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achilleean · 1 year ago

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Poetic Nonsense

A/N: My Squealing Santa fic for @vampiretickles (only slightly belated) – I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Based off of the prompt, "Admitting they like/want to be tickled" with Jon and Martin. Shoutout to @squealing-santa for facilitating one of the best events of the year <3

Summary: Martin gets sabotaged by a poem, a craving, and Jon's stupid mind reading powers.

Words: 1.3k

Martin was changing his mind: tickling could be used to torture him, even if not in the traditional way. Not torture by tickling, no – as long as it was with the right people without ill intention, he found it too fun and giddying for that – but torture by tickle withholding... as Jon was in the middle of discovering.

“You can literally read my mind!” Martin said indignantly, a hint of desperation seeping in.

“So?”

“So, I don’t get why I have to say it, when you know perfectly well I do!”

“‘Do’ what?” Jon’s usual academically curious tone didn’t hide his mischief in the slightest.

“Jon!”

They’d each just been reading — Jon, a complicated historical novel, and Martin, a book of poetry — next to each other in bed peacefully. Nothing had even happened to start the whole debacle. Except that Martin had gotten to a stanza set on describing a playful tickle between lovers. Feeling the unbearable sparkles of sensation, the lightning shocks of vulnerability (as the poem referred to it), being counteracted by the trust and affection for their partner and resolving in indignant delight. A joyous memory worth writing about, creating art in homage to.

And suddenly, his brain was crowded with the idea of that, the speaker in the poem, being him. Not with the speaker’s partner of course. With his partner. Jon.

Who was so close Martin could feel his warmth.

And, right on cue, Jon turned his head to look at Martin.

It was neither of their faults that, despite Jon not actively using his powers to look into Martin’s mind, a particularly strong thought about him could still make it through like an emergency alert on a silenced phone. The recognition and smothered eagerness in Jon’s eyes told Martin this was one such instance, and when Jon found a bookmark and set his book aside, Martin knew he was screwed.

But that had been two whole torturous minutes ago. Jon was still simultaneously playing oblivious and teasing with his Knowledge instead of just doing it already.

"Really, I can tell something's on your mind," Jon prodded again. "What is it?"

“You’re the worst,” Martin complained into his forearms, balled up with his knees to his chest. “The absolute worst. Just awful. I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.” Maybe, he thought, if he kept blathering on, it would distract (both Jon and himself) from how damn flustered this was starting to make him. Maybe if he griped long enough, Jon would get tired of it and/or show some mercy and put him out of the pseudo-misery that was being made to wait just to wind up and embarrass him.

But Jon just raised an eyebrow at him and propped his chin on a fist, in it for the long haul. Fuck.

“I’m never going to make you tea again.”

“Why’s that?”

The all-knowing Jonathan Sims of all people playing dumb like this was infuriating. They both knew he knew. He was doing this purely to make Martin squirm and blush red-hot.

“Very true,” Jon said, a smug grin valiantly trying to overtake his passive expression.

Martin groaned. It was even meaner that Jon wasn’t even pretending not to have a front row seat for Martin’s every flustered thought (to which he was now actively listening), yet wouldn’t acknowledge the one that really mattered.

“I don’t deserve this,” Martin whined.

“Probably not. Still fun.”

Martin just groaned again and flopped uselessly against Jon’s side. Both for a bit of cover to hide his embarrassment (at least the visible signs of it) and to see if he could make Jon physically uncomfortable enough to do something about it.

“I’ve been through far too many genuinely torturous situations to be convinced of anything by you laying on top of me,” Jon said, smirk even more audible in his voice than before.

There was that word again, torturous. Martin was being tortured right now.

“If it’s so torturous, why are you having so much fun with it?”

“I am not.”

“I’ll drop it, if you really want.”

No, that was worse! The idea of all this teasing without any of the follow through was downright cruel.

“You’re making me feel like a bad partner,” Jon laughed, not an ounce of genuine concern in his voice.

“Stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

“Responding to my thoughts without—” Martin could only end his sentence with a noise of wordless complaint. After all, if he could just say it, he wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place.

Jon shifted to be facing Martin a bit more, and Martin couldn’t help but shrink back a little as a nervous-excited thrill rushed through him. Was the wait finally over?

“Without what, Martin?”

Apparently not.

“Without… listening to the important one,” Martin tried.

“You could just use your words.” Jon’s pleasant tone could only do so much to offset the mischievous glint in his eyes.

Scootching a bit a way from Jon, Martin grabbed a pillow to hug for… protection? comfort? It didn’t matter. Didn’t change what he was nervously hoping for.

“I don’t see why I should have to,” he groused, hoping it’d conceal his bashfulness (as if his body language wasn't already projecting it loud and clear).

“We’ve been over this. It’s fun.” When Jon leaned down to kiss Martin’s temple, Martin had to actively fight to not shrink away more. How was he this flustered over something so ridiculous? He wanted to crawl under the covers and never be seen again. Or better, be tickled until all thoughts of embarrassment left his head.

But that meant he had to ask for it.

Jon’s demeanor shifted. “I want to hear you say it out loud,” he said, gentler, “just one time?” It was like he was asking for permission. Like he’d cave even if Martin couldn’t do it, should this go on for much longer.

No, Martin was not going to be rendered useless by one silly request, especially one which he knew would be well received. He could do this.

Jon smiled encouragingly. “Yes, you can.”

Shut up!

Martin squeezed his eyes shut and gathered his willpower. “I’d… kind of like it if you… tickled me a bit, at some point,” he managed.

“‘A bit’? ‘At some point’?” Jon teased, knowing the truth.

Something in him finally snapped. “Fine, Jon, I’d like it if you tickled me. Happy?”

Fully grinning now, Jon snatched the pillow from Martin’s grasp (Martin hadn’t been holding it very tightly) and tossed it off the bed. He got on his knees, looming over. His fingers flexed and crooked into claws in preparation. “Very.”

–– Epilogue ––

“Did you know I can hear little lines of poetry forming in your head when I do that?" Jon said. "During the teasing, mostly, it usually all goes out the window the second I touch you.”

Martin couldn’t decide which half of that contributed to his blush more. Thankfully, it was hidden with the way he was flopped over half in Jon's lap, finally done giggling but still breathless after the (admittedly very fun) tickle attack he'd gone through so much grief to ask for. Yeah, okay, fine, his mind had a way of framing things that gave him big feelings in a poetic way. Especially ones that made him happy. And what about it?

Picking up on the hint of embarrassment, Jon smoothed over Martin's hair fondly and softened his tone. “It’s very nice. I like that you like it so much.”

“Shut upppp,” Martin grumbled into Jon’s thigh, not really wanting him to at all.

“I will when you stop thinking about it so much.” And a kiss was placed atop his head.

Martin did end up with several lines for a poem of his own by the time he fell asleep in Jon’s lap like that. Which would be perfect for Jon to tease him about more later.

#Finn writes #fic #tickle fic #jonmartin #tma #tma tickles #ss2k23 #brought to you by my own poetic nerdiness and the poetry I've written about tks #(don't expect any of it to see the light of day anytime soon)#thank u for ur patience vampiretickles my life was taken over by a work trip for a sec!#and thank u for the excellent prompts #they were all my bread and butter and it was hard to decide what I wanted to do most!

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icemankazansky · 5 months ago

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A Simple Guide to Not Being Afraid to Write Comments to Fic You Read

I've seen a lot of posts about the current state of fanfiction comments. Writers, especially writers who have been in fandom for a decade or more, are frustrated by the lack of comments, and have noticed a definite decline in comments (and all other forms of reader interaction) in the past ten years or so. Many readers feel daunted by the expectation of leaving comments, afraid they'll do something wrong. As a fandom old maid, the latter confused me for a while, until I realized that most of the people who feel that way probably have not been taught this form of communication.

But your loving fandom elders are here for you. Come along as your auntie tumblr user icemankazansky makes this shit easy.

The easiest way to think of fanfiction comment etiquette is to compare it to something you likely already know: Gift Receiving Etiquette.

Fanfiction began as largely a gift economy. And a lot of it still is! You'll see authors participate in exchanges like Yuletide and Id Pro Quo; those are ficswaps in which authors write for a specific person to specific prompts. And even outside that, fanfiction is not written for money; authors write and post it simply for the joy of creation and community with fellow fans. Fic is posted free for anyone to enjoy. Is that not a gift?

So. When you as a reader finish the chapter or story you're reading and you are faced with the comment box, try to follow the same etiquette you would when receiving a gift. (And even if you didn't love this gift and it's not your favorite gift ever, we already know that it's more useful than the products from your cousin's MLM that they're passing off as gifts, because you read the story. At the very least, it entertained you for the time you took to read it.)

The big rule of gift receiving etiquette is not to insult the person who gave you the gift, either directly or indirectly. That's it. Full stop.

I've been seeing a lot of comments lately that are just along the lines of, "Thank you for writing this story and sharing it with us." A+, top of the class, full marks, you're doing amazing. If you don't feel comfortable commenting on the story itself, that is perfect feedback. And that's the most basic way you respond to a gift, yes? Thank you for the gift. Thank you for thinking of me. Thank you for sharing.

Does this rule mean that you cannot say anything at all that might be negative about anything? No, absolutely not. What you want to avoid is saying something that is, at its core, a negative evaluation of the author or their work. Let's do some examples.

Character A's obliviousness about Character B's MASSIVE crush on them made me so frustrated! I was tearing my hair out internally screaming, "JUST LET HIM LOVE YOU."

✔️ Excellent comment! You're allowed to have all sorts of feelings about things that happen in the story, and in fact authors LOVE to hear about any emotions they made you feel. Yes, frustration is not a positive emotion, but the thing you are expressing frustration about is not the author themselves or their shortcomings.

Contrast that to:

I was really frustrated that it took you so long to post this chapter. The cliffhanger at the end of the previous chapter had me tearing my hair out, and then you just left us hanging FOREVER!

❌ Nope! Here what you are expressing is frustration with the author and how fast they come out with new chapters. Imagine your sister buys you a gift for your birthday, but she isn't able to give it to you until the next week, and you respond with: "What took you so long?" I think Emily Post would frown on that.

Reframing

The way you say something and the point of view from which you give feedback can have a HUGE impact on the message you're sending. Let's take the last comment (the one about wanting an update) and see what happens when we reframe the same sentiment as a positive:

I was SO EXCITED to see that you updated this story! I have really been looking forward to seeing what happened after the cliffhanger in the last chapter.

✔️ Now it's not an insult. The author will be happy to know that you are happy to see new work from them.

This idea extends beyond the story itself: to the fandom, the characters, the pairing, the tropes, etc. Let's do some examples.

I looooove reading about these sexy boys SO IN LOVE even though the movie you're writing about is SOOOOO problematic.

❌ Nope! Assume that the author enjoys the canon, characters, pairing, etc. in the stories they write. This comment is insulting to the author because it basically says, "That thing you love is not great, and you should probably feel bad for liking it." Imagine your aunt gifts you a sweater from a popular retailer, and you respond with, "This is so cute, I love it! It's a shame that it was made in a sweatshop." Do you have a valid point about the canon or the retailer's business practices? You very well might. Is this the proper time and place to talk about it? Absolutely not.

Let's do a reframing exercise. You should be very careful about how you approach commenting negatively on anything in the story that appears in the tags list, but you can make it a compliment and good feedback if you have the right perspective. See the difference with these two approaches:

I kind of think frottage is disgusting, but I liked it in this story.

❌ Nope! You just told the author you think their kink is disgusting. That's like telling your poor aunt who is just trying to keep you warm this winter that she has awful taste in knitwear. Try again.

Frottage normally isn't my kink, but I love your other stories with this pairing, so I decided to give it a try, and I'm SOOOOO GLAD that I did! This story was 🔥🔥🔥

✔️ "This normally isn't my thing, but you made me expand my horizons!" Authors love to hear that. That's like telling your aunt, "I never thought this color looked good on me, but I look so cute in this sweater! I'm so glad you helped me step outside my comfort zone, because I'm the better for it."

thank u, next

The last thing I want to address is this new trend I've seen in commenting lately: placing an order. If your mom surprises you with new headphones, you don't respond with, "I wanted the white ones 🙁," or, "You should get me a new phone, too." It's easy to see why that isn't appropriate in a gifting situation, and it's also not appropriate when commenting on fanfiction.

Let's do some examples:

This fic was soooo cute, but it would have been a million times better if Character A had been with Character C instead of Character B.

❌ There are a few things going on here. Number one, you're telling your mom you wanted the white headphones, not the ones she actually bought you. You're also disparaging the A/B pairing that the author chose to write about, and as we discussed, we can assume that the author wrote the pairing because they liked it. Even if it's not their favorite and/or they also write A/C, they made a choice for this story to be A/B, and the comments section of a fic is not the place to question choices the author made in their own work.

You should write a story where Character Z who is not even in this story does [thing that is vaguely referenced in the B plot].

❌ "You should get me a new phone, too."

I want a sequel. 😞

❌ "Thank you, next!"

You can reframe this kind of sentiment if you are careful about it, and it's not all you say.

I really loved this story. I would be so interested to see these ideas explored further if you ever decide to write more in this universe.

✔️ Not "gimme." Not "more." This is, "If you build it, I will come." It is a HUGE difference.

You already know how to do this. You know how to graciously accept a gift; just use that same etiquette, and boom! Now you know how to fearlessly write a comment to fic you read. You're doing amazing. Go forth and comment.

#fandom #fanfiction #commenting #fanfiction etiquette #emily post please help me express my feelings about this yaoi

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fanaticsnail · 10 months ago

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Kiss their cheek

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 220-650 for each character

Sanji, Zoro, Luffy, Law, Kid

Synopsis: It was a simple reaction, an impulse you felt organic and out of your control. Their cheek was right there, and the swell in your chest and spike of adrenaline prompted you to lunge forward and capture their cheek beneath your lips. How do they react to such a soft touch? Do they shy away, or do they respond in kind?

Notes: I have hit a follower milestone and I am freaking out about it. I don't normally post about the follower count, but this is simply too incredible to not mark the occasion for. To distract myself from the sheer number of you that found my writing good enough to follow, I have a little drabble for you to enjoy for my favorites. To quote the goodest and bestest boy there ever was: “Thank you for loving me.” I love you all too. Art is not done by me, found on Pinterest

Themes: cheek kisses, feelings, monster trio, supernova trio, crewmate!reader, unrequited love, confessions of love, no prior romantic relationship, gn!reader, pure fluff, A little OOC while I'm still learning about a couple of the blorbos.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry @writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @cinnbar-bun

Blackleg Sanji

“Dinner was beautiful as always, Sanji,” you cooed at him, swooping forward and collecting his smooth cheek beneath your lips in a small kiss, “Well done, Chef.” Holding his cheek in contact with your lips for a few moments longer before pulling away with a broad smile.

“You’re most welcome, love,” he returned your affectionate demonstration, his lips finding your cheek and grazing your flesh with his lips.

Both of you reacted as if this touch was not uncommon, not something out of the ordinary in the slightest. This was the first time you had given him this small gesture, demonstrating your appreciation for his hard work with something as simple as a small kiss.

The fact that this kiss was so freely given to him had Sanji’s heart catch in his throat, his pulse rapidly beating and elevating the flow of his adrenaline through his veins. His family of origin comes from a culture that kisses on the cheeks to greet and farewell friends, acquaintances and even enemies. Why did this kiss feel so perfect against his skin?

He would do anything to feel your lips on him again, often giving you preferential treatment in the hopes your lips would find his skin once more. Should he gather up the courage to turn his head, claiming your lips within his own, would you turn away? He hoped you wouldn’t.

Roronoa Zoro

His mind could not comprehend the moment that just befell him.

It was a simple night of comradery and relaxation. The air felt alight with joyful merriment: Brook playing music, Sanji ensuring each of you had an adequate meal. It felt light: nothing plaguing, hunting, seeking, nor fighting. It was simple, and that is what it felt.

It being a simple and small kiss against his right cheek.

“You are an excellent first-mate, Zoro,” you laughed up at him, taking his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, “A noble knight and fearless protector.”

Zoro’s head couldn’t produce a single thought to form a string of a sentence. He had not felt this way, the ignition of a small swell of passion to not involve swordsmanship, ever before.

In all the realms of intimacy and subtle touches, Zoro was inexperienced in receiving and reciprocating. Zoro was, for lack of a better word, a virgin to such an expression of unbridled affection.

“Th-Thanks, I guess?” he grunted, his brows arching at you. You giggled, patting him on the shoulder and offering him a warm smile.

“You’re welcome, soldier,” you cooed up at him before turning on your heel, following the gentle rise in rhythm with your hips, dancing along to Brook’s playing. He followed your movement with a keen eye, more enthusiastic about your gentle sway and soft laughter than he was moments prior.

Monkey D Luffy

“Oh, Captain!” you smiled at him, hooking your arm over his shoulder and drawing him close to your face, “Your cheeks are so cute. I could just-,” you halted your words, lunging forward and peppering his tanned cheeks with several fluttered kisses, humming throughout each press.

“Oi, oi, Docinho,” he chuckled, swatting at your hands and writhing within your arms, “Stop that. I am a hardened criminal. I am a captain! You’re not meant to think I’m cute, you’re meant to dote on me and offer me tribute of your loyalty!” You giggled, allowing him to swipe your body away from his.

His eyes darted away from yours, his lips curved in a soft pout with his brows furrowing in a deep frown. For a moment, you thought you truly offended him by your lips finding his skin. Your eyes widened, your hands shaking defensively to desperately retract your affectionate touch.

“I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean to-,” you were silenced by several inexperienced kisses littering your cheeks, nose and forehead. The cheeky chuckle that followed each of the small pecks only prompted your mind to chase your heart with its rapidity. He placed his hands over your shoulders, laughing whole-heartedly at your frazzlement.

“If this is the way you’re offering me tribute as a wonderful captain,” he hummed thoughtfully, “Perhaps I’m not so bad at the job after all.”

Trafalgar D Water-Law

“You work too hard,” you sigh against his cheek, pulling away from his cool flesh and raking your eyes over his face, “You deserve to take a break some time.” You watched the small hue of pink rise to dust over his cheeks, his hair at the nape of his neck standing alert and rigid.

Unsure what exactly prompted you to seek out your captain’s cheek with your lips, you were regretting the small brush of your lips over his smooth skin the instant you drew yourself away. Watching as Law inhaled a deep breath through his nose, he exhaled a lengthy breath through his lips: following the small gesture with a soft hum.

“Just know that you’re appreciated, Sir,” you reiterated your stance, ensuring you held your eyes against his to reinforce your seriousness, “I-... We appreciate you, Captain. We love you, and want to help you achieve your goals. Just-... Just know that, okay?”

Yellow eyes followed your exit, watching every step that you took and hearing the hollow floor ricochet the reverberating tap of your boot heel. His haunted gaze held firm to your retreat, silence growing heavy at the closure of his office door.

He could not stop thinking about the kiss all day. The way your lips felt against his cheek, the way he felt the small elevation of your smile - the way his heart swelled in his chest, and the way his breath caught in his throat. He wanted to know what it meant. He needed to know if you were being friendly and supportive, or if you wanted more.

Lips over his cheek, the catching over the words “I appreciate you” with your reassurances that he is loved and worthy of devotion, inhibited him from welcoming slumber for several days. In the hopes of providing him encouragement and loyalty to soothe his rapidly sporadic mind, you aided in him in only finding restlessness.

Growling at his own racing emotions, he hastily drew up the transponder snail and dialed your personal shell. He awaited the annoying hum, the crackle of the receiver halting as you picked up the call.

“C-Captain?” your groggy voice called over the snail, “Cap, it’s nearly five in the morning. I clocked off the overnight shift and only just got to sleep-.”

“-Do you love me?” he quickly spurted the words before he could stop them.

Your mind did not have the capacity to mask your words, given your groggy sleep deprivation. Yawning your answer into the transponder, Law’s heart raced at hearing your words.

“Of course I love you. We all love you,” you confirmed, rolling your neck and taking a moment to collect yourself, “You’re my captain. I pledged my allegiance to follow you, sir. What are you calling me at-?”

“-No,” Law’s voice crackled over the receiver, his tone immediately waking you of your prior tired state, “I need to know what it meant. I need to know what it meant. Why did you kiss me?”

“What?” you began, shaking your head and brows beginning to knit in confusion, “I don’t understand what you’re-.”

“-Why would you kiss me knowing your lips would haunt me? Knowing that that kiss you gave would scorch and mark my heart?” his voice rose as his temper boiled over the edge. “You know I closed myself off to this bullshit. You know what giving me a small amount of your affection would do to me. Why would you-?”

“-Because I love you, Law,” you uttered in a low voice. You flung your legs over the bed, feet finding your sleep shoes beneath your mattress. Your confession hung heavy in the air, your heart and mind fully awake and comprehending your every waking minute. Silence was heavy and swollen with tension, your mind racing over all the possible retorts Law could throw at you.

Dismissal, execution, exile, abandonment: these were the responses you deduced to be the most appropriate response. In its stead, you were greeted with a small huffed chuckle and a low rumbled retort.

“Come to my office,” he hummed into the receiver, “Show me more. I-I-...” the transponder crackled as Law found his words, “...-I need more.”

Eustass Kid

“In some cultures, it’s seen as a sign of respect,” you nodded your head, bowing your down to him, “It’s an extension of submission and admission to serve beneath a mighty ruler. Hands are the most common to touch, but kissing a cheek is the most intimate expression of-.”

“-Fine, you can kiss me,” the gruff rumble of Eustass Kid’s voice dismissively crackled. He rolled his eyes, turning his cheek away from you to hide the bite of his lip to stifle his rising blush.

Affectionate touches was not something Kid, nor his crew, were very experienced in receiving. When he offered you the chance of joining his crew to achieve his goals, Eustass Kid did not expect you to dote and coddle each of his crewmen into submission beneath your affectionate touches. As the last member of his crew to be a recipient of your gentle touch, he truly did not comprehend why his heart was beating with anxious rapidity.

“Only if you’re sure-,” you began, halted by a harsh bark from your captain.

“-I said it was fine, didn’t I?” his gruff voice cut through the air. While his head was still turned from you, he stretched out his right hand to await a small touch from your lips.

But his cheek was right there. You couldn’t help but spring at the opportunity to rise up to Eustass Kid’s seated position on the wooden bench aboard the deck. He was ripe for doting and peppering a flurry of kisses all over his face, but you held yourself back from such an expression of unbridled affection. You opted to start slow.

Gently touching his shoulders, you stooped down and pressed a sweet and intentional kiss atop the apple of his cheek. You felt his breath catch in his throat, an unintentional whimper halting in his nose at the soft expression of your admiration.

As you pulled away from him, your upper left arm was caught by the wide and firm grasp of the captain of the Victoria-Punk. His face was still turned away from you, but the crimson hue of his pale face gave away the elevation of his heartbeat.

“I’m sorry, Captain. I should’ve just gone for the hand-,” you began, attempting to tug away from his grip and apologize properly to him.

“C-Can I-...” he grunted out a gruff cough, continuing to hold his face away from yours, “...Can I have another one?”

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buckets-and-trees · 1 year ago

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Sweet, sweet Aspen. You have been a very bad girl. This soft!dark guy, your boss, caught you doing something wrong—something that could easily get you fired—but he decided maybe, jussst maybe, he should keep your indiscretion, and your resulting punishment, between the two of you. After all, he’s been dreaming about filling you with his cock for ages 😏

(I picked this GIF because it looks like he’s saying, “On your knees.” lolll)

well, dearly beloved sister ho, you know we were thirsting over a particularly ... inspiring gif.

I don't think you anticipated your ask to spawn THIS, but... here we are! THANKS FOR POPPING MY ANDY CHERRY!

Title: I'm Your Man Characters/Pairings: soft dark!Mafia!Andy Barber x female!reader Word Count: 3k Summary: You've spent weeks working to pull off the perfect night for Andy Barber's big charity event. A rush job, but you worked meticulously and diligently over six weeks to coordinate the biggest event of your career to date. You weren't the only one with a plan for the night.

Content Warnings: extortion, explicit smut, DUBIOUS CONSENT, spitting, oral - male receiving, spanking, vaginal intercourse, breeding kink, unprotected sex

Logistical Notes: A NAUGHTY submission @the-slumberparty's Naughty or Nice challenge. Prompts incorporated are in bold.

Additional Notes: I didn't want to write a summary. There's only enough plot here to smut you up. Dividers by @rookthornesartistry and @firefly-graphics.

You sit up straight when you hear the door to Andy’s home office open behind you.

“Thank you for waiting for me,” he says as he strides across the room and takes a seat in the leather executive desk chair.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Barber,” you reply. Every part of your body is tired – tired in a good way from the long day of work – so you were eager to get home, soak in your tiny tub, and crawl into bed for the rest of the weekend, but it hadn’t been an incredible inconvenience when he’d asked if he could speak with you before you left.

“Tonight was exquisite, you did well,” he doles out the praise, and you try to quell the blooming in your chest. In the six weeks working with Andy Barber to plan the charity event you’d just executed for his foundation you had seen that he wasn’t one to casually compliment, hard to impress. You had taken more and more satisfaction out of each meeting, email, or text exchange as you consulted and then presented him with options for the event when he had fewer and fewer notes, knowing you had cracked his taste and gained his approval. He’d been your toughest client to date, but by far one of the most rewarding as he had excellent taste.

“Nearly perfect,” he adds.

Your smile falters ever so slightly, and suddenly your chest floods with a chill. “Nearly perfect? I’m sorry, sir, what didn’t live up to your expectations?”

This was far from your first event, you had built an incredible portfolio over the years, and you knew you were finally ascending to be one of the best event coordinators on the eastern seaboard – you had received an email request from a goddamn Vanderbilt to plan a wedding for them in a year and a half that you were going to respond to and accept in the morning. You weren’t arrogant, but you’d worked damn hard and knew you were good.

“You.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “I – what?”

“Only one misstep tonight.”

Your brain flies back through the evening, reviewing every moment, raking through trying to determine what you could have possibly missed.

“I’m very particular about what belongs to me, and I cannot abide theft.”

Your jaw drops.

“Empty your bag.”

Now your whole body is buzzing with incredulity. You shake your head.

“I know what’s in there.”

You almost didn’t take this job when it landed in your lap. He was the reason you knew you should have said no. There were whispers about his reputation, his real businesses. But you took the initial consultation because the pitch was more money than you’d made over the last three years. Then when you’d met him, he’d been so normal, so nice, maybe a little charming, and up until this moment you had convinced yourself there was no way any of those rumors had been right.

But before you even put your hand in your bag, you knew you were wrong to have thought he wasn't all those awful things.

Not one, not two, but three Rolex watches nestled in the bottom of the main pocket. Watches you'd never seen - wouldn't even have known where to find them.

You scoop them out and drop them on his desk, eyes burning with tears. “Why?”

“Yes, why? I was already giving you a fat paycheck. What a shame when I had just given your name to the Vanderbilts’ social secretary for their son’s wedding a few days ago, I’ll have to reach out and let them know.”

“No,” you breathe.

“I’ll have to discreetly let everyone in my network know it’s better not to invite someone in their home with such light fingers.”

Your breath hitches and your hand flies to your mouth to stifle an almost sob, trying to hold back the onset of tears. “Andy, no, please.”

His smile softens. “There we are,” he coos, “you finally called me Andy like I’ve told you to so many times.”

He leans forward resting his arms on his desk.

“Now, if you go upstairs, be a good girl, put on what I left for you in my room, and wait for me, maybe I can make all of this little misunderstanding go away.”

His steel blue eyes are hard, they demand an answer.

You cock your chin up wishing you could say no, wishing you could even scowl at him, but aside from the heat and hurt in your eyes, you know you can’t do anything more without risking further ruin, so ultimately you let your chin drop and nod, resigned to the impossible power this man wields.

“Now we’re back on track for a perfect night, sweetheart. I’ll be up soon.”

You don’t know how long he makes you wait, using the promise of soon as another show of his power, but long enough that your knees hurt from sitting back on your heels in a submissive, kneeling position with your head lowered, hands folded in your lap, and back to the door as the card in the white box left for you had instructed.

Also in the box had been a set of exquisite black lace and silk balconette bra and cheeky underwear. That they fit you like a glove had been both humiliating and alluring.

Even though Andy was the reason you almost said no to the job, even though he was the humiliating reason you were in this position – extorted into a nearly naked state, no question of what was to come – he was also the reason you took the job.

Dread pooled in your stomach, but along with the dread and humiliation, there were rivulets of shameful desire.

You had taken the job for the money and for how quietly charming he had been. He had never outright flirted with you, but he always left you with the question of whether he was. You worked hard for him because it felt good to win his approval. He praised you and you had preened under his intense blue eyes every time. You had forced yourself to keep everything professional.

All for nothing since you were in the farthest position of professional now.

When you finally hear him enter the room, your sit up straight again.

He tsks and says, “Head down, sweetheart.”

Andy comes around to stand in front of you. You see his perfectly polished shoes, the perfectly tailored trousers. His hand moves to your jaw, tilting your head up to look at him. He runs his thumb over your lips, circling them.

“Open your mouth,” he says.

You do.

He leans closer, then spits in your mouth, and you blink in surprise, a surge of humiliation running through you, but his grip on your jaw is powerful, so you don’t move away.

“Close your mouth but don’t swallow.”

He moves back from you then, and he begins to silently undress. He had already taken off his jacket, but he doesn’t hurry as he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt, the buttons down his chest, and then shrugs it off his shoulders. He places it nicely on a plush armchair on the side of the room. Next he sits on the edge of the bed and removes his shoes and socks.

The way he doesn’t watch you but does all of this in your line of vision, knowing you have to watch, is another move meant to communicate who is in control of this situation. Still holding his saliva on your tongue is starting to become uncomfortable. Your instinct is to swallow, but you don’t know what disobedience may mean with Andy, so you fight the urge, not wanting to tempt any more of his darkness.

He stands and takes the shoes and socks to a large closet off to the side of the room, and when he returns, he stands directly in front of you again, takes your jaw in his hands again.

“Show me,” he says.

Your eyes watch his face you open your mouth, showing him the pool of saliva.

“Good fucking girl,” he murmurs. You hate the small bloom in your chest those words immediately invoke again. He spits into your mouth for a second time, then with a caress that is too tender he urges you to close your mouth. “Swallow.”

You do.

Andy unbuckles his belt, unbuttons the top of his fly, then unzips and pushes down the waist of his trousers with his briefs, and reveals his hard cock for you.

He’s big.

You had gotten yourself off to the thought of him a few of times late at night alone in your bed, most recently a few days ago, and you hated that you had since you were now here like this, forced on your knees in front of him.

Your core is pulsing with heat at the sight of him though – bigger than you had fantasized, and bigger than any man you’ve been with previously. You know he’ll fill you in a way that will ruin you for other men. You want and dread it.

“Take me in your mouth, sweetheart,” he commands.

Instead of forcing his cock into your mouth, this is more possessive, having you submit yourself to pleasing him of your own accord. You know every way he’s manipulating you.

“If I have to tell you one more time,” he trails off, leaving the end open for your imagination.

You plant one hand softly on his hip and wrap your other hand around his shaft, leaning forward to take him in your mouth. As you push forward, he groans. He won’t hold back when he’s pleased with you – he never has, he knows it affects you. His hands go to either side of your head. “Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

You do as he says, sucking him, bobbing up and down his length, and for a while he lets you control the speed and the depth, but his hands let you know he can and will control this when he wants to. After the first couple of minutes, he makes this clear when you push back to take a breath and wipe the mix of your spit and his pre-cum dripping out of your mouth and his hands firmly prevent you from moving off him. Instead, he pushes you down slowly – more slowly than you had been pumping – and doesn’t stop until your nose hits his lower abdomen. You try to push against his hips, and he pushes his hips forward with you still anchored on his dick. Your eyes well up.

“So pretty,” he says, “imagined you like this, but you’re more gorgeous than I thought you would be.”

Something in your chest melts. You wish he wouldn’t say things like that. It makes you weaker – weaker for him. He pulls back just an inch or two, then pushes his length into your throat again.

“That’s it, sweetheart, my perfect fucking girl.”

You whimper, and the tears spill over.

His right hand moves away from your face and around behind him. He’s quick, and when you can see his hand again, it’s to discover he’s taken his phone out of his back pocket. He takes photos of you, angling the phone a few different ways. Then he tosses the phone onto the chair where he’d laid his shirt.

Then he resumes his small, concentrated rutting, only easing out just enough to make the thrust back in worth it for him. As he does, he groans, swears, wipes tears from your cheeks, and the moment before it’s too much, he finally pulls you off him.

You fall forward, gasping for deep lungfuls of air, but he’s already putting a hand under your arm and hauling you up.

“Get on the bed,” he instructs, man handling you with surprising ease, doing most of the work your weak and aching legs can’t do to hoist you up onto his Alaskan king bed.

He’s immediately up as well and behind you, the last of his clothing stripped off. His fingers quickly undo the clasp of your bra and pull it off your shoulders and toss it away. He pushes you forward, toppling you down to the mattress. He slaps your ass, and you gasp and jerk. He brings his hand down on your round flesh again, with another sting, but the second one has you moan, and he lets out a satisfied, “Yes,” before giving you a third slap, the hardest, and you moan again, but this one more guttural, and you’d be mortified if you weren’t shocked over the way it translated to pleasure so quickly to your brain.

Then he yanks the lacy underwear roughly down and off your legs, tossing it away as well. He pushes between your legs behind you, splitting your legs open, and his fingers seek your cunt.

He hums in approval, “So wet for me. Ready for me.”

You huff and pant.

He leans over your back, pressing you down into the mattress. “Are you eager for me?”

“Andy,” you whine.

“Say it and I’ll fuck you good, sweetheart.”

You don’t want to. You bury your face in the covers.

He slaps your ass again, and you yelp.

“Admit you want me to fuck you.”

Another slap.

Another.

“Yes,” you finally concede.

“To breed you.”

You gasp, but he’s already hauling you further up the bed, and he drapes himself over your back, arms caging you in on either side of your body. His legs push yours apart as he leans down to press kisses over your shoulder blades, at the base of your neck, along your spine. He uses one hand to guide the thick head of his cock to your leaking entrance. He doesn’t care to stretch you. “Take me in your cunt, sweetheart, it’s mine.”

The only mercy is that he slots himself in slowly.

You press your hands up against the headboard and concentrate on taking deep breaths, on trying to relax your walls completely, because he’s entering you, in you, filling you, unrelenting invasion and it’s pleasure and pain and too much and not enough because every moment of more fullness is exquisite and you can’t even think about holding back the sound he’s pushing out from your diaphragm, up your throat, and out of your mouth, because that’s how it feels as he's filling you.

Once’s he’s fully inside of you, he presses his mouth right next to your ear. “I’m going to fill this pussy with my seed.” He anchors one hand on your hips, then begins pull out, only so he can start thrusting back in. “I want everyone to know who you belong to.”

You’ve never had an orgasm only from vaginal penetration, but the way he fills you as he fucks you, and at this angle, making you almost forget to keep breathing, you wonder if this is how you’ll go, strung out as his cock punishes you with the pleasure, but then his hand works around beneath you and his fingers quickly find your swollen and aching clit. You cry out, and one of your hands reaches back to cling to him, fingers clutching into his hair. He nips at your neck, chuckling darkly.

“My pretty girl, my good girl, taking my cock so well, you close?”

An immediate, “Uh huh,” is all you can manage.

“Then let go,” he commands, pinching your clit harshly.

You see stars, and you cry out for him.

Hearing you scream his name and feeling you clench around him is all he needs, and he pumps his cum into you, saying more dirty, filthy, possessive things, but you don’t know what the words are, because you’re completely lost to coherency.

He sinks his full weight on top of you when he’s completely spent.

Both of you are silent while you come down, heartrates returning to normal.

You wait for him to say whatever he’s going to torment you with next, but he doesn’t speak.

After more long moments, he finally pushes up enough to turn you from your front to your back. He cups your jaw again and strokes his thumb over your cheek. Your breath hitches at the intimate gesture in the aftermath.

“Aw, why are you crying now, sweetheart?”

No, you didn’t want more tears, and not these - the soft tears. You try to look away, but he forces your face back to look at him.

“I would have slept with you if you’d asked, Andy, why did you have to do it like this?”

“Because this is so much more than that, sweetheart. I didn’t want to just sleep with you, and I needed you to know from here on out that you’re mine. I own you. I’m very particular about what belongs to me. I didn’t want you to have any illusion that there’s a choice here.”

He brushes the tears off your cheek.

“I’ll have my men move your things here in the morning, and we’ll elope in a few weeks. I’m closing the deal on a resort in Lake Como, doesn’t that sound perfect? We’ll tie the knot and then spend our honeymoon there – we can stay all summer if you want.”

You hesitate.

“No one else is gonna take care of you like I do. Now I asked you, ‘doesn’t that sound perfect?’”

“Yes, Andy,” you whisper.

“Of course, it does.” He finally kisses you – and it’s dangerously soft. Warm lips engulfing yours, insistent, sucking your bottom lip between his. You whimper, and he licks his tongue into your mouth, lapping you up. He rolls over with you, putting him back on the mattress with you on his chest. He holds you pressed to him with one hand, the other hand securing your head so you can’t escape his kiss until he’s done kissing you.

It isn’t until you think you might pass out from how breathless you are that he finally breaks off the kiss. He shifts his pelvis up against you, his cock hardening again. “And I was serious about you carrying my child. But first you’ll ride my face until I’ve made you cry for a good reason, and then I’ll fill you up with more of my seed. You’re not leaving this bed the rest of the weekend.”

ARE YOU OKAY? AM I? DO WE EVEN CARE IF WE'RE OKAY?

read: -> THE MORNING AFTER

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anika-ann · 1 month ago

Text

Thirst for Life (As It Is) - S.R.

Type: one-shot, established relationship, next-to-zero plot

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 3,7k

Summary: You loved him for it; you hated it. You were still coming to terms with it, still learning to accept and believe that he damn-well meant it when he said he would always fight tooth and nail to come back to you.

You’d count your blessings; you celebrated his efforts by being the very home he was to you to him and if you could sooth his pain in any way you knew, as a physical therapist, as his lover, as a human being, you would.

A slice of life kind of fic, a moment of love life of Steve Rogers and his beloved.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, fingering, oral (F rec), allusions to penetrative sex, brief mention of canon typical injuries, briefest allusions to angst, FLUFF, dorks in love

A/N: Super belated entry for Stevie BB 200 Followers Celebration Writing Challenge hosted by @steviebbboi. Thank you for hosting and congrats again💕 I got inspired by the prompt Aw, does it feel good right here?🤭

A/N 2: DIVIDER by @saradika-graphics; enjoy y'all 🥰

Lips pressing to heated skin; to entice, to sooth the burning.

Fingertips dancing over strained muscles. Body arching into the touch.

A silent blissful keen escaping.

A sinful whisper.

“Aww, is that the spot, love? Does it feel good right there?"

A blatant, wicked tease, rewarded by a breathless curse spilling from parted lips, a soundless complaint.

Unable to help yourself, you giggled, kissing the spot again, earning a grunt – a sound of protest and approval alike.

“Just you wait…” Steve muttered, annoyed and somewhat fond at once, groaning when you pressed with your fingers this time, feeling the tight knot right under his right shoulder blade as if growing thicker to rebel against your care. “And this isn’t funny.”

You licked your lips, biting back to fight another laugh and losing anyway.

“Come on, Steve… it’s a little funny.”

It was a little funny.

Steve Rogers, a mighty supersoldier, all muscle and broadness, filling the space of the large bed. A paragon of strength and justice, shoulders wide enough to carry the weight of the world, his heart a shield for those who needed protection, his shield the heart of the Avengers. A seemingly fearless leader, a strategic mastermind, an excellent fighter; the embodiment of masculinity and power and righteousness and love.

All that and more – brought to its knees by a pulled muscle.

Of course, if it were up to Steve only, he would not even let this slow him down, not in the slightest, let alone bring him down his knees. Oh no.

It was your gentle offer; a soft touch of a hand, a sweet promise, a confession and a plea on your lips.

“Let me help, love.”

A gaze of mutual affection exchanged; a kiss to his lips to seal the deal with tenderness you knew your might have to abandon if you wanted to help set his body right.

It was a little funny.

The huge hunk of supersoldier muscle, turned into a puddle of a man under your touch. You treated him with as much skill as you would any other client or a patient of yours, if perhaps with a little softer care and with considerably less professionalism.

Obviously, Steve was not your usual client or patient; Steve Rogers was infinitely much more to you. The love radiating from the depth of your heart turned tangible in his proximity; undeniably present in your touch, be it your hands or your lips trying to sooth the pain, be it you straddling his hips which seemed almost absurdly narrow in comparison of the enormity of his shoulders, be it your words of affection or gentle teasing.

Obviously, Steve was not your usual client or patient; most of those who came in specifically with a pulled muscle were there because they had been helping a friend moving furniture, overestimated themselves in a gym, or snapped their head to the side too fast.

Your boyfriend of almost one year, on the other hand, had pulled a muscle when lifting a goddamn car off of someone to whose rescue he had rushed to.

Pressing against the knot, gently but firmly enough to make Steve groan – a sound of complaint bleeding into one of gratitude as you gradually released the pressure – you allowed the piece of information about him having practically lifted a car wash over you again, the astonishment at absurdity and curiosity of life fresh as if it was something entirely new to you.

But it wasn’t. It most definitely wasn’t the first time you had been confronted with this part of who Steve was. It wasn’t the first time you were confronted with how much the serum had enhanced his strength and possibly stubbornness, with what he did for living and how, or with the insistent calling in his very soul to help and serve and be nothing but a profoundly good man. It was hardly the first time and yet you guessed it would never cease to amaze you.

His good heart and his kind soul. His brilliant mind and his incredible body. A man all strong and resilient, but not invincible, not unbreakable.

And perhaps that was where the laugh was coming from – the reason why you couldn’t quite help yourself but tease him, why you couldn’t quite stop giggling.

The relief.

Because Steve Rogers – one of the greatest heroes of your time and the past alike – coming back home with only a pulled muscle was nothing short of a miracle, and this was how your strained body and mind expressed the utter, overwhelming relief coursing your veins.

Because Steve came home. Home to you.

Another day, another save.

Another day he could have caught a knife to his gut or to his neck. Another day he could have caught a bullet an inch from his heart or straight through. Another day he could have been taken and tortured for information or for the twisted fun of hurting Captain America.

None of that had happened.

Instead, it was another day Steve came home to you in one piece. Even if tired and with a pulled muscle.

You’d count your blessings, over and over, more so since you knew how and why he had pulled that muscle; gold of heart and dumb of ass, he couldn’t have waited for someone to come help him, not when the man who had been pinned under a damn car was so clearly and understandably in pain.

Steve’s mind was a brilliant thing, coming up with impenetrable strategies, with a plan B for the plan B and with a plan C and D just in case, carefully predicting outcomes and calculating risks; sometimes he just got bad at math when calculating risks for himself when he couldn’t bear seeing others suffer.

You loved him for it; you hated it. You were still coming to terms with it, still learning to accept and believe that he damn-well meant it when he said he would always fight tooth and nail to come back to you.

And he’d let you, even if the first time you had met had certainly not been the case. Not with him having been dragged in, after having his knee busted in a fight, arguing that he did not need anyone’s help, because he was enhanced by the supersoldier serum and his body had always healed on its own. You wouldn’t have it; you had met all the unwilling patients and sceptics. So you took one glance at the man who had literally dragged him in – his best friend, Bucky Barnes, seemingly more exhausted by his attitude than by the fact he had been carrying a significant weight of the huge pile of muscle Steve Rogers was – and then took another look at the man behind the shield himself, before you listed all the muscles, tendons and bones that would have begged him to differ in reaction to such claim.

To this day, you were not quite sure whether it had been your knowledge or your ability to simply not have his attitude that had impressed him more, but later you would find out his attitude was more about him feeling like others needed your help more than him and less about him questioning your field or expertise. That had mattered to you; what mattered also was that Bucky was never going to let you or Steve live your so-called meet-cute down, claiming he knew right away Steve had fallen in love the very second.

So you’d count your blessing and you’d let yourself feel whatever came, and you’d let yourself be consumed by the love with gratitude and thirst for life as it was.

You let yourself laugh again even as Steve grumbled under you, muttering something about maybe deserving it. You appreciated the self-awareness. You appreciated him.

You smiled as you let your hands roam with purpose, warm touch mapping out his pains and still taking moments to caress and indulge in exploring his body, cherishing the beautiful view of the expanse of his back and the feel of his strength yielding to your care with endless trust.

“I feel a little less treated and little more objectified at this point,” he muttered, a smile evident in his voice even before your gaze flickered to his face, now turned to side as he rested his cheek on the back of his hand.

One corner of your lips rose higher, barely a flicker of shame in your chest. You’d never violate a patient or a client like that; but you’d also never miss a chance to feel closer to Steve, miss a chance to touch him, to cherish the contact and to make him feel loved.

“Is there a complaint you’d like to submit, sir?” you questioned, a wide smile setting on your lips as he hummed in disapproval.

Still, you finished the treatment with a last few strokes that were indeed more of a gentle closing than anything else, climbed off of him and pulled the blanket over his naked back to keep the muscles warm.

He blinked his eyes open as you sat by his side on the bed, leaning in to kiss his forehead.

The second he reached out his hand to hold you, you clicked your tongue disapprovingly, making him huff but obediently stop his progress.

“You know the rules, Steve. Stay still for a bit, let the body process. I’ll bring you some fluids.”

He sighed, squinting at you with adorable defiance. “I do know… I don’t have like it. Maybe just a minor complaint then.”

You grinned, leaning closer to him on the pillow, feeling your heart tremble in thorough warmth as he observed you with sleepy intent and a look closest to adoration you had ever seen.

“What’s that, Captain Rogers?” you whispered conspiratorially.

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”

You relaxed into the mattress, shoulders slumping, heart a second from melting as the lightest and most delightful feeling spread through your veins, a rush so powerful it almost chased tears into your eyes.

To care and be cared for; to love and be loved, so utterly you had never believed it possible until you met Steve Rogers, most certainly the love of your life.

Reaching out, your fingertips lightly caressed his cheek, his eyelids slipping shut; you brushed over the arches of his brows, over the slope of his nose, over his lips – instantly pursing for a light kiss to your fingers – and caressed his scalp, only to meet his gaze again, so tender you felt something inside your soul shift and shudder in pure happiness.

“I know you will when I need it,” you assured him, bringing a ghost of a smile to his face. “And I’m pretty sure that’s the idea. That we’re supposed to be taking care of each other, love.”

A sparkle lit up his tired eyes, his smile turning positively goofy.

“I like that,” he whispered.

“Good,” you said, pressing another kiss to his forehead and climbing to your feet. “Now be a good patient and stay still for a bit, just like everyone else… no matter how special you are to me.”

“Mmm, if you say so… I love you.”

You fought the urge to lie next to him, reminding yourself that if you got him fluids now, you could lie with him and bask in his warmth later and with no interruptions.

“I love you too, Steve.”

By the time you got back, hands clean of the essential oil and full with a mug of tea and a tall glass of water, you found him fast asleep, still on his front, arms hugging his pillow.

Not bothering to fight off your smile this time, you set the mug on the nightstand, tucked the blanket higher to his chin and climbed up to the bed to sit and prop up on the headboard.

You reached for the engagement ring you had taken off for the massage first and put it back where it belonged, and only then for your half-read book, gaze once more flickering to man who had stolen your heart and would never give it back.

Attention divided, you read; but mainly you kept your future husband company, watching over his peaceful and more than deserved sleep.

Because that was what you were supposed to do; watch over each other, look out for one another, and take care of each other.

And in a few months, you’d promise to continue doing that with love for the rest of your lives, swearing so in front of your friends and families.

Lips pressing to heated skin; to entice, to sooth the burning.

Fingertips dancing over strained muscles. Body arching into the touch.

A silent blissful keen escaping.

A sinful whisper.

“Aww, is that the spot, love?” he teased, every syllable dripping off his lips rich and heady like honey, and even with your eyes fluttered shut, you could see his beautifully wicked smile, the spark in his eyes that shone dark, lit alive in a way that was reserved for you; and only for you. “Does it feel good right there?"

You recognized the echo of your own words, Steve’s voice coloured with sweet vindication. He knew exactly what he was doing and he revelled in it; you would protest and complained again if your lips remembered how to speak beyond Steve’s name and breathless pleas. You would protest if you truly wanted to and he would stop in an instant. You would protest if your hands were not literally tied.

Again, unlike your other patients, all Steve had needed was your skilled touch and a good rest. A few hours of sleep, Erskine’s serum working its magic and he had been good to go; perhaps not for another mission, not for a training session, but for repaying your service with love and adoration and desire.

Hugging your middle after waking up, resting his head over your thigh, he had sent a single glance up at you and you had very well forgotten what you had been reading.

He had kissed your palms in thank you, one and then the other, lingering with his gaze and his lips, and you had already been forgetting your own name.

He had pressed a kiss to your wrists, wrapping them in satin like a precious gift, smiling as he had to ruck up the sleeves of his very shirt you had chosen to wear to bed to do so.

He had ghosted his lips over your fingertips as he tied your wrists to the headboard, making sure you rested your hands, the most important asset for your work; conveniently putting your engagement ring on display for him to see at all times while doing so.

He had met your lips in a kiss so sultry you barely caught your breath, before they strayed over every inch of newly revealed skin as he unbuttoned the shirt, lingering in all his and your favourite places, hands roaming, caressing, holding, owning.

You arched against his mouth when he reached his prize, forearm draping over your middle, keeping you grounded as he lifted you towards the stars once, almost for the second time, until his fingers joined to show off his own talented touch and to bring you to the brink of madness.

“Did not quite catch that, sweetheart,” he muttered to the burning skin of your inner thigh, rendering you speechless with his tongue before you could catch your wits and answer. “I suppose I should try again…”

“Steve-“

“Right here, love… give me one more. Let me take care of you… you said you knew I would take care of you when you’d need it, didn’t you? Do you need it now, love?”

Steven Grant Rogers, you little shit- was the thought that flew through your head so fast you couldn’t hope to catch it let alone verbalize it. Not with how your head was beginning to spin when his lips, his hands, his wicked tongue and seemingly innocent filthy talk carried by his deep voice overwhelmed your senses and chased you higher and closer to your peak with every passing torturous second.

“Yes-“ was what actually spilled from your lips breathily, followed by a keen of please.

“Then be good and stay still.”

Steve’s dark mischievous gaze met yours, the erotic sight of him between your legs, wide shoulders barely fitting, with his palm sprawled to your belly and seemingly enjoying himself thoroughly was your undoing, along with things he did and you could not hope to put into words; not when your vision whited out with a cry of his name and wave of numbing bliss washing over you and pulling you under.

You were trying to catch your breath as he let you ride out your high, firm, wet languid kisses pressed to your thighs, your stomach, your breasts with just a graze of teeth to both increase your pleasure and to satisfy the man who loved to get lost in exploring your body and consuming you whole.

When his lips finally met yours again, you did not care you still hadn’t quite earned enough oxygen, whimpering against the demanding kiss as Steve’s fingers curled just to press at the spot again, while he casually rested his weight on his elbow, left hand interlacing his fingers with yours to feel the ring he had slipped on your finger just a few weeks ago.

“Love you so much, sweetheart. Love seeing you like this, so beautiful, so blissed out and so, so mine…” he whispered, voice hoarse as if he had been the one to crying out in ecstasy.

“I love you too, Steve.”

Instinctively moving to touch him, to keep him closer, you tugged at the soft fabric around your wrists, huffing in frustration when all you could do was squeeze Steve’s hand tighter.

“Hands, love?” you pleaded, arching your body against his, hovering too high for your taste even when your bare chest brushed his, your body drinking hungrily the heat which his own was radiating. “Want to touch you.”

“Anything for you, love.”

As thoroughly distracting as his lips were, pressing back to yours as he blindly loosened the knots, your hands sprang the moment you were free, sighing as the utter delight at holding onto your lover flooded every cell of your body, fingers raking through his hair, digging into his back to pull his closer to your embrace.

His lips eased the pressure, nose bumping yours, fingertips brushing your cheek tenderly, his smile as sweet as sinful, and when you blinked your eyes open, you couldn’t but bask in the blinding light of adoration shining in Steve’s blown pupils.

“You alright, sweetheart? Can you take more?”

The question nor the concern were new; yet they tasted as lovely as Steve’s smile when he leaned in to kiss you again.

You ran your hand down the lovely expanse of his back, pressing to meet his hardness, a wordless agreement.

“Yes, just… be careful.”

Steve’s lips parted from yours with a wet pop, genuine worry instantly overtaking his features, his weight easing from your body – almost making you regret what you were about to say when he’d inevitably ask-

“Are you hurting? Did I do anything-“

“I’m fine, Stevie…” you assured him, brushing a lose strand away from his forehead, smoothening the crease that formed there, your wildly pounding heart shivering from his tender care for you, his consideration, his willingness to walk away from chasing his own pleasure and just hold you should you wish so for whatever reason.

You pressed a soft kiss to his lips, his frown only deepening with disapproval as he probably thought you were about to downplay whatever it was that bothered you, what he had done to hurt you or was causing you pain – like Mr. Hypocrite, your softest, biggest love.

“No need to worry, Steve. I just want you to be careful, you know… you might pull a muscle and need medical and fluids after.”

A beat of silence, bated breaths.

And then you were bursting out with laughter at Steve’s scandalized expression, the sound blending into a yelp as he grabbed you by the hips and lifted you to the air. He stood up in a whirlwind of a movement, spinning you until your back hit the wall, blow softened by his palm while his other moved under your bottom, fingers digging to your flesh, pinning you to the hard surface by his hips, his chest, and mainly by his lips crashing against yours, stealing the laughter from you very lungs, drinking your love from the very bottom of your heart.

He nipped at your bottom lip, hips bucking against yours, his voice a sultry promise you couldn’t wait for him to make good on; for all the teasing, you knew that indeed, your Steve would have caring for you at the forefront of his mind. You could feel his love undeniably present in his touch, be it his hands or his lips, be it his words of affection or the gentle, exhilarating threats:

“Oh just you wait, love… we’ll see who’ll need what after I’m done with you… I was so well-taken care of by my future wife, I think I want to start training for our wedding night. And sweetheart,” he whispered, warm breath brushing your ear, “I think it’s time we try to push our record to double digits.”

As a shudder ran down your spine like a livewire, your heart jumping to your throat with how your blissed-out mind scrambled to try to imagine that, you let your body sink into his, counted your blessing, and let yourself feel whatever was about to come.

You let yourself be consumed by love with gratitude and thirst for life as it was.

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider leaving feedback.

May November be kind to you💕

#steviebbboiwritingchallenge #bbboi200celebration #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x you #steve rogers #captain america #captain america x you #captain america x reader #captain america imagine #happy Steve rogers #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #thirst for life as it is #anika ann

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lightseoul · 2 months ago

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This is amazing!!! #29 please 🥹

ngl, this one was a bit challenging to write! i had an initial vision, realized it didn't work, then the story just ended up taking this course. in any case, i hope y'all still like this one! thank you for playing <3

(this is lightseoul's 2k milestone event ft. bakugou katsuki! to play, view the numbered list of prompts here, then simply send an ask with your chosen number and i'll whip something up!)

29. "I NEED THIS TO WORK." (1.5k)

you’d chalk it up to gravity—the palpable heaviness that accompanies each step you take up the staircase leading to the building’s roof deck.

and maybe your lack of exercise, too? you can’t remember the last time you had a proper, challenging workout that really pushed you to your limits, hence your shitty-ass cardiac health.

deep inside, however, you know you’re just using the earth’s downward pull and your questionable physical fitness as shabby excuses more than anything.

case in point: you feel the sudden, visceral urge to retreat when you finally reach the landing and see the poor man who’s about to be at the very center of your truth bomb’s explosion.

to your credit, though, you don’t turn a 180 and start the trudge back down to the house party mina’s busy hosting at the moment. instead, you just stand there staring at the aforementioned poor man who’s turned against you, leaning on the tall railings and most likely admiring the view of musutafu’s city skyline.

when you first noticed him slowly retreating from the conversations that were unfolding back in mina’s loft, you didn’t know whether to feel appeased or nauseous. you knew him well enough to be privy to the fact that he didn’t really enjoy parties, so he would usually step out and get some air when he could.

this was the exact moment during which you planned to attack. at least, that was the idea when you were crafting your ultimate confession scheme a few weeks ago when you first got mina’s invite.

but now, shit is getting too real, and you don’t know if you can do this anymore.

you unknowingly tighten your grip on your phone, an important component of this entire, borderline laughable plot to declare the feelings you’ve been keeping in for god knows how long, before finally deciding that no, you can’t do it tonight.

but any plans of yours to back out and quietly tiptoe out of the area practically fly out the window the millisecond you make the decision.

because, of course, #7 pro-hero dynamight has excellent environmental awareness.

he utters something that comes out more as a demanding statement than a question, and you find yourself frozen in your tracks as if you’re in a slapstick comedy.

busted.

when you don’t say anything for a few more beats, bakugou looks over his shoulder, his infamous scowl now etched across his unfairly handsome features.

“—i said, how long are you gonna keep standing there, dumbass?”

fighting the urge to roll your eyes and maybe laugh at yourself because of course you’d end up falling for the guy who calls you demeaning nicknames, you take a shaky inhale.

here goes fucking nothing.

as nonchalantly as you could, you shrug, before slowly making your way towards the spot beside the man.

you feel his eyes boring holes into the side of your face as you mirror him and lean on the railings, finding yourself unable to meet his gaze and opting to just stare at the skyscraper ahead of you instead.

“what,” he asks—no, demands—again in that haughty tone.

you finally will yourself to look at him, and when you do you have to intentionally school your face into a neutral expression despite the somersault your stomach does at the sight.

“what do you mean what?”

“you’ve got something to say,” he huffs, studying you intently. “spit it out.”

you stop yourself from gulping in nervousness and potentially giving yourself away just in the nick of time.

“what,” you counter, voice surprisingly even for someone whose nerves are shot. “can’t a girl just want the company of her best friend?”

you’re stalling, and you’re frustratingly aware of it.

bakugou only lets out a ‘pfft’ in response, turning to fully regard you. “i know that face, idiot. that face you make when you’re itching to say something. the one that makes you look constipated.”

you don’t even think twice about it, you move to smack the guy who’s now barking a laugh. he tries to dodge it, but you miraculously manage to clip him by his forearm.

he swats you away after you land a hit, and you try to fight the smile that’s threatening to take over your mouth despite his teasing comment.

“you better work on those reflexes, dynamight.”

without missing a beat, bakugou shoots you a look. “don’t even go there.”

at that, you throw your hands up in playful surrender, knowing better than to challenge the man to anything, particularly concerning his physical capabilities.

neither of you says anything after that—a comfortable silence enveloping the two of you—and you’re acutely aware of the familiar feeling of anxiety creeping back up.

however, in a rare moment of utmost clarity, it suddenly dawns on you that you probably won’t come across an opportunity as perfect as this again. at least not anytime soon.

so you take it.

“…katsuki?”

the pro-hero only grunts in acknowledgment, but you readily take it as a sign to continue.

your voice is wobbly when you ask: “y’know how much i value your friendship, right?”

you chance a glance at the man, whose eyebrows are now furrowed. he’s looking gagged, so you quickly follow it up with: “that question’s rhetorical, so keep your mouth shut.”

you look away before you can see his reaction, taking another shaky inhale as you continue.

“—i’m assuming you do, what with how annoyingly perceptive you are, so you must understand that this thing that i’m about to do is very high stakes for me, and i need this to work. otherwise…”

you trail off, not willing to verbalize the humiliation and heartbreak you’re going to feel if this doesn’t work out.

“otherwise, what?” bakugou asks, voice uncharacteristically soft. so soft, that you’re forced to meet his gaze, which is starting to look like it’s searching for something hidden amidst your features.

you quickly break eye contact before you fully crumble under the scrutiny of his stare. “you know, what? i’m just gonna go for it. you’ll figure it out.”

with that, you pull up your phone, swiftly unlocking it and navigating to your ancient, shared message thread, before pasting the link you’ve copied beforehand to the chatbox and ultimately pressing send.

just as quickly as you retrieved it, you pocket it back, nodding at bakugou’s right pocket, from which resounds a familiar chime indicating a text message from you.

the pro-hero only eyes you suspiciously and somewhat in confusion as he tugs his phone into his hold, gaze still trained on you as he thumbs his password with pure muscle memory alone. finally, they drift down to the screen.

and a whirlwind of emotions dances across his face.

his voice is thick when he finally reads the link’s title out loud.

“send this to your…crush?”

he says the last word so incredulously you’re almost certain a part of your soul just died in utter shame.

may she rest in peace.

the rest of you, unfortunately, is still very much alive.

you stand there as bakugou looks up at you, features contorted into an inexplicable expression, before looking back down to his phone, then back to you again.

“…are you pulling my fucking leg?” comes his hostile reaction.

now it’s your turn to look at him in bewilderment and, if you were to be honest, mild (severe) embarrassment-induced indignation. “what? no! why would i joke about this?”

bakugou only stares at you for a beat longer, before checking the text again, like he’s making sure he read it right as if he hadn’t just been studying it so closely for the last few minutes.

“you’re—i’m—you like me?”

you try to ignore how breathy his question came out, focusing instead on willing yourself to nod in affirmation despite your body screaming at you to deny all allegations and make a run for it.

maybe you can delude yourself into thinking it’s not too late for that?

“huh.”

struggling to fight the sinking feeling that’s encroaching on your body, you force out what’s hopefully a passable chuckle to save whatever face you have left.

“now you get the otherwise i was talking about?”

“…yeah.”

the air around you turns quiet, but unlike a while ago, this lull is anything but comfortable. you glance longingly at the staircase, wishing you could go back to roughly ten minutes ago. you then look back at your best friend who’s still catatonic, staring down at his phone screen.

well.

that’s all the answer you need.

turning toward where you came from, you try your best to keep your chin up nonetheless. “i better head back, kats. mina’s probably looking for me and i should help out with—”

you’re cut off by your phone pinging, and as you scramble to bring it out of your pocket you wrack your brain for who the hell this could possibly be.

and then you see it.

(9:39 PM) blasty is the best (or sumn 🙄): (sent a link)

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fraugwinska · 9 months ago

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Could I get Alastor x Reader where he teaches her to swing dance in their room after they both talk about what was popular when they died as she comes from the current earth era so either 2010s or 2020s up to you!

Thank you so much if you write this and if you do not wish too that is totally okay! Have a wonderful day!

Aaaaaah, such a cute prompt! Of course I tried my hands on that, dear! I hope you'll like it!

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Going with the times

You flipped the page in the heavy photo album, laughing. „Oh look, that's from my first party as a university student!“ Alastor scrunched his nose. „These shoes are quite... scandalous, dear.“ „Hey, I was in my early twenties, everyone wore overknee boots.“ „That doesn't make them decent.“

You elbowed him, with playful annoyance. „Watch it, I don't make fun of your style choices!“ Alastor cocked a brow at you, grinning proudly. „That's because I always dressed with timless class and style, sweetheart.“ His gaze returned to the picture – You, arm in arm with your group of friends, in the midst of a club in the city you went to study for a degree you never used, since you died too young.

„What kind of establishment were you at, anyway? It looks awfully... modern.“

You rolled your eyes. You knew Alastor enough to know that when said 'modern', he really meant 'awful'. The only 'modern' thing Alastor didn't hate, was you.

„It's a dance club. Me and my girlfriends used to go almost every weekend, just dancing, having a good time and a few drinks.“

Alastor looked intrigued. „Oh? What style did you dance to? I always loved swing and jazz, but I do enjoy a good quick-Step too.“

You couldn't help but snicker – he truly didn't keep up with the times, that one.

„No, Al, no... that kind became very... formal. We just danced, you know? To hip hop, or electronica and clubhouse, like this!“

You hopped up from your bed, swaying your hips, lifting up your arms and bouncing to a beat only your could hear. He watched you, half amused and half horrified. He laughed and shook his head at your movements, so you stopped, hands flew on your hips and you rose your chin. „Okay old man, why don't you show me how you danced when you were young and wild?“

He was so quick, you didn't even see him moving when you already felt one arm around your waist, the other lifting your hand.

„Oh my dear, it's my pleasure to demonstrate what real dancing is all about!“

As only Alastor could do, an upbeat, jazzy song began to play from god knows where, and he began stepping sideways and forwards with you clumsily following him. With each stumble, he caught you with his reassuring, beaming smile, his patient guidance encouraging you to press on.

He truly had some energy to his step, spinning you every which way and having you laugh out loudly. After your first awkward steps, you found some kind of pattern to stick to, and your feet slowly but surely fell into his set rhythm without crushing his toes. He noticed that as well and chuckled, increasing the tempo and spinning you gleefully. „Bravo, darling, bravo! Now come, don't lose your flow, eyes on me! Excellent. A twist! Ha-ha-ha, marvelous, and again!“

You found yourself lost in the music and enjoying this way of dancing thoroughly, your heart beating as quick as your dancemoves. You felt warm and lightheaded in his arms as he moved with you, until the music ceased way too soon, and you two stood in the middle of your room, a bit out of breath and panting softly.

Alastor pushed a stray strand of hair from your face back behind your ears, grinning smugly.

"How about it, darling? You want to try that in your silly overknee boots?"

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #fraugwinskawrites #quick fic #alastor x reader

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moonstruckme · 1 year ago

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hello! :D I'm not sure if your request are open but if they are could you please write about reader and marauders playing a game something like answering questions and if they don't answer they have to drink and reader is asked who they would rather kiss (or something along those lines) out of them all and reader says Remus and they both get all flustered and the rest of the group is teasing them and whatnot and they end up telling each other about their feelings for one another like the next day or something

im sorry if this ask is like all over the place anywhooo thank you so much!<3 i love your writing btw :)

My requests are open babe, thank you!

cw: drinking game

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 837 words

Everything is pleasantly fuzzy, and your laughter bubbles up out of you with scarcely any prompting.

“Alright, alright,” Marlene says, “James, where’s the weirdest place you’ve had sex?”

James hardly hesitates. “Quidditch pitch.”

You slap a palm across your mouth, and your little circle bursts into howling laughter.

“It was really dark, though!” James justifies. “No one would’ve been able to see us if they’d looked. Anyway, my turn.” He looks around the circle, eyes narrowed in mock seriousness. “Pads.” Sirius looks up. “When you said you’d never had sex in my bed, were you lying?”

Sirius presses his lips together, looking suspiciously like he’s suppressing a smile, and drinks.

“Wha—that’s as good as an answer!” James sputters. “You prick, learn some boundaries!”

“No clue what you’re talking about.” Sirius shrugs. “Okay…y/n.” You bite your lip, doing your best to make your eyes look wide and sweet in the hopes he’ll go easy on you. “Of everyone here right now, who would you rather kiss?”

You freeze, trying to keep your gaze from darting to your immediate answer. “I…I don’t know,” you say.

Sirius shakes his head, smirking. “Not good enough, sweetheart.”

“Careful,” Marlene warns, “I don’t know if you can handle drinking much more.”

“Yeah, Pads, just let ‘er off,” Remus says. “Don’t make her sick because of you.”

“All she has to do is answer,” Sirius argues, but it’s alright, because you’ve seen your opening.

You take it. “Remus,” you say, as though the idea has just occurred to you, “because he’s being nicer to me than the rest of you.”

The group erupts in cheers and boos, and Remus’ cheeks color pink.

“Plus,” you go on, emboldened by the warmth of booze in your chest, “he wouldn’t make it weird. None of the rest of you would ever let me forget it.”

“Oi!” James protests. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Yeah, right,” Marlene laughs. “Sirius, who did James kiss last week?”

Sirius tilts his head. “Do you mean on Sunday or Tuesday?”

Marlene smirks.

“Whatever,” James says, but he’s smiling. “You’re all just jealous, Y/N too. Remus, you’d better take good care of this one. She’s got high standards, apparently.”

Now your face is warming too, and Remus nudges you with his shoulder. “It’s your turn, love,” he says. “Get him back.”

You grin. “Excellent idea. James, did you sleep in your bed after you thought Sirius had sex in it?”

James eyes go wide behind his glasses as his cheeks redden, and Remus chuckles beside you.

As usual, it’s you and Remus cleaning up after everyone else has gone to bed. James would typically at least offer to help, but he’s busy patting Sirius’ back as his friend purges everything he drank tonight in the community bathroom. You’d offered to tidy yourself and let Remus go upstairs, but he’d only said “don’t be silly” and started picking up discarded cups alongside you.

“It got a bit much tonight, didn’t it?” you ask, aiming for casual but only hitting awkward.

Remus hums. “I don’t think any more than usual.” He gives you a knowing look, made worse by his tiny smile. “They don’t usually pick on you, though, so I’m sure it felt different.”

You laugh nervously. “I guess so. I can dish it out, but I can’t take it, huh?”

“Well, they make it easy to dish,” he says mildly. “Anyway, it’s like you said. If you’d even said you’d kiss any of them, they’d never’ve shut up about it.”

You tense but nod, bending to dab at a stain of spilled drink someone left in the rug. “Yup. That’s why I picked you.”

“Is that the only reason?”

You turn, and Remus is looking at you evenly despite his flushed cheeks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says softly, kindly, “that if they’d asked me, I would’ve picked you too. So I guess I’m just wondering, would you have picked me, if you weren’t worried about everyone teasing you?”

The way he’s looking at you, you know he’s ready to accept whatever answer you give. Remus is watching you curiously, but there’s a bashfulness around his eyes. He wants to know, but he’ll let you off the hook in a second if you indicate that’s what you want.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Yeah, I’d pick you.”

Remus looks like the breath goes out of him. He takes a step toward you. “Why?”

“I don’t need a reason,” you admit. Not one that makes sense, anyway. It’s just him.

Remus’ smile is borderline shy. “I’ve got tons.”

“Yeah?” It’s more breath than word.

“Mhm. Wanna hear ‘em?”

“That’s okay,” you say, and rise on your tiptoes, kissing him.

Remus kisses just like you knew he would. Soft and sweet, with little hints of urgency in the press of his hand against your back, the insistent sound he makes in the back of his throat. And you don’t need a single reason to want to kiss Remus Lupin, but you’ve got tons too.

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bandgie · 5 months ago

Text

Armageddon | 1 Year Event

➛ welcome to the end of the world.

we've made it to (roughly) one year of my first kpop fic! it's been a great ride and im so happy that so many people read my stuff even if I question my own ability. thank you so much for your support and I hope you have fun with this event!

Pick a Member & Prompt | rules [!!] | no longer taking requests :(

LUST - L.MH & K.SM (SKZ) ➛ intense or unbridled sexual desire : lasciviousness

GREED - C.BC (SKZ) ➛ selfish and excessive desire for more of something than is needed

PRIDE - P.SH (ENHA) ➛ an excessive love of one's own excellence

GLUTTONY - L.HS, P.JS & P.SH (ENHA) ➛ over-indulgence and over-consumption

SLOTH - P.SH (ATZ) ➛ emanates a whole world of despair, depression, boredom and restlessness

ENVY - H.JS ft. C.BC (SKZ) ➛ resentment or sadness at another's good fortune or excellence, with an often insatiable desire to have it for oneself

WRATH - J.YH (ATZ) ➛ an acid within the soul that eats away at the heart until there is almost nothing left

HUMILITY ➛ modest or low view of one's own importance; humbleness.

CHARITY - S.CB & L.YB (SKZ) ➛ the highest form of love, unselfish love of one's fellow men

CHASTITY - H.JS (SKZ) ➛ refrains either from sexual activity that is considered immoral or from any sexual activity

GRATITUDE - K.HJ (ATZ) ➛ to praise, to celebrate; to be in contact with the Divine

TEMPERANCE - Y.JI (SKZ) ➛ to use moderation in all things or to exercise self-control

PATIENCE - L.MH (SKZ) ➛ the ability to accept delay, suffering, or annoyance

DILIGENCE - S.MG (ATZ) ➛ the persistent, determined, constant and earnest effort to complete a task

FAMINE ➛ riding on the night-black horse named fear, the dreaded horseman of famine gallops onward, denying the world life-sustaining food and bringing starvation

DEATH - K.HJ (ATZ) ➛ the pale rider or the pale horseman, is the leader of the horsemen of the apocalypse who's given authority to kill men and animal alike

WAR ➛ specializes in waging war between nations and people rather than internal strife

CONQUEST ➛ said to sweep across the world, unleashing civil war and internal strife

SERPENT - C.YJ (TXT) ➛ wound its way around the human heart and filled us with its poison

LAMB - S.CB (SKZ) ➛ represents purity, and its sacrifice was a symbol of repentance and submission

FORBIDDEN FRUIT - H.HJ (SKZ) ➛ the catalyst for the fall of man— when original sin entered creation and led to the reality we face every day

I already said thank you ik but writing has always been a passion for me. whether ive been here for a year or longer or shorter with more or less notes/followers, im just so grateful to have a platform that people engage with. thank you @desirehorizon for helping me with this event and their input. please make sure to check out their posts!! (and ofc thank you for google for the definitions lol)

#armageddon event!

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 14 days ago

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A pirate's life for me

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 11

Prompt: Cabin

Rated: M

Tags: Pirate AU; Implied child abuse; Flirting; Sexual tension; Dubcon if you squint, Steve is very into it, promise; Fade to black sex

Notes: Probably not the kind of cabin @steddieas-shegoes had in mind, but I wanted to write more Pirate AU

When Steve was a little boy, he loved playing pirates. Most little boys do - not that he knew a lot of other little boys. Every time he was starting to make friends, the Royal Navy would send his father to some other port town, and they’d have to move again. Most of the time, it was just him, alone in his bedroom. His bed would be his ship, the canopy its sails. He begged the cook for an old tablecloth and painted a skull and crossbones on it, keeping it hidden in a corner of his closet when he wasn’t using it. In his fantasies, he’d sail off to distant shores and have fantastic adventures, and escape the boredom and the loneliness for a while.

Until his father caught him.

The bruises on his face hurt for weeks, but it was nothing compared to the sting behind his eyes as his father dragged him out into the yard and forced him to burn the flag. Steve didn’t cry - he knew it would only get him into more trouble. Instead, he stood and bit his split lip while his father made him watch the flames, berating him all the while about the bane of the seas that pirates were. Steve would remember his words for the rest of his life.

When Steve was a young man, he stole one of his father’s ships and sailed off to assemble his own pirate crew. Somehow, it felt wildly preferable to the life his parents had planned for him. Join the military like his father, marry a girl his mother picked. He’d choose the freedom of the open sea and a life of adventure over this any day, thank you very much.

He was an idiot, of course.

It took all of a month for Billy Hargrove to turn his crew against him, leaving Steve to float on the ocean in a nutshell of a lifeboat, waiting for death to claim him.

Except it wasn’t death who found him. It was the Devil of the Hellfire.

“Are you always this charming?”

Steve flinches back to attention. “Huh?”

Munson uses the half-eaten chicken leg in his hand to gesture at Steve’s untouched plate. His rings glint in the candlelit captain’s cabin, and his dark eyes sparkle with glee.

“Really now, darling,” he tuts. “I saved your life. I nursed you back to health. I’m feeding you the nicest dinner my cook has prepared in months, I even opened the good wine for you, and all you can say is huh? You’d think your fancy tutors would’ve taught you better manners.”

“Apologies,” Steve scoffs. “We never covered the proper protocol for being held captive on a pirate ship.”

Munson, who has just taken a large sip of wine, snorts so hard it comes shooting out his nose. He grabs a napkin off the table to wipe his face.

“Sweetheart, you wound me,” he says, once he's finally stopped laughing. Under the table, a calloused hand slides up Steve’s thigh. “You're not my prisoner, you're my guest.”

“Oh?” Steve crosses his arms. The silk shirt he's been given rustles with it. “Is this how you treat all your guests? Keep them locked up in your cabin? Insist they earn their fare by … whatever the hell this is supposed to be?”

“Only guests as pretty as you,” Munson purrs. His breath tickles Steve’s skin as he leans closer. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I don’t like sharing my treasures.”

He was right about the wine, Steve thinks as a nimble tongue nudges his lips apart and slips past his teeth. It’s excellent. Rich and heady in a way that goes straight to your veins, filling them with liquid fire. He closes his eyes and lets Munson take control of the kiss. There’s nothing else he can do, after all. He’s completely and utterly at the man’s mercy. The thought makes something hot and urgent stir at the base of his spine. Someone moans, a low and needy sound in the silence of the cabin, and Steve realizes with a surge of burning humiliation that it was him. Munson pulls back, lips shiny with spit and twisted into a delighted grin. The hand on Steve’s thigh wanders inwards, and he bucks in his chair.

“What did they teach you?”

Steve blinks. “What?”

Munson chuckles as he hauls them both out of their chairs. It’s only a few steps to the bed, but still, somehow, Steve’s shirt is halfway unbuttoned by the time they tumble into the sheets. Munson scrapes his teeth over his bare neck and chest, and the fire in Steve’s insides stirs.

“About pirates, sweetheart. What did they teach you about pirates?”

Steve thinks of an entirely different fire, of his father’s words ringing in his ears as he forced him to watch it burn.

“That you’re the-” he starts to say, but needs to interrupt himself for another moan as Munson proceeds to open the remaining shirt buttons with his teeth. “-the scum of the seas. Rapists and murderers and monsters with n- … no regard for the law, driven only by your own greed and sinful desires.”

Munson chuckles, looking up at him through long, dark lashes as he starts to mouth at the bulge in Steve’s pants. “And yet, you want to be one?”

Steve shrugs.

“I dunno,” he says around another moan. “Following your sinful desires? Sounds like a much more enjoyable life than the one I come from.”

Munson smiles, wicked and dimpled and intoxicating. “You might be onto something, young sir. Let’s put your theory to the test?”

More holiday drabbles

Steve thinks that his deal with the devil is starting to look more and more agreeable.

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie brainrot #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #steddie holiday drabbles #hype's holiday drabbles 2024

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solarmorrigan · 1 year ago

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hallo! I saw the angsty prompt list thing, and the “don’t trust me.” One kind of stood out to me. You don’t have to write it, but you’re one of my favorite writers on here so I thought it might be cool :)

Hullo! So I did fill this prompt once already, but I'd had a bunch of ideas for it and I was in the mood for something a little softer, so I did another! Thanks for giving me the opening to write it (and for the compliment, you're so kind?? 😭)

[General warning for mention of Steve's shitty parents and their generally shitty parenting technique]

Angsty-ish Prompt List

“Why am I the one doing this?” Steve grouses, straining slightly as he struggles with the full box on the top shelf. “Instead of, y’know, you?”

“You’re stronger than me,” Eddie replies readily.

“Bullshit, I’ve seen you lugging amps and shit around during your shows,” Steve shoots back, grumbling as he works the box free from the high shelf.

“You got me.” Eddie grins, though Steve’s back is turned to him. “I just like watching you work, sweetheart.”

From the depths of the storage closet, Steve gives an audible snort of laughter, but he also stops arguing. Then, with a little noise of triumph, Steve finally manages to tug the box free, holding it aloft long enough to back out of the closet and then heaving it down onto the floor, where it lands in a clatter of plastic and jingling bells.

“Excellent.” Eddie falls upon the box, rubbing his hands together in anticipation before tugging at the tucked flaps. “There’s one more box, would you mind? It’s on the floor; long rectangle.”

“You said there was one box,” Steve says, eyes narrowed.

“Whoops, miscounted,” Eddie says breezily, smiling up at Steve with as much innocence as he can muster. “You know how bad I am at all that academic shit.”

“Says the guy who plays a math game for fun,” Steve drawls.

For the sake of time, Eddie leaves the bait where it is, instead batting his eyelashes up at Steve. “Pretty please, pretty boy? It’s definitely the last one.”

Steve holds out for exactly five more seconds before retreating into the closet with a roll of his eyes. “If you suddenly remember one more after this, I’m suddenly gonna remember something I have to do back at my house and leave you to do all the decorating on your own,” he calls back, muffled from behind the coats Eddie can hear him shoving aside to find the last box.

Eddie’s at least eighty percent sure he’s bluffing, but it’s no matter – he hadn’t been lying. Most of what he needs is in the box in front of him: strands of garland, wrapped tangles of lights, and the same ugly pinecone wreath with the world’s most annoying string of jingle bells attached that Wayne’s been hanging since Eddie was a kid. Everything else—the ornaments, more lights, and, of course, the tree—is in the hefty, rectangular box Steve is currently hauling out into the entryway.

Normally, Wayne would be there to help, but his and Eddie’s work schedules have fallen out of sync in the hectic holiday rush of extra shifts; if one has the day off, the other is too tired by the time they get home to entertain anything as energy-consuming as getting up on a ladder to hang lights. Eddie and Steve, however (somehow; miraculously), share at least one day off a week, which has seen Steve recruited as Eddie’s backup decorating partner.

“That it?” Steve breathes as releases the box and stands straight, tugging his sweater down from where it’s ridden up (Eddie can’t believe he’s dating someone who unironically wears ugly Christmas sweaters. He can’t believe Steve makes them look good).

“That’s it,” Eddie promises. He plucks two balled-up strings of lights from the box in front of him and stands up, one under each arm. “So here’s what I’m thinking: I’ll get started on the outside, while you,” Eddie puts a boot to the tree box and shoves it towards Steve with a grunt; even across the laminate flooring it doesn’t slide easy, practically cocooned in layers of packing tape from so many years of opening and resealing, “get the tree going.”

Already halfway wrapped up in how he’s going to string the lights (he’d always loved decorating the outside of the trailer, and now he gets to figure out a new configuration for the tiny porch on his and Wayne’s equally tiny new house; it ain’t much, as they say, but it’s home – or, at least, it’s starting to feel like it), Eddie nearly misses the look of confusion that crosses Steve’s face.

“Uh… how do you want it set up?” Steve asks.

Eddie cocks an eyebrow at him. “Stand goes on the floor, pointy end goes up. I have faith in you, Steve.”

Steve rolls his eyes again, but with his frown in place he looks like he might actually be irritated. “I mean, you have to tell me how you want it, like, decorated and shit. Where it’s supposed to go, that sort of thing.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve decorated a tree before, man,” Eddie says. “I know I saw one at your house last time I was there.”

“Yeah, but that’s my house. This is yours. You have to tell me how you want it,” Steve says.

Once again for the sake of time, Eddie leaves the obvious opening for a joke where it lies. “Steve, it’s – y’know, lights, garland, ornaments, it’s not rocket science. I trust you to do a good job.”

“No, don’t trust me, just tell me how you want it decorated,” Steve insists. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to do it wrong.”

“It’s… a Christmas tree, sweetheart,” Eddie says slowly. “You can’t do it wrong.”

“Oh, I assure you, I can,” Steve says with a laugh. “Seriously, like – people are super particular about how their trees are set up, I think. My mom always has been. I remember when I was, like, ten, she and my dad had been away for a while, and we were coming up on Christmas pretty fast, and none of the decorations were up, so I figured I’d at least put the tree up. Surprise them when they got home, right? Except my mom lost her shit when they got home and saw it.”

“Noooot in a good way, I take it,” Eddie hazards.

“Nah, I did it all wrong. The tinsel wasn’t spread out right, and there’s only supposed to be a certain number of ornaments on each branch, and she wanted the angel on top, not the star, so she made me take the whole thing down.” Steve shrugs. “So, seriously, even if you don’t think you have a certain way you want it done, I’ll probably manage to find the exact way you don’t want it, so you should just tell me.”

“Steve, I promise, that tree is, like, older than I am; you can’t make it worse. As long as you don’t set it on fire, I’ll be happy with it,” Eddie says.

“That’s not–” Steve cuts himself off, running one hand through his hair with a strained little laugh. “I don’t understand why you won’t just tell me how you want it done.”

Eddie shakes his head, dropping the bundles of lights back into their box; he hates when this happens – hates when he stumbles over some mundane thing that Steve’s parents have fucked up for him that Eddie only manages to poke like a kid with a sharp stick at a beehive because he didn’t even realize it could be an issue. Who the fuck gives their kid a complex over how the Christmas tree is decorated? Who does that?

(Then again, Eddie’s pretty sure it’s about more than just their expectations for the tree.)

“Okay, I need you to listen to me,” Eddie says, voice firm but hands gentle as he reaches for Steve’s own. “I swear I’m not trying to set you up for failure. I’m really not. The tree isn’t supposed to look perfect. It’s supposed to be kinda crooked and covered in dumb ornaments you can’t even remember the stories behind and only have, like, half a string of popcorn around it because you ate most of it when your uncle wasn’t looking and didn’t leave enough for the tree.”

Steve stares at him, brows furrowed, like he’s trying to piece what Eddie’s telling him into what he already knows about the world, like he needs both things to be true, even though they don’t fit together.

“Actually…” Eddie says slowly, deciding that it may be best to change tack, “come to think of it, there’s one thing about decorating the tree that I should’ve told you. Most important thing, really. Can’t believe I forgot.”

“What?” Steve asks, halfway between wary and eager for the instruction.

“You’re supposed to do it together. That’s what makes it good.” Eddie lets go of one of Steve’s hands to smack the heel of his own to the side of his forehead. “Duh. Silly me.”

Steve shakes his head, letting it hang forward with a little huff of a laugh as some of the tension leeches from his shoulders. “You’re such a dork, do you know that?”

“Mhm,” Eddie hums, grabbing Steve by the front of that stupid, ugly sweater (it has reindeer on it, how does it not look awful on him?) and pulling him up for a quick kiss. “So how about you help me do the outside lights, and then we’ll come back inside and do the tree together?”

One last flicker of uncertainty crosses Steve’s face. “What about Wayne?”

A flutter of fondness rolls through Eddie’s chest, the same as it always does when Steve doesn’t just consider Eddie, but the things and people important to him. “His favorite part is stringing the popcorn. We can do that when he gets home.”

“Oh.” Steve nods, as though he is considering this very seriously, then smirks at Eddie. “Should we make some to eat before he gets back, so you leave enough for the tree?”

Eddie smacks him on the shoulder, holding back a laugh. “Alright, Harrington, just for that, you’re the one untangling the lights.”

“What, like it’s a punishment?” Steve asks. “I’m great at untangling Christmas lights.”

“Oh, baby,” Eddie presses a hand to his heart and pretends to swoon over the box of decorations, “when you say things like that, it makes me want to keep you forever.”

And Steve’s answering grin at that is far brighter than anything they’re going to decorate with today, Eddie is certain.

#finntheehumaneater #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #eddiesteve #I also wanted to write something a little holiday-related!#so I'll be honest this is a little schmoopy but like. that happens sometimes yanno?#solar wrote #answers from solar

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