#here’s to not texting him first again 🍻

[ladylooch]

We need jealous Luca.

Crediting my muse (🍻) with formulating this idea in my DMs!

It has been 71 days since Liv Meier was in Luca Fiala’s arms. Yes, he’s been counting every one. Tonight, the marker finally goes back to 0. He arrived in New York late last night for their game tomorrow against the Rangers. Unfortunately, Liv had an exam, a presentation, and mandatory writing time for her book today and wasn’t able to spend much of his day off with him. It’s fine with Luca. His girl is doing big things and well worth the wait.

However, the wait is much longer than anticipated. 

He arrives at the restaurant first. He decides to wait for Liv to order anything other than water. He scans the menu, but can’t concentrate. He continues to glance towards the door every time it swings open. She’s five minutes late when he begins to worry. He pulls his phone out, figuring maybe her train was a little late, or that her cab had her stuck in traffic. 

When she is 15 minutes late, he calls her. She doesn’t answer because her phone is on do not disturb. He knows she does this when she writes, not even letting his notifications through because distractions can cause her ideas to flutter away from her creative brain. 

30 minutes later, his frazzled girlfriend rushes through the door, purse hanging off her elbow, scarf fluttering behind her, as she scans the restaurant for him. Her entire face lights up when she sees him.

“I am so, SO sorry, Luca. I was writing and I completely lost track of time. I forgot to set my alarm.” Luca accepts her quick smooch. She begins to shrug off her jacket. He tries to reach for it to help her, but she shoves it into the booth next to her and plops down before he can. He slowly lowers himself to his side of the booth.

“Um.. it’s okay.” He says, even though it’s not.

He doesn’t understand how he was counting the days to get here and she is late to dinner. There is a whisper in the back of his brain that she is fading away from him. She was late to dinner. Their FaceTime calls are shorter; sometimes he calls and she doesn’t even answer. She’ll eventually send an apology text, but no call back. He understands she is busy, but he can’t help but feel like everything else is more important. In fact, if he has to label the sourness in his chest, he thinks it is jealousy. Jealous of the friends she can find time for here. Jealous of how much time school takes up for her. Jealous that she is seemingly fine with going a whole day barely talking. Jealous that other people get to see her smile and feel her warmth daily while he is left on read.

The waitress comes over for their order. Liv asks Luca if he has a preference on wine. He gestures for her to decide. She grabs a cabernet from Napa they’ve had a few times. 

“Hi.” She smiles at him again once they are alone. 

“Hi.” Luca purses his lips to resemble a smile. 

“I am sorry.” She cringes. Liv can sense Luca’s displeasure with her tardiness. She doesn’t blame him, but it truly wasn’t intentional. “I’ve had writer's block for weeks and it felt good to get some words on paper. That's it. I'm so happy to be here with you now."

Luca wipes at the condensation on his water glass. They pause the conversation as the bottle of wine is evaluated and opened. They both take initial sips, then Luca speaks honestly.

"It doesn't feel like this is a tonight only thing. I’ve barely heard from you the last few weeks. It’s like you have a whole life I'm not a part of. Now you’re late like… you haven’t been missing me at all.”

“You have a whole life that doesn’t include me too.” Liv says, defensive of his words. She pulls her hand away from where it had been stroking his fingers. This bothers Luca more. His eyebrows pull together, eyes getting squinty as he looks at her. 

“Yeah, but I include you in my life. I tell you stories. I send you pictures. I talk about you all the time to the guys. Your friends barely know about me. Half the time I call and get your voicemail. You also ignore my texts but have no problem finding time to post on your stories.” He grabs his wine glass, chugging down a couple fast sips. Liv’s eyes drop to the table. “I’m jealous of all the people who get to see and hear from you because I don’t.” 

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” She whispers.

“Well, now you do.” Luca huffs, rolling his neck out and sighing heavily. “What do you want for an appetizer? I’m starving.” He purposefully lightens his voice and changes the subject, seeing the distress hanging on Liv’s frame. Maybe he was a little harsh with her. He reaches out for her hand, giving it a squeeze. “They have fried Ravioli.” He knows it’s her favorite. Liv shakes her head yes. They are both quiet, continuing to look over the menu as Luca rubs his thumb along her knuckles. 

“I’ll do better.” Liv says once he pushes his menu away after deciding on rigatoni with a white sauce, peas, and pancetta. 

“I know you’re busy, babe. I just need a little more of you than you’re giving me.” Liv nods. “I love you.” He reminds her, making sure her eyes stay on his as he speaks. 

“I am having a hard time juggling everything… and not talking to my dad has been weighing on me in the middle of this book deadline and… you deserve so much better. I’ve been taking you for granted and I don’t want you to feel this way. I love you so much-“

“Liv. Baby, it’s okay. Let's move on. I want to have a good night with you. Tell me about your busy day.” He opens his arms, gesturing for her to come into his side of the booth. She does so willingly, sighing contently when she can feel the warmth of him through the side of her sweater. Her and Luca talk throughout dinner and into dessert. Things feel normal by the time he is paying the check. She is heavy with sadness when Luca needs to head back to the hotel for curfew. 

“Call me when you get home?” He wraps her into his arms.

“Right when I walk in the door.” She burrows her nose into his shirt for another moment, then pulls back.

“I’ll see you after the game tomorrow. I love you.” 

“I love you too. Good luck.” Luca smiles into their kiss. “Score on Con so I can rub it in Lucie’s face.” 

“I'll do my best.” He chuckles. “Goodnight, baby.” 

“Goodnight.” Liv waves longingly as she walks backwards to the left and he heads to the right. She pouts at the sight of his retreating back, hating how she fucked up their one night together in 2.5 months.

Plus, after tomorrow, she doesn’t know when she will see him again.

[holmesandtheroman]

Flufftober Day 29 — Kurt x Baba Yaga

Up Against the Wall Kiss

Rating: M

Characters: Yekaterina | Baba Yaga, Kurt Goreshter, Scott Lang, Luis, Dave

Word Count: 1,011

Warnings: Sexual content, fondling, slight dom vibes

🍻💋🍻💋🍻💋🍻💋🍻💋🍻💋🍻💋🍻💋

“No, because, I can totally drink Kurt under the table, man. I grew up on tequila,” Luis bragged confidently as he slapped Kurt on the shoulder. Kurt began to shake his head in protest, but Luis kept going. “Yeah, there was this one time while you were still in prison, Scotty, and Kurt was all ‘I’ll bet you, like, twenty bucks that I can drink a whole bottle of vodka and not get shitfaced.’”

“That is definitely not how I remember it,” Kurt finally interrupted over the loud bar music.

“Yeah, come on, Luis, the guy’s Russian. He’s been drinking vodka since he was two,” Scott laughed.

Luis shook his head. “No, ‘cause, like, he had vodka and I had tequila and he was on the floor before he was halfway through.”

Dave shook his head. “Vodka and tequila will get you fucked up in two different ways, man. Not comparable.”

Meanwhile, a waitress dropped off their first round of beers at the guys’ table. The men distributed the drinks amongst themselves, and Scott lifted his draft. “Hey,” he interjected, getting the others’ attention. “To Kurt, whose gonna be a married man tomorrow night. Last night of freedom, bud!”

As Scott, Dave, and Luis voiced their cheers, Kurt smiled but blanched. He drank when the others did, but as the conversation started up again, he stayed silent.

Kurt suddenly felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket, so he fished it out and looked at the screen. It was a text from Yekaterina.

‘There’s a unisex bathroom at the back of the bar. Meet me there.’

Kurt furrowed his brow and glanced over his shoulder to the back. Sure enough, there was a single stall bathroom. How she had been able to sneak past all of them without being noticed was beyond him, but he had learned not to question her powers.

Kurt stood and slipped his phone back in his pocket. “I’ll be right back,” he muttered to the guys, who nodded briefly but continued talking. Kurt stopped at the bathroom door and looked around cautiously, making sure no one was headed his way. He opened the door and slipped inside.

“Of all the places in San Francisco, you choose here for your bachelor party?” Yekaterina asked with a smirk.

Kurt whirled around to see his fiancée leaning against the wall of the bathroom. He chuckled and locked the door. “What do you mean?”

Yekaterina glanced around the dingy bathroom. “This is the most disgusting place I have ever seen.” She stifled a laugh. “And the vodka is pisswater.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be having party with Hope and Cassie?” Kurt asked, raising an eyebrow.

Yekaterina shrugged. “They’re at the karaoke place next door. I saw you as we were coming in. You looked like you were ready to shit bricks.”

Kurt’s smile faded and he swallowed as he looked down at the dirty tiles. Yekaterina cocked her head.

“Kotya, what’s wrong?” she asked. “Something is troubling you.”

Kurt did not respond right away. He ran his hand through his hair.

“Do you want to call off the wedding?” Yekaterina asked calmly.

Kurt’s gaze bolted up. “No! No, don’t call it off,” he yelped.

“If you’re feeling nervous, miliy, there is no shame—“

“I want to be enough for you,” Kurt blurted out. His dark eyes sought out Yekaterina’s enchanted blue ones, and he found comfort in them. “I am just human.”

Yekaterina stared at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

Kurt swallowed hard. “I am afraid that we will be married and you will wake up one day and see that I cannot offer anything.” He sighed and shrugged. “You are a goddess. I am just felon who is glorified tech support. I have nothing to give you.”

Yekaterina winced at his words. They stung her, but not because of any insult against her. “Miliy, is this what you think of yourself?”

Kurt looked away from her. “You make everything better. I can’t.”

Yekaterina paused for a moment before standing straight and reaching out to turn Kurt’s face back to her. “You make me happy. Isn’t that enough?” Kurt blinked and opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. “You don’t have to do or be anything. But you are more than who you were—“ Yekaterina reached down to grace her fingers over the prison tattoo on Kurt’s hand. “Or who you are— which is an incredibly brilliant man… You are my love, moi kotyonok.” She placed her hand on Kurt’s cheek, and he leaned into her touch.

“I still have nothing to give to you,” Kurt murmured.

Yekaterina smiled. “You can give me a kiss,” she said as she moved her hands to his shoulders and pulled her against him, her back hitting the bathroom wall once again.

“S radost’yu,” Kurt whispered as he braced a hand on her hip, pressing a kiss to her lips. His body pinned hers against the wall with surprising dominance, his tongue darting into her own mouth. Kurt’s passion only amplified when she let out a soft moan, and he planted a trail of kisses down her jaw.

Yekaterina wrapped her arms around Kurt, digging her nails into his back. He gasped against her hot skin at the sensation, and he rolled his hips against hers; she could feel just how hard he had gotten in just a short amount of time, and she reached down to grab his length around the fabric of his pants.

Kurt hissed sharply and Yekaterina used her free hand to hold Kurt’s head in place as he kissed and nipped at the skin on her neck. As she continued to stroke Kurt through his pants, he let out a soft whine.

“I know, kotya,” she breathed into his ear. “This is what you give me, my love. You give me your whole being.”

Kurt raised his head to lock his gaze with hers. “Is it enough?” he asked.

Yekaterina devoured his lips in another kiss before breaking apart to whisper, “You will always be enough.”

[steponmepinkjun]

asra and mc being roomates in college! friends to lovers au 👀

Oh man oh man, this one really got me right in the honey nut feelios, lemme tell ya. Thank you for catapulting my whole heart and ass into both love and also lust 😍😭 My brain said headcanon but my heart said DAMN NEAR WHOLE ASS FIC. I hope you got your reading pants on, cause this is a looong long ride

Sidenote shoutout to my peeps @vesuviasfastestcourier and @thephoenixmagician 🍻👌

✨ College Roommate AU ✨

M!Asra x F!MC: Friends to Lovers  — Part One (Reader POV)

PART TWO HERE

PART THREE HERE

WARNING: NSFW throughout. 18+ only, minors DNI.

Asra’s that guy. Always casual, relaxed, skateboarding around campus or napping under a tree with his oversized headphones on. Nice to everyone, but belongs to no one friend group. Seems to have no real class schedule, always a bit of a mess in a lazy-cute kind of way. No one really knows anything about him, but his tanned skin, dimpled cheeks, and pale lilac mop of hair are impossible not to be drawn into. He’s that cool guy, with better, more obscure taste in movies and music and literature than anyone else. That weird, cool guy.

When you see the post, roommate wanted, it’s a tiny, run down cottage in the old neighborhood across from campus. It looks cute, and homey, a quaint two bedroom with succulents in the window and wildflowers flourishing in the sidewalk cracks. You can afford it, if nothing else. But you are not prepared for who answers the door when you come knocking.

You’d only spoken over text, you didn’t realize this was that guy. That you could be living with that guy. And you feel very uncool and very green and very unsure, but he’s so friendly, and so bouncy, and he laughs easily and you’re suddenly shocked at how comfortable you feel. He feels warm, and goofy, and you decide that yes, you’d like to stay.

Somehow, you become inseparable almost right away. He always prepares a mug of tea for you alongside his own, and invites you to join him when he’s sprawled haphazardly on the couch watching a movie. He comes home from the grocery store with a little potted cactus, and tells you the tiny pink bloom reminded him of you. He is warm.

And it’s impossible to deny that he is, without a doubt, the most gorgeous guy you’ve ever seen. He smells like citrus and sandlewood, he falls asleep on the couch in only a pair of low-slung plaid pajama pants, he trips over his own feet and blushes up to his ears when you catch him drinking straight from the carton of orange juice, again. When you fall asleep next to each other laughing late at night, or squeeze into the last leg of room on a crowded subway car, you’re sure he can hear how hard your heart is pounding. You know you’re not his type but he’s so close and you can’t help that he’s making you fall in love with him—

And sometimes it’s hard. Hard to look at him. Hard to sit next to him like you’re content with what you are, his best friend, not his girlfriend. Hard not to kiss him, hard not to be crushed knowing you’re pining hopelessly after a boy who will never love you like that.

You’re inseparable, you wouldn’t have it any other way. He plays you his favorite records for hours on end while you paint each other’s nails, you can’t apply a face mask without his wide eyes peeping around the corner in a silent request, I want some too. You cook together, you shop together, you share clothes and hold hands so it’s just hard sometimes.

And when he looks at you it’s with so much tenderness and adoration, and sometimes a sly little smirk you can’t quite place, and every now and again he blushes out of the blue and looks away, he melts your heart and its killing you.

Asra’s one semi-consistent house guest, a fellow called Julian, is the first punk-goth med student you’ve ever met, and always shows up either belligerently exhausted, or belligerently drunk. He keeps referring to you as Asra’s girlfriend, and for some reason Asra never corrects him.

One evening you’re rifling through Asra’s dresser drawers looking for your favorite shirt to sleep in, and you stumble across what you immediately recognise as your favorite pair of panties—tiny, lacy, baby pink. Mortified, you swear to pay more attention when sorting the laundry.

Sometimes when the two of you stay in and have a few drinks, you find yourself feeling bolder and less controlled. You let your hands move more freely across his shoulders and arms, you press yourself closer, even allow yourself to flirt a little bit—he eyes get wider and his blush gets brighter the longer you go on. Eventually he finds an excuse to disappear into his room, and the next morning you’re grateful he’s too kind to mention it.

Sometimes his eyes lock with yours as he licks a stray drop of cherry juice off his finger, or his grin turns mischievous when he beckons you to snuggle up to him on the couch with your back to his chest. He has many pet names for you, some funny, some impossibly sweet, but sometimes he calls you kitten and seems all too delighted by how flustered you become, almost like he knows how wet it makes you.

One day Asra bounds into your room to chat while you get ready to go to dinner—"Hey, kitten!—and plops down on your bed. From the corner of your eye you see him stop, and then crane his gaze towards your top drawer, which you realize with horror you have stupidly left lying open. You whirl around as his eyes land on its contents, your beloved magic wand, a glass cock, a shiny metal plug adorned with a sparkling pink crystal, and the long abandoned silk blindfold and leather wrist cuffs. Before you can force an explanation out of your mouth, Asra turns to you with a quirked brow, eyes fiery and bright below heavy lids. “Why, kitten,” he purrs with a smirk like a fox that’s just cornered a trembling rabbit.

You always feel guilty thinking of him when you touchyourself, you know it’s perverse to pretend the toy inside you is his cock, you know it’s depraved that you can’t help but sigh his name when you cum—of course it’s sick, he’s your best friend—but the way he looks at you when he sees the sordid collection at your bedside has you gasping, and at dinner you can’t sit still, intently aware of how cold the air feels on the soaking wet fabric of your panties. That night you replay it in your mind over and over, three fingers deep, toes curling, imagining him saying it while he fucks you from behind, pounding your g-spot until you’re squirting cum down your wrist, soaking through the sheets, too lost to know if you’re screaming his name in your head or out loud. If he hears you from across the hall, he never mentions it.

You know, realistically, logically, the tension you sometimes feel between you is your fault, imagined, no matter how much you wish it was the crackling of shared desire. You wonder if this new spark in his eye is cruel, he plays like he’s flirting, he wouldn’t tease you so meanly, would he? The Asra you love would never be be so heartless as to poke fun at a girl so clearly besotted. But why else flirt so shamelessly with a girl so hopelessly in love?

When you buy tickets to a show, you buy two, like you always do. The night of, he looks magnificent, ethereal, glitter cascading off of him, skin glowing, lips flushed, he’s a spectacle under the neon lights as the band plays and the bass throbs. His dancing is serpentine, languid and inviting, he pulls you closer and you both flow with the heavy pulsating beat of the music. For a second you get just too lost in the sparkle in his eyes, the way the pinks and greens of the light show bounce off his jaw, his collarbones, his lips, your hunger makes you lean in all too close—and you catch yourself at the exact second he dips his chin and lowers his head to meet your kiss halfway. You hesitate, confused and nervous and confused, very confused, and your eyes dart up to his in question.

Do you know what you’re doing? Do you want this? Do you mean it?

He looks back at you, Asra. Your Asra. Warm, soft, beguiling, inviting. Your hand moves to cradle his jaw as your eyes drift closed, and you close the gap between you.

His lips and tongue are soft and yielding where the heat of his kiss is not. His hands come to your hips, your waist, your neck, your hair, he breathes you in and moans into your mouth. He kisses you like you are the air he needs to live. You feel the desperation and the relief as finally, finally, you kiss him.