#Blog about stop compromising

[aashishmnhr24]

Stop compromising

Guilt is an emotion that is pointless. But it's a good weapon. Guilt is one of the weapons that can be used against you by manipulative individuals. They are going to make you feel bad for past defeats and minor mistakes, or they going to make you feel guilty for being over confident and prideful. They will use it against you every time you are feeling satisfied or sure about yourself.

No one should ever feel too good; they will say about themselves.

Another tool that is used by manipulators against you is doubt. They will work to instill within you a sense of self doubt - doubt about your skills and your worth.

The general aim is to throw you off balance and make you guess yourself second. This way manipulators gain control. They persuade you to compromise on your beliefs, your goals and yourself, and their impact becomes greater.

Avoid feeling guilty and avoid self - doubting.

You do not owe anyone anything when it comes to your own life. You deserve to make yourself feel comfortable and to be proud of your achievements. You deserve to have good sense of trust and self confidence in what you do.

If you compromise it is road to self destruction.

[cachexiacomplication]

Soulmate broke up with me. Gonna stab myself in the eye

[briony-tallis]

#much to say about a dedicated reformist #whose arc was about how his dedication to reforms repeatedly destroyed the lives of the women (and girls) who mattered most to him #ending the arc with a very not reformist tactic (via @oncewild)

The Handmaid’s Tale — S6E9: Execution

[wonderlandwalker]

Developments | Steve Harrington x reader

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 / 𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈

summary: Steve keeps finding Polaroids of you in… compromising positions. Each one burns hotter than the last, until his ‘just friends’ act is ashes

word count: 5.7k

tags / content warnings: pining, explicit language and insinuations, pure smut too, Steve is a disaster really, hurt, comfort and whole nine yards of my ramblings, au where mario kart existed in the 80's

a/n: had an anxiety attack while abroad in Germany. Slept for 14 hours. Debated deleting my blog. Wrote this instead

The first time it happens, Steve is three beers deep at The Hideout, loose-limbed and laughing at something Robin just said—something crude, probably, given the way Eddie’s wheezing into his whisky, shoulders shaking. Steve’s still grinning when he reaches into his jacket pocket for his lighter, fingers searching for the familiar shape.

Instead, they brush against something stiff.

What the hell?

He pulls it out under the dim, beer-stained lights of the bar, and—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

It’s you.

Not just you—your bare skin glowing in the grainy tint of a Polaroid, the flash catching every curve, every shadow. One knee is drawn up, giving way to the perfect view, and your arm is thrown across your face like you couldn’t bear to be seen. But your mouth—Christ, your mouth is open in silent ecstasy, lips swollen and parted, and your fingers—

Jesus Christ.

Your fingers are buried in your cunt, working deep like you’re trying to feed an insatiable ache, the wet shine unmistakable even in the cheap film. His throat goes dry. His pulse kicks so hard he can feel it in his fucking teeth. Eddie says something then, some smartass remark that has Robin snorting into her drink, but Steve doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t care. All he can think about is how you’re sitting right across from him, legs crossed, sipping your drink and quipping back like it’s the most normal evening in the world. He slaps the photo face down against his thigh, grip so tight the edges crumple.

How the hell did this get in here?

He doesn’t remember you giving it to him. Doesn’t remember touching it, period. But now that he’s seen it, he can’t unsee it—the curve of your hip, the desperate arch of your back, the way your brows were scrunched together like you were right on the edge—

Stop.

He shoves it back into his pocket, but it’s too late. The image is seared into his skull—it’s just a stupid Polaroid, but now it’s all he can think about. His pulse thrums under his skin, restless and too warm. He shouldn’t be this affected. He shouldn’t. But his traitorous mind keeps circling back to it— how easy it would be to move closer, to let his hands settle where they’ve been itching to go, to see if your breath would catch the way he imagines it would. All he can think about is how badly he wants to tiptoe that thin line between friendship and sex, but it’s a dangerous game. One he’s played before and lost spectacularly. He knows the rules—knows how quickly almost turns into too much, how just friends becomes we shouldn’t have done that in the space of a single reckless moment.

But god, the temptation is killing him.

The way your knee brushes against his under the table like it’s an accident, but he knows it’s not. The way you lick salt off the rim of your margarita, eyes locked on his, like you’re waiting for him to break first. The way you shift just slightly, just enough for him to catch the ghost of a smirk—like you know exactly what he’s picturing.

It’s a slippery slope he’s sworn off.

Or at least, he tried to. But then you catch his eye, lips quirking like you can read every filthy thought racing through his head, and—Fuck. He’s too far gone already.

The following four days, Steve lives in a special kind of hell. The photo should’ve been forgettable. Just some stray Polaroid lost in the chaos of his life—another piece of clutter tossed onto the pile of things he doesn’t have the energy to deal with.

But it’s not. It’s you, branded into his brain with the precision of a lit match pressed to skin. No amount of pretending—no amount of jerking off in the shower with his forehead braced against the tile, teeth gritted around your name—dulls the ache. If anything, it makes it worse. Every time he closes his eyes, there you are.

The worst part?  Nothing’s changed. You still sling your legs over his lap like it’s nothing, like you hadn’t ruined him with a single fucking square of film. No sly glances, no secretive smirks. Just normal, like you haven’t been haunting his dreams with your fingers between—

God. He’s losing his goddamn mind.

The next one hits him like a slap to the face. He’s rummaging through the disaster zone of his coffee table—shoving aside empty beer cans, a half-eaten bag of chips, a crumpled pack of cigarettes—when his fingers brush against something that isn’t his keys. Cold dread slithers down his spine even before he pulls it free.

Another fucking picture.

It steals the air from his lungs.

You.

On your back, sheets a mess beneath you, your hair fanned out like some kind of halo. The angle is intimate, almost reverent—the curve of your bare hip, the dip of your waist, the way your fingers dig into your own thighs, holding yourself open.

Wet.

Exposed.

Your head is tipped back, lips parted around a moan he can almost hear, eyes half-lidded, lost in it. The flush on your chest, the way your body arches—like you’re caught in the thick of pleasure, like you’re drowning in it. Steve’s not sure if he’s surprised or jealous or just furious that he wasn’t the one to pull that expression from you.

He knew you were beautiful—that wasn't news. Everyone with working eyes and half a brain could see that. But this? The way golden light caressed the sweat-slick curve of your throat, the way your pleasure wasn't performative but private, intimate, real—

Christ.

It wasn't just erotic. It was sacred.

The Polaroid nearly slips from his trembling fingers before he catches it, the glossy surface warping slightly under his desperate grip. He forces himself to relax, to breathe, but the damage is done—the image already tattooed behind his eyelids.

Are you leaving these on purpose?

The question claws its way up his throat like a living thing.

It can't be.

But God help him, he needs it to be

His thumb traces the edge of the photograph as he drinks in the details: Your lips—swollen, glistening, the faint indentation of teeth where you'd bitten down to silence yourself. Your eyes—black as spilt ink, heavy-lidded yet startlingly aware, staring through the lens like you were seeing him, like you wanted him to witness this unravelling. A voice whispers through the static of his thoughts: You're missing something, and the realisation hits like a sucker punch—he's been here before, trapped in this limbo between wanting and having, between friends and something else. He remembers the exact moment he first knew you held his heart: The air in family video had been thick with the scent of stale popcorn and the hum of the ancient AC unit fighting a losing battle against the summer heat. You'd laughed at something he had said—and the sound had punched through him like a bullet. Your tongue darted out to catch a drop of Cherry Coke from your lower lip, and suddenly his hands were sweating, his collar too tight, his entire body electric with the need to move, to touch, to— "Steve?" You'd caught him staring, your head tilting in that way that made his ribs ache. "You okay?"

Now. Say it now.

But his tongue had turned to lead. Three words lodged in his throat: I want you. Then the bell chimed, Robin bursting in with arms full of candy, grinning as she spoke, “Okay, who wants to bet Eddie eats all the Red Vines before the movie even starts?” and the moment shattered like dropped glass.

Now, staring at this damning photograph, the same fear coils in his gut—what if he's wrong? What if these Polaroids aren’t for him?

What if they’re just—

Lost.

Left behind.

Not meant for his insatiable eyes.

The thought sends acid flooding through his veins. Because the alternative—that you planted these for him to find, that you wanted him to see you like this—that wasn't just hope. It was arson. And he was already burning; the way you look at him sometimes, like you’re waiting for him to figure it out; the way your fingers linger when you pass him a drink; the way you smile when he stumbles over his words, like you like that he’s flustered.

And now—

The Polaroids. Left where only he would find them.

Taunting him.

Testing him.

Tempting him.

The third Polaroid nearly fucking kills him. By the time your group crowds into the diner booth, Steve's almost convinced himself he imagined it all. Almost. But then, after about an hour of comfortable familiarity, his fingers brushing the edge of his milkshake glass, the coaster shifts –

There.

Tucked beneath it, glossy and damning. He chokes so hard Eddie has to thump him on the back. "Jesus, Harrington, are you allergic to strawberries now?" Eddie's voice is all amusement, but Steve barely hears it over the blood roaring in his ears. He doesn't answer. He's too busy slipping the picture under the table, pulse hammering in his throat as he glances at you across the booth. You're stirring your drink absently, the neon diner lights catching in your hair. And then he risks a look at the Polaroid.

Fuck.

This one's... worse. Or better. He doesn't fucking know anymore. It's a close-up. Your face, tilted up toward the camera, tears streaking through smudged mascara, pupils blown wide. And Christ— there's cum dripping off your chin, your lips parted like you're showing off. The flash had caught every detail: the wet shine on your bottom lip, the way your eyelashes stick together, the way you look up with a glint in your eyes like you were looking at him, like you wanted him to see – His jeans grow uncomfortably tight. He shifts in the booth, pressing his thighs together as heat floods his face. It turns his brain to static.

Obscene. Perfect.

No.

Across the table, you tilt your head, voice dripping with sweet concern. "Steve? You okay?"

That's what really drives the stake in. The way you sound normal, like you're not the same person in the photo — wrecked and wanting. Like you haven't been systematically dismantling his self-control. He forces a smile, fingers twitching against the sticky diner table. "Peachy." His voice comes out strangled. Robin kicks him under the table, her eyes sharp with knowing.

He spends the rest of the evening in quiet agony, debating whether to bring it up, tearing himself apart for an answer that won't come. Every time you laugh at something Eddie says, your throat bobbing, he remembers how it looked in the photo – stretched taut as you tilted your head back. Every time you lick ice cream off your spoon, he thinks about your lips, shiny and parted. His mind drifts back to the first time he met you — Robin's bright smile as she introduced you, her "You two will get along so well!" ringing in his ears like a prophecy. Then, the first flicker of something more – that slow, dawning realisation as you sat there, a giggling mess from the joint he'd rolled, clumsily teaching him pat-a-cake like it was the most crucial lesson in the world. Your fingers had brushed against his palms, warm and sure, and something in his chest had clenched tight. Every moment since has been hidden torment. Every glance across the Family Video counter when you'd come to visit Robin, your eyes lingering just a second too long. Every laugh you'd smothered behind your hand when he'd fumbled his words. Every time he'd caught himself staring at the curve of your neck, wondering how you'd sound if he pressed his mouth there. Every time he caught himself wondering if you felt that same invisible pull.

And now?

Now he's stuck with this.

What the hell is he even supposed to say? "Hey, so, funny story—I found a Polaroid of you fucking yourself the other day. Any reason that might be lying around?"

Yeah. That’d go over real fucking well.

But who else would be leaving these? He knows it has to be you. Because no one else looks at him like that. No one else smirks like that when he stumbles over his words. And God help him—he loves it. But he's Steve Harrington, and Steve Harrington doesn't ruin good things. Doesn't risk friendships for fleeting moments of pleasure, no matter how badly his hands itch to touch. So he tucks the Polaroid into his pocket, lets Eddie tease him about spacing out, lets Robin shoot him looks that promise future interrogation, and pretends his heart isn't pounding loud enough for the whole diner to hear. And when you brush your foot against his under the table, he doesn't pull away; he wonders.—

How much longer can he keep pretending before he snaps and does something stupid? Like pin you against the nearest flat surface and find out if you taste as good as you look in those photos. The thought sends another wave of heat through him. He takes a too-big gulp of his milkshake to hide the way his breath hitches. You smile at him over the rim of your glass, all innocence and sharp edges, and Steve realises with dawning horror that he’s already in too deep to climb back out.

The fourth photo is the last straw. He finds it in his glove compartment that same night, the edge jutting out like a taunt as he sits there, engine off, the silence of the parking lot pressing in around him. For a second, he just stares.

Jesus.

A mirror shot—the kind that feels private.

Except now it’s in his hands.

And fuck, it’s— You’re on your knees, but you’re not facing the glass. No. Your face is tilted up, lips stretched obscenely around your own fingers, glistening with spit, your tongue pressing against the pads like you’re imagining them as something else—someone else. Your lashes flutter, heavy with the kind of pleasure that borders on pain, like the strain is its own sweet torment. And shit, your ass—arched high, round and perfect, the curve of it taunting him, the dimples at the base of your spine begging for his thumbs to press into them. The way your hips tilt just slightly, like you’re already waiting, already needing the sharp bite of a handprint blooming across your skin. He can almost hear the sound it would make—the sharp crack of his palm meeting your flesh and the punched-out whimper you’d choke on right after. Your other hand claws at your own tits, fingers digging in, squeezing hard enough to make your breath hitch. The fabric of your shirt is rucked up, your bra shoved aside, and the sight of your nipple pebbled tight under your own touch—

Christ.

His hands shake. The photo nearly slips from his grip, and he has to white-knuckle the steering wheel just to steady himself. His throat is too tight. His jeans are too fucking tight; he shifts, grinding his hips down against the seat just to relieve the pressure, but it’s worse—so much worse—because now he can feel the rough drag of fabric, the heat of his own desperation, and God, he’s dripping, already slick with the image of you burnt into his skull. This isn’t—

This isn’t fair. He’s imagined it a hundred times. Fantasised about the way your mouth would look wrapped around him, the sounds you’d make when he finally got his hands on you. But never like this. Never with the cruel twist of being nothing more than a spectator to his own undoing.

Fuck.

His head thuds back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut like he can erase the image burnt into the backs of his eyelids. But it doesn’t help. The photo is branded into his soul.

He should stop looking.

He should.

But he can’t.

Because this isn’t just some fantasy anymore. This is proof. Proof that you think about this. Proof that you want this. Proof that you might—

Might—

Want him.

And that’s what terrifies him. Because if he’s wrong— If he misreads this—He’ll ruin everything.

But God, the way your back curves in the photo. The way your lips glisten. The way your fingers dig into your own skin like you’re aching for someone else’s touch. His fingers twitch against his thigh. He could—

He could find you.

Right now. Pull you into the backseat. Make that look in the photo a reality. But what if he’s just—

Projecting. Hopeful. Pathetic. His jaw clenches. He can’t risk it. He won’t. The photo goes back into the glove compartment. His keys twist in the ignition. The engine roars to life. But he doesn’t drive away. Not yet. Because one thought won’t leave him alone—

What if she wants you to come find her?

So he plans to ask you about the Polaroids—if he can ever figure out how the hell to bring it up without sounding like a complete creep.

His apartment is spotless, scrubbed down in a frenzy of nervous energy. Just a regular movie night, he tells himself. You’d had dozens. Nothing to panic about. And for a while, it is normal. You steal his fries, mock his shitty taste in films, and press your ice-cold hands against his thigh just to hear him yelp. It’s easy. It’s you.

But then—

Halfway through, as he gathers empty food containers, something flutters to the floor. Upside down. He knows what it is before he even turns it over. His heart stops. You’re still on the couch, laughing at something on screen—but he can’t help himself. He picks it up. And—

Fuck.

It’s you—sinking down onto a toy like you need it, like you’d die without it. Your eyes are closed, lips parted in relief. One hand braces against the bed, the other at your throat, fingers pressing in like you’re chasing more, like you want to feel it everywhere. The angle is obscene, the slick shine of your arousal glistening where you’re spread open for the camera. Steve swears he can feel it—the phantom roll of your hips, the way you’d clench around him if it was his cock instead— "Something wrong?"

Your voice is too soft, too normal, and it guts him. The photo sticks to his sweat-damp palm as his brain short-circuits between this you—wanting, wrecked, fucking yourself like it’s your only salvation—and the you standing in front of him now, all wide-eyed concern and bitten-pink lips. Ask her. The thought burns through him. Just fucking ask her. But what comes out is, "Nah, just—uh—dropped a napkin." God fucking damnit. You tilt your head, and for one heart-stopping second, he thinks you know. That you’ll smirk, step closer, and whisper, "Like what you see, Harrington?" But you don’t. You just hum, "You’ve been weird all night."

Weird. Yeah. That’s one word for it.

He shoves the Polaroid into his back pocket like it’s evidence of a crime. His crime. Because, Christ, he shouldn’t have looked. Shouldn’t be hard right now, straining against his sweatpants as you blink up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to him. He forces himself to step around you, putting the couch between you like it’ll save him. "Just tired," he mumbles, grabbing his half-finished beer. The bottle is slick with condensation, and he clings to that—the cold—instead of the sliver of skin exposed when you stretch, the curve of your waist he knows by heart. Intimately. He’s catalogued every dip and slope of you—the way your hip fits perfectly under his palm when he guides you through a crowded room, the way your waist nips in just enough for his fingers to span it. He’s thought about it. Too much.

You don’t push. Just flop back onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. "Well, hurry up. This movie’s shit, but I want to see how it ends." Steve exhales through his nose. Right. The movie. Except all he can focus on is the weight of the photo in his pocket. The way you’d looked—fuck—like you were made to take cock, like you’d beg for it, like you’d whimper his name if he just—

That’s the problem, isn’t it? He knows you. Knows the way your nose scrunches when you laugh. Knows how you cling to your coffee mug in the morning, both hands wrapped around it like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Knows the way you’d held his hand that one time he got too high and swore the ceiling was breathing, your thumb brushing over his knuckles like you were anchoring him. But this?

This is a version of you he isn't allowed to have, isn’t allowed to need.

One he is desperate for.

The movie drones on, some cheap horror flick with terrible effects, but Steve’s pulse hasn’t slowed since he found the damn photo. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees drawn up, fingers idly tracing the rim of your soda can. Innocent. Bored.

Too innocent.

Because he’s seen the way your gaze lingers on him when you think he’s not looking. The way you bite your lip when he rolls his sleeves up. The way you lean in just a little too close when you laugh. Steve exhales, rough, dragging a hand down his face.

Fuck.

He should say something. Should’ve done something. But the truth is, he’s fucking scared. Terrified of being wrong. Terrified of ruining this—whatever this is—with his stupid, greedy hands. Because what if the Polaroids aren’t for him? What if the way you look at him, all slow smiles and heavy-lidded glances, is just him, reading into things? What if he reaches for you, and you pull away?  Every time you shift, his gaze flicks to your thighs. Every time you laugh, he imagines the way your breath would hitch if he dragged his teeth over your pulse. Every time you look at him, he wonders—

Is this a game to you?

Are you waiting for me to break?

Because he’s close. So fucking close.

When you leave, you linger in the doorway—just a second too long. Your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, the fabric slipping between them like a secret. It’s innocent. It’s not. The way your knuckles brush against his hip, featherlight, makes his breath catch.

You’re tempting fate.

You’re torturing him.

"Night, Steve," you murmur, lips quirking in that way that drives him insane—like you know exactly what you’re doing to him. And for a wild, reckless moment, he considers it: Pinning you against the door. Trapping you with his body. Letting his mouth finally, finally ask the question that’s been clawing at his ribs for weeks—

Are you doing this on purpose?

But then you’re gone. The door clicks shut. And all he’s left with is the ghost of your perfume—something sweet and sharp, clinging to his clothes like a promise—and the Polaroid in his pocket, burning a hole straight through to his skin.

The get-together on Friday is a grand fucking disaster from minute one. Steve's apartment swims in a haze of cigarette smoke and the stale tang of spilt beer, the kind of party atmosphere that usually feels like second nature but tonight just makes his skin itch. The laughter rings too loud in his ears—Eddie's wheezing cackle from the couch, Robin's snort-giggle as she loses at poker again. Normally, he'd be right there with them, tossing out stupid jokes and soaking up the chaos. But tonight, every word sticks in his throat like gum, and every forced smile makes his jaw ache. And you.

Fucking hell, you.

You're everywhere. Perched on the arm of Eddie's chair, your knee brushing his. Leaning over Robin's shoulder to peek at her cards, your hair falling in a curtain that smells like vanilla when it grazes Steve's arm. Laughing at some stupid story Nancy's telling, your head thrown back, the column of your throat working as you swallow your drink. Every glimpse is a fresh punch to the gut. He's two beers deep and still wound tighter than a spring when it happens. You turn just as he steps forward, and his drink sloshes over the rim, drenching the front of your shirt in cold amber liquid. "Shit—fuck, I'm sorry—" Steve stammers, already grabbing for napkins he knows won’t help.

You look down at the mess, then back up at him with an expression he can't quite read. "Real smooth, Harrington," you deadpan, but there's no real heat in it. Just that same unreadable something that's been in your eyes all night. The fabric clings to your skin as you peel it away, and Steve's mouth goes dry. He forces his gaze up to your face, but it's too late—he's already seen the way the wet cotton moulds to the curve of your breast, the shadow of your nipple through the thin material. "Do you mind if I use your bathroom?" you ask, and your voice is so normal, so casual, like you didn’t just notice him staring. Like you're not standing there half-drenched because of him.

Steve swallows hard. "Yeah, no, I mean—go ahead." He gestures vaguely down the hall, his face burning. "Towels are under the sink if you... you know." You nod, sliding past him so close the heat of your body sears through his shirt, your arm brushing his in a way that sends sparks skittering down his spine. The party's dying embers surround you—empty cups littering sticky tables as the four of you remain in the hollowed-out quiet of the now-empty apartment, and when you disappear into the bathroom, Steve exhales like he's been holding his breath for hours.

Robin materialises at his elbow like the world's smuggest ghost. Her grin vibrates with barely contained glee, fingers digging into his bicep hard enough to leave crescent moons in his skin. "Dude," she stage-whispers, her breath scalding his ear, "you're a walking fucking disaster." Steve doesn't deny it. He's been digging his own grave for weeks – every aborted reach across the Beemer's console, every confession drowned in stale beer, every time he's nearly had you pinned against the Family Video horror section only to choke at the last second. "Christ, Buckley," he hisses through gritted teeth, "not now—" The bathroom door creaks open. You. Polaroid pinched between your fingers like an executioner's blade, edges worn soft from how often he's traced them. Steve's stomach plummets through the scuffed floor.

Oh, fuck.

Oh fuck, oh fuck—

The drawer. He'd forgotten about the goddamn bathroom drawer he left the Polaroids in.

Your approach is lethal. Purposeful. The sharp staccato of your boots on hardwood echoes like a firing squad cocking their rifles. The air between you curdles – thick with tension and something darker, something that makes Steve's pulse stutter in his throat. When you speak, your voice drops to that register—the one that turns his bones to liquid, something that makes the fine hairs on the back of Steve's neck stand at attention.

"Where did you get these?" Not a question. A goddamn death sentence.

Robin's nails bite deeper. "Holy shit," she breathes, eyes darting between you like she's watching the best tennis match of her life. "This is better than my parents' divorce." Steve's heartbeat riots against his ribs as you stop just beyond reach—close enough that your perfume coils around him. The Polaroid dangles from your fingers, the image facing him like an indictment: your lips swollen, lashes fluttering against tear-stained cheeks, fingers twisted in sheets that should be his. The lights hum overhead as you tilt your head, catching the sharp challenge in your gaze. "Where did you get these?" you repeat, each word dripping with deliberate intent. Steve's throat seals shut. Every lie he'd prepared withers under your burning stare, under Robin's vibrating presence at his side, and under the way his body betrays him with every inch you close between you.

"I—" His voice cracks like dry kindling. "My jacket. And—fuck."

You step closer. The brush of your knee against his sends electric currents through the denim. "And?"

"My glove compartment." The admission tears from him like flesh from a wound.

Robin makes a sound between a wheeze and a dying air horn. Your smirk could strip paint from walls. "Interesting."  Another step forward, and now your chest nearly grazes his with each breath. He can't tell if you're moving in for a kiss or a kill shot.

"And what were you planning to do with them, Steve?" His mouth floods. A dozen filthy images flash through his mind—his teeth marking your thigh, your back arching against the employee break room wall, that broken moan you'd make when—

You lean in. Your lips ghost over the shell of his ear as you whisper, hot and deliberate: Steve's vision tunnels to pinpricks. "You—you've been—" Your grin cuts deep. "Leaving them for you?  Yeah." The world tilts on its axis. Steve stares at you, caught between outrage and a hunger so deep it terrifies him. "You've been messing with me this whole time—"

A careless shrug as you step closer—so close your thighs slot between his, your skirt riding up just enough to make his hands twitch with the need to touch. "Maybe I wanted to see if you'd crack."

"Why?" It's barely more than a breath. Your expression turns sweet, soft. "Because I like how you look at me when you think I'm not watching." A heartbeat of silence stretches between you, thick and charged.

"Did you like them?"

The question hangs suspended, heavier than the humid air between your bodies. Steve's control shatters. “I hated those photos,” he grits out, voice shredded.  “Not because—fuck, not because I didn’t want you. But because every time I looked at them—”  His jaw clenches so tight it aches. “All I could think was it should’ve been me making you look like that.”

Your lips part, just slightly, and you step closer. Just one more step. But it’s enough to make his pulse riot. “Prove it,” you murmur, your lips brushing his with provocation.

His hands find your waist.

Your breath hitches.

The space between you collapses. And when he kisses you, it’s not sweet. It’s desperate. It’s what I’ve wanted forever. It’s why the hell did we wait so long? You gasp against his mouth, fingers twisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, every desperate inch of his body imprinting itself on yours like he’s trying to melt into your skin. Then his mouth crashes down—hot, demanding, lips moving with a possessive hunger that rewrites your pulse into something wild. You whimper into the kiss, fingers scrambling at his shoulders as Steve licks into your mouth like a man starved. There's nothing gentle about it – he kisses like he's determined to rewrite your DNA with teeth and tongue and the relentless press of his hips until every cell in your body sings his name. It's everything he's fantasised about and so much more – the heat of you pressed flush against him, the crescent moons your nails carve into his shoulders, and the broken little whimper you make when he nips at your bottom lip. When he finally tears away, you're both panting, foreheads pressed together, his ragged breaths scalding your swollen mouth.

"Took you long enough," you murmur, voice wrecked. Steve huffs a laugh, thumb swiping across your kiss-slick lips with a reverence that belittles the hunger in his eyes. "Yeah, well. You could've just told me."

You grin, all teeth. "Where's the fun in—" "Hell no," Eddie's voice cuts in, strangled. "I am not witnessing Harrington's sexual awakening live and in colour—" Robin's already dragging him backwards by his collar. "We're leaving! Enjoy your— Jesus Christ, Steve, just— use protection—!"

The door slams. Steve's on you before the latch clicks – no hesitation, no space between. He pins you against the wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs, his body a furnace against yours. One hand fists in your hair while the other slides up your thigh with deliberate roughness, calloused fingers branding your skin through the fabric. "Should've done this years ago," he growls against your throat, thumb circling your nipple with just enough pressure to make you arch into him. "Why the hell didn't we?"

His forehead drops to yours. The warmth of his breath ghosts across your lips as he confesses, "Because you're Robin's best friend. Because Eddie would've never shut up about it." His hips grind forward, the hard line of his erection leaving no room for doubt. "Mostly because I was fucking terrified of losing you."

"You?"

"Thought you'd get bored of me," you admit, the wall biting into your shoulder blades as he presses closer. "Worried I'd just be... another conquest." Steve goes utterly still. When he meets your eyes, the raw intensity in his gaze makes your stomach flip. "You were never just anything." His whisper is rough, like the words were clawed from his chest. "I've been in love with you since you beat me at Mario Kart drunk off your ass in '86." A surprised laugh punches out of you. "That was like our fifth hangout."

"Yeah." His grin is all boyish charm, obscenely at odds with the filthy drag of his fingers on your inner thigh. "Fucking devastating." Then his mouth is at your ear, teeth scraping that sensitive spot that makes your knees weak. "Gonna spend the rest of the night proving it to you," he promises, voice dark with want. Something feral flashes in his eyes. In one fluid motion, he hauls you up — arm hooked under your thighs — and carries you toward the bedroom, your laughter dissolving into a moan as his mouth finds yours again. The last coherent thought you have before he drops you onto the mattress is that you should've let him find those Polaroids much, much sooner.

𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈 [����𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧]

[physalian]

How to Make Your Writing Less Stiff Part 3

Crazy how one impulsive post has quickly outshined every other post I have made on this blog. Anyway here’s more to consider. Once again, I am recirculating tried-and-true writing advice that shouldn’t have to compromise your author voice and isn’t always applicable when the narrative demands otherwise.

Part 1

Part 2

1. Eliminating to-be verbs (passive voice)

Am/is/are/was/were are another type of filler that doesn’t add anything to your sentences.

There were fireworks in the sky tonight. /// Fireworks glittered in the sky tonight.

My cat was chirping at the lights on the ceiling. /// My cat chirped at the lights on the ceiling.

She was standing /// She stood

He was running /// He ran

Also applicable in present tense, of which I’ve been stuck writing lately.

There are two fish-net goals on either end of the improvised field. /// Two fish-net goals mark either end of the improvised field.

For once, it’s a cloudless night. /// For once, the stars shine clear.

Sometimes the sentence needs a little finagling to remove the bad verb and sometimes you can let a couple remain if it sounds better with the cadence or syntax. Generally, they’re not necessary and you won’t realize how strange it looks until you go back and delete them (it also helps shave off your word count).

Sometimes the to-be verb is necessary. You're writing in past-tense and must convey that.

He was running out of time does not have the same meaning as He ran out of time, and are not interchangeable. You'd have to change the entire sentence to something probably a lot wordier to escape the 'was'. To-be verbs are not the end of the world.

2. Putting character descriptors in the wrong place

I made a post already about motivated exposition, specifically about character descriptions and the mirror trope, saying character details in the wrong place can look odd and screw with the flow of the paragraph, especially if you throw in too many.

She ties her long, curly, brown tresses up in a messy bun. /// She ties her curls up in a messy brown bun. (bonus alliteration too)

Generally, I see this most often with hair, a terrible rule of threes. Eyes less so, but eyes have their own issue. Eye color gets repeated at an exhausting frequency. Whatever you have in your manuscript, you could probably delete 30-40% of the reminders that the love interest has baby blues and readers would be happy, especially if you use the same metaphor over and over again, like gemstones.

He rolled his bright, emerald eyes. /// He rolled his eyes, a vibrant green in the lamplight.

To me, one reads like you want to get the character description out as fast as possible, so the hand of the author comes in to wave and stop the story to give you the details. Fixing it, my way or another way, stands out less as exposition, which is what character descriptions boil down to—something the audience needs to know to appreciate and/or understand the story.

3. Lacking flow between sentences

Much like sentences that are all about the same length with little variety in syntax, sentences that follow each other like a grocery list or instruction manual instead of a proper narrative are difficult to find gripping.

Jack gets out a stock pot from the cupboard. He fills it with the tap and sets it on the stove. Then, he grabs russet potatoes and butter from the fridge. He leaves the butter out to soften, and sets the pot to boil. He then adds salt to the water.

From the cupboard, Jack drags a hefty stockpot. He fills it with the tap, adds salt to taste, and sets it on the stove.

Russet potatoes or yukon gold? Jack drums his fingers on the fridge door in thought. Russet—that’s what the recipe calls for. He tosses the bag on the counter and the butter beside it to soften.

This is just one version of a possible edit to the first paragraph, not the end-all, be-all perfect reconstruction. It’s not just about having transitions, like ‘then’, it’s about how one sentence flows into the next, and you can accomplish better flow in many different ways.

4. Getting too specific with movement.

I don’t see this super often, but when it happens, it tends to be pretty bad. I think it happens because writers feel the need to overcompensate and over-clarify on what’s happening. Remember: The more specific you get, the more your readers are going to wonder what’s so important about these details. This is fiction, so every detail matters.

A ridiculous example:

Jack walks over to his closet. He kneels down at the shoe rack and tugs his running shoes free. He walks back to his desk chair, sits down, and ties the laces.

Unless tying his shoes is a monumental achievement for this character, all readers would need is:

Jack shoves on his running shoes.

*quick note: Do not add "down" after the following: Kneels, stoops, crouches, squats. The "down" is already implied in the verb.

This also happens with multiple movements in succession.

Beth enters the room and steps on her shoelace, nearly causing her to trip. She kneels and ties her shoes. She stands upright and keeps moving.

Or

Beth walks in and nearly trips over her shoelace. She sighs, reties it, and keeps moving.

Even then, unless Beth is a chronically clumsy character or this near-trip is a side effect of her being late or tired (i.e. meaningful), tripping over a shoelace is kind of boring if it does nothing for her character. Miles Morales’ untied shoelaces are thematically part of his story.

Sometimes, over-describing a character’s movement is meant to show how nervous they are—overthinking everything they’re doing, second-guessing themselves ad nauseam. Or they’re autistic coded and this is how this character normally thinks as deeply methodical. Or, you’re trying to emphasize some mundanity about their life and doing it on purpose.

If you’re not writing something where the extra details service the character or the story at large, consider trimming it.

—

These are *suggestions* and writing is highly subjective. Hope this helps!

[inkdrinkerworld]

I am so excited. I have been to a sleepover in ages.

Can I ask for Remus and arguments over the way the heater/air conditioning temp is set .

Maybe Remus likes to keep it on the cooler side due to his wolfie problems and the reader likes it on the warmer side.

Please and thank you🩵🩵

neither have i and i figured it was time to bring it back! at least to my blog anyway, i'm hoping we can do it weekly/biweekly!!! i'm so happy for your request and i hope you enjoy it lovely<3

"Remus, why is it subzero in here?" you ask as you step into your bedroom and your entire body erupts in goosebumps.

Your steps are quick as you make it to your bed, and under the covers beside your boyfriend.

"It's boiling outside, dovey. Felt like I was melting."

You huff, pressing your cold feet onto his shins. Remus hisses, but he's grown very accustomed to this action.

You don't like the room this cold, but Remus runs so hot that anything warmer than 20 C on your ac unit has him dotted with bullets of sweat.

The compromise is that Remus allows you to press your icy body into his all night even though you're already wearing his warmest sweater and fleece pants.

"Rem this can't be natural." your teeth chatter a little and Remus feels bad. He's ready to reach over and make the room warmer when you tuck your head under his chin and slip your hands under his shirt.

"M'sorry dovey. I can turn it down."

You stop him a second time with a firm, "No," Remus is about to argue but you just shake your head. "I can get warm, Remmy. I don't want you to wake up drenched in sweat because you're too warm."

Remus' heart clenches, you're precious.

"I can at least handle 23, baby."

You lift your head and glare at him, "I'm already warm, do not change the temperature, Remus Lupin."

He presses a kiss to your forehead and then guides your head back under his chin. "I love you, dovey." His hand slips under your sleep shirt and up your back, running his warm hand up and down your spine.

"I love you too." you yawn and your breath hits Remus' bare chest. "You're like a yeti."

He chuckles as you start drifting off, his body heat enough to make you feel cocooned and warm enough to fall asleep in seconds.

[hoonieyun]

this is where it ends ⋆˙⟡♡

days of dodging your boyfriend after your fight finally lead you to the answer you've been looking for (read part one here) heeseung 𐐪♡𐑂 jongseong 𐐪♡𐑂 jaeyun 𐐪♡𐑂 sunghoon genre: aaaaangsttttt!!! angst!! heartbreak.. OOF warnings: toxic relationship, bad coping mechanisms, profanity, mentions of drinking as an addiction, gaslighting, arguing, 18+

hoonieyun notes: WHEW... lowkey was like.. damn this shit is TOO angsty so sorry in advance but im obsessed with angst lately and watching xo kitty did not help because that show was a rollercoaster LMAO anyways i hope you guys enjoy this sad piece of work because i have more coming with my vday anthology and exes reunited series plus! i've just announced my 1k follower special!

𐐪♡𐑂 @pagemiah @jiiyen @jnysaln @xh01bri @rairaiblog @laurradoesloveu @17ericas @manaah02 @heeseung64 @zorange13 @heartheejake @cloud-lyy @heeweenie @jakesimfromstatefarm @lovelymelon @1-itsneverthatserious-1 @anushkaaaiaiiaiaia

@chvconn3 @heeheeyeoiizz01 @pjselee @malloryaloisia @alienqbrain @jooniesbears-blog @haeeeeefer @firstclassjaylee

heeseung ⋆˚ʚɞ

it had been 3 days since you left heeseung standing in your apartment, dumbfounded and unsure of where you were. you really had hoped he would run after you that night but he didn’t and that seemed to put the nail in the coffin for you. 

were you ready to throw away your relationship all because of this? 

was it worth it to lose the person you love? 

you had pondered on so many questions since that night and each question felt like you were guilt tripping yourself into thinking that your own feelings weren’t valid, like you were trying to convince yourself that you were overreacting and that heeseung was right. 

why were you being so annoying?

but these questions only led to more questions instead of answers.

were you being annoying or were you just tired of not being heard? 

if you hadn’t been the one to constantly ask him to clean up after himself would he have done it on his own? 

why were you trying to come up with reasons to talk yourself back into his arms when you truly knew deep down the answer you were looking for…

you just weren’t ready to come to terms with it. 

so here you were, hurriedly packing what you could before heeseung could come home. and just to your luck, he had arrived much earlier than you anticipated. “yn?” heeseungs says, shock painted across his face as he sees you standing in the hallway with a box of your things. 

“wh- what are you doing?” he asks, eyes falling on the box in your hands. 

both of you knew the answer to that. 

“i think- i can’t do this anymore, hee… 

i did a lot of thinking these past fews days and everything i thought of i found myself trying to make excuses for you. trying to figure out why i was acting this way and why i was going out of my way to make it seem like i was the one causing these issues and stressing myself out and then i realized… 

why was i trying to compromise my own happiness and well being for someone who didn’t care about me? 

for someone who couldn’t simply understand where i was coming from and couldn’t even listen to me when all i would ask for was something so easy as to clean up after yourself. 

heeseung, you’re grown and so am i and i’m done acting like your words and actions don’t hurt solely for the fact that i don’t want to lose you. 

we’re over.” your eyes had tears pooling in them but you refused to let them fall in front of heeseung. 

“what?” heeseung asks, slipping his shoes off and running over to you in an attempt to stop you, reaching for the box but you move out of the way before he can. 

“yn.. can we please talk about this? don’t jump to conclusions just because you’re hurt. this isn’t what you want, what about us? 

are you willing to throw us away because of some petty fight?” and that’s when you knew that you and heeseung weren’t on the same page… at all. 

“that’s what you have to say?” and at this point you had lost the fight to stop the tears from falling. 

“you haven’t even apologized? and now you’re here trying to gaslight me into thinking that what i’m feeling is just the result of a petty fight? 

hee, you never listen to me. you dismissed my feelings and all i asked was you clean up our bedroom because i was tired. i’m sorry but if that was such a hard task then i don’t know what to tell you. 

i’m not jumping to conclusions. heeseung, we’re done.” you say, pushing passed him so you could leave and move on. start new and heal from this pain. 

“really? you’re just going to walk away?” heeseung asks, still refusing to take accountability for his actions. 

“i’m not walking away… you pushed me away.”

“bye, heeseung.”

jongseong ⋆˚ʚɞ

jay hadn’t been able to pick up a bottle of alcohol since that night… 5 months ago. he hadn’t realized he developed a bad habit of drinking all because he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that his loving girlfriend, the one who took care of him, who loved him, who fought for him to make things right, was slowly becoming someone he didn’t love anymore. 

so why was it that now that you two were broken up, he wants nothing more to get back together with you? 

he thought about the day you finally came back. after you ran out in the middle of the night jay didn’t see you for a whole week and by the end of that week, you would be gone for good. 

“is this what you really want?” jay had asked you right before you left. 

“its not what i want… but it doesn’t seem like what i want would be something that could ever happen if i stayed with you. 

you hurt me, jay. all i ever did was care for you and love you and it made me realize i hadn’t felt care or love from you for a while now. 

i truly hope that you get help for your drinking problem but i’m sorry i’m not going to be the one to fix it for you.” and with that you were gone. out of jay’s life and although you had said that you weren’t going to be the one to fix his drinking problem, in a lot of ways; you did fix it. 

he hadn’t drank since that night and vowed to himself that he wouldn’t drink ever again and 5 months after, he’s kept that promise. 

jay wished that he did keep his promise to you. 

when he finally asked you to be his girlfriend, he had promised to hold your heart close to his and to never break it. only to find himself distancing his heart from yours and eventually shattering it into millions of pieces when you got into a fight that night. 

but he was now forced to face all of this all over again as you stood in front of him, mirroring the same shocked face he had as the two of you run into each other at a mutual friends party. 

you hadn’t seen jay since that night and although your heart ached for him, you had to choose yourself. you couldn’t stand being with someone who saw you as overbearing when all you did was care for and love them. 

you truly had been worried about jay ever since his drinking habits had gone worse and maybe you could’ve gone about it a better way and not made him feel attacked for his actions but he didn’t have the same consideration for you so why should you do the same… right? 

“h-hi.. yn. you look good.” jay stutters. 

“you do too, um.. i–” you begin to say but he cuts you off. “look, i know we didn’t end on the right foot and these past five months have been hard for me so i could only imagine how hard they’ve been on you. 

i wasn’t right to treat you that way and i’m sorry i’m only realizing it now. i miss you so much and i spend countless nights thinking about you. reminiscing on the good times and how i let myself ruin all of it. 

i’m sorry, yn.” it all comes out like word vomit and quite frankly, you weren’t prepared to hear any of it. you also hadn’t expected him to have this much of grasp on your relationship five months after, but it was all too late. 

“i’m sorry too, jay– but i can’t keep doing this. i think you need to move on. i know i will…” you muttered.

“for what it’s worth… you did help me… i’m five months sober.” he confesses and you give him a tight lipped smile. 

“take care of yourself, ok?” you say before turning around to leave and although jay wished that he could’ve said all of this five months sooner in hopes that it would’ve fixed your relationship, he respects your wishes and just hopes that the next guy who comes around would love you the way you deserved to be loved. 

jaeyun ⋆˚ʚɞ

in the time you’ve dated jake or quite frankly, anyone, they had never raised their voice and spoke to you in that way. jake seemed so angry and upset that it scared you. you knew that jake would never hurt you but his words pierced your heart in ways that caused you pain you had never felt before, especially from someone you love and was supposed to love you.

it always hurts more when it comes from someone you love right? 

you had come home the next day and found jake sleeping on the couch, hugging the plushy that he often said looked like you. 

you’d be lying if you said that seeing him like this didn’t make your heart hurt… but it did. 

it seemed like jake had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for you but you couldn’t shake the feeling.

the feeling of being unwanted, unloved, undesirable, and not enough for someone who is supposed to love you. 

but if jake had loved you he wouldn’t have raised his voice at you.. let alone speak to you in that tone and used language that was meant to hurt someone. 

“yn? is that you?” he says, stretching on the couch and rubbing his eyes, causing you to snap out of it. you quickly wipe away the tears that had miraculously appeared. “um, yeah. i just came to grab some things. you can go back to sleeping..” you explained as you made your way to your shared bedroom. 

“baby? can we talk?” jake says, peering into the room as he sees you packing your things inside of duffel bag. “wait- what are you packing? are you leaving? baby, please don’t do this, can we talk this out?” he was now on his knees in front of you, clutching onto your sweater while he begged. 

“jake, get up.” you say, rolling your eyes at him. 

“its just for a few days, i need time to myself- i need to think, ok?” you said and even now, even when you’re still hurting because of him from the night before, you were here trying to comfort him. 

jake stands up with a sniffle and he attempts to link your hands together but you pull away to continue packing your bag. “when are we going to talk about this? i love you, i don’t want you to leave… please stay.” he continues to beg and although its working, you needed to stay strong. 

“if you loved me you wouldn’t have spoken to me like that. people who love each other don’t speak to people they love that way. 

jake, you hurt me… and i don’t know what i did to deserve that treatment but i just wanted help. i spent all day running errands despite feeling like shit because of my period and you dismissed my feelings like it was nothing. 

that blanket meant so much to me, you knew that it was from my late grandmother yet you tossed it aside for your own accord because you didn’t have the same care for me and the things i love the way i do for you.” you said with a huff as you stuffed the last of your things into the bag. 

“when will you come back?” was all jake asked and all you could muster up was a shrug, because you weren’t entirely sure when you would be back. 

needless to say, a few days turned into a few weeks, and a few weeks turned into a few months and at some point you found yourself not having the need to come back. 

you wished you could get the closure you wanted from jake and you were sure he also wanted that, but walking away was something you needed to do. even if it was just one instance where jake spoke to you that way, it was enough for you to leave because you weren’t going to allow yourself to be with someone who found it in themselves to speak that way to someone they supposedly loved. 

not then, not now, and not ever.

sunghoon ⋆˚ʚɞ

sunghoon hadn’t known what he was doing, it was like his body was moving before his brain could think because he was running back inside and grabbing his car keys to drive after you. 

he wasn’t sure where you were headed off to but he had guessed that you were most likely going to stay with your mom. you were always close with your mom and she often was the person you went to when you were having troubles if you didn’t go to sunghoon. 

sunghoon knew he fucked up and he shouldn’t have treated you that way let alone let some strangers treat you that way. he didn’t know what let him get to the point where he was allowing these men to speak about you, the girl that he loved, in a way that made you feel small. demeaning and degrading you in a way that he hadn’t realized and even if he did, he chose to look away instead of defend you all because he was filled with the greed of wanting this promotion. 

was it even worth it anymore if it meant losing you? 

sunghoon was speeding at this point and although you hadn’t left much before he had went to follow you, there was no one else in the streets as he sped through to catch up to you. 

in a short amount of time, he’s turning into the street that your mom lives on and sure enough, he sees you just about to walk up to the front door. he hapazardly parks the car on the side of the street and stumbles out of his car to get to you. 

“yn, please. wait, lets talk about this!” he says and you’re startled at sunghoon suddenly appearing and you wipe the tears from your face and blink a few times to make sure he was actually there. 

“hoon? what are you doing here?” you ask, stepping down the small stairway that led to your mom’s home. “i couldn’t just let you leave like that, we need to talk-

look i’m sorry for the way i treated you and even more sorry that i let them treat you that way. i love you so much and i couldn’t imagine the amount of hurt i caused you for making it seem like i was okay with letting them say those things about you all because i wanted that promotion so damn bad. 

i was selfish and greedy but those are the things that make me want you more. i don’t want you to leave and walk away from me because i am selfish and greedy and i want you all to myself. 

i’m sorry that i didn’t defend you and i made you feel small…” he says and at this point sunghoon is crying. his voice breaks with every other word and you truly hadn’t seen sunghoon in this much distress, ever. 

you didn’t know how to respond but the longer you looked into sunghoon’s bloodshot eyes, the more confused you became. 

you could tell sunghoon was sincere but you didn’t think this was something that could be fixed right then and there. your sensitivity was always something you struggled with and sunghoon knew that yet he brushed off your feelings like it was nothing. 

“you shouldn’t have driven out all this way… 

because although i appreciate your apology i don’t know that i’m in the right place to accept it or to forgive you. 

sunghoon you hurt me and you let others hurt me. 

i’m selfish too, i want you all to myself too and i wouldn’t have stayed so long if i didn’t love you and want to be with you… but-

i don’t know if i can be with someone that doesn’t see me in the way i deserve. 

and i certainly know i don’t deserve any of that.” both of your attention is drawn to the sound of the front door as it opens, revealing your mother in her nightwear and arms crossed; a displeased expression on her face. 

“i’ll reach out to you when i’m ready.” you say and without another word you’re retreating into your mom’s home, hiding away from sunghoon and preparing yourself to have to face the inevitable one day. 

sunghoon on the other hand, drags himself to his car, head hanging low as he has to come to terms that his own selfishness and greed for the one he loved was also what caused him to lose the love of his life. 

copyright 2025 - present © hoonieyun all rights reserved all writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned. if you enjoyed reading this please consider reblogging and following <3

[ramp-it-up]

Consent

Summary: Bucky's in his head. Only you can get him out of it.

Word count: 4.8 K

Pairing: Congressman Bucky Barnes x Teacher!Reader; Sam Wilson x Bucky and Reader (platonic)

A/N: Been on my Bucky bullshit for a minute. Just block me now. Or, read, respond, and reblog! Love you heauxes! This is connected to Charm , Celebrate and Claim, but can be read alone! This was inspired by a reblog comment from @binkybonkybucky. Thanks, love! 😁

I’ve also decided to include some prompts from my 5K follower celebration challenge, #PraiseMe5k. See if you can spot them! 😉

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. All mistakes my own. Smut! Teacher Reader, Congressman Bucky, Bucky Angst, Switch! Bucky, dom Bucky, sub Bucky, consent conversation, shower sex, EDGING, teasing, fold fucking, anal play, SIZE KINK, orgasm denial, tit worship/play, BEGGING KINK, overstimulation, sex game play, lap dance, did I say sub!Bucky? Dinner with Sam, f receiving orall, raw p in v, praise kink, bit of the Sargeant kink, nicknames Charm and Baby, use of Good girl and Good boy. Basically pwp.

I do not have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

The next time you came to D.C., you had a key to Bucky’s townhouse.

The place was quiet when you let yourself in, causing a small pang of worry to bloom in your chest.

You knew he was struggling.

Congress didn’t move like Bucky did.

He was a man of instinct and of action. He was built for swift decisions and clean execution. But this world of legislation, compromise, and rules that looped in on themselves was agony.

He hated the endless meetings. Hated the speeches. Hated the sensation of being trapped, muzzled, and constrained by red tape.

This wasn’t the fight he’d signed up for.

School was out, and you’d carved out this one week before you started teaching summer school to be here.

With him. 

You listened for a moment after you closed his front door. You heard water running and smiled; Bucky was in the shower.

You slipped off your sandals by the door, heart already racing a little. You padded toward the sound, the hem of his stolen dress shirt skimming your thighs above a pair of khaki short shorts.

Steam poured from the bathroom, thick and curling like fog from the cracked door. 

You stepped inside.

And there he was.

Bucky stood under the spray, his palms braced against the tile, head tipped back, water trailing down the ridges of his chest, over his abs, tracing the deep grooves of his hips, and soaking the powerful muscles of his thighs. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were closed. And his whole body taut with something that wasn't physical strain.

You didn’t say a word. Just peeled your clothes away and stepped into the heat behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. 

He exhaled like he hadn’t breathed in hours.

“Did you have a good trip?” he asked, voice low and quiet.

“I missed you.” 

Your voice was soft, muffled against his skin.

He turned slowly, his hands sliding to your hips. His eyes flicked over your face, searching for something. You gave him a small smile. 

“You okay?”

He hesitated. 

“I should be. Just… been in my head. Thinking.”

“About what?”

His jaw flexed.

“About you being here for the week. About what that means. About what it does to me.” 

He looked down for a beat, then back up. 

“I came in here to clear my head, but you’re always in it. You make me forget the constant struggle. You make me want to stop holding back. And that’s... terrifying.”

You kissed the scar above his heart, your lips gentle. His breath hitched. Not from pain. From memory. From trust.

“You don’t have to hold anything back with me,” you said. “Not your strength. Not your softness. Not your want.”

You reached up, gently cradling his face.

“So here’s what I propose,” you said, voice steady. 

“This week, we consent. Fully. Freely. You take what you want when you need to lead. And when you need to surrender, you can give yourself to me, with no shame, and no hesitation. Deal?”

His body shifted. You felt it happen. That subtle undoing of tension in his shoulders, the air returning to his lungs in a deep, cleansing breath. His grip on your waist tightened.

And then his expression changed.

The softness burned away, leaving something feral in its place.

“Deal, Charm,” he said. His voice dropped to gravel. “Right now I want to ruin you a little.”

Your breath caught.

“Make you come so hard your knees give out,” he growled, lips at your ear.

You were soaked already, and not from the water.

“Wanna hear you beg for it, Charm.”

You smiled against his mouth, heart slamming in your chest. 

“There’s my Bucky.”

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs circling his waist as your back met the cool tile. His cock, hot and thick, pressed between your folds, the water slicking every inch of you. He kissed you hard, and then pulled back just enough to speak.

“You’re gonna take all of me,” he said, voice barely controlled, “even if it’s rough. I’m going to get you ready for me first. Okay?”

Your head dropped back, breath ragged, legs tightening around his waist.

“Okay, Bucky.”

He grinned darkly, lowering his mouth to your throat.

“Good girl.”

His gaze dropped to your breasts, your nipples tight from the air shift, your breasts rising and falling with every panting breath.

“Your tits, baby…fuck. I sit in budget hearings hard as a rock thinking about how they bounce when I fuck you.”

That made you grind down harder, feeling the thick length of him trapped between your bodies.

He groaned. His hands slid up, cupping your breasts in his warm, rough hands, rubbing his thumbs over your nipples. The flicks were gentle, then punishing, making you gasp. Every stroke sent a jolt straight to your core.

The strikes of his hot breath against your skin made the taut buds tighten even more. Then his mouth was on you, tongue lapping, lips sucking, teeth grazing, treating your breasts with the same devotion he gave your cunt.

You moaned, nearly weeping with pleasure already. His teeth scraped and his tongue lapped against the underside of the sensitive peak and you were almost cumming, the wave cresting and intense.

It was going to change your life, you just knew it. The pulls of his mouth were greedy and sublime. He moved to the other nipple, giving it the same attention, teasing you to the very edge and not letting you go over.

You whimpered, trembling, clenching around nothing.

Bucky chuckled darkly, mouth brushing your collarbone. 

“Not yet, baby. I wanna hear you beg.”

Your pride broke first.

“Please, Bucky… don’t stop. I need you.”

“That’s better.”

His hand slid between your thighs, parting your folds with practiced care. He slid his fingers over the lips of your pussy, squeezing them between his straightened fingers as his thumb skated over your clit. His fingers teased relentlessly, dipping inside just enough to make you gasp, then pulling back. 

The edge was sharp and unbearable. 

You couldn’t stop moving your hips, trying to chase him.

“You’re soaked,” he said, voice broken. “This all for me?”

You nodded quickly, unable to speak.

He slid two fingers inside you, curling them. You sobbed.

“Jesus!”

He pulled his fingers out, studying them slick with your arousal before licking them clean.

“Sweetest fucking nectar.”

You whimpered, practically vibrating.

He growled low in his throat, positioning himself. The blunt head of his cock was at your entrance. He paused. He looked at you. You knew what he wanted.

“Please,” you breathed. “Please, Bucky. I need it.”

That did it. He rolled his hips, cock grinding along your slick folds, teasing you where you ached the most. Every movement sent sparks skittering through your body. You gasped into his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pinned you to the tile, the shower spray pounding around you like white noise.

Then he slowed down, dragging the thick head of his cock down, then up again, just grazing your clit.

“Fuck, Bucky…”

He caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up.

“Keep those eyes open,” he said, voice rough. “I want to watch you fall apart.”

He lifted you slightly, adjusting his angle, and then slowly his cock began to press inside. Then, another breach: two fingers slid into your ass. The sweet burn made you keen.

“Don’t cum,” he warned.

“Oh God, Bucky!” you cried as he bottomed out, buried to the hilt.

“Fuck, you’re dripping. You want to be used like this?” he asked, voice broken with lust.

“Yes,” you sobbed. “God, yes.”

“You’re taking me so good, baby,” he whispered. “So fucking tight for me. So perfect.”

He held you there, stuffed full of him, stretching you wide while the hot water poured down around you like a curtain.

“You feel that stretch?” he murmured at your ear.

“That’s mine. You’re not gonna cum until I say, Charm. You’re gonna take it. Hold it. Beg for it.”

“Please, please, please!”

Finally, he began to move with slow, grinding, deep thrusts, each one dragging against the most sensitive parts of you, keeping you right there on the edge. He kept his eyes locked on yours, watching every reaction.

“You want to cum already, don’t you?” he asked, smirking against your lips. 

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“I said,” he growled, thrusting hard enough to knock the breath from you, “you want to cum?”

“Yes, Bucky,” you gasped. “Please. I can’t hold it, I can’t…”

“You will.”

He reached between you and brushed your clit with maddening precision, and your whole body arched.

“Every time you get close, I’m gonna stop,” he promised. “Until you’re crying for it. Wanna ruin you.”

You were already crying. Tears and steam and desperation all mixing into one wet haze. But you didn’t want it to stop.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then whispered in your ear.

“You’re so fucking perfect when you cry for me. Doing so good for me, baby. So good. That little cunt’s gripping me like it doesn’t want to let go.”

Another thrust. Another crest of pleasure. And then he stopped

Just stopped. Buried to the hilt. Not moving.

You whimpered, hips rolling against him on instinct, but he held you in place with one hand around your throat just tight enough to still you.

“You’re so close I can feel it,” he murmured. “But you’re not there yet. Not until you break.”

Your clit throbbed. Your body shook. You were wrecked.

“Bucky, please…”

He held your face in his hands, eyes boring into yours.

“You trust me?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Always.”

“Then give me everything.”

And he took it.

He moved again, slow at first, then harder, deeper, faster. The pace edged into brutal territory, the sound of your slick heat echoed in the steamy bathroom, and your cries bounced off the walls.

Every time you hit the edge, he denied you. Again. And again. Until your legs gave out and your tears fell freely and your lips couldn’t form full words anymore.

“Please, Bucky,” you begged. “Don’t stop. Let me…please…”

He grunted, driving into you.

“Look so pretty like this. Taking all of me. Like you were made for it.”

He rubbed your clit again, this time in more insistent, more perfect circles. He grabbed your hair, yanked your head up.

“You wanna cum?”

“Yes! Please!”

“You gonna thank me when I let you?”

“Yes, Bucky. Thank you, thank you—”

“Cum.”

The command detonated in your bloodstream. Your back arched. You screamed, your pussy pulsing in tight, spasming waves around his cock. You shook from the inside out, sobbing his name, and absolutely broke apart.

Bucky groaned into your neck, thrusting through your aftershocks until he came, deep and hot, buried in you, his whole body shuddering with release.

You collapsed against him under the water, both of you gasping, trembling, utterly spent.

Eventually, he kissed your forehead, hand stroking your cheek.

“You took it so well,” he murmured. “My perfect girl.”

Your voice was hoarse.

“You’re gonna kill me one day.”

He smiled, kissing you again.

“Not until I’ve made you cum like that a hundred more times.”

—--

The next afternoon, the two of you were lazing in Bucky’s bed, having slept and cuddled most of the day. But even in that bliss, you felt it: the slow, creeping return of tension. It slithered back into his shoulders as he sat up and began to button a crisp shirt, each movement precise, and almost too careful.

Sam was coming over for dinner. But Bucky was thinking too much, still carrying the weight of his world behind those pretty blue eyes.

You still had a couple of hours.

So, you decided to break his brain before dinner.

You walked over to the armchair where he was sprawled scrolling emails and trailed a hand lazily down his chest. Your lips found the place just under his jaw.

“Let’s play a game,” you whispered, fingers dipping below his waistband before you pulled back and walked toward the table.

He raised an eyebrow, his suspicion clear. 

“What kind of game?”

You pulled a slim deck of cards from your tote, a novelty thing from a friend’s bachelorette weekend, once laughed at and forgotten. 

Until now.

“Give and Take,” you said, smiling sweetly. 

 “One of us draws a card. The other does what it says.”

He narrowed his eyes, amused.

“And if we refuse?”

You shrugged, cocking a brow.

“Then the other gets a point. First to three wins. Winner decides how the night ends.”

That got him. Bucky loved rules. Loved breaking them. And he loved choosing when to surrender.

“Alright, Charm,” he said. “Deal.”

You pulled the first card.

GIVE – Eye contact. While touching. No talking. One minute.

He pushed the chair back, inviting you in with the lazy sprawl of his legs. You climbed into his lap, straddling him, fingertips brushing the sharp line of his jaw.

You locked eyes.

The electricity bloomed instantly. His body reacted, fast and fierce, his cock thickening beneath you, his breath catching as you rolled your hips just barely against him… then stopped.

He twitched. His lips parted. But he didn’t break.

When the timer chimed, he snatched the next card and flipped it with a flick of his wrist.

GIVE – A whisper. Something filthy. Something real.

You leaned in. Your breath danced over the shell of his ear.

“I want to make you cum in your pants while Sam’s sitting right next to you.”

He twitched. All over. And his hands gripped your thighs like he was grounding himself.

“Your turn,” he rasped.

You drew your card.

TAKE– Let them tease. You can’t touch. Five minutes.

Your eyes gleamed as you set your timer and slid off his lap, dropping gracefully to your knees between his legs.

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Shirt open,” you commanded.

He obeyed.

You dragged your tongue along the ridges of his abs. You dipped lower, hot breath ghosting over the bulge in his pants, and let your cheek brush against the thick line of his cock. Your mouth moved over the fabric, teasing his balls, the sensitive tip, the aching outline of him, but never giving more.

He groaned. His hips bucked slightly. You held him in place with your palms on his thighs.

The timer beeped.

Relief crossed his face. Until he flipped the next card.

GIVE – Ask for something. Nicely.

You turned the tables.

“Please tell me what you want right now, Bucky.”

He bit down hard on his lip, and your pussy clenched at the sight.

“I want your mouth,” he ground out, voice hoarse and fraying. “I want to cum down your throat.”

You leaned back on your heels, and licked your lips, as if considering.

“Too bad,” you whispered, licking your bottom lip. “You haven’t earned that yet.”

His cock twitched visibly, precum soaking through the fabric. His fists clenched on the chair arms, breath ragged.

Next card.

TAKE – Lap dance. No kissing. Two songs.

He exhaled like he’d been punched in the gut.

You put on the speaker. Rihanna’s Kiss It Better began to thrum low and sultry through the room.

Your eyes flicked to Bucky’s, and he swallowed hard.

You straddled him again and moved. Slow circles of your hips ground right down on the bulge in his pants, and your ass dragged over him with just enough friction to torment. You kept your hands on his shoulders, your lips just out of reach.

By the time Diamonds and Pearls came on, he was sweating. 

He whimpered, his hips barely resisting the urge to buck up into you. He was shaking now.

“I’m close,” he gasped. 

“Charm…fuck, I’m gonna– ”

You stood up and he let out a sound like you’d ripped his soul out.

“Next card,” you said lightly, drawing from the deck as he sat there, ruined.

His eyes shut as he heard the words.

GIVE – Beg. Without touching.

He looked wrecked. His mouth was red, his hair disheveled, and his pupils were blown.

“Please,” he breathed.

“Please let me touch you. Let me taste you. Let me fucking cum. I’m losing it.”

You leaned in, mouth almost brushing his.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” you whispered.

“One more card.”

He picked it up with shaking fingers.

TAKE – Let them taste. One minute. That’s all.

He dropped to his knees before he even finished reading it aloud, then he pushed you back on the bed, pulled your thighs apart and buried his face between them. 

The moment he tasted you, he moaned, licking at you like a man starving. Tongue flat, then pointed, then swirling. He mouthed your clit like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His grip on your hips was bruising.

You were soaked, shaking, and already close.

One minute passed; you pushed him back.

“No,” he growled, trying to chase you.

“Better go change your pants, Sergeant,” you purred. 

“Sam will be here in twenty. And you’re not going to cum… until after dessert.”

He stayed on his knees, panting, flushed and furious. And grinning like a man undone.

“You’re gonna ruin me.”

“That’s the point.”

—-

At 6:30 sharp, you were dressed and deadly in a black dress that hugged every curve. No bra. No panties. And Bucky knew it.

He opened the door looking put-together, but tight, barely in control.

Sam grinned. “Good to see you, man.”

Then his eyes shifted.

“Well damn. You must be Charm. He didn’t say you were gorgeous.”

You smiled sweetly and took Sam’s offered hand. 

“He also didn’t say you were this charming. You too always withhold information from one another?”

“Only when it comes to feelings,” Sam joked, clapping Bucky on the shoulder, missing the subtle flinch it drew.

You were watching Bucky closely. The slight stiffness. The twitch in his jaw. The way his hands kept flexing like they needed to hold something. Or someone.

Dinner was set: simple pasta, garlic bread, wine. Easy enough to manage while your mind ran absolutely wild with all the things you wanted to do to your man after dessert.

The conversation flowed. Mostly.

You asked Sam about the transition to being Captain America. He asked you about teaching. Bucky interjected here and there, quieter than usual, his fingers white-knuckled around his fork.

His leg bounced.

So you slid your bare foot under the table, and up his leg.

He froze mid-sip; you went higher.

“You good, Barnes?” Sam asked.

“Fine,” Bucky rasped. “Wrong pipe.”

Your foot pressed between his thighs.

Sam kept talking. You kept teasing. Bucky unraveled. He was flushed, damp at the temples, shifting constantly in his seat. His cock was straining again, still aching from earlier, but still denied.

Finally, Sam stood.

“Early flight. I should head out.”

Sam stepped in for a quick hug and a beautiful smile.

“You take care of him, alright? He’s a grumpy bastard, but he means well.”

“Don’t I know it,” you said, your smile angelic.

As soon as the door shut behind Sam, Bucky spun around.

“Take off the dress.”

You raised a brow. 

“Excuse me?”

“You knew I was barely hanging on.” 

His voice was low, dark with need. 

“You're wearing nothing under that dress. You played footsie under the table while I tried to pretend I wasn’t already leaking in my pants from what you did earlier.”

“Poor thing,” you murmured. 

“Did you want to cum in the middle of dinner, Bucky? With Sam sitting right across from you?”

He stalked toward you like a predator finally let off the leash.

“I would’ve. If you’d told me to. Right there. Right in my fucking pants.”

You stood your ground. 

“You’re not in charge tonight.”

He stopped. Breathing hard. Neck flushed.

“Then tell me what to do.”

You stepped up close, sliding your hands into his hair, tugging gently so he looked at you.

“On your knees, Baby.”

He sank immediately.

You slipped your dress over your head and stood there naked and  glowing in the low light. Bucky looked up at you like you were divine.

“You don’t touch me until I say. You don’t speak unless I ask. And you don’t cum until I allow it. Understand?”

He swallowed hard. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

You grinned.

“Good boy.”

—---

He was on his knees.

Shoulders wide, thighs parted, chest rising and falling with deep, restrained breaths. The collar of his dress shirt was open, sleeves rolled. He hadn’t dared take it off.

You hadn’t given permission.

But you stood over him, completely bare. 

“You’ve been very good tonight,” you said, voice like silk. “And very patient.”

He nodded, eyes flicking up your body with reverence. And hunger. 

“Thank you,” he rasped.

“For dinner. For… everything.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly, watching his eyes flutter shut as he leaned into the touch.

“But you want more.”

“God, yes.”

“Even after I tortured you through the entire meal?”

He let out a breathless laugh. 

“Especially after that.”

You smiled and pulled his face against your inner thigh. 

“Then earn it.”

And he did. Instantly.

He kissed up the soft line of your leg, slow and open-mouthed. But when he reached your cunt, you pulled back. Just enough to drive him insane..

“Not yet.”

His groan was guttural. 

“Please, Charm…”

“You want your reward?” 

You reached down and traced your fingers along his jaw. 

“Then you have to keep your hands behind your back and your mouth very busy.”

Obedience was instantaneous. His hands locked behind him, his posture was perfect. And he opened his mouth like a man ready to be fed.

You stepped forward and let your pussy press against his face. The moment his tongue met you, everything inside you tightened. He licked a long, slow stripe up your slit, moaning into you, like your taste alone was bliss.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Take your time.”

And he did. Tongue teasing your clit, then dipping lower, circling and stroking, his mouth working you with slow, endless hunger. His nose bumped you rhythmically, your hips starting to roll against his face, chasing each wave of pressure.

You glanced down,  and his eyes were locked on you. His jaw worked like he was starving, like this was his first real meal. And he was so good at it. The perfect pressure. The perfect rhythm. 

“Fuck, baby—” 

You grabbed the edge of the counter for balance as heat coiled tight in your belly. 

“You’re going to make me cum just like this.”

He moaned into you, encouraged, mouth open wider, his tongue curling up just right, and you grabbed his hair and rode his face.

He held still and strong beneath you, his cock aching in his slacks, untouched and forgotten.

And then it hit. A sharp, blinding orgasm that rippled through you, your thighs clenching, cunt pulsing against his mouth. He licked you through it, gentle now, soothing your shaking legs until you could breathe again.

“Good boy,” you whispered, fingers stroking his cheek.

“You’ve earned something else now.”

His breath hitched.

“Bedroom. Now.”

You walked slowly to the bedroom, Bucky behind you. Once there, you turned, voice firm. 

“Strip.”

He obeyed in record time. Shirt, pants, boxers, all discarded, leaving him bare, flushed, already leaking, his cock thick and red and so, so ready.

You pushed him back onto the bed and straddled his thighs, letting your soaked heat brush the length of him.

“Look at you,” you murmured, sliding your fingers up his shaft. “So eager. So desperate.”

His hips jerked on instinct. You pinned him with yours.

You took him in hand, guided his tip to your slick folds. Rubbed it there. Let him feel it. But didn’t let him in.

He whimpered.

“Do you want to cum, Bucky?”

“Please. Baby, I need it. I’m dying.”

“Then beg. Properly.”

“I need to be inside you, Charm,” he rasped. “I’ll be so good. I’ll take everything. Please. I need to feel you. I need to fill you. Please let me cum inside.”

You let his tip breach you. Just enough. His head dropped back, a strangled sound ripping from his chest. But you didn’t let him thrust. 

Instead, you slid down slowly, inch by inch, taking him in deep until he was fully seated inside you.

And then you stopped.

“Stay. Just like that.”

His entire body was trembling. His cock throbbed inside your cunt. His fists clenched in the sheets.

“Charm…baby, please…I can’t…”

You leaned down and kissed him.

“Not yet,” you whispered. “You’ll know when.”

Then you began to move in slow, deliberate rolls of your hips. Just enough to feel him, to keep him simmering, but never enough to push him over the edge.

He was huge inside you, stretching you perfectly, the thick head of his cock dragging over your sweet spot with every slow grind. His hands clutched the sheets like a man in pain.

“God,” he choked. “You’re so tight. So warm. I…fuck, I can’t…”

“You can,” you whispered in his ear, dragging your teeth along the edge. 

“You will. Because it’s not time yet.”

He groaned, head tossed back into the pillows, jaw clenched, muscles straining under you. You ran your hands over his chest, over the muscles twitching beneath his skin. His eyes opened just enough to find yours.

“You want to cum so bad, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he choked. “God, yes.”

You clenched around him and stopped again.

“I know,” you said sweetly.

 “I can feel how close you are. You're twitching inside me, Buck. Leaking for it. You’re aching to lose control.”

His hips bucked, instinctive, but you had him pinned. Even though he was much stronger than you, he wouldn’t thrust. Wouldn’t move.

“You’re gonna wait,” you said. “Until I say. You’re going to stay right there and take it. Because you’re mine. Just lay there and take it, handsome.”

“I can feel it. You’re twitching. Leaking. Holding it for me like a good boy.”

He sobbed through gritted teeth.

“I’ll wait. I’ll wait. I swear.”

“You’re going to. Because you’re mine. And you don’t cum until I say so.”

You rode him harder, faster now, chasing your own orgasm while holding his hostage. His hands were shaking, his thighs trembling under you, and he was babbling now.

“Fuck, you feel so good. I’m gonna blow, Charm, I can’t…please…need to cum, please let me, let me…”

“Not. Yet.”

You clenched around him again and he turned his head and screamed into the pillow, sobbing with pleasure and denial. 

You trembled against him, cumming hard, pussy pulsing, your cries loud and raw. And still, he didn’t cum.

You leaned down, forehead pressed to his, your body still trembling with aftershocks.

“You’ve been so good for me,” you whispered, stroking his sweat-damp hair. 

“So obedient. So desperate.”

“Please,” he begged, his voice wrecked.

“Please let me cum. I’ll do anything. I’ll get on my knees, I’ll eat you out ‘til morning, I’ll fuck you senseless, I need it, baby, please.”

You kissed him, and then you whispered: “Cum for me, Bucky. Now.”

The second the words left your mouth, he broke.

His body arched off the bed, his hands grabbing at your hips to pull you closer. His mouth opened in a silent scream as he came harder than he ever had. Thick spurts of semen filled you, pulsing deep inside as he shook beneath you, every nerve alight with release.

You held him through it, kissing his cheeks, his jaw, murmuring praise as he sobbed your name and trembled beneath you.

When it passed, he collapsed under you, ruined and glowing.

“You took it so well,” you whispered, fingers stroking his sweat-slick hair.

“You were made for this.”

He smiled softly, dazed, and blissed beyond reason. 

“I fucking love you, Charm.”

You curled against his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath your cheek. He was totally relaxed now.

And if he got tense again, you’d let him decide if he wanted to take control or be controlled, whatever it took to keep him in this space.

“I love you too, Bucky. No matter what.”

———

Let me know what you think! 😓

[smallmariofindings]

A curious oddity about the Checkpoint Flags in Super Mario Odyssey is that the base of the flag has collision, but the collision only appears about 1 second after touching the flag.

Note how Mario is pushed out of the flag a short time after stopping, due to the collision suddenly appearing. As seen by Mario walking against it after this, the collision remains until Mario leaves the Checkpoint Flag's immediate vicinity, whereupon it disappears again until the next time Mario approaches it.

It is unknown why this was implemented in such a bizarre manner. It appears that the developers wanted Mario to always be able to activate the flag when approaching it, but also for the base to have collision. Since the small step would prevent Mario from touching the flag if he was moving too slowly, this compromise may have been struck.

Main Blog | Patreon | Twitter | Bluesky | Small Findings | Source: media_integer

[vavoom-sorted-art]

I was very anxious and afraid to speak about this, but I realize that my last posts weren't a good or sufficient way to address what happened. I want to be open about the things that were posted about me and some other community members in February.

However, I don’t want to make this about anyone else who was involved in this conversation, because they are not responsible for anything I said, just as I cannot take responsibility for the words of others and the interpretation thereof. This post is solely about me taking responsibility for my own words.

In a private conversation on discord I made a joke about Aziraphale not understanding asexuality (in a rather aphobic way) that sounds very much like a Sexual Assault joke.

I want to make one thing very clear to the people who don’t know me as closely: I don’t enjoy non-con in any way, neither art nor fic, I don’t believe that ace people need to be “proven wrong” and I’m sorry if I came across this way.

Secondly, I know that making jokes about these topics is very much not funny to a lot of people, but this was clearly a joke made in a safe space among friends and not a public statement of any kind. We all have different filters when talking to those close to us compared to speaking in public. This was never supposed to be an attack on my ace followers and doesn't mean I hate ace people, or that I don’t care about what victims of Sexual Assault go through. To everyone who felt hurt after seeing that screenshot, to everyone who feels disrespected or unsafe because of what I said: I’m sorry.

In the one-and-a-half years that I've been part of the Good Omens fandom, I've always strived to be kind and welcoming to everyone and I will continue to do so in the future as I very much appreciate this about the Good Omens Fandom. I don’t harass, bully or discriminate against anybody and it's sad to see that people would believe such things about me.

On the other hand, I'm honestly shocked how far some particularly bad actors would go, including posting screenshots of private conversations (including the above screenshot), attempts of doxxing me and even trying to compromise my college education by attempting to contact my university in order to slander me, as well as actively sabotaging my thesis project. Something else that clearly crossed all lines was the harassment of completely unrelated people who are in some way associated with me. Dragging innocent people into the drama, for example other artists whose work I reblogged or the mods of a subreddit I posted on just because they tolerated my presence, is not justifiable and absolutely unacceptable, and I do not want anyone to go through these same things I just described.

If you, based on the joke I made, this statement, as well as my general online presence, have the feeling of no longer wanting to support me, you’re free to block me and cancel your Patreon subscription, but this kind of toxicity goes a step too far. 

In the future, I want this blog to continue to be a safe space for joy, inspiration and creativity. Especially in times like these with fascism on the rise in many places in the world, we need to stick together and stop tearing apart our own communities. To anyone who read this far and heard my side of the story, thank you for listening.

To everyone that was lucky enough to miss the entire situation: I realize that people do come here for art and fun and not drama, which is why this is the last time I will speak about it.

[aajjks]

TEACH ME (m)

synopsis. Teach me.. that’s what he says everytime he’s got his fingers deep inside you.

trope: age gap [10 years] yandere, forbidden relationship and cheating.

warnings. f-ngering, expl-cit themes, pr-fanity, he’s got a filthy mouth, f-rbidden r-lationship [teach-r x st-dent], y-ndere jk, p-sessive beh-viour, j-alousy, ch-ating, m-oning strict 18+ THEMES. MDNÏ.

note. PHEWWWWWW 🫠🫡🥵… YALL….. this is for all the horny girls on my blog. ONLY FOR YOU!! I think this is not gonna be a series but just a one shot and I hope to get it out soon but I wanted to put out a teaser and please talk to him and I just know you’re gonna love him because I know you guys have some fucked up fantasies. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS. I LOVE READING YOUR THOUGHTS AND YOUR ASKS also YALL the colored gradient text looks so pretty 🥹🥹🥹

note 2.0. This is strictly for 18+ so please do not interact if you’re underage. [TEASER]

If you wanna be tagged, please reply under this post x

“Hahaha what??”

Jungkook walks to your figure, you’re standing behind your desk, your back leaning against the blackboard, he knows you’ve said something really important right now but…

How the fuck is he supposed to take you seriously when your tits are practically popping out of your right dress shirt? Or the pencil skirt that is clinging onto your ass like second skin?

Goodness you’re so fucking hot, his cock is practically pulsing inside his underwear.

“Ms yn… what?” He manages to say, now towering over your smaller figure, you glare at him, swear tickling down your forehead.

“It’s Mrs Jeong for you!”

“Ms yn…. No.” Jungkook rolls his eyes as he closes the distance between you two, there’s no one in this empty university hallway, your door is closed,

Jungkooks eyes are set on you like a predator and the way your breathing is irregular suddenly, makes him feel superior to you despite your age difference of 10 years.

“Sorry that’s almost sounds like you said Mrs Jeon…. Haha… so similar won’t you agree?” His chest is now touching yours, his eyes contain a carnal hunger for you.

“I’m sorry but that can’t happen, yn.” He tsks, feigning disappointment, like he’s sympathizing with you, but you know better.

Jungkook knows that you know him better than anyone.

You know him so deeply and so intimately.

Jungkook forces his knee between your legs, spreading them, you gasp, he smirks.

“How dare you try to abandon me huh? I don’t give a fuck- NO JUNGKOOK YOU DONT UNDERSTAND I-I CANT COMPROMISE- shhh.” He presses his finger on your tinted lips.

He guides his hand down your panties, playing with the hem of it, “n-no jungkook please don’t-“” jungkook doesn’t stop, “listen yn- or Mrs Jeong.” He grits his teeth while spitting your last name out,

“I don’t give a FUCK ABOUT YOUR PATHETIC HUSBAND! OR YOUR SHAM OF A MARRIAGE!” He seethes,

“How pathetic you are huh?” he bites his tongue before speaking. “You sleep on that very bed with your stupid husband where I’ve made you cum so many fuckin times huh?” He tugs your panties down roughly.

You need a reminder of who you belong to, and he will gladly do it right here in this classroom.

“J-JUNGKOOK What are you doing?” You stutter, he rolls his eyes.

You know damn well what he’s doing. “Oh ms yn. You should know damn well and what I’m doing. Because your body knows it.” He smiles, almost cruelly at you.

He starts to tease your wet pooling heat, his fingers skilled as he starts to move them around your clit.

“nghh nooo..” you can’t even hold your moans at this point. He gets your sexual frustration. Your pathetic excuse of husband can never please you.

Your brain & your heart, and especially your pussy are currently fighting with each other right now disagreeing with what you really want and what you should do.

arguing with you between what’s wrong and what’s right.

“Oh come on ms yn- you’re soaking wet for me..” he plunges his fingers inside your inviting cunt.

“Oh yes moan for me…” he groans, whispering in your ear.

Your eyes are at the verge of rolling back he fucks you with his calloused fingers. “Divorce the bastard and I’ll let you cum.”

He pumps them in and out of you- teasing you.

Jungkook licks the side of your neck, grunting in your ear.

“If you won’t divorce him I’ll murder him and then fuck you right infront of his rotting corpse.”

[doumadono]

sorry if this sounds rude 😢 but you haven’t been posting a lot of stories lately and that’s like the only thing you have to do? just post something it’s not that big of a deal? dygwim? i think fanfic writers especially on the anime side like to exaggerate things too much and if you don’t post then just deactivate? there’s no point in staying if you’re not gonna do anything but reblog silly content all the time? i don't understand how so many ppl can follow you when you are not even trying to be grateful and you only write not what people request but what you find interesting (which is not, like vampier Shigaraki???? viking Dabi???? so silly stupid ideas imo 😒)? whoever finds your writing or you as a person nice is either blind or stupid. and even if you write something chaptered it takes you literally months to update which isn't fair to people?? but I guess you don't care at all. you must be a freaking entitled white woman to treat otherz the way you do.

(again sorry, didn't mean to sound rude) 😔

When I first read your message, I was completely speechless for a minute or two, anon.

Firstly, it seems there’s a misconception about what fanfiction writers, or any creative individuals for that matter, have to do. Let me clarify something important: creativity isn’t a tap that one can simply turn on and off at will. It’s a complex, often unpredictable process that cannot be rushed without compromising the integrity and quality of the work. Quality stories often require research, plotting, editing, and revising before they’re ready to share. My creative process isn’t a fast food joint, nonnie, and I'm not here to serve up reheated ideas just to fill the silence.

My blog belongs to no one but me. I post what I want, when I want. As for the content of my stories, I believe every writer has the right to explore subjects that excite them the most - even if that means delving into topics or settings others may find odd, like vampires or vikings. My goal is to write stories I’m passionate about and then offer them freely to anyone who might find them entertaining. Some people will, others won’t, and that’s absolutely okay.

Contrary to your belief, I don't exist solely to churn out stories at the speed you dictate. I write on my own time and for my own pleasure. The notion that I should be a content machine is, frankly, laughable. Writing takes time, creative energy, and often real-life circumstances can slow the process. I post when I’m ready, and if that doesn’t align with your desired schedule, you’re free to unfollow or seek out other writers who update more frequently. Suggesting I deactivate because I’m not constantly posting or because I reblog content I enjoy is dismissive at best. I'm not a streaming service like Netflix, darling🙄

Calling me an entitled white woman or implying I’m ungrateful crosses a line. You know nothing of my background or personal circumstances, and bringing race or entitlement into the conversation is neither accurate nor constructive. My ethnicity or personal identity, whatever it may be, does not diminish the value of my creative output, nor does it affect my commitment to my followers. I appreciate every person who visits my page - whether they come to enjoy what I reblog, to read stories I post or to offer critique.

It's also laughable that you think my followers are stupid. Just because their tastes don't align with yours doesn't make them any less intelligent. Diversity in fandoms exists because creativity resonates differently with everyone, something you seem incapable of recognizing.

In the end, I won’t apologize for taking the time I need to create or for following my own interests - that’s part of being a writer. I do, however, expect basic respect in return. If you can’t extend that courtesy, I hope you'll block me, step away from my blog, and never interact with any of my content again.

With all this in mind, it's precisely why I've stopped taking regular requests. Last year, I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of requests and the rudeness in many messages, pushing me to my limits. That's why I've decided to concentrate on my own projects and only accept commissioned work.

I'm taking a few days off to gather my thoughts and concentrate on my writing projects.

[hayatheauthor]

Everything You Need To Know About Writing Stab Wounds 

Stab wounds are a daily occurrence for a writer. They're a common factor we constantly encounter when writing fight scenes, thrilling action sequences, and moments of intense conflict. However, let's be honest, most authors don't have personal experience with such wounds which can make their descriptions fall short without adequate research.

I'm sure you could find a variety of blogs with advice on how to write stab wounds, but here is my take on everything you need to know about writing stab wounds. 

Types Of Stab Wounds 

Each type of stab wound possesses unique characteristics that can significantly influence your narrative. Understanding these distinctions is crucial for crafting an authentic and engaging portrayal.

Puncture Wounds

Puncture wounds, often inflicted by sharp, pointed objects like knives or ice picks, hold a hidden danger within their seemingly modest appearance. These wounds are narrow, deep, and frequently feature a small entry point. Writers may use puncture wounds to create an element of surprise, as they can be challenging to detect, both for the victim and the reader.

Puncture wounds typically draw less blood externally due to their small entry point. However, they can cause significant internal bleeding if vital organs or major blood vessels are affected. While puncture wounds may seem less severe, their danger lies in the potential for internal damage. They can be life-threatening if a vital structure is compromised.

Puncture wounds can be challenging to identify and treat promptly. Their severity depends on the depth, location, and organs involved.

Incised Wounds

Incised wounds, often caused by slashing or cutting actions, create longer and shallower injuries compared to puncture wounds. Writers use incised wounds when they want to emphasize the emotional intensity of a scene. These wounds tend to bleed more profusely, creating a dramatic visual.

Incised wounds can result in significant external bleeding due to their larger size. The bleeding can be life-threatening if a major artery is severed. While incised wounds are often considered less dangerous than puncture wounds, the extent of damage depends on the depth and location. A deep incised wound can be severe.

Stopping the bleeding from incised wounds can be challenging, especially if a major blood vessel is affected. Immediate medical attention is crucial.

Penetrating Wounds

Penetrating wounds involve an entry and exit point, making them particularly potent in storytelling. The weapon or object not only enters but also exits the body, potentially causing severe damage as it passes through. Writers often use penetrating wounds to add a sense of urgency and criticality to a scene.

Penetrating wounds can cause substantial external bleeding due to the two entry and exit points. Internal damage can also be extensive. Penetrating wounds can vary in severity depending on the organs or structures affected. They are often considered serious due to the potential for significant internal damage.

Treating penetrating wounds can be challenging, especially if the wound involves a complex body area. Surgery is often required to address internal damage.

Sensory Description and Variations

Incorporating sensory details is essential when depicting stab wounds in your writing. Readers engage more deeply with your narrative when they can vividly imagine the sensations and emotions experienced by the characters. To add depth to your descriptions, it's essential to consider the sensory aspects and how they might vary based on the type of stab wound, weapon used, and individual factors.

Puncture Wounds

Puncture wounds often strike with an element of stealth, making them the silent intruders of the injury world. While these wounds may not result in dramatic external bleeding, they carry an inherent sense of surprise and discomfort. Writers can convey this surprise through their characters' experiences.

Puncture wounds can create sensations of initial pressure or discomfort as the weapon breaches the skin and underlying tissues. There's often a delayed realization of the injury. Characters who experience puncture wounds may feel shock, disbelief, or confusion. The absence of immediate, visible bleeding can lead to a sense of unease.

Incised Wounds

Incised wounds, with their propensity for profuse external bleeding, bring a dramatic and painful element to your storytelling. These wounds can evoke intense sensations and emotions.

Incised wounds may produce sharp, burning pain as the weapon slices through skin, muscle, and blood vessels. The character may also feel the warmth of their own blood. Characters with incised wounds often experience immediate pain, fear, and a heightened sense of vulnerability. The visible bleeding can be a source of distress.

Penetrating Wounds

Penetrating wounds, due to their dual entry and exit points, introduce shock and complexity into your narrative. Characters who endure these wounds face a range of sensory experiences.

Penetrating wounds can cause a combination of sharp, entry-point pain and a feeling of hollowness as the weapon passes through. The character might feel blood flow from both ends of the wound. Individuals with penetrating wounds often confront shock, disbelief, and a sense of their injuries being beyond their control. The complexity of treating such wounds adds to the tension.

Anatomy of a Stab Wound

To authentically portray stab wounds in your writing, understanding the anatomy of these injuries is essential. This knowledge helps you describe the injuries accurately, enabling your readers to visualize the impact on your characters. Let's delve into the key components of a stab wound.

Epidermis and Dermis: The outermost layers of the skin are the epidermis and dermis. When a weapon pierces these layers, it often results in bleeding and, depending on the depth and type of wound, visible trauma.

Subcutaneous Tissue: Below the skin lies subcutaneous tissue, which includes fat and connective tissue. Stab wounds that reach this layer may cause more significant bleeding and potentially affect underlying structures.

Muscles: Beneath the subcutaneous tissue, muscles come into play. Stab wounds that penetrate muscles can be painful and may impair the character's movement, depending on the location and severity of the injury.

Blood Vessels: Blood vessels, including arteries and veins, run throughout the body. Stab wounds that damage these vessels can result in severe bleeding, making them life-threatening.

Organs and Vital Structures: Deeper in the body, you'll find organs and vital structures. Stab wounds that reach this level can cause severe internal injuries, often requiring surgical intervention.

Understanding the anatomy of a stab wound allows you to craft more realistic and compelling scenes. 

Medical Assessment and Treatment

In your writing, it's crucial to accurately portray how stab wounds are assessed and treated in a medical context. This not only adds realism to your narrative but also guides your characters' actions and reactions. Here's what you should know about the medical aspects of stab wounds:

Assessment:

Medical professionals follow a systematic approach when assessing stab wounds:

Primary Survey: This initial assessment focuses on vital signs like airway, breathing, and circulation. It helps determine the character's overall condition and whether the wound is life-threatening.

Secondary Survey: In this more detailed examination, medical personnel assess the wound itself, checking for the depth, entry, and exit points, and any potential damage to internal structures.

Treatment:

The treatment of a stab wound depends on various factors, including the wound's type, location, and severity. Common steps include:

Hemorrhage Control: Stopping bleeding is a priority. This might involve applying pressure, using dressings, or even tourniquets in extreme cases.

Wound Cleaning: Thoroughly cleaning the wound is essential to prevent infection. This is often done in a medical setting.

Surgical Intervention: Some stab wounds require surgical exploration to assess and repair internal damage. This could include repairing damaged blood vessels or organs.

Antibiotics: Infections are a concern, especially with deep wounds. Antibiotics might be administered to prevent or treat infections.

Pain Management: Stab wounds can be painful. Pain relief measures, from local anaesthetics to strong pain medications, are considered.

Psychological Support: Characters who have endured a stab wound may experience psychological trauma. Medical professionals might provide initial psychological support, but long-term counselling could be necessary.

Understanding the medical assessment and treatment process allows you to depict your characters' experiences more authentically. It also provides insight into the potential challenges and emotional responses your characters might face.

Psychological Impact

Stab wounds not only inflict physical harm but also leave lasting psychological scars. In your writing, it's essential to delve into the emotional and mental repercussions of such traumatic experiences. Here's what you should consider:

Immediate Responses:

Shock: Characters who sustain a stab wound might initially experience shock, characterized by disorientation, numbness, and a sense of unreality.

Fear and Anxiety: The threat of death or severe injury can trigger intense fear and anxiety. Characters may relive the traumatic event in their minds.

Pain: Physical pain, especially in the immediate aftermath, can be overwhelming and dominate a character's thoughts.

Long-term Effects:

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD): Some characters may develop PTSD, characterized by flashbacks, nightmares, and severe anxiety triggered by reminders of the event.

Depression: The experience of a stab wound can lead to depressive symptoms, including sadness, loss of interest, and changes in sleep and appetite.

Anxiety Disorders: Characters might develop generalized anxiety disorder, panic disorder, or specific phobias related to knives or violence.

Survivor's Guilt: If other characters were injured or killed during the same incident, survivors might experience profound guilt and emotional turmoil.

Change in Personality: A character's personality and behaviours can change after experiencing a traumatic event. They might become more withdrawn, irritable, or hypervigilant.

I hope this blog on Everything You Need To Know About Writing Stab Wounds will help you in your writing journey. Be sure to comment any tips of your own to help your fellow authors prosper, and follow my blog for new blog updates every Monday and Thursday.  

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Are you an author looking for writing tips and tricks to better your manuscript? Or do you want to learn about how to get a literary agent, get published and properly market your book? Consider checking out the rest of Haya’s book blog where I post writing and publishing tips for authors every Monday and Thursday! And don’t forget to head over to my TikTok and Instagram profiles @hayatheauthor to learn more about my WIP and writing journey! 

[skyguytoast]

hi there!

I LOVE your Anakin and Hayden works, they're so well written and I just get lost in this universe you pull me into 👏🏻🥰

I was wondering if you had the time if you'd be able to make headcanons for a Hayden Christensen x kinda chubby younger girlfriend reader?

Thanks! Xoxo

HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN X CHUBBY!READER HEADCANONS

WARNING: none, just cuteness A/N: hiiii my loves, how are you doing?? So, when I got this request, it really made me stop and think at first, I was like “wait, is there even a difference between dating someone who's thin or chubby?” cuz in my head love is love 💕BUT then I realized that assuming everything’s the same can actually be a bit careless 🥲 so I took a step back and reflected with lots of love and care. Anywayyyy I hope you like it and please keep sending requests because I get so excited every time!! I love love love hearing from you all!! also didn't know if you want smut or no

Hayden fell for you long before you realized it. The first thing that caught him wasn’t your body, it was your laugh, your warmth, the way your cheeks lifted when you smiled. You were sunshine to him, warm and lovely.

His jaw always dropped when you wore those curve-hugging dresses you were unsure about. When you nervously mentioned the way your belly folded or how it clung “too much,” he just looked at you with that quiet intensity and said, “That’s my favorite part.”

When Hayden returned to training for Vader, he loved how strong it made him feel when he could pick you up effortlessly. He adored the way you’d squeal and laugh when he lifted you during a TikTok challenge you dragged him into (even though he had no idea what half of them meant).

That day you tried on one of his sweatshirts expecting it to be oversized, only for it to feel snug, broke your heart a little. But Hayden noticed the way your smile dimmed. That night, he sat beside you, handed you a softer, roomier hoodie from a Star Wars event in Tokyo, kissed your forehead, and told you, “It’s not about what fits you. It’s about what makes you feel safe.”

Hayden leaves love notes in your snack drawers. You’ll go for a cookie and find “Your thighs are art, don't argue” written on a sticky note in his handwriting. He knows how tempting it is to try those crazy diets that society seems to push on you, and he doesn't want you to fall into a black hole of insecurities and compromise your health.

Hayden always takes the pictures you feel cute in — no “suck it in,” no weird angles. And when you ask, “Do I look okay in this?” He simply says, “You always look beautiful, baby.” His lock screen is a picture of you in a tight white dress that hugs all the right places, highlighting your cute cleavage and the little folds of your tummy.

Hayden gently nudges you away from negative self-talk. When you get caught in a spiral, he doesn’t dismiss you, he listens, holds your hand, and says, “I know the world tries to make you feel like you’re ‘too much.’ But you’re everything to me.”

You once caught him reading body positive essays and plus-size fashion blogs. When you asked why, he shrugged and said, “If I want to love you well, I need to understand." Because Hayden knows how easy it is to fall into those toxic positivity conversations, reinforcing stereotypes and prejudices instead of validating your beauty.

He always encourages you to eat what you want when you go out, especially when you hesitate. “Life’s short,” he whispers with a smirk. “And that cheesecake’s flirting with us.” Hayden cares about your food, knowing that making food the villain will only bring guilt, give space to eating disorders and reinforce the idea that food is the villain.

Whenever someone online makes an ignorant comment, you never have to see it, because Hayden’s already blocked, reported, and moved on. “You don’t owe the internet your pain,” he says. He doesn't have social media, but he knows how tough the internet is, and he does everything he can to make sure you don't have to deal with insults and stupid comments.

______________________________________________________________

TAGLIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette @awhhayden @dessxoxsworld @throughparisallthroughrome @freudsweetlamb

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[drdemonprince]

hey doc, i'm in an open/poly relationship where my main partner is sleeping with 3 of our mutual friends and I mostly just sleep with my main partner, with a grindr hookup once in a blue moon. i'm struggling with jealousy and feeling like they (my partner) don't value me as much because they have sex with multiple other people, and also just jealousy because it seems like it's pretty easy for them to start having sex with people and I have a lot of trouble doing that. how do i stop attaching so much weight to sex? how do i stop feeling left out by my partner having sex with other people?

i appreciate your blog posts and i thought you might have some advice.

I don't think you try to eradicate the jealousy or get over your feelings. I think you tell your partner that you're feeling a bit left out and as if things are imbalance, and you try to strike a compromise. If it feels like you are not getting enough quality time with your partner or enough of their sexual attention, you can ask to get a little bit more of those things! If your partner's more free-wheeling approach to sex makes you feel defective in some way (less fun? less desirable? some other insecurity?) you can share those feelings with them to get some of the reassurance that you might need.

Some of us are not wired for the loosey goosey version of polyamory where people have sex with lots of folks and can fuck friends of theirs casually and the like. I'm sure not. I draw a pretty firm distinction between casual, almost anonymous partners and people that I have feelings for and want to see pretty seriously -- and when those more serious partners have other people they're seeing I want to bite those people and scare them away and hoard more time with my sweeties for myself. Which is actually a thing I can ask for, or manage situations to get, rather than being a neurotic self-hating wreck about my own feelings and then having it explode.

You're not failing to be chill or unjealous 'enough.' You work how you work, and that's different from your partner, and both your needs matter equally.

[mercif4l]

(𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗺𝗲) 𝗯𝗲𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂 — ksy

MDNI, this blog is for 18+ users only. blank blogs will be blocked.

pairing: afab!reader x kwon soonyoung

word count: 2.4k

summary: hoshi's second favorite place to be is between your thighs. no flight will take that away from him.

content warning: smut smut smut, boyfriend!hoshi, nudity, explicit sexual acts (dirty talk, oral: f. receiving, fingering, teasing), soonyoung is a brat lmfao

a/n: ty all for the love on the teaser it really means the world 😭 hoshi is a BITER argue with the wall. go listen to charli xcx's 'beg for you' ft vernon! thank u so much to @haologram, @beomcoups, @wonuwoe and @jenoslutie for helping me through the terrors of posting on tumblr for the first time ᥫ᭡

Soonyoung had laughed when you’d taught him about kink vocabulary. The first time you called him a ‘service top’, he’d conflated it with being a milkman or a post officer. He’d had a fit in the Don Quixote cleaning aisle about urban dictionary and spent the whole walk home collating the worst modern sex-terms. 

None of that changed the fact you were right (as always) and he was being over-dramatic (as always). 

Just like he is right now. 

Kissing you like its sleep for the exhausted; with desperation, total familiarity, and a warmth that makes everything a bit hazey. Where the thought of leaving any part of you untouched by his mouth makes him feel physically ill. But he’s on a time crunch, one you won’t let him wistfully ignore, and that means compromises must be made.

It’s shocking how each time he touches you, pinching this and soothing his tongue over that, it feels like the first time. Each kiss followed by a gasp and relieved groan. Is it how he takes his sweet time nibbling beneath your earlobe? Or grazing his nails over the curve of your spine? Or how he flushes pink every time you so much as pant for him? 

Whatever the answer, his reaction remains the same: total pride. Arrogance, really, at the fact he just can and he never has to ask.

In fairness, you’re not doing very well to tame him. Every moan he elicits presses like a gold star to the bottom of his belly, its outline warming the flesh til it burns: a reward for being so good that you can’t hold it in. 

Almost like butterflies, if they were on fire and could make him cum in his pants untouched.

You curl a lock of his hair between your fingers and nudge him over. Away from your chest, away from your fluttering ribcage, away away away, just anywhere but on you. 

Soonyoung whines, because of course he does, and fixates on kissing your palm as you mumble: “Gotta go, baby.” 

They sound like the last words he’ll ever hear from your Venusian lips (Drama.)

But he knows this look. This tone. The non-committal ‘no’ that you try your best to squeeze out. Like a false alarm; a reminder that he can only have so much fun before you run off to prove a point.

So, instead of stopping like you suggest, he brings his forehead up to yours and, with the weight of his entire body, presses you down into the pillows. 

“Wanna… wanna make you feel good. Said you’d let me.” 

God, he’s so whiny. It really would annoy you if it didn’t make your legs cross and your mouth salivate. 

“I know, but—“ All it takes to shut you up is a hump to your thigh, his slacks pulled tight as his bulge leaks onto you. Your eyes close at the wet feeling; he plays you for a fool every time you try to deny him. 

So, instead you finish your own sentence with a resigned “I know.” and decide to at least let him try. 

And he might have successfully hidden his shit-eating grin, were it not now pressed against your stomach. 

“Oh my god, you’re so annoying.” 

A giggle echoes out across the room and whether it’s his or yours, you’re both too excited to notice. Always a bit too distracted with the feeling of each other. “Sorry, sorry baby,” it’s a lie—he’s not sorry at all. 

It’s obvious in the way he bounces down the bed; the twinkle of his eyes as his middle and forefinger lace beneath the waistband of your stockings, gently tugging them down your leg. 

It’s even more obvious in the pleased grumble that follows them all the way down. 

Soonyoung has been scolded one too many times to repeat the same mistake of ripping them off. He knows how bratty you get when your belongings become collateral to his prone bone, how vengeful you can be. How long you’re happy to go without his touch and how painful it is to go without yours. 

His shoulders tense at the memory. The frustration enforced a stark change in behavior all within that one week of celibacy. 

“Always so… so gentle for—mmh, me…. good boy, so good baby,” when you’re like this, it’s the easiest rule to obey in the world. After all, positive reinforcement is the foremost currency for buying Kwon Soonyoung’s patience. 

A shiver stutters through your body, goosebumps forming against his chin as it lies snug against your thigh. 

“Cute.” 

“Shut up..” there’s no hiding the smile this time. It’s plain across his features as he bites his bottom lip.

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Not a moment later and he’s back to nibbling at your flesh (just as an excuse to lick over it). Saliva draws a path up your thigh and you laugh over this obsession he’s developed: the obsession with having his tongue on you. 

It’s hard to forget his bashful admission that ‘tasting every part of you’ turned him on. How his pupils had blown so wide, bright red fingers covering his bright red nose, firm arms curled over his head to obscure your view of his equally bright red ears. 

The same fingers that fluttered at your hips, and the same fingers that sit an inch away from his second favorite place to lie: between your legs (the first being between your arms, as the small spoon, with his head resting on your tits.)

He lets a hot breath trail across your underwear before pressing his nose up against you with a sigh. His hands sneak behind your ass and hold onto you. Not pulling or pushing, just holding. Thrumming. Pressing. 

“You drumming something out down there?”

Your boyfriend nips back at you this time, with a “wouldn’t you like to know.” and his best attempt at a smirk.

“Loser.” it comes as a half-truth, half-joke, but he takes it as a challenge. Typical.

After a single snort, he urges your knees to spread wider with a gentle bite to one side. He practically slobbers his way up to your heat, only closing his soaked mouth when he makes a show of smelling you.

“Gross. Stop it—“ you find it near impossible to overpower him and clamp your legs close, even more irritated by his unbothered face as his toned and slick arms keep you spread. 

“Not gross. Smells good, baby, wanna smell like you…” the crass idea of him wanting to smell like your slick isn’t what shuts you up.

What stuns you to silence is his nose dragging back and forth, side to side, around and around, filling the air with your whimpers as you fuss against the headboard. 

You know that he knows he’s being mean. The layer of fabric between you is leaving so little to the imagination, your want seeping through it, and you just might let him rip them off this time, just to close that distance and finally fucking—

Your imaginary protest is forgotten the second he takes the hem of your underwear between his teeth, dragging them all the way off.

What a pretty mouth.

“Thank you.” you realize a beat too late that you’ve said that out loud. 

The shine of his bared teeth (and the wetness that had collected in your panties, now smothered across his chin) makes you roll your eyes.

You smile back, calling him a “brat.” 

And he was a total brat. And it was totally your fault. 

But there’s no time to enjoy the following silence when he’s so hard that he might pass out. Instead, he lays flat on his stomach and bends one knee, starting to rock against the mattress underneath you both. By the time he finishes making a mess of your skin (and himself), he’s hungry. 

And if he kisses like it’s sleep to the exhausted, then Soonyoung eats like a starved man. 

His own spit mixes with your wetness in one languid, indulgent lick, and suddenly, he’s everywhere. Fast, breathy laps at your clit, his tongue traveling in tight circles, vibrating as he grunts shamelessly on top of you. Your back curves inward as you attempt to muffle your own sighs. 

Desperately trying to hear him mumble away inside you. Try being the key word; its way too much way too quick for you to keep quiet. 

Soonyoung would call it something obnoxious: say it was world-ending, but all the attention and worship from his mouth and hands and the heat of his every breath on you might just justify his drama. 

His lithe fingers and their angel touch—the kind of sensation you’d only be blessed with in heaven. To experience it like this, all sweaty and red and alive, feels a bit like sin.

Feels even better knowing that he’s dry humping himself to a climax over it. 

Happy tears destroy your mascara as he savors you without pause or pity.

The room is warmed by his hopeless whispers of praise: ‘so pretty’, ‘so wet’, ‘thank you’, ‘god’, ‘needed this’ and ‘love you’. With his sweet, sweet moans, and the occasional squeak that means he’s definitely slowing himself down against the mattress to avoid coming before you.

Still, you can’t help but stare at him—even through your bleary eyes. If you weren’t lost in your own unintelligible whimpers, you might think to take a photo. 

The scene is debauched, lewd, and so fucking hot, and all you want is to savor it forever, to keep it on your person like a badge of honor.

His wild eyes flicking between you and your twitching legs, pupils blown so wide you can’t help but purr. The whimpering that catches in his wet throat and comes out obscenely loud anyway. How desperate he is to watch you feeling good, and how the look on your face as he soaks you in his tongue is priceless. 

Soonyoung lifts himself up briefly to spit on his fingers. With the string of saliva collecting on your throbbing pussy, he slides them through your entrance and beckons inward. A come here kind of gesture. The kind he knows will make you squeal and press your thighs hard against his cheeks. 

Your boyfriend knows your body better than his own. Every freckle on your skin, or every mole that appears where you can’t spot it, and seeks it out just so the knowledge is his and his alone; so it can’t be kept by anyone else (and after however many years, this secret is amongst the closest to his heart.)

“God, you’re so wet. so wet baby, so warm too, fuuuuck, so warm.. wanna, hmm gonna, gonna live between your legs. gonna, oh fuck—“ his garbles between your lips entertain you enough to smile. You watch closely when his hips stutter as he works himself up, drool gathering in the corner of his lips at the thought of making you cum like this. 

“So pretty this way… my pretty girl, feels good?” his mouth is salivating, throat mewling as he watches you rock your hips into him, driving against his face so deliciously, presenting yourself to him.

Of course, he takes it. It’s too generous a gift to refuse. 

He knows his favorite present is yet to come but it won’t take much more waiting, the tell tale signs of your orgasm already smothering your face.

The thought turns his eyes into those famous crescent moons and you try to rest your hands beside them, to show him an ounce of affection, but they end up yanking his hair back after one particularly loud slurp against your clit. 

All that sudden vibration catches you totally off guard. It’s messy and long and so desperate that you can’t help but shove his head a little further closer.

His fingers curl slower and slower against that tender spot inside you, so deliberate in caressing it each and every pass that you can’t help but start to shake. 

Your heartbeat is so loud in your ears that you’re almost scared it’s going to stop. Every breath he chases from you is labored and short and you think you might just die, when—

“Gonna come? please, baby, baby… c’mon, don’t make me beg for you.” he’s literally sobbing, begging you not to force a ‘please’ from him, ignorant of the fact that he’s already begged and pleased several times already. It’s no surprise he’s too pussydrunk to notice—he’s always this way. Fucked dumb with the joy of watching you get off.

The image makes your cunt clench around him that bit tighter, too excited and too overstimulated, you can’t help but come. Goosebumps prickle against his skin as your legs wrap tight around his head (and this maybe his other favorite part: holding his breath as you tremor above him.)

And then, they drop, your hips quivering and abdomen seizing as they try to handle your climax. Which might make him upset, if he weren’t busy coaxing you through it with long, wet, licks, one firm hand caressing your lower back as it convulses, the other speeding up as it furls and unfurls within you. Stringing it out just that bit more.

It’s more than enough for Soonyoung to finish, much more embarrassingly, in his pants against the duvet he’d so fervently been jerking over this whole time. 

He whimpers against your soaked cunt and the overstimulation makes you roll over, leaving him face up to your side, hand worming its way into yours.

“Fuck. If I miss my flight— fuck. you’re, ugh I can’t believe I let you— you’re so driving me to the airport.” your tone is directly contradicted by just how tight you squeeze his hand back.

He doesn’t say anything, trying real hard to hide the shit-eating grin on his face. Which only lasts as long as he can hold his laughter (about five seconds) and then he’s thrashing about as you shove him back and forth. 

“Asshole!” 

“Sorry, I’m sorry baby, I just—“ 

“God, you suck—“ 

He turns over at that, resting his cheek on your stomach and looking up at you through his eyelashes. 

“Yea, baby. Yes I do.” 

penned by rowan, still a result of this insane video