#lobster diner

[christinered]

Diner Lobster - SNL

Les Miserable The Lobster Diner Way.

Lol.

~Red

[purplesweetpotatoes]

this is like that lobster diner SNL skit

THIS WAS POSTED ON THE OFFICIAL MONTEREY BAY AQUARIUM TIKTOK

[notesfromachair]

Pod From a Chair: SNL Pod Part 2!

We are back with part 2 of our discussion of all things SNL to celebrate the launch of The SNL Companion: An Unofficial Guide to the Seasons, Sketches, and Stars of Saturday Night Live (available for purchase now!). and by place we mean podcast, duh! Join Holly with authors extraordinaire Steven Ginsberg (our beloved chair) and Stephen Tropiano, as we delve even deeper into the iconic…

[fieriframes]

[LOBSTER CLAW, THE LEMON TWIST. THERE'S YOUR LOBSTERTINI. LET ME PREPARE MYSELF.]

[elenaki88]

Wineing while cooking>>>>>

[impossibletragedykitten]

Bring it on.

[frankenstein-was-a-grad-student]

Nothing can ruin your holiday mood more than knowing you’re sharing the flight with lobsters being shipped to their death.

[menagerofmischief]

shrimp cocktail, cold appetizer, lobster, coca-cola, yes dessert, served by oscar piastri

Dia's Diner Menu

shrimp cocktail rivals to lovers cold appetizer rough sex lobster "I love watching my cum leak out of your pussy" coca-cola somnophillia dessert aftercare

Oscar Piastri x Ferrari!driver!reader

TW: one bed trope, unprotected sex (wrap you willy please), sleep dry humping

WC: 2k

A/N: I enjoyed writing this one a lot. Also I wanted to say I'm so thankful to all of you that sent requests and that I can't wait to write all of them but you'll maybe have to be patient with me because I'm a student and am pretty busy with school. I hope y'all are gonna enjoy this one.

Some bigger force, God or karma or fate or whatever else there is, was definitely out to get me. Because this had to be the worst fucking night of my life. I’m not being dramatic when I say that.

Why was this the worst night of my life?

We just made it to Singapore for the upcoming Grand Prix and went straight to our hotel. The whole grid was staying at the same place since it made things more convenient. I go up to the reception to check in and get the key to my room, all but ready to collapse into the mattress and sleep the jet lag off. 

“I’m so sorry Miss,” the receptionist says, tapping her fingers against the keyboard, glancing up at me every few seconds. Finally she looks up, her expression apologetic. “It seems there was a mistake with the booking and we double booked your room.”

I fight off the urge to groan and roll my eyes, instead plastering a smile on my face. “It’s fine, it’s not that big of a deal. Just put me in whatever room is available.”

She makes a face, looking down at the computer again and then returning her gaze to mine. “I really am sorry but there are no other rooms available right now.”

Now I really did groan. “Fantastic. Can I know who the other person occupying the room will be?”

Before the receptionist had the chance to answer, my worst nightmare in human form came up to the desk, standing right next to me. “Hello. I’m here to check in - it’s under Oscar Piastri.”

The woman - I finally glanced at her name tag, seeing her name was Alice - looked between us, then down at the computer before looking at us again. “Sir, as I was just explaining to the lady here, the hotel double booked your room by accident.”

“It’s fine just put me in a -”

“There’s no available rooms.” I cut him off. “Just the one.”

Oscar looked at me, narrowing his eyes. McLaren’s golden boy, affectionately nicknamed ‘the polite cat’ by the fans was the biggest thorn in my side for a long while now. Everything started back in F2 with our on track rivalry which grew with each race. Then I signed into F1, fulfilling my childhood dreams of racing in red and thought I escaped him. I thought too soon apparently because after my announcement post, his followed soon and I was once again back on track with him.

Did I have a reason to hate him? Absolutely! Was it awfully petty and possibly over-dramatic? Very likely. It was my first race in F2, I was about to finish P2 it was amazing. Then he crashed into me and drove us both into the wall, causing us both to DNF and lose out on a podium.

We have hated each other ever since.

“It’s okay - we’ll share.” Oscar’s voice brought me out of my thoughts, quickly turning my head to look at him.

“What!?”

Oscar took the key from Alice and dangled it in front of me, a smirk on his face. “I said we’re gonna be bunking.” He pulled the handle of his suitcase, “Come on then, Y/n”

✿ ✿ ✿

“You stay on your side of the room,” I said, putting the chair in the middle of the room to make it a half marker. “And I’ll stay on mine.” The one queen size bed would definitely be a problem as well, but one I would mention later.

“And how are you gonna go the bathroom since it’s on my side?” He asked, his voice holding a teasing tone.

“Bathroom if free ground, hallway too” I stated, crossing my arms over my chest.

Oscar’s gaze dropped down, stayed for a few seconds and then his eyes met mine again. He hummed, “And if I wanna open the window then what? Since it’s on your side.”

“Don’t act smart,” I told him. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“You wound me!” He gasped, pressing a hand over his heart.

“Shame it’s not fatal.”

✿ ✿ ✿

This was definitely the weirdest night of my life.

With only one bed in the room, no couch and neither of us willing to put our body in uncomfortable positions sleeping on the chair or on the floor, night before practice - Oscar and I made an agreement to share the bed.

One of the extra blankets from the closet was bunched up and put down the middle of the bed separating the two us. Not that it served much purpose considering that it was kicked down and off the bed while we were sleeping.

I woke up, rubbing my eyes to adjust to the dark and then I felt it. The slow, yet desperately feral rolls, the pressure and the pleasure. I had to press a hand against my mouth to stop myself from moaning, taking in deep harsh breaths through my nose.

I came to a realization about three things, so goes:

Oscar had moved a bigger part of his body onto my side of the bed.

He had pulled me close and caged me in his arms sometimes during the night.

He was grinding his very much hard cock into me -  in his sleep.

My cheeks were on fire and it felt like the rest of my body was too. The pajamas, which I purposely picked out because of how light they were, felt suffocating now.

I didn’t even realize what I was doing until it was done, my body moving on its own. One leg pushing slightly forward, opening just enough space for Oscar’s hips to chase mine and my ass slowly barely grinding back into him.

I was enjoying this much more than I should have and it was wrong. God, it was so wrong. But when his erection was rubbing so perfectly against me, I couldn’t bring myself to care.

I was wet, I knew I was. I could feel how soaked my panties had gotten and the uncomfortable feel of my slick underwear did not escape me. As the pressure increased I couldn’t help but let out a moan.

The noise felt deafening in the silent room and my eyes widened. Oscar’s body stilled and my breath caught in my throat, the dread of having woken him with my moans taking over me.

A moment passed, two moments passed. Then Oscar’s hands tightened around my body, pulling me even closer to him, my ass pressed just against the outline of his dick. One of his hands moved down my stomach, dipping into the waistband of my sleeping shorts and going straight down into my panties.

He ran a finger through my folds, coating it in my slick and it took everything in me not to moan. “You’re fucking dripping,” his voice in my ear made me freeze. Awake afterall. “This wet from me humping you? And here I thought you hated me.”

The pad of his finger touched my clit, a gasp falling from my lips at the pleasurable feeling. “Did you enjoy me rutting into you while I was sleeping, you dirty dirty girl?” He added more pressure, rubbing circles on my clit and this time I didn’t hold my moans back. “Woke up halfway through, when you started grinding your ass on me like a bitch in heat. You seemed so into it, I thought I’d just keep going.”

“Wasn’t,” I whispered.

“What was that?” He growled into my ear.

“Wasn’t grinding on you,” I said, through gritted teeth.

His fingers pinched my clit and my whole body surged forward, mouth falling open to let out a loud moan. “Don’t lie,” he said, the tone of his voice leaving no room for argument.

“Fuck you.”

“Oh don’t worry sweetheart, you will.”

Oscar pulled his fingers out of my panties, making me whine at the loss of friction on my clit. His chuckle vibrated through the room. He got up onto his knees on the bed, arms coming forward to grab my shoulders, and pulled me roughly so I was laying on my back.

I couldn’t help but look at him above me. His eyes were full of lust, pupils blown wide and cheeks red. As much as I didn’t want to admit it to myself, he looked absolutely ethereal. 

“Tell me to stop,” he said, fingers hooking into the waistband of my sleeping shorts.

I held his gaze, a shaky breath falling from my mouth. “Don’t stop.”

In one move he pulled down both my shorts and my panties, throwing them behind him without a care. Then he took off his own shorts, followed by his boxers - that ended up being thrown somewhere too. He pulled me up enough to take my top off, and then pushed me down again, leaving me completely bare. 

Oscar leaned over me, his mouth drawn in a smirk, his breath hot on my face. “Tell me not to kiss you.”

“Kiss me,” I whispered. He didn’t waste a second, as soon as the words were out of my mouth he was surging forward, his lips pressing harshly against mine, tongue pushing into my mouth. He pulled slightly back, my lip caught before his teeth and he gently bit down, making me whine into his mouth.

“Fuck me,” I panted into his mouth. “Please just -”

I didn’t get to finish what I was saying as he pushed himself into me fully in one go, making me scream. His hand pressed against my mouth, muffling the noises I was making. “Do you want to wake the whole hotel up?” He asked as he began thrusting, pulling himself out until only the tic was still in me and then forcefully pushing back in again. “Some people came here to sleep, not to listen to you moaning like a whore on my cock.”

His other hand went between us to rub my clit. I was practically sobbing as he worked his fingers in fast circles around my clit while roughly thrusting into me. My vision was blurred with tears that were spilling from the corners on my eyes.

Oscar’s hand moved only a little, leaving room for me to speak but close enough for my lips to brush against his palm with each word. “Cum,” I babbled. “Gonna cum! Oscar, please!”

“Yeah?” He asked, his voice hoarse. “Gonna cum for me like a good little slut? Go on then - cum”

I came with a moan, wrapping my legs around his waist and caging him in. Oscar fucked me trough my orgasm, his own following. He twitched inside of me before cumming, painting my walls and making me whine at how full I felt.

He pulled out of me slowly and went to the bathroom to clean himself up. After a moment he returned with a wet, probably warm, towel in his hands. He kneeled on the bed and gently spread my legs with his hands.

“Fuck,” Oscar groaned. “I love watching my cum leak out of your pussy.” His fingers dipped to collect some of his cum which had spilled out of me and was slowly dripping towards my ass, and pushed it back into me, causing me to gasp.

He leaned forward and placed a kiss on my forehead and somehow my cheeks burned ever hotter. After he gently cleaned me up and terrorized me to drink water, he laid down in bed next to me and pulled my body into his, arms wrapping around me.

“Are you finally going to let me take you out to dinner?” He asked, his voice husky and breath hot against the side of my face.

I hummed, my eyes barely open and already feeling sleepy. “Don’t crash into me while I’m winning on Sunday and we’ll see.”

“That was one time!”

I chuckled, placing my hands over his hand on my stomach. “Yeah, I’ll let you take me out to dinner.”

Believe it or not this might have actually turned out to be one of the best nights of my life.

[elinorasims]

Build | Strangerville | Ziggy's Diner

Lot Info

Type | Restaurant Lot Size | 30x20 World | Strangerville Value | 94,857 Baths | 3 CC | No Packs | Unrestricted Ziggy's Diner is a classicly retro mashup of Googie and passenger train inspired styles situated in Strangerville Plaza.

Ziggy's is a compact restaurant and bar combo with a Strangerville twist: classic red booths and an elongated mid-century modern bar layout meets sci-fi inspired and 50's-kitsch inspired cluttered decor..

It's giving the diner from the movie 'Paul'. I hope. lol

Ziggy's has a fully customised menu featuring some Mountain States inspired comfort dishes and some American classics (full menu below the cut).

DOWNLOAD >>

Interior Tour

Bar

Staff Areas

Floor Plan

| hi my loves

hopefully you like this one- it was super fun to build and I'm finding my feet a bit more building for this save, i think!

it's been playtested (briefly lol) and should be fully functional and a smooth enough restaurant experience for your sims to enjoy.

i love Paul so much aha we watched it this past weekend and i was immediately like 'yup. gotta go do a strangerville build now.'

| dag dag fn. <3

Ziggy's Diner Menu

Drinks water ; lemonade ; milk ; orange juice ; coffee ; cream cola ; fizzy fruity drink ; pitch black ; root beer float ; soda ; tang and zing ; boiler room ; eapa ; juice on the rocks ; wrench ; galactic vita-water ; silent film ; sour punch ; sunset valley ; alien juice ; cupid juice ; space energy drink ; jet juice

Appetisers chips and salsa ; mac and cheese ; bowl of olives ; bread roll ; french fries ; whole wheat bread ; popcorn shrimp ; garden salad ; cheesy bread ; grilled plantains ; seafood chowder ; soft shell crab cake ; empanadas ; watermelon salad

Mains mac and cheese ; chicken nuggets ; popcorn shrimp ; baked potato ; hot dog ; lobster roll ; veggie burger ; chicken and waffles ; fried chicken sliders ; mushroom waffles ; sausage and peppers ; scrambled eggs with bacon ; seafood chowder ; tofu dog ; fish tacos ; hamburger ; fried fish ; pancakes ; aubergine Parmesan ; sweet corn pizza ; mushroom steak ; french toast ; vegetable chilli ; egg white omelette ; mushroom soup ; bbq ribs plate ; blackened bass ; gumbo ; steak

Dessert neapolitan ice cream ; rainbow sorbet ; vanilla ice cream ; alien fruit tart ; cream filled donut ; cream snack cake ; honey cake ; plain waffles ; rainbow brownies ; hamburger cake ; chocolate chip cookie ; apple pie ; banana cream pie ; pumpkin pie ; simcity cheesecake ; fruit cobbler

[steviewashere]

My Mind's Got Legs, Running in Circles

Rating: Teen and Up CWs: Eddie Munson Has OCD, Eddie Munson Has ARFID (If you Squint), Compulsions (That Could be Viewed as Harmful/Self-Harm), Negative Self Talk, Internalized Ableism, Minor Panic Attack, Food Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Eddie Munson Whump, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Good Boyfriend Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Takes Care of Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Trusts Steve Harrington (Which I Feel is a Very Important Tag), Hopeful Ending, Happy Ending So, probably 90% of this is taken from personal experience—via my life the last seventeen years give or take. I wanted to divulge into the grittier, nastier parts of the whole inner-monologue, and a focus on Eddie having resulting effects from eating something he was unsure of, but I've been struggling a lot recently and just couldn't bring myself to write it. So I went with the sweeter, fluffier route. Maybe I'll come back to this version of Eddie, but as of right now, this is what I offer. Also on AO3 (locked, so make sure you have an account)

🍗—————🍗 He’s biting his tongue.

It’s just a plate of dinner. Dinner that Steve made him. Homemade and neat and hot for the taking. There’s just one problem with it. A big, fat problem.

Among the green beans and the warmed dinner roll and the steaming mashed potatoes, there’s a chicken breast the size of his fist. The chicken is dressed up with a crisp brown outside, flakes of pepper, and a light slathering of garlic sauce. In itself, the chicken isn’t the issue—not yet, at least. 

Eddie can’t muster the courage to take a bite because he didn’t watch Steve make it.

That’s been something with him his entire life.

He isn’t sure what really set it off. The dire need to always be in the center of the kitchen, or just outside of it, peering around the corner to see hands flip and toss and slather. It used to drive his dad insane. His six year old son hanging out at his knees, big eyes gazing unblinking at the skillet on the stovetop, tugging on pant legs when the meat was still a little pink.

Before it was just his dad in the picture, his mom used to sit by and teach him all about the cooking process. How to wash the cutting board, to avoid contamination. To always wash his hands, to avoid contamination. Use a different turner in the pan, to avoid contamination.

That word had always struck him like a firm backhand. He’d always been curious, too smart for his own good. And his mom had dictionaries, so he soon learned what it meant. To be contaminated. The contamination that was always talked about, though, was to prevent getting sick. “You always hate being sick, Ed,” she used to tell him, “so make sure to be super duper safe with your food. Okay sunshine?”

He made habits of it. Washing his hands between each step. Then washing them when even a droplet of sauce stained his index finger. Scrubbing away the raw chicken strands on his cutting board, scrubbing harder because he swore there was a piece, just one more piece, there’s a piece and there’s a piece and—he did it until his hands were lobster red from the hot water. And the hot water was good for killing bacteria, so washing his hands became excruciating, but safe. He was always prepared with three or more turners lined up on clean paper towels at the stove. Dish washing liquid on hand.

Another thing that really stood out, and it only stood out once he got real fucking sick, was the part where food sometimes is just served bad. With little or no control over it.

There had been one time—one time—where he went out for breakfast at the local diner. His mom sitting across from him in the booth, their plates saturated with syrup, cheesy eggs on the side. He’d eaten all he had because it had tasted fine, tasted good, tasted perfect. It was safe and it was good and his mom was there smiling at him all sweet, the lights weren’t too bright and the table wasn’t sticky like he hated and the waitress was real pretty.

But then he started puking. And once he started, he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t keep down water, couldn’t muster the appetite for something as bland as toast. His mom got sick, too. There had been the scary hospital with the too bright lights and too many smells, the doctors who talked too loud and the nurses who pressed too hard on his tender head. An egg recall—he didn’t know what that meant, he got too curious again, and then—

Eddie Munson stopped eating eggs.

And since eggs came from chickens…

Eddie Munson stopped eating chickens.

And when he stopped eating chicken, his mom got concerned.

So he ate it for her, learned to like it again little by very little. He still doesn’t like it, still doesn’t enjoy it, but he can keep it down at least. But if the eggs made him sick, then the chicken could, too. If the chicken was pink, even the slightest bit, then he couldn’t eat it.

Couldn’t eat the chicken, couldn’t eat the egg. Couldn’t because his brain wouldn’t allow him to; not some written rule in an uncovered handbook; not a dictation from some government practice; not the conspiracy theorist that used to live up the road. No. It was his own brain.

And what if other animals could make him sick?

Beef couldn’t be pink. Pork couldn’t be tender. Milk couldn’t be past the expiration day by even a minute after midnight. Cheese can’t be moldy, no matter how much his mom said blue cheese was delicious.

Then, things spiraled. Really started to spiral.

Bread was made of animal product. And bread could get moldy. If one piece was bad, then the whole loaf was bad. “Oh, baby, you can just cut the bad parts off,” his mom would say, “it’ll be alright. Plus, saves Mommy money, too.” But the bread was bad. The bread was really bad.

There were bad foods. There were good foods.

The cons list was longer than the pros.

He was skinnier than a string bean, even when he went through puberty. He insisted on packing his own school lunch, even if it cost him more. He insisted on skipping Home EC because he didn’t trust the other students to truly follow safety guidelines. He insisted on watching when Wayne cooked, when Hopper invited him over for a barbecue after Spring Break, when Mrs. Henderson had him over for Christmas.

And he usually watches Steve, too. Steve knows that, at least Eddie believes he does—because he should, shouldn’t he? They’ve been dating for a little over a year now, been friends a while longer. He himself knows that Steve will let him cook if he needs to, but Eddie trusts Steve for the most part. Can trust him to make food, under a gaze of course. But Steve has told him that he doesn’t mind, enjoys the company.

But chicken.

He’s biting his tongue. Even as he cuts through the left side of the breast, slow and meticulous. If it’s too messy of a cut, he won’t be able to see the inside. If he can’t see the inside, he can’t judge the color. No say of what the color is, then he isn’t sure about putting it in his mouth.

Steve’s across from him, already dabbing away at sauce on his lips, teeth grinding against each other as he chews. Eddie is still cutting the meat.

“Y’alright?” Steve asks him around his mouthful.

Eddie briefly glances up. “I’m fine,” he shorts. The knife finally makes contact with his plate, screeching against the porcelain. His fork piercing the freed slab, holding it up close to his face, under the light in Steve’s dining room. The only plus side of this house is the lighting, bright and shiny and perfect for Eddie to use. Usually.

He spins the fork.

It’s pink, a part of him notes, it’s still pink don’t put it in your—No, see, it’s white, that same part says, it’s white right there. It’ll be white everywhere, Steve made it.

Steve cuts his own food again, takes another hearty bite.

Eddie turns the fork once more.

But what if it’s just this one piece that’s perfect? What if Steve didn’t cook the rest of it long enough? He audibly takes a deep breath, his chest filling with it, stomach flipping. Eddie scrapes the piece off his fork, knife dictating it to one side of his plate, and he begins to cut up the rest of the chicken.

“Was that piece not”—

“I’m just checking,” Eddie rushes out. His wrists work faster through the next piece. Turning it. Pink. Next piece. Faster. Flipping it. Pinker. He rests his forearms against the table, wrists going limp over his plate, face tilted towards the ceiling as his eyes close and he breathes again.

Distantly, he calculates the rattling of his chair from his leg bouncing. The tick of the clock. Steve’s chewing. And chewing and chewing and—

He picks up the first piece of chicken and inspects it again, cutting it into smaller, more individual chunks.

What if Steve purposefully didn’t cook it right? What if he’s mad at you for something and this is how he shows it? What if he took the only good piece? What if he didn’t wash the turners and the cutting board and the—

“Ed?” Steve calls out to him. “Do you want me to check, baby?”

Eddie minutely shakes his head. Mumbles, “No, I got it. Don’t worry about it.”

Did he wash his hands? What if he didn’t wash his hands before washing the green beans? And the rolls? Did he heat them up in the same pan as the chicken? The mashed potatoes, do they have chicken in them? The chicken is touching your mashed potatoes right now. The pink chicken is touching your fresh mashed potatoes. Keep cutting the chicken, it’s hard to see if it’s white. What if it isn’t white at all? The chicken is touching your mashed—

He chucks the utensils down onto the table. Hands flying up to cover his eyes, fingers tensing into his hairline. His legs jitter under the table, stomach backflipping into his ribcage, mouth drooling like he’s nauseous. The heels of his palms press hard into his eye sockets, hard enough he can’t see anything aside from the brown-black that exists there. And his breaths wheeze out of him, shaky and unsure.

The rolls could be moldy. Did you check to see if they were moldy? What if Steve cut off the moldy parts? Mold rolls and pink chicken, he must be really mad at you. You did something. The chicken is probably touching your mashed potatoes still, don’t eat the potatoes. The potatoes could’ve been moldy, you didn’t see the potatoes Steve used. What if it’s all moldy? Steve is eating it, though. Steve is eating it. Steve is eating the moldy food and the undercooked chicken. Steve is going to get sick. He’s going to get sick. You’re going to get sick. Steve is eating it and eating it and he doesn’t know, he can’t see it like you can. You’re crazy, you’re just being crazy. It’s moldy. All of it is moldy. It’s raw. The chicken is raw and it’s touching your potatoes. They’re touching. Steve is eating it. Steve is eating the chicken. Steve is eating it. He’s going to get sick. You’re dramatic, just crazy. You’re being crazy. He can’t see it like you can. He’s eating it. You’re crazy. Crazy, you’re just—

“I can’t,” Eddie chokes out, words clogged in congestion and sniffles. “‘M sorry, Steve. ‘M sorry, I’m so sorry,” he weeps softly. The sanctuary of his palms is the only retreat he has from this mild breakdown, tears wetting his hands. Over his caught breathing, he can distantly make out the sounds of Steve setting down his utensils, scooting his chair to Eddie’s side of the table, setting himself in close and warm. “I’m sorry,” he hiccups, “Steve”—

“Shhh,” Steve whispers, “Ed, it’s alright, I promise. It’s alright, baby.”

Blearily, he looks up from his hands, the wood of the dining table. “I can’t—It’s—I can’t eat it, Steve, I can’t do it. I don’t know…”

Steve keeps his hands to himself, twisted nervously in his lap. His eyes are calm, but there’s a gentle crease between his eyebrows—the sure sign of concern. “Is there something I can do to help,” he asks in a hushed voice, “maybe I can check your chicken for you?”

He sniffs, darting his eyes to the plate. “Um…I…I”—underneath the table, his legs begin to jitter again, erratic and upset—“did you wash your hands? No…no you, I trust you, I swear, but I don’t know if you did and I didn’t see you when you were cooking and I just”—

Without moving his hands, Steve gets in a tad closer, leaning against the edge of the table. There’s a softness in Steve’s stare, that concern from earlier mingling with care. Voice quiet, “I’ll go wash my hands right now, Eds. And I’ll come back with a new knife and fork and I’ll check the inside of your chicken. Is there anything else I can do for you right now?”

“No,” he murmurs, “no…not yet.”

The chair creaks as Steve moves, quick and nimble to the kitchen. Distantly, the sink turns on, the soap dispenser pumps, and then the water is obstructed by his hands. He begins a countdown from one hundred twenty in his brain, each number careful to the heart of his metronome. They’ve done a dance like this before. One hundred fifteen. If Steve finishes up too early, Eddie will call out for him to start over. One hundred ten. And the number will restart in his brain, two minutes and counting. Just as he did for himself as a little boy, lobster hands and tears in his eyes, the lemon scent of hand soap stark and true to his nostrils. The sink is still on, though. So far, so good. Eighty-five. Steve’s getting better at it now. A part of Eddie is worried that he’s caught on, that he’s well aware of the weird timer inside of Eddie, trembling and counting, ticking like a bomb. The other part knows that Steve is just being considerate, taking care the way he needs to, the way that’s asked of him. That he takes care of his people, would lay down and die right now if Eddie asked him to. Seventy. Not that he would. He loves Steve too much for that. Sixty-three. He loves Steve a whole hell of a lot, how his brain works, how he manages to just meld to the course. Nobody has ever taken the time to learn the odd intricacies of his brain, has ever taken note of how he cuts his food, the way he grills until things are burnt, hands washing until they turn white by pressing with his fingertips. Forty-seven. Something wriggles in him, pesky and ugly, growling alive that Steve will get tired of this dance. The steps. That he’d realize that Eddie really is just a nuthouse. A basket case. The crazy person that everybody’s warned him about.

His inner dialogue is intense. Needy. A monster of a beast. It’s got fangs and claws and leeches where it can—always. Knows what food shouldn’t look like, an amalgamation born for Eddie’s eyes, the trick of light, the glisten of his fork against the white flesh insides of his chicken. Twenty-six. He wishes that this part of him would hide, dissipate, maybe even die altogether. Lord knows it would save him the time, the energy. That he’d appear healthier, fuller in his flesh, his skin no longer dull or pale. He’d be alive and well, make it through his day with not a care in the world. He could be…a little bit more normal. Fifteen.

That’s just his conscious, though. Steve tells him that everybody is weird. Odd.

Unfortunately, Eddie doesn’t believe him most of the time. Not everybody sees the world he does. Steve sure doesn’t. No matter how much he claims to love Eddie—not that there’s really any doubt just how much—he’ll never understand what it’s like to be him, to live in his skin, to have a constant slew of thoughts that interrogate him until he crashes and burns, asleep and restless for a few hours.

Zero.

Steve comes back into the dining room, his hands still glistening from the water, a new set of utensils in his grip. He settles down in his chair again, drags Eddie’s plate close to him, and sets himself up for the slice and dice.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “how about you watch me cut the chicken, Eds. Anything you think I’m doing wrong, or maybe you need me to check again, I want you to tell me. I want you to tell me to stop, to look over again, or tell me what you need.” Steve’s eyes are on him again, aflame and caring. “Anything at all, Eds, I want you to tell me. Okay?”

Silently, Eddie merely nods in understanding. And then, no further words, Steve begins cutting the chicken into smaller pieces. Every few chunks, he stops to scan each and every piece. Holding them directly to the overhead light as if he’s interrogating them, ready to slap them silly if they say one thing out of line. When he’s satisfied and Eddie doesn’t speak up, Steve sets the chicken back down and moves on.

For the most part, Eddie’s satisfied with how Steve goes about this. He’s not doing anything wrong, not really. Maybe going a bit too quick with a couple pieces. But he reminds himself, intently, that he trusts Steve. He trusts Steve wholly—trusted him with his life at one point, this isn’t anything different. Maybe a lot less intense and a whole lot silly, but Steve treats it as if he’s putting pressure on wounds, as if he’s gearing to lock his elbows and perform CPR.

But then—

“Wait wait wait,” Eddie rushes. Steve stops, just as he said he would. “That one”—he keeps the urgent tone in his voice, no matter how much he wants to squash it—“that one looks pink. It’s wrong, Steve. I can’t—that…that one is bad.” Humiliatingly, the burn of tears is fresh behind his eyes, his lids tight and heavy at the same time, he’s exhausted from it.

Instead of arguing or protesting, Steve simply looks at it again. Rotating it slowly, meticulously. Holds it to the light. Squints. Then, he clicks his tongue. “It’s not pink,” he decides, “but it’s definitely off-white. Maybe that part is a little dry, so the meat doesn’t look as fresh.” He scrapes the piece off the fork, setting it isolated on the edge of the plate. “Do you want to eat it still? Try it again?”

Eddie sucks in a slow breath. Eyes set to the plate, that one dumb chunk of chicken. His pulse rabbits against his throat. Legs ready to twist off his hips and go running for the hills. Wishes that the floor would open up and swallow him whole. Bones and all. “I don’t…I don’t know, Steve. I don’t know, I don’t know,” he mutters, frantic.

Steve gives him a sympathetic nod. “Okay,” he murmurs once more, “then let me lay out some choices, okay? That way, you can just pick whatever is best for you. And…and if none of them work, then you can tell me what to do.”

“Okay.”

“Option one: I can put your food back in a clean pan and heat it up again, you can watch me do it the entire time”—Eddie soaks that up, but shakes his head. Steve’s own food will go cold if he does that.—“option two: I can completely throw out the chicken, reheat the rest of your meal in the microwave and that can be your dinner.”

“The chicken touched my mashed potatoes,” Eddie mumbles, “I can’t eat them.”

Steve, patient as ever, nods again. “The last thing I can think of, then, is that I can heat up one of your safe frozen dinners. There’s beef stroganoff, chicken tenders with macaroni and cheese, sirloin steak with green beans, and…I think there’s one more of the spaghetti and meatballs. Does any of that sound good to you, baby?”

“Mmm…the chicken tenders sound good. Can you heat those up for me, please?”

A gentle kiss is pressed to Eddie’s left temple, sticky and warm. “Of course,” Steve speaks softly, “let me take care of this chicken and I’ll come right out with the other food in a minute, okay?” Nodding against Steve’s mouth, Eddie breathes a small sigh.

At least it wasn’t pink, he’s able to find relief in, Steve can still eat his chicken.

He watches from his spot at the table. Steve scraping the food into the garbage, setting the dirtied plate and utensils into the sink, washing his hands again, and popping that frozen meal into the microwave. His body stays stationed in front of the microwave, watching with a cocked hip and his arms crossed over his chest. There’s a low little string of hums that Steve’s emanating, gentle as they carry themself to Eddie’s ears.

Soon enough, Steve comes back to the dining room, sets the fresh food in front of Eddie, and places himself back at his own plate.

“Thank you,” Eddie says softly—that same wash of relief flowing through him, his empty stomach no longer flipping, but instead rumbling for the new food. It’s not five star dining. It’s not Steve’s homemade meals, but it’s enough for now. It has to be.

“No problem,” Steve says around a mouthful, “I’ve gotta make sure you’re getting something good in your body. Wouldn’t make you just sit there and suffer.”

“I don’t—you don’t understand. You didn’t have to do any of this, really. Honestly, I wouldn’t hold it against you if you made me sit here and swallow down those potatoes. I should’ve, I know. But you…god, Steve. You take care of me in a way I haven’t fully grasped.”

Gently, Steve sets his fork down on his plate with a small clatter. “Babe,” he coos, a bit sad if Eddie picks up on it. He looks up from his chicken tenders. Steve’s tender in his own way. “I don’t fully understand what happens in your head, I probably never will, but I will always—always—make sure you’re taken care of. That you have a hot meal, food that you will definitely eat, and that it’s as fulfilling as it can possibly be. Nothing will change that. Nothing at all.” Steve sets his hand on the surface of the table, skyward so that Eddie grasps to it—he does, even after a few tentative seconds. His thumb traces over the back of Eddie’s hand, rubbing soothingly over his knuckles. “I should’ve waited a bit to make dinner,” Steve says lowly, almost admitting, “I know that you like being able to watch me cook.”

“Yeah, but—I shouldn’t have to”—

“But you do,” Steve points out carefully. “You do and I know that. Even if I sat here and told you every ingredient I used, the fact that I washed every single dish before using it again, and I washed my hands between each step—even if I did that—you wouldn’t feel comfortable. You thought it was pink in the middle. And even though it wasn’t, you still didn’t trust it, and that’s fine. And, if it was pink, I’d want you to tell me.

“You deserve the safety of good food. I’ll do anything to give that to you, I promise.”

Eddie, aside himself, sniffles. His lips wobble. Cheeks heat. “Thank you,” he keens, “really, Steve, thank you.”

Steve squeezes his hand. “Thank you for trusting me,” he whispers, “I’m glad you trust me enough to let me in. To let me help.”

“Even though I mucked up your dinner plans?”

A tug. He looks up from where his eyes wandered. Steve’s stare is intense, but not intimidating. “You didn’t muck up anything, Eddie baby. I have my food. You have the food you know you’re safe with. We’re eating dinner together, holding hands, talking. Nothing would ruin this, what we have.” He leans against the table again, closing the distance between them. Murmurs, “I love your brain. I love your concern. I love your worry. I love that you trust me, that you can reach out to me for help. I love you, Eddie. Nobody else, nothing else.

“You are safe with me, always. Always.”

Eddie lets out a watery laugh. “I know,” he whispers, “nobody else I’d rather fall in love with, Steve, I swear.” He sniffles again, wipes the end of his nose with the back of his hand, and sighs—squeezing Steve’s hand in the process. “You’re gonna make me cry into my chicken tenders, though.”

Steve chuckles. “Sorry,” he sheepishly murmurs. “I just needed you to know all that.”

“I love you, Steve. Thank you for taking care of me.”

There are warm smiles on their faces as Steve finally pulls away. He sighs something completely lovesick—Eddie knows already that he’s a goner. “Now that we’ve basically expressed undying love,” Steve says, “how about we eat and bitch about our days, huh? I’ve got some store bought cookie dough we can make for dessert, if you wanna watch and entertain me.”

“I’d love to. No place I’d rather be, Stevie.”

There’s a million other things that will try and tear him down. Food and stomach turning feelings and the constant stream of numbing self dialogue. But right here? Laughing afterwards? He is safe. For now, he is safe.

And, at the end of the day, after all that—

Being safe is all that matters.

🍗—————🍗 My little taglist for this one <3 : @ilovecupcakesandtea

[onlydylanobrien]

Polaroid by Philip-Daniel Ducasse of Dylan O'Brien at a “Saturday Night” Screening and Q+A in New York. (October 8, 2024)

Dylan O’Brien is Dan Aykroyd The Saturday Night agent of chaos was… Willem Dafoe. Watch out for that man, he’s a little maniac. My dream SNL cast member to hang out with would be… Amy Poehler and Tina Fey. The SNL sketch that’s burned into my brain is… Papyrus. I love Papyrus.

📷©: i-d.co

His co-stars Ella Hunt, Matt Wood and Andrew Barth Feldman chose Dylan as their Saturday Night agent of chaos:

Ella Hunt is Gilda Radner The Saturday Night agent of chaos was… Dylan [O’Brien], and we love him for it. My dream SNL cast member to hang out with would be… Gilda [Radner]. The SNL sketch that’s burned into my brain is… Wells for Boys with Julio Torres. I came to SNL late! Don’t judge me for not having a vintage pick!

Matt Wood is John Belushi The Saturday Night agent of chaos was…Dylan goddamn O’Brien! My dream SNL cast member to hang out with would be… Johnny boy!  The SNL sketch that’s burned into my brain is… Canteen Boy. I was a boy scout!

Andrew Barth Feldman is Neil Levy The Saturday Night agent of chaos was… I kind of have to admit I’m a pretty big one myself. But besides me, I guess Dylan O’Brien. My dream SNL cast member to hang out with would be… I really wish I’d been on the planet at the same time as Gilda Radner. The SNL sketch that’s burned into my brain is… Diner Lobster is special to me for a lot of reasons. As a musical theatre guy, that really rippled through the community.

[hollowtones]

If you were a lobster being served, would you want to be served with or without butter? Do you want the diners to have a better experience or a genuine one?

yep I am still leveling Mining

[buffetlicious]

The slow braised Black Angus Prime Beef Rib was tender and soft with the right amount of fat in there and the gravy was rich and flavourful. Here are the bits and pieces I picked up walking among the different food stations. I love the Truffle Mashed Potatoes with the subtle perfume of the earthy fungus.

See, I told you I went for more of the Salted Egg Prawn and also picked up a piece of the barramundi which while meaty wasn’t a hit with my palate as I found it on the plain side. Dining partner came back with this Pan-Fried Lobsters from the Indian Station. Unfortunately, it was overcooked and the flesh was dry.

The wait staff were busy serving drinks with a skewered lychee perched on top. They came over to our table as asked if daddy (that would be moi) would like one. I nodded, not sure how to response as my “son” opposite me is a colleague. :D A non-alcoholic Fruit Juice Cocktail was placed in front of me. I think it was just a concoction of lime juice and canned lychee syrup in there but refreshing, nonetheless.

Later in the evening, the staffs were handing out Goodies Bag to male diners or at least men who look like fathers. I got my office’s “son” with me so they gave one to me. The perks of being a “father” minus the responsibility! :D The bag contains a 20% off return voucher for a certain buffet theme as well as an Inductive Charger for handphone.

[amalgamasreal]

SOURCE

More under the cut:

TL;DR and the real scoop behind the Red Lobster bankruptcy: the hedge fund that bought them last sold off all of the land that the restaurants were located on to one of their other holdings at a cut rate price and then leased the land back to Red Lobster at a significantly higher rent than it should have been comparatively.

So when they say "the endless shrimp promo" is what caused the bankruptcy they're full of shit, they can only point to an $11mil drop in sales for the the time that shrimp thing was going on, but it also happened at the same time that they jacked all of their menu prices up and diners stopped wanting to show up. So hedge funds doing hedge fund stuff again and killing off a company while draining them dry.

[fieriframes]

[You got a little bit of oil, a little bit of soy sauce, so you get to taste the lobster, and it's nice and tender. There are no haunted houses...only haunted people. Thank you. This is the steamed lobster.]

[cockslutpadalecki]

The Unexpected Valentine

Summary: When you decide to spend your ruined Valentines getaway alone, you’re thankful for the peace and quiet but when a mysterious stranger catches your eye, your Valentines weekend turns out better than you ever imagined.

Characters: SilverFox!CEO!Steve Rogers x F!Reader.

Words: 2.2K.

Warnings: heavy flirting, sex in a hot tub, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it kids), 18+. MINORS DNI.

A/N: Formerly a Patreon exclusive. Tried to post last night, but the post editor is being a douchebag. Not beta’ed so all errors, spelling mistakes and general bullshit are entirely mine. While likes are gold, feedback is golden. Please support our content creators by sharing our work.

Smoothing out your dress, you take in the image of yourself in the small mirror hanging in the corner of the room. Your hair and makeup are by no means flawless, and the outfit you’ve chosen to wear to dinner is smart, but comfortable. 

You don’t need to dress up to impress anyone, choosing to spend the short vacation by yourself, and personally you feel like it’s the best decision you’ve ever made. Initially Hoyt was going to join you at the five star ski resort to celebrate Valentines together, but after a particularly messy break up, you decide to still make the most of the trip. 

It worried you in the lead up that it would do more harm than good— reminding you of a better time spent with your slimy ex-boyfriend, but actually, the time away has so far been refreshing. Plus, being out on the slopes in the fresh Colorado air has really helped to clear your head. 

You didn’t even mind dining on your own. At first the stares and prying eyes were unnerving, but you soon forgot about them once you tucked into the decadent food and sipped on the exquisite wine. 

You give yourself one last look, a satisfied smile on your lips before leaving the room, stomach well and truly rumbling. 

-

The restaurant on the hotel’s premises is bustling. Every table is full, except for the one you reserved the day you arrived. You waltz between the fancy oak, a small murmur buzzing along behind you as diners whisper to themselves. Once at your own table, you slide smoothly into your chair, reaching for the water jug and pouring yourself a glass. Bringing it to your lips, you take a little glance around you, suddenly noticing a pair of bright cerulean eyes locked on you from across the room. 

The man accompanying the piercing stare flashes you a wide smile before glancing away, mindlessly forking some food around on his plate. A coy smirk still pulls at the corners of his lips which leaves you a little flustered. You haven’t seen him around the resort at all since you got here three days ago, and the sight of him makes your entire body tingle.

To try and take your mind off of Blue Eyes in the corner, you pick up a menu as the waiter approaches you. 

“Good evening Madam, would you like to hear tonight’s specials?” he asks politely.

“No, thank you. I’ll just have the soup to start,” you glance over the menu one last time, “and hm, lets try the lobster tonight please.” 

“Any sides for the table, ma’am?” 

“No, I think I’ll be fine, thank you,” you beam, passing him your now closed menu. 

He takes it from you whilst returning your gesture, smiling down at you. “And to drink?” 

“I’ve gotten quite fond of the house red.” 

“As you wish, I’ll be right back with your wine,” he smiles again before you catch the eye of Blue Eyes from the corner now standing in front of your table.

“I find it hard to believe you’re here alone,” he says softly. You can’t explain it, but there’s something about him that instantly makes every vein in your body sing.

You keep your reply clipped, “How so?” 

“A beautiful woman like yourself shouldn’t be wasted.”

Normally such a cliché line would’ve made you send him packing, but his charisma is infectious and you find yourself offering him the spare seat opposite.

“Thank you,” he says with gratitude as he sinks down into the chair, flashing you a perfectly white smile. 

“No need. Figured you’d need some company if you’re having to resort to cheesy pick up lines like that,” you sass. 

The man laughs, holding his hand out across the table for you to take, introducing himself. “I’m Steve.” 

You tell him your name, instantly mesmerised by just how blue his eyes are up close. It’s only now you notice the small flecks of silver peppering his beard and stray strands around his hairline.

You exchange pleasantries for a while, nothing too deep for a first encounter, but you enjoy talking to him nonetheless. Steve’s incredibly laid-back, and there’s an air of cockiness to him but it somehow doesn’t come across as arrogance. He’s enticing and debonair, a true gentleman and when he insists on walking you to your room, he seeks your permission to give you a kiss goodnight— on the cheek no less. 

As he pulls away, Steve asks if he can take you to dinner tomorrow night. 

“Not downstairs”, he clarifies quickly when he notices you’re about to counter his offer. “A proper one in town.”

You’re hesitant, but when Steve places a gentle kiss on the back of your hand, the word, “yes,” is out of your mouth before you can stop it.

-

The restaurant Steve picks is, in a word, expensive. Even a bottle of wine costs more than what you earn in a week, and when it was time to pick something to drink, you hurriedly chose the cheapest item on the vast wine list.

You feel guilty just glancing at the menu, indecisive about whether to pick the cheapest dish— no doubt making him think you’re poor, or choose the most extravagant, and worry that he’ll believe you’re too high maintenance. 

Ugh, you shake your head, scolding yourself for thinking too much into the situation, reminding yourself this is just a casual dinner. No expectations or provisos. Stop panicking.

As the waiter heads over, you settle on a starter and main, and order both quickly, almost fearful of Steve’s judgment on what you’ve picked. You brave a glance at the man across the table, but he’s simply smiling, those steely blue eyes focused on you like you’re the only other person in the room. 

“And for you, Sir?” The waiter next to Steve asks, ready and poised to take his order on the small PDA in his hand. 

“I’ll just have the same,” Steve replies, breaking eye contact with you for a split second to smile up at him.

“Right you are, Sir.” He inputs the selections quickly, grabbing up the menus Steve holds up for him before leaving you both alone.

“So, if it’s not too forward of me, can I ask you a question?” Steve asks once the waiter is out of earshot, his eyes cast down at the table. 

“Depends.” 

He finally looks up at you through heavy eyelashes. “On what?”

“How personal a question it is.”

Steve grins wide, reaching for his whiskey tumbler as he cocks his head, teeth tugging at his bottom lip. You can tell he’s amused by you, and that gives you an instant confidence boost. 

“Shoot,” you invite sweetly.

“How come you were dining alone last night?” 

You shrug. “Was supposed to be here with my boyfriend,” you start, and the dejected look in Steve’s eye is not lost on you, “but he decided he’d rather spend Valentine's balls deep in someone else.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he offers, “but I can’t help being a little thankful.”

“For what?” 

“Well if you were here with him, I would never have had the pleasure of your company.”

You nod, a small smirk tugging at your lips as you raise your glass and toast the room. “Touché.” You take a large gulp of the claret liquid swirling around in your glass before asking Steve, “So, what about you? Ex-girlfriend mess you around too?”

But before he has a chance to answer, the maitre d who seated you at the beginning of the evening swans up to the table, wearing his widest smile. 

“Good evening Mr. Rogers, I trust everything is to your satisfaction,” he presumes with hope. 

“Always is, Frank,” Steve returns kindly, moving his hand out in front of him for the other man to take. You notice the discreet but crumpled fifty within Steve’s palm, but don’t think to question it.

They converse back and forth for a short while, and you can tell Steve is trying to keep his answers brief so Frank will soon leave you  in peace. Finally, Frank bids you both a good night and strides off, eventually dropping out of sight.

“Mr. Rogers? What do you like, own the place or something?” you throw out casually before taking another sip of wine.

“Most of the buildings in town actually.”

You almost choke on the liquid you’re swallowing, not expecting the answer you get. “Sorry, I-I had no idea.” 

“I don’t really tend to brag about my acquisitions,” Steve flashes you a coquettish smile, “unless it works in my favour, of course.” 

“And what favours might those be?” you flirt back.

“Hm,” he ponders, “sexual ones.” 

“I see.” 

There’s an almost uncomfortable silence. You appreciate that Steve doesn’t outright assume you’d be that easy, but at the same time you’re conflicted, feeling a little put out. Pushing through it, you steer the conversation back to Steve’s empire.

“So,” you point towards the window, indicating the row of buildings across the street, “which exactly are yours then?” 

“Well, there’s this place, the restaurant down the street, the ski lodge—”

“What happened to not bragging?” you chuckle dryly.

Steve shrugs, a light smirk on his lips. “Is it working in my favour yet?” 

-

The ride back to Steve’s lodge overlooking the small, quaint town is messy and frantic. His lips are on yours the moment you slide into the backseat, and for a second you fear what the driver might say, but Steve, sensing your apprehension, assures you into the column of your neck that there’s nothing to worry about.

You pay little attention to the stunning views as you travel further up the mountain, too absorbed by Steve’s hands roaming your body. He doesn’t undress you, but his fingers tease as so, tips gently brushing over the zip of your dress more than once. 

Your arousal is thick between your thighs, hot and aching as he slips his hand under the skirt to test you. You allow Steve access, opening your legs a little wider as he cups you fully. 

The vehicle slows to a stop, and it’s not until the door beside Steve opens that he finally pulls his hand away, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips before almost dragging you from the car. 

-

The cold and brisk February air whirls around you in a white flurry of a few stray snowflakes, blown from a nearby cluster of conifers. Usually you’d be quick to grab a coat or head back inside the warmth of Steve’s lodge, but the heat of the steam from the hot tub does plenty to neutralize the chill coming off of the mountain. 

Steve’s behind you, leaving a trail of light kisses over your shoulder blade as his hands tug at your hips, pulling you into his lap. 

“It’s quite a view from up here,” you observe, marvelling at the glow from the street lamps all the way from up here. They look like tiny fireflies buzzing around in search of the nearest source of light.

“It’s nothing compared to the view I have right now,” Steve whispers against your skin. He brings a hand up to your jaw, turning your head to the side. You giggle as he stares at you in awe before capturing your lips hungrily once more.

He rolls his hips, his cock pressing firm against your bare ass before pushing you off his lap, turning you to press you up against the side of the hot tub. You whimper into the crook of your elbow as Steve enters you quickly from behind. Your pussy is still sensitive from the last two rounds where he had fucked you over the kitchen counter, and then again on the bathroom floor as you had cleaned up. 

Almost as soon as he bottoms out, he’s moving inside you, having already memorised the perfect rhythm that makes your eyes roll into the back of your head. Water begins to splash over the side as Steve’s thrusts quicken, his breath hot against your damp skin. You clutch desperately at the edge of the hot tub as he fucks into you with reckless abandon before sliding a hand down between the valley of your thighs, fingers grazing over your clit.

“Fuck, Steve!” you yell, voice echoing as it travels down the valley, the deep snow eventually absorbing the sound. 

It’s only a matter of time before you come again, body trembling against Steve’s as the coil inside you snaps, flooding your veins with rapturous electricity. 

Steve soon follows with a grunt, his grip tightening harder around your hips when he lets go, coming deep and hot inside you.

He pulls away, placing a trail of wet sloppy kisses against your neck before slumping back against the side of the hot tub next to you, chest heaving deeply with raspy breaths. 

“Fuck, I think I’m gonna need to sleep for a week after that,” you giggle, laying your head sleepily on your arms crossed out in front of you. 

“Told you, you shouldn’t be wasted,” Steve affirms, sweeping his tongue across his bottom lip. “And I certainly didn’t wanna waste a single part of you.” 

“No, you did not.” 

You share a knowing smile, both well aware that the night is far from finished.

When you arrived here, you hated everything to do with St. Valentine and the overrated holiday— knowing it would forever remind you of your failed relationship. Yet as you cuddle up to Steve, your body still tingling, you decide that perhaps it’s not so bad after all.

***

ALL CE: @buckymydarlingangel @broadwaybabe18 @captain-asguard @chamberofsloths @cevansgurl @dreamlessinparis @deanwinchesterswitch @fandom-princess-forevermore @hurricanerin @kellhems @ladybug05 @mugi-chwan95 @navybrat817 @otomefromtheheart @oneoftheprettynerds @patzammit @rebel-stardust @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @sammykb1994 @syrenavenger @saiyanprincessswanie @sunwardsss @selfsun @threeminutesoflife @vicmc624 @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @wintasssoldier @xoxonotme

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