy you nice souvenirs from his trips. He's definitely the type to stare at one thing he passes by and thinks oh, this reminds me of them, and then proceeds to by it and gift it. He'd pass it out casual though. I don't think Sae is the type to get all flustered and overthink when he has a crush, I think he'd be chill about it. He's like, oh, i kinda like them, cool. He's the type to show it so casually you wouldn't even realize he likes you, and until he's decided to ask you out or you found out, he'd keep it that way.

NAGI

Man, I don't know. This guy's a slug and freaking dense. He wouldn't even know he likes you, and even he did he'd treat you no different than a friend. Okay, maybe a little bit more, but Nagi is the type to be effortless with everything except football. If he likes you enough, then I think he'd actually put in a little more effort into talking to you or staying awake while you talk his ears out in class. But if it's just a little admiration then there's no difference from that to being his friend.

REO

Ah, definitely talks yours ears out every damn second. Don't expect seeing him without a gift for you. He spoils you a lot. Treats you like his significant other even before he asks you out, which is not far off because obviously he can never hide what he's feeling. Everyone can see he likes you, even you. He accompanies you almost everywhere, asks your favorite everything just to bring them to you the next day, texts you day and night. How dreamy.

CHIGIRI

Lets you make silly princess comment on his hair. He doesn't get annoyed, playfully bites back on your remarks. Indulges you in your rants about fashion, skin care, hair care, make up, routines and even adds things he uses or thinks might be good. He might awkward about liking you at first, but remains casual about it and doesn't mention or think about it often. It just comes naturally as if he's talking to a friend he's comfortable with.

BAROU

Man, this one's tough. Definitely indenial at first, he wouldn't even know what he's feeling. He's not stupid, but he's also not one to think he could actually like someone since he's definitely got high standards for himself and for other people. He'd shake off the feeling at first, might even tend to be harsher with you ay times, but gradually just accepts it but swears never to mention or bring it up. Becomes more attentive to your hygiene and habits. Avoids the topic of liking someone like a plague. Never ever asks you out. (Liked but never pursued heh)

KUNIGAMI

This one's the type to get flustered when he realizes it. Gets all shy around you at first and Chigiri definitely notices and points it out. Decides to listen to Chigiri's advice to just act normal and cool because he's being too obvious. Tries not to get flustered around you but everytime he sees you it reminds him of his realization. Is definitely more protective of you when other guys are around, especially with ones like Raichi and the bald monk I forgot the name of. Acts of service type of guy.

BACHIRA

Too perceptive for his own good, sees it coming. He doesn't care whether anyone notices or not. Not the type to be shy about anythin and that includes having a crush on you. Sticks to you like a leech and talks to you 10x more. Notices your little hobbies and tries to match then so you could have something in common. I just know he's the type to do these cute little things because he just wants to enjoy things with people he likes.

ISAGI

Ah the shy-est one. Dense, indenial at first, but the ever so nosy Bachira notices and makes him realize it. Will stutter around you and get a little fidgety but pays more attention to you than ever. Helps you with even the smallest tasks like carrying things or helping making a decision and giving advices. If it's in school, he'd even offer to walk you home but then get all flustered. The sweetest.

[wttcsms]

thinking about how in my rin fic, no one really likes you. it's jealousy, honestly; you mean the quiet rich girl is now a model too? your classmates don't like you, and because of your resting face paired with an awfully shy personality, you being quiet comes off as you being a stuck up bitch. you're captured on the camera and seen by millions in the world, but no one ever really sees you. except for rin. he saw you.

in high school, you're passing by a group of your classmates who are gorging themselves on ice cream sundaes. you're jealous; your agent says models can't have ice cream, but even more envy-inducing is the fact that they all seem so happy and excited together. to share ice cream with a group of friends is all your teenage self can dream of. how lucky they are, you think, to like someone and to have them like you back.

noting your sad expression, rin takes you to the convenience store he used to go to with sae to get cheap popsicles. you decline his offer to buy you one, stating that you're not hungry, which he knows is a lie but shrugs off. when he finishes up his sweet treat and walks you to the door of your house, he gives you the stick.

"i don't want your trash." you tell him, wondering if this is why the younger itoshi brother doesn't have any friends either.

"it's not trash. i won a free popsicle. so that way, when you are hungry, you can just turn that in to redeem it." he's walking away, and by the time his figure disappears down the street, you're still holding the popsicle stick with the word WINNER stamped on it.

maybe you're lucky, too.

[lovebugism]

Play wrestling with bff Steve and getting giggly when he just straight up manhandles you 😭😭😭

✶ ┄ SORE LOSER !

summary: steve harrington doesn't like to let you win until he realizes how good it feels to lose. pairing: best friend!steve harrington / f!reader word count: 1.6k warnings: a lil bit suggestive towards the end, but nothing crazy a/n: i got super carried away with this lol i kinda just took this request and ran with it and well... here we are :) enjoy!

Steve never lets you win. 

He thinks it’s letting you off too easy.

The boy’s competitive to a fault. He can’t stomach a loss, even if it’s in something as meaningless as a carnival game you only wanted to play for the giant dinosaur plushie that’s half the size of you. 

He always ends up giving it to you when he inevitably wins, wearing a big smug smile on his pretty, pink lips. You take it from him with a pout. The childlike scowl is quelled only by the funnel cake he buys you after.

It doesn’t matter what it is — a game of monopoly, trivia questions on the ends of popsicle sticks, taking in the groceries — Steve finds a way to make all of it competitive. He wants to have the most fake money and little fake properties, he wants to shout the answer before anyone else can, he wants to carry more heavy plastic bags than everyone else. Just to say that he did it.

If you put this much effort into school, you’d be in college right now, Harrington, you’d tease.

Not my fault you’re a sore loser, he’d retort. I’ll let you win the next one, sunshine. Promise.

He never does.

You and Steve play-wrestle like a couple of kids. It usually comes out of nowhere. You’ll make fun of him, he’ll shove at you, and you’ll shove back harder. Then it just turns into a game of who’s stronger than who — and it’s always him. Obviously. 

You try your hardest to prove your strength, pushing at him with nimble fists and wriggling something fierce in his hold, but you come out red-faced with a participation ribbon laced within his taunts. And even though he’s got several inches on you and quite a bit more muscle, he never lets you win. Ever.

He manhandles you, perhaps a little too rough at times, but it wasn’t like he had to be kind to you. You weren’t dating or anything, you were best friends — this is what a couple of pals do, right?

They play fight on the carpet of the other’s movie room after being told their closest confidant would murder them in a game of fuck, marry, kill between Anthony Michael Hall and Robert Downey Jr. with zero hesitation.

Friends totally force the other onto the ground by grabbing at the bottoms of their thighs before kneeling over them, wrenching their wrists in their grip and pressing their hands to the ground on either their head.

It’s the definition of being best buds. Truly.

For the first time, you manage to get the better of him. You’re pressed beneath his weight, breathing heavy and rapidly tiring, and you wave the white flag of surrender.

Just when Steve's letting you up and swiping a hand through his mussed hair, you force him onto his back and straddle his waist — like he always did to you — and giggle with mirth at the idea of finally beating him.

He doesn’t find a similar enthusiasm in it, though. His tune changes almost immediately.

You beam down at him, the words of a taunt on the tip of your tongue, and you notice how his cheeks flare pink. His honey-colored eyes widen and his mouth falls softly agape. He glows red in embarrassment and you think he’s just upset that he lost, but he sounds like he’s panicking. The words rush out of his mouth — “Alright, shit, fine— you win, sunshine. Get off, alright? Off, off, off.” 

His hand swats at the side of your knee to hurry you off him.

“Alright, jeez!” you concede with the roll of your eyes, halfway annoyed that he just can’t let you win anything. “You don’t have to be such a sore loser about it, Harrington—”

You understand his haste in that moment, when you feel him brush your inner thigh. Like, all of him — as in, the boner trapped in the sweatpants he’s wearing, all rock hard and raging in its cotton confines.

Suddenly, you’re just as bashful and panicked as he is. 

Your eyes lock at the rock hard realization but neither of you can think of anything to say.

Do you apologize? Do you act like you didn’t feel anything? Do you trust your voice to make a stupid joke so you can move on and forget any of this ever happened? You’re not quite sure.

And in the five-second silence, Steve just wants to die. Internally, he’s praying for a strike of lightning to take him out on the spot because he’s never been more embarrassed in his life.

He’s certain that he’s grossed you out, or worse, made you irreversibly uncomfortable.

In the mess of thoughts running through his head, he tries to rush out some apology that might soothe the awkward air. Your laughter does all the work for him before he can.

It bubbles like sunshine from your mouth, filling the silence and allowing Steve to breathe again. He finds himself chuckling under his breath with you, though he’s still red-faced about it.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep laughing, sunshine,” he chides with the roll of his eyes, though a smile hints at the edges of his mouth. He rises on his elbows to look at you. “What was I supposed to do? Your tits were in my face and your ass was on my dick— sorry for being human!”

“Sorry, alright? I’m sorry,” you manage through hearty giggles. You settle finally at his side and look over at him, still grinning. “Want me to leave so you can… take care of it or whatever?”

He knows you’re joking but he shakes his head anyway. “Nah, it’ll go away. Let’s just… finish this stupid movie.”

“Stupid movie? You picked it!”

“Yeah, so I could see Kelly Lebrock in a bikini!” he argues back, more thankful for the familiar bickering than he ever thought he’d be. “But you made me miss it!”

“It’s not my fault you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

“Watch it, sunshine,” he grumbles, half-heatedly. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“I think you’re the one who needs to worry about finishing, Harrington,” you joke and giggle when he shoves you.

You would’ve helped him, if he wanted you to. You know it’s uncomfortable and that it’s partially your fault. You also know that all of those are just excuses to cover up the fact that you’ve always wondered what his cock looks like.

He’d need only ask you, but you know that he won’t.

Even if he did like you in that way, it’d just make things all complicated. And that was totally the opposite of the effortless relationship you’ve developed with him. The kind of effortless where he can be rock hard next to you, and you’ve both decided to just move on from it.

Steve, meanwhile, spends the rest of the movie not watching a single damn minute of it. He’s too busy trying to calm himself down like a teenage boy and figuring out he can get you on top of him again without being too obvious about the whole thing.

He decides he might just start swallowing his pride and let you win sometimes.

[somepeople13]

Thank you, random Churu influencer whose post I lost, for sharing the Churu popsicle concept with me. Cut, stick, freeze. I need to buy real popsicle sticks though! This is so good for summer refreshments!

[sentienttoastah]

Oh I can’t buy a whale model okay I’ll just

Paper moby. Paper dick. Aw yeah.

Alright he’s kinda silly looking but he’s trying his best okay? Look at him next to that toy boat. My boyo.

Made this out of pure spite and boredom using the powers of leftover A4 paper, scissors, tape, two popsicle sticks and listening to “Dream sweet in sea major” for hours on loop occasionally switched with Mili’s “Compass” cause y’know, to fit the whole Moby Mood.

I think we should all make paper whales they’re so much fun.

[fairlyang]

dad!miguel headcanons 🕷️

dad!miguel who always prepared gabi’s lunch in a hello kitty thermo (if he made her sopa de letras, her fav) or a hello kitty sandwich box because he knew how excited his little girl would be when she’d see how her lunch was packaged

dad!miguel who would write cute little messages or corny dad jokes on little post it notes with whatever sweet treat he’d leave her

“How does a penguin build its house?” he wrote on one side then flips it over to write the answer

“Igloos it together.” he signs it with “te amo<3” then rereads his joke to laugh at it before sticking it to a rice krispie

dad!miguel would definitely know how to do gabi’s hair (because he would do absolutely anything for her) so when she asked if he could do elsa’s braid you can bet your ass he searched up easy tutorials on youtube

dad!miguel who will make or buy whatever snack gabi may crave, have it be chicharrones, brownies, or a popsicle de gansitos, he will make sure she gets whatever she asks for

dad!miguel who would sing gabi to sleep, songs ranging from lullabies to boleros to vicente fernadez’s whole discography

dad!miguel that signs her up to whatever her little heart desires. an art class? say less. ballet? he’ll sprint to buy the shoes

dad!miguel who accidentally falls asleep on the couch after watching barbie movies with gabi

extra points knowing he’d be sitting legs spread, head against the cushion with his mouth wide open letting out the loudest of snores imaginable which would just make gabi giggle in shock

dad!miguel who’d get drunk at the neighbor’s kid’s birthday party and be one of those mexican dads to be singing so obnoxiously but somehow sounding not so bad

“le dedicó esta para mi niña hermosa.”

cue piel canela playing and dad!miguel snatching the mic from one of the tios

he tries to find gabi through drunken eyes but once he spots her in her bright pink dress he sings to her, pointing to her when the lyrics say “me importas tu y tu y tu y solamente tu.”

gabi with wide, glossy eyes watching her papi give her yet another serenata because she was spoiled rotten in all aspects, this being one of them because she loved his singing

dad!miguel who would call up his friend’s mariachi early in the morning on gabi’s birthday but ask the favor that he can sing for her instead because he always wants her day to extra special

[vilhelios]

— A LOVER'S OATH.

(no matter how much time passes, zayne's voice remains unchanging with you — low, pleasing to the ear, and always heartbreakingly gentle.) ; to kick off the follower event ! for c, 🐈‍⬛️🎬, my beloved cat lady, who has always fed my delusions : ZAYNE + 💌 13. "they have never raised their voice around you, always talks softly.”

cw: small text + all lowercase + not beta read ; fluff fluff fluff ; slight angst at the very end ; may be slightly ooc (it's my first time writing for zayne) ; caleb makes a very brief appearance ; slight foreseer!zayne spoilers

I.

you and ZAYNE are ten.

he's been your best friend for as long as you can remember, always at your side. he gives you candies whenever you feel lightheaded, and fishes out a bandaid from his bag whenever you fall and scrape off the skin of your knee on concrete, and walks you home in the evenings whenever caleb had after-school basketball club. when grandma gives you pocket money to buy new crayons, or a new drawing book, she leaves just enough extra to buy those candies he loves so much from the roadside stall; and when zayne's mother gives him money intended for school materials, he can't help but spend it on the popsicles you said you liked.

zayne is your dearest best friend, just as you are his. he's never said it, but you know; you know it because he sits on the table nearest to yours, and doesn't care when your other classmates tease him for holding your hand during recess, and follows in your little footsteps as you drag him through the school's playground.

("i'm gonna be a hunter when i'm older!" you grin, limbs tangled in the bars of the climbing dome-tower. your hands smell slightly of metal, there's paint peeling off the bars and sticking to your skin, and you are young and fearless.

zayne stares up at you, from where he sits in the eye of the tower, eyes peeling away from the book he's reading: the snow queen. "why?" he asks, voice as soft as always. you're upside down on the top of the dome when you look back to answer him, and a young zayne doesn't know if his heart is beating so fast because he's scared you'll fall, or because of something else.

"because," the sound of your hand against the metal bar as you swing around reverberates in the cage, in your chest, and in zayne's mind. you hoist yourself out of the grid spaces, sitting on the bars now, "i want to take care of everyone!")

zayne is your sweetest friend. he knows when you're tired and hungry, even when you insist you're aren't, and proceeds to hand you a little sweet. he knows when the sun gets far too bright and the day far too hot, and places his little hands over your forehead to cool you down, evol swirling at his fingertips. he muffles the sound of the school bell with his palms over your ears, just as he does when your classmates get too rowdy, or when caleb yells for you from across the room.

("don't be so loud." he says, voice even and face as calm as ever, and you watch him gently whack caleb on the shoulder. "it's not nice." zayne does not say that it's because your ears are more sensitive than most.)

(the years pass, and not much changes between the two of you from the days of your childhood, besides the cavity fillings and growth spurts and skills with your evols. zayne still offers you those little candies, still dreams odd dreams, and still talks in the softest voice he can muster when he speaks to you. but eventually, zayne moves away, and your family in bloomshore district becomes you, caleb, and grandma once again.)

…

II.

ZAYNE is a sweet, gentle lover.

as sweet as the macarons and cakes and pastries he lets you buy, and the extra ones he buys to leave on your wanting plate. as gentle as the way he says your name, or the way he calls you darling, or my love, or the less common my snowflake when he spots you plodding over to the kitchen in the early morning. he’s already dressed as smart as always, with hands stained with the juice of the fruit he skillfully cuts. unbreaking strands of crimson apple skin twine around his fingers—neat, perfect, and then finally cut away by a decisive flick of the knife.

“good morning, my love.” zayne looks up from the peeled apple. his voice is a soft, low hum in your ears—it always is, always has been for as long as you could remember. “eat up. you need your energy for today.”

( not like today is anything different, or anything special… but he just wants you hale and healthy everyday. )

lucky mornings go like this, when zayne does not have to rush to akso: he gently slides the plate of breakfast he’d prepared over in front of you (always with a bowl of cut up fruit). then, he takes his own plate, and sits beside you at the kitchen island, shoulders brushing against each other’s as he settles on the barstool. the early morning sunlight bathes his apartment in rose-gold hues, slowly warming you from the chill of the night.

“did you sleep well?” zayne asks—as he always does, monitoring your health in these small ways too—and his voice mixes with the faraway sound of linkon city rousing from slumber. telltale sounds of traffic buzzes in the streets of the concrete and beton jungle below. birdsong flits through the air, church sparrows flying past the window. conversation too, bounces from topic to topic—today’s duties, an invitation for lunch at a cafe near akso, predicted times that you two will return home.

it’s a string of little murmurs, on these mornings with zayne. and this thread of domesticity ends at the doorway, with a final soft, “i love you. take care of yourself today,” as he presses a lingering kiss to your lips and another peck to your forehead. then, the click of the door closing as he pulls away.

( it’s the hardest part of his day. the easiest is the return — an always a too-warm embrace that seeps into his very bones, a peppering of kisses to your cheeks, and a sweet “i missed you, my snowflake. how was your day?” )

…

III.

who are you?

the FORESEER does not feel. he cannot afford to. he is not allowed to. the foreseer is as cold as the ice that he is both ruler and slave to, unrelenting, unforgiving. merciless. a tool for astra—a cruel god, crafting an even crueler tool. a hand meant to be made, tormented, and dealt.

and yet, when he sees you, a poor thief masquerading as an envoy... well, he cannot, for whatever reason, find it in himself to be a weapon. not when he sees visions of lives he has and hasn’t lived flicker into view like distorted deja vu, all centering around this false messenger he has ensnared in ice.

“you forget yourself, testing the limits of my benevolence.”

and even though the words are harsh (oh, and a small part of his inner self recoils at his words), the foreseer's voice is a gentle murmur. soft yet stern, a hint of confounding warmth in his cold tone; second nature.

( “don’t cry.” zayne says, at the end of it all. the jasmine flowers bloom, a gentle, silent symphony. )

cross posted on ao3 -- read it here!

creative notes: the iron dome in the playground represents the tower of thorns (?) in foreseer myth! zayne sits at the bottom (foreseer is always trapped) and reads h. c. anderson's "the snow queen" (which i think is quite fitting for astra-foreseer-mc), while mc/you is actively trying to escape the tower/defy fate.

a/n: went on hiatus for a bit due to uni work, but am back! will be working on the requests i got 🫶💕 i hope everyone enjoyed the new update for l&ds!!! i personally love sylus already, so he might make an appearance on my page eventually.... anyway, thank you as always for reading my stuff!!! i've never been this invested in an otome's lore until l&ds, so i'm just!!! i want to write more for them!!!

[ckret2]

On chapter 30 of The Writer Uses Misleading Graphics To Trick You Into Looking At This Fic About Human Bill Being The Shack's Prisoner: Summerween part 2! Bill wheedles Mabel into helping him make a costume. Mabel wheedles Bill into spilling some of his preciously-guarded secret backstory. Ford is kind of in awe.

Also there's like 4.5 drawings in this chapter. They're all very silly drawings.

####

Bill wouldn't tell Mabel what his costume was—"I want to see who can guess it"—but all it needed was a brown bedsheet, a long red wig, cardboard (to be drawn upon), and flip-flop sandals.

The bedsheet was the easiest to acquire. Dipper's barely-worn brown sandals were just slightly too big for Bill but Mabel helped tie them on with yarn. the shack's cardboard supplies were still depleted from making Bill's triangle mask, but they could make do with paper and popsicle sticks. Mabel didn't have a red wig but she did have a blonde wig and red markers. Since Bill was, by his own reporting, terrible at drawing, Mabel offered to do the fancy artwork if Bill did the tedious task of recoloring the wig. He claimed he'd feel like a mortician putting makeup on a car wreck victim, but nevertheless accepted the deal, and they settled in around the living room table to get to work.

"So just a bunch of houses, right?" Mabel asked, starting on the first drawing.

"Ancient Greek-looking houses," Bill said. "So, marble and columns. Don't think too hard about the details—this is a 21st century American costume holiday, not a historical reenactment. You can slap columns on anything and call it 'Greek' and every human in town will buy it."

"Do ancient Greek houses have chimneys?"

"No," Bill said. "But adding one would be funny."

Mabel considered that, weighed up the value of historical accuracy against entertainment value, and decided giving one house a chimney would be funny. She gave the whole house a thick black outline in marker, and pulled out crayons in black, white, and whale blue to quickly add some light shading to the marble. 

Mabel didn't think she'd ever seen Bill focus so hard or so quietly on anything the way he did on coloring that old wig red. He was giving it more attention than he did his own hair: while his golden locks were a tangled, uncombed, soggy mass shoved dismissively over his shoulders, he was dying the cheap wig (and his fingertips) strand by plastic strand with the bright-eyed morbid fascination of a third grader studying a pack of ants as they disassembled a bird's corpse.

This was the longest she'd been around Bill without conversation—usually, you couldn't even walk into a room without him immediately chattering at you like the motion-activated animatronics at the Summerween store. It was hard to think around him. Bill didn't give you room to think.

What did Mabel think about Bill?

He was right, she was still mad about the mall. No—mad wasn't the right word—mad was his word—she was scared. She'd never really stopped being scared of him, if she was honest with herself. But everything he'd done that day, from tricking her into trapping herself to reminding her of almost dying, had just reinforced why she should fear him.

But. She thought he felt bad about it. And she didn't think she'd ever seen him feel bad about anything before.

Maybe that meant her experiment was working. Maybe he was changing. Yeah, he was still scary—but he was Bill Cipher, he had a lot of scariness to work through. He was moving in the right direction, and she wanted to encourage that.

He hadn't apologized for the mall; but, since he'd tried to make up for it at the time, and that was a sort of apologetic action, Mabel decided she could tentatively forgive him for that day—provided he continued to improve. Put him on forgiveness probation. And that meant they were on friendly speaking terms again.

Which was good, because the quiet was starting to get uncomfortable. She surveyed her art for something they could talk about.

After a couple of as-historically-accurate-as-she-could-imagine houses, Mabel had started varying up the designs by redesigning houses she could remember off the top of her head with columns and white marble. She'd made a stately marble Mystery Shack, and a columned-covered doppelgänger of the house with the terraced yard across the street at home, and then she'd decided to make a Greek-ish version of her own home. "Hey Bill. Have you ever seen my house?"

"In person? No. But it came up from time to time in you kids' dreams, so whether I've seen it depends on how accurate you think your dreams are," he said. "It has less plants and more windows in your brother's dreams than in yours."

Mildly disturbing answer, but not disturbing in the direction she'd expected. "What! You mean you haven't haunted our neighborhood or anything? I don't believe it."

"Do you think I spend all my time stalking random humans? Don't flatter yourself."

"Well, seeing it in dreams isn't good enough!" Mabel pulled over a blank paper. It was hours until trick-or-treaters showed up, they had a little time to waste. "I'll draw it!"

"Wow, really?" Bill looked up from his wig. "You're not worried about letting the big bad triangle see your house?"

"Come on! You already know where I live, right?"

Bill immediately rattled off, "1337 Fairview Drive, Piedmont, California, on the northeast side of the street where it's less hilly."

"Exactly—you creep. So who cares if you know what it looks like, too?"

A square, sky blue house with two stories and a triangular roof; a big living room window on the left, a covered door on the right, three windows on the second floor, and a chimney. Mabel had drawn her home plenty of times—but doing it for a friend (?) was different from doing it for a teacher or a librarian, and she put extra effort into the rose bushes under the living room window. She added her and Dipper's smiling faces in the upstairs windows and Waddles's face downstairs in the living room.

"Waddles sleeps in the kitchen, but he basically owns half the yard to wallow in. This is my room, and here's Dipper's—I get three windows, but Dipper has the biggest window and a bigger room, so it's fair, no matter what he says—"

"Oh, you two have separate rooms now?" Bill was leaning halfway around the table and craning his neck to see the image right side up.

"Uh, yeah? Since we were ten?"

Loftily, Bill said, "I don't know how you'd expect me to know that. You both still dream about sharing a room."

Mabel paused and tried to remember how often she dreamed about Dipper in his new room. Sometimes she woke and was still disoriented to find her bed in the middle of the room instead of against one wall with Dipper's on the other side. "Huh."

She added a few more details—the front steps, the gate, the shingles. (Bill watched nervously as she pulled out the gray crayon to color the driveway—but she didn't notice how it had been tampered with.) She talked about her home, and in turn Bill told her weird things, like that Dipper often dreamed of monsters coming out of the fridge. When she finished, she autographed her name with a star on the "i" in Pines, offered it over grandly, and said, "Here, you can keep this!"

Bill accepted it without the customary effusive gratitude with which one ought to accept a generously-gifted original artwork from a 13-year-old prodigy. "What am I gonna do with it?"

"That's your problem!"

"Fair enough!" He checked his leggings for pockets and, when he didn't find any, set the page on the table by his elbow. 

Offering accepted. As Bill resumed coloring his wig, Mabel picked up another piece of paper and got to work on the next columned house. "What does your house look like?"

Bill stopped dead, looked straight at her, and said, "My what?"

What was weird about the question? "Your house! Or whatever you lived in before you came here. You came from somewhere before you tried to invade Earth, right? You didn't just pop out of somebody's dream."

Bill laughed. "Yeah I did!"

"Bill."

"4500 years ago the construction workers of Egypt had a shared nightmare about the immense tombs they'd spent the last century building—"

"Biiiill."

"—and when they awoke they found the combined psychic energy of their terror had spawned a sleep paralysis demon more powerful than Ra! So then I ate their souls—"

"Seriously, Bill."

"I'm being so serious right now."

Mabel rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine! I get it. You're embarrassed." She shook her head and returned to coloring.

She felt the combined spiritual energy of hundreds of imaginary Egyptian construction workers beating down on her face from Bill's eye. Like a laser. "'Embarrassed'?"

"Because you don't have a house," Mabel said. "I think it's okay, you don't need to be embarrassed! I don't think you're a loser or anything. It's just kind of sad—"

Bill snatched up a blank piece of paper. "You want a house? Fine! I'll show you a house." He grabbed up an orange crayon, muttering, "It'll put your stupid overpriced shed in California to shame— Where's the ruler—?" Mabel tried not to grin.

For several minutes, he was perfectly silent. Mabel glanced over to see him coloring with three crayons at once, only for him to shove a hand in her face and snap, "No peeking."

Mabel got through two more drawings before Bill slapped down his paper over Mabel's. "There! How about that?!"

She looked at the drawing, which Bill had helpfully labeled "Party Central!" in red crayon. A great stone pyramid so dark brown it was nearly black, with bricks outlined in brilliant gold and molten orange and fiery red, and a sharp multicolored X hovering above it—

Mabel gave Bill a flat look. "This isn't your house, this is your Torture Temple."

"The what? Hey, is that really what people are calling it?! It's not the Torture Temple, it's the Fearamid!"

Despite herself, Mabel burst out laughing. "You named it the 'Fearamid'?!"

"It's a pyramid and humans fear it! It's genius. Portmanteaus make great names."

"What's a portmanteau."

"It's a word made from the unholy Frankensteinian fusion of two other words. Like getting 'electrocute' from 'electricity' and 'execute'!"

"Or 'romcom'?"

"Yeah, or that."

Mabel considered the drawing. "If you want to scare less people, you could call this your Bill-ding."

"HA! Oh, I'm saving that."

"Anyway, this isn't where you live," Mabel said. "You were there for like a week tops!"

"Yeah, before your great-uncle killed me. I'd still be living there if it weren't for you jerks." He stuck out his tongue.

"Come on, Bill. I showed you my house. Draw where you grew up or something!"

"What's wrong with the Fearamid?"

Mabel crossed her arms. "Why don't you want me to see your real house?" She raised her eyebrows at him.

Bill opened his mouth to protest, but then stopped, a thoughtful look on his face. "Eh, you know what? Why not. If you're gonna be so ridiculous about such a silly thing." He pulled over another piece of paper. "But if I don't have enough time to finish coloring this wig, you have to help me."

"Fiiine." She returned to her own drawings as Bill got back to work.

After a long silence—longer than he'd taken to draw and color the Fearamid—he said, "Okay, done. Here." And he pushed over the paper with one dismissive finger.

She eagerly accepted the drawing—and frowned. There was nothing on the page except for a straight flat black line, interrupted by three line segments of bright blue and a cluster of red and green dashes. "What is this?"

"Where I grew up," Bill said, innocently, already back to coloring the wig. Mabel could see his mischievous smirk. "As seen from the front. Just like your drawing of your house. So we're even now."

Mabel's brows furrowed as she stared at the page in confusion. "What...?"

"You do know I'm from the second dimension, right? A universe that's flat like a piece of paper. I figured Sixer would've told you all about it by now." Bill picked up the drawing and held it between his and Mabel's faces, so that, viewed from the edge, all Mabel could see of the paper was a thin flat line. "What do you think the second dimension looks like to somebody in the second dimension?"

Mabel took the paper back, looked at the underwhelming flat line representing the front of Bill's house, and said, "I hate you." 

"We had the prettiest roses in the park," Bill said, pointing at the red dashes. "Crayon really doesn't do them justice."

"Shut uppp."

Bill laughed at her; but then, to her surprise, he said, "Okay, all right, I guess a big fancy 3D creature like you can't understand the nuances of two-dimensional sight. So, here." He flipped over the page. "Top down view."

The back of the page had what looked like a floorplan. A narrow room on the left, a large L-shaped room, a tiny room nestled into the L's top right corner, and a medium room on the right. Little shapes filled the rooms—furniture of some kind?—but she didn't see anything immediately recognizable like a top-down bed or table and chairs. Green and red spirals dangled off the bottom of the floorplan.

"I'm no Edward Bishop Bishop, but it gets the idea across," Bill said.

She studied all the strange little figures in fascination, looking for anything familiar. She pointed at a few shallow bowls filled with blue sticking out of the wall between the L-shaped room and the tiny room. "Are these sinks?"

"Hey, you're pretty sharp. Sinks and the tub." 

"So the little room's the bathroom."

"Right again." Bill pointed out the rooms on the floor plan. "Master bed's on the right, kitchen and living room in the middle—and you found the bathroom—and second bed's on the left. That was my room! The one with a million books," he pointed at a wall with countless tiny multicolored lines coming off of it. "I was a big reader as a kid. I've always been an intellectual."

"Who was in the other bedroom?"

"I never really went in there, who cares." Bill made a dismissive gesture. "I think there were some desks and stuff in there too, but I didn't bother to draw them since I never used them." He picked up a yellow and a black crayon and added on to the drawing, dexterously turning the crayons in his hand to switch between colors without setting either one down. "I spent most of my time in my room." He'd drawn a little yellow triangle with an eye. He picked up a red crayon to point an arrow at the triangle and label it "Me!" "I didn't even have to leave the room to see the TV. The perks of psychic powers!"

Mabel wondered which of the weird shapes was the TV; but before she could come to a decision, she was distracted by the scale of Bill drawn in his room. Maybe he'd just drawn himself big, but he seemed cramped in that narrow space. And he'd hardly have room to turn around in the bathroom without his corner smacking something. "It looks pretty small. Is that normal on your home world?"

"Ah, I rarely spent time at home—it was just a place to sleep between speaking engagements," Bill said. "I was always on tour. Living the life of the rich and famous! Hotels, jet planes, and tour buses!"

Mabel shot him an irritated look. "You said this is where you grew up."

"This is where I grew up! I got an early start making my fortune. I was already famous by the time I was, uh..." he pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Developmentally, I think I would've been about equivalent to your age. Maybe a bit younger."

How much of all this was true? It didn't feel like a lie—and she couldn't see how he'd benefit from lying about any of it, except maybe claiming to be famous. So it probably had to be true. He'd actually made her a drawing of his house. Even after he'd complained about being so bad at art. She beamed at him. "Thanks, Bill. Your weird alien house is neat! I like the squiggly spiral flowers! Are they actually roses?"

"They were the flower that everyone mentions in poetry and that you have to bring home when your wife is mad, so, same basic function as roses," Bill said. "Fun fact, they grow in spirals so that they're pretty on the outside, but—"

####

"—but have more surface area to absorb sunlight on the inside," Mabel said, pointing at the flowers. "Alien biology! And the orange things are couches and the colorful box in front of them is his TV, and Bill says he could watch TV through the wall but he never really liked TV, he preferred live performances—maybe we should take him to a musical! And the little sideways cushions on the walls are their beds because gravity goes to the left because their house faces east—I have no idea why!—so, I guess that's their 'floor'? But if that's the 'floor,' Bill didn't explain why all his books were on the 'ceiling' without them falling off, and..." Mabel trailed off, giving Ford a concerned look. "Grunkle Ford? Are you okay?"

He was gaping at the drawing. "Wh—? Yes. Sorry. I'm just..." He shook his head in amazement. "I never even got that slippery eel to admit he has a calendar system, and you got the blueprints to his childhood home?"

Dipper said, "Yeah, this is amazing. How did you get this out of him?"

"Oh, I didn't do anything special," Mabel said casually. "Just drew our house and then suggested he was too scared to let me see his."

Dipper grimaced. "You showed him our house?"

"Don't worry about it! He already knows where we live."

"Of course," Ford said, taking a quick note in his journal. "Exploiting his ego. He's very proud; undermine that pride and he'll feel compelled to defend his honor." Ford had started goading Bill into giving away more than he meant to the same way. He wished he'd started doing it far earlier; but he'd spent so many years foolishly assuming Bill's pride was objective and justified that he sometimes forgot what an egomaniac Bill really was.

As Mabel had spoken, Ford had filled several pages with bullet-pointed half thoughts: dodges questions about the master bed—his parents' room?; no bed or bedroom for a sibling, he seems like an only child; "speaking engagements" is probably a euphemism, what was he doing to become a child celebrity; were his books his only childhood possessions or just the only thing he valued enough to draw; did he gain his "psychic powers" while amassing the power he needed to "liberate"/destroy his dimension? "Can I borrow this drawing to make a photocopy?"

"Sure! Don't forget the line on the back," Mabel said. "And you can copy the Fearamid, too! Did you know he named it the 'Fearamid'?"

"Oh yeah, I heard him call it that," Dipper said. "I think I recorded it in Journal 3?"

"I should've read that before we threw out all of Grunkle Ford's Bill stuff," Mabel sighed. She slid over the Fearamid drawing to Ford. "Bwop! He drew it tilting all weird to the left? He wasn't kidding when he said he's bad at drawing."

Ford studied the drawing and frowned. He lay his pen on the drawing to use like a makeshift ruler. "It's not 'skewed'—he drew the front face as a perfect equilateral triangle, and then extended a side on the right to turn it into a pyramid. It's poor perspective—there's no point of view from which one side would look like a perfect equilateral triangle and you could see another side, but..." He trailed off again as he made a note to himself about what this might mean about Bill's ability to perceive the third dimension and his artistic sensibilities.

"So he draws like Picasso!" Mabel concluded. "Oh! Bill mentioned a name when he gave me his house, he said he wasn't like Edward Bishop Bishop—and I remembered it because it sounds funny. Bishop-Bishop. Maybe he's another artist Bill likes? Or somebody who makes blueprints?"

"I'm sure I've heard that name. I think he was a mathematician?" Ford frowned. "I can't recall, though." He wrote down another note: Edward Bishop Bishop – mathematician/artist? Something to look up later.

Dipper glanced back and forth between Ford and Mabel as they talked, feeling his stomach sink at how excited they were and how easily they got along. First the mysterious disappearing crystal shop in Portland, now Mabel made this huge discovery about the guy Ford had spent years trying to learn about... Dipper swallowed hard and tried to tell himself he shouldn't feel jealous after he'd gotten Ford to himself for basically the past year. "I can't believe you found out all this."

Mabel immediately looked at him. "Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"

Dipper winced. He'd realized a moment too late how he must have sounded. Quickly, he said, "I mean, it's great that you did! Finding out more information about him is great. But, like... investigating the paranormal is my thing. It's what I spent all last summer doing, and it's my dream job, and... and now, the biggest paranormal mystery in human history is in our house, and you're the one getting all the info out of him?"

"Well, yeah," Mabel said. "I'm our official Bill spy, remember? I'm the one who made friends with him."

"I know, I know." He shrugged jerkily. "I'm just... kind of disappointed that I'm not prying eons-old secrets out of an alien demon. You know?"

Ford had paused in his writing to listen to Dipper thoughtfully. "I understand. When you're exceptional at something, it can be... difficult to share the limelight," he said. "Not because you don't think anyone else deserves it. You just don't know if you'll ever get it back."

Dipper's face heated up—he didn't want Ford to think he was bad at sharing, of all things—but he mumbled, "Yeah, I guess." Ford patted his shoulder understandingly. 

"Aww," Mabel said. "Didn't you say that if we're running an experiment on being nice to Bill, you want to be in the control group?" She punched his arm. "Welcome to the control, bro!"

"Ow!" Dipper rubbed his arm and laughed weakly. "Yeah, okay, you're right. This is what I get."

Mabel said, "You should try talking to Bill! Maybe he'll tell you stuff too. He's really easy to talk to as long as you don't mind him sometimes saying creepy nightmare things."

"And as long as you're prepared for his mental tricks," Ford said.

"Yeah! Grunkle Ford's got a whole class for that," Mabel said. "He'll teach you about the BITE model! It's how cults sink their teeth into you!"

Dipper chuckled. "Sure. Maybe I will. We're gonna be at home handing out candy for a few hours, maybe I'll find an opportunity to interrogate him."

"You're not going trick-or-treating?" Ford asked.

"No," Mabel said, with an exaggerated sigh of disappointment.

Dipper elbowed her for her theatrics; they'd already agreed on what they'd do tonight. "We've got plans with friends. But we do get to wear matching costumes again."

"Creepy ghost children!"

"Ah," Ford said. "That explains your..." He gestured at them. They were wearing a suit and a dress, old-fashioned and gray, with tattered hems and dusty black dress shoes.

"Barty helped us put the outfits together," Dipper said.

"We still need to do our makeup," Mabel said. "What about you, Grunkle Ford? What are you doing for Summerween?"

"Ah." He glanced toward the ceiling ruefully, as though he could see The Enemy in the shack through the many layers of dirt above. Summerween had been one of the things he'd missed most about Gravity Falls; even during his years as a reclusive scientist in the woods, he'd usually taken off Summerween and Halloween to hand out candy to the children bold enough to visit his house.

But Bill's eagerness to participate had sucked the fun out of the day. The thought of celebrating Summerween in the same house as Bill felt too much like celebrating with him. "Nothing, I suppose. I was planning to stay down here." He gestured at his desk. "Continue my research."

"What are you working on right now?" Dipper asked.

Ford quickly said, "Nothing. Just—the same research," and was immediately hit with a pang of guilt. Remember what happened last summer when you tried to keep secrets about Bill out of embarrassment? Reluctantly, he said, "I've... split some research duties with Fiddleford. While I'm waiting to hear back from him, I'm looking into—some magical knowledge Bill revealed. To determine how much of it's true."

Dipper looked puzzled. "Revealed when?"

Mabel slammed her hands on Ford's desk. "Grunkle Ford, you can take a break from gathering intel on the enemy for one day! It's Summerween! Promise me you'll do something to celebrate before the day's over."

Ford let out a huff, but smiled. He wanted to do something. Surely he could come up with something that would let him avoid Bill? "All right, I promise. I won't invoke the Trickster's wrath tonight. Could you leave your costume makeup in the bathroom when you're finished? I'll find something to do with it."

"Perfect!" Mabel hugged him; then grabbed Dipper's hand. "C'mon, let's finish getting dressed. The trick-or-treaters will be here any minute!"

"Okay, okay." Dipper waved at Ford as Mabel dragged him to the elevator.

When they were gone, Ford turned back to the papers Mabel had given him. Bill's childhood home... Assuming he wasn't lying, at least. But an entire blueprint seemed like a complicated spur-of-the-moment fabrication even for him. If Bill was lying, it was a lie close to the truth.

It was strange to imagine Bill as a child with a bedroom full of books. Strange to imagine Bill as a child at all. What did a young triangle look like? He couldn't imagine anything different from how Bill always looked.

The floorplan did look small. Smaller even than the apartment over the pawn shop had been. Ford tried to remember what the homes he'd seen in Exwhylia had looked like...

He raised his head as something the kids had said registered. "Barty? Who's Barty?"

####

While Mabel was downstairs, Bill inspected her box of crayons.

The wrapper around the gray crayon was coming loose.

He took the glue stick they'd been using to reinforce the paper houses with popsicle sticks and carefully stuck the wrapper back on.

The house was too quiet without anyone around to talk to. He hated the quiet.

From the corner of the living room behind the table, when Bill leaned on the wall, shut his eyes, and listened closely, he could faintly hear the hidden elevator. He headed upstairs to stow the drawing of Mabel's house somewhere safe, and then went to the downstairs bathroom to finish dressing for Summerween.

####

(Y'all I worked hard on those fake crayon drawings. Anyway I know we're all collectively going insane today over the book news but if you took time out of your day to read this, I'd love to hear what y'all think!)

[ilysungho]

hii! 30 38 64 67 with taesan pls💗 i love your work

can i be 🌸 anon?

a/n: hi love!! ofc you can be 🌸 anon! welcome to the family <3 tysm for requesting, i'd love to know what you think about this ^-^ wc: 1.1k contains: dom!taesan x sub!reader, friends to lovers?, playful? reader, thigh fucking, lowercase intended, prompts italicized

taesan's lips quivered as you ate the ice cream so seductively under him. you didn't mean to make it so sensual but the twitching in his dick doesn't help. he tried to focus on his own sweet treat, but couldn't let go of the idea of having your lips around him instead.

the way your tongue licked the melting orange juices made him gulp hard. it led him to fix his position, covering up his growing on with the cushion on your couch. his eyes stayed fixed on you, feeling thankful that he sat on top of the couch rather than beside you on the floor. taesan unknowingly bit his lips, head falling back and biting his lower lip at the sight below him.

you had just finished your popsicle, biting on the wooden stick before looking back at him. “hey taesan, have you seen any-” you didn’t expect your friend to be looking at you with such an expression, blinking to make sure you were seeing right. “why are you looking at me like that?”

he cleared his throat and sat up, the cushion still covering him so he doesn’t reveal the tent in his pants. but that doesn’t help when you take said cushion from him and gasp at the sight. you look up at him and blinked a couple times. what am i seeing?

“did i turn you on that much?” not entirely sure how to respond, you were thankful your playful nature took over instantly to help, with the accompaniment of a smirk at his direction.

“you don’t even know.... fuck.” taesan's voice was small as an embarrassed blush crept onto his face, feeling hot from the sudden turn of events. he hid his face in his hands in an attempt to try to calm down, clearing his throat once again. lightly slapping his cheeks, he composed himself before taking a look at you.

that calmness didn’t last long as he watched you lay down on the floor, pulling your thighs together and making a motion telling him to come closer with your index finger. he furrowed his eyebrows, a light smile appearing as he complied.

“you can do what you need to, but you have to buy me another popsicle later. deal?” a sly smile decorated your face as you looked at him.

“are you sure? we’re just friends y/n…”

“and? who else would help you in times of need if not your friend?”

he widened his eyes at your words, switching over to scoffing at you. his one hand grabbed your legs, putting them both over one of his shoulders, with the other hand rubbing your exposed tummy. he reached down and stretched the elastic of your fabric covering your cunt, asking, “how are you so sure that i want you laying down?”

“i know you’ll like any pose i pull. i’ve known you so long; you think i wouldn’t know how you take your flings?”

“oh so you know what i do with my flings?” he smirked while reaching his fingers inside your panty to rub your folds.

“yeah, after all, i don’t like people touching what’s mine. tough, i just watched and said nothing.”

he was baffled at your confession, licking his lips and finally rubbing circles on your clit, making you gasp at the contact. his eyes never left yours as his clothed dick rubbed against your thighs. the soft material of the shorts you wore fell right above your cunt in the position you laid in. he hurriedly pulled off his pants to reveal his cock to himself, hidden behind your thighs.

he bit his lower lip as he put the sensitive tip against the middle of your thighs, making you raise your eyebrows. “i didn’t expect this from you taesan. i thoughts you’d be more of the type to take it rough right away.”

he shook his head at your statement, further pushing into the slit between your legs. “we’re just friends yet you’re thinking about how i’d take you huh?” an amused face stayed on him as the hues of your face changed from a peachy rose to a hot pink.

you could feel his dick against the cloth covering your pussy. that combined with the way his fingers expertly rubbed your clit made your mind feel hazy. his pretty pink tip came in view as it surpassed your thighs, you letting out soft moans and groans as he pulled out just enough to thrust back in through the gap.

he pulled his hand out of your panty now, reaching to grab your boobs. he could feel that you weren’t wearing a bra (bold choice knowing you have a man in the house, but understandable choice considering said man was also your friend). he reached under your shirt now for the same purpose of fondling your breasts while he fucked your thighs.

the sounds you let out were like music to his ears, loving how he made them come out from you as he felt almost every part of you.

“gosh, y/n, you sound so amazing. imagine how amazing you’d sound when i’m fucking you senseless.”

whining at his heavy words, you shook while tightening your core. taesan’s cock continued on, quickly slipping in and out of your thigh gap thanks to his precum coating the insides, acting as lube. your own high was approaching as he took back his hand from under your shirt to reach back into your shorts. he rubbed circles once again on your clit while whispering on about how you both are almost to the edge.

“san… i’m close mmm,” you croaked out while shaking. he increased his speed at your words, making sure to hit every part of your wet bottoms that he could. he knew what lied under but only his hands had gotten a taste of it for now. his licked his lips before kissing your legs on his shoulder. then, he took one of his hands and placed it in front of your thighs, now hitting his palm every time he thrusted through you.

you moaned out his name while convulsing and cumming soon after, finding it hard to come back from your high. on the other hand, taesan used his hand and your thighs to come shortly after, splattering the white essence onto your shirt. you rolled your eyes in slight annoyance before getting up to take off your shirt.

you looked up at your friend after calming down and all you saw was his jaw drop, mostly because of your figure. he bit his lips at the sight, after which he removed the rest of your clothing, pulling you down to have your face against his semi-hard dick. leaning down to you, a low whisper erupted against your ears:

“i’m not done with you yet.”

[nostalgicfun]

My experience trying to buy a bookshelf that is neither a cube organizer nor made out of popsicle sticks

[shoverse]

sfw — thinkin bout bestfriend! jeongin, who loves to joke about how 'rizzful' he is, giggling loudly when you turn your head slowly in faux horror and feign a disgusted expression. not that you don't believe him, of course, he's always out. it's just that he he always comes home and flops onto the couch next to you, sipping a fresh (not really) lemonade he bought from the seven eleven down the road. 'what movie today?' he asks, resting his head on your shoulder, peering into your eyes.

jeongin, who wakes you up to the sweet smell of fluffy pancakes, setting the table with his favourite weaved placemat and hanging up his pretty white apron. he smiles softly and wishes you good morning, voice soaked in morning grog. the pretty heart he meticulously carved into your butter was already half-melted, your own heart melting into the familiarity of it all.

jeongin, who was there for your first crush, first love, first heartbreak. he'll, he's been there for every heartbreak. he sneaks into your room and sits next to you on your bed, rubbing your back and letting you cry into his chest.

jeongin, who buys you pretty flowers on every occasion possible. he picks out the best bunch of sunflowers, wraps them up in a checkered yellow cloth and scribbles out a heartfelt note for you. something about how you're his sun always slips in, about how pretty you are, but he crosses it out and starts again.

jeongin, who turns just a shade pinker every time you thank him for the flowers. smiles so wide and offers to spend the rest of the day with you. you accept, of course, who could ever turn a boy like him down?

jeongin, who's been with you since the start, smiling his sunshine boy smile, drawing bright yellow tulips on the sidewalk. he wipes his chalk covers fingers on you and sticks his little tongue out. the tongue that slowly retracts as you sport a devilish grin and chase the shrieking boy down the road.

jeongin, who spends weeks learning how to paint from hyunjin, trying not to get frustrated when he messes up. he grins and calls it effortless when the painting finally ends up in your hand, but his shy smile hints at something else.

jeongin, who demands that 'as best friends, we are obliged to get matching phone cases'. he giggles every time you tap your phone cases together and completes the cartoon on the back of your phones.

jeongin, who sits on a picnic blanket with you, picking daisies and weaving them into your hair. he rests his head on your lap as you absentmindedly play with his hair and watch the sun set. he squeals and rolls off of you when a drop from your mango popsicle drips onto his forehead.

jeongin, who robs jisung of his nail polish so you two could match colours. he spends his afternoon focusing on getting your nails absolutely perfect, scrunching up his nose and furrowing his eyebrows. he smiles when you take dozens of pictures of yours and his interlocking fingers.

jeongin, who humors you and agrees to play a game of truth or dare with you. it's tame at first, stupid questions like 'what's the fattest shit you've ever taken?' (okay, maybe not exactly that.) until it's not. i mean, you don't think it's that serious, chewing on your snacks and thinking up interesting questions. when the words fall from your lips, he clams up immediately. 'do you like anyone?' he opens his mouth to say no, but what slips out instead is what he's kept locked away for all those years.

'you.'

jeongin, who's a terrible kisser. maybe it's his nerves, maybe he's just bad, but it makes you laugh into the kiss. he tastes like honey, sweet and infatuating. his lips are soft, he slips his hand behind your neck and smiles when he pulls away. he rests his forehead against yours and erupts into an explosion of laughter.

jeongin, who hugs you close to his chest that night, whispering into your hair as you drift off to sleep. you're so perfect, he's so glad he can finally say it.

jeongin, who's yours. that is all.