Give Me More - Blog Posts

This please. They are probably aro ace anyways, I just want to befriend the weird little guy with very concerning hyperfixations

when i say i want a valdemar route i don’t mean i want to seduce the ancient demon. i mean i want a route where the mc is just weirdly friendly with valdemar and they jus go “??????” the whole time

I've heard rumors of mic in the new chapter but he's irrelevant but I dont care where is he. I wanna see his miserable face

Excuse me while I lick my legs and giggle like a child

Just went with the flow

Have you ever read a really good fic then looked up the author's other works and lo and behold a treasure trove of fics that are exactly your kind of shit? Because god that is what euphoria feels like. I love you random fic writers i unexpectedly find

OKAY LAST POST OF THE DAY THEN I'M DONE–

This is something I was VERY nervous to post for some reason, but I've been SUPER into Elden Ring lately so, here's some designs I did for Archie and Maxie a few months back!!

( @abiding-by-the-laws-of-color and @ribbononline were huge inspirations for both the background and parts of the design process!! )

This took me about 3 weeks total because I had some struggles with them design wise (mostly Maxie, his gave me the most trouble), but in the end I'm VERY happy with them!! Maxie's minimal armor was inspired by the Black Knife Set, while Archie's is a mix of the Solitude Set and Relanna's Set and, had I drawn it, his helmet would've been like Guile's.

Do people not write full fanfictions anymore? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with a oneshot but DAMN I JUST WANNA READ PLEASE

"I hope this fic doesn't awaken something inside me."

It did in fact, awaken everything inside them

HOLY FUCK

𝐦𝐚𝐦𝐚'𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐲

❀ character(s): könig x reader

❀ word count: 5,265

❀ cw/tw: AFAB reader (AFAB anatomy, femme pet names and pronouns), sub!könig, dom!reader, mommy kink, edging, dacryphilia, praise, nipple play, body worship, face sitting, protected sex, obsessive thoughts/tendencies, hints of könig being co-dependent, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, cowgirl + mating press positions, mentions of aftercare

❀ a/n: after teasing it for far too long, i finally present the fic everyone has been waiting for: könig with a raging mommy kink. it has taken every single ounce of self-restraint i could muster to not snap my laptop in half in a flurry of horny rage while writing this. i hope it makes you as feral as it has made me <3

König is a man made of far too many scars and not enough introspection to understand why he’s so good at his job. A trained and skilled fighter, after taking one too many hits, vowing to himself to never ever be on the receiving end of them anymore. Constantly bloodied knuckles and split lips to serve as a reminder of how dangerous he is, how deadly, as if his mountainous height weren’t enough. Red was never his favorite color until he saw how good it looked on his own skin.

König is someone who demands control—sometimes with his words, mostly with his actions. For as anxious and silly he may come across as, there’s something undeniably intimidating about him most people are too scared to try to decipher. As soon as his boots hit the battlefield, he’s arrogant, condescending, confrontational, and the worst perfectionist to ever grace the German armed forces.

König is the face of the best insertion specialists, a name whispered on base that is often praised for his dedication to his job. Often begrudgingly named the best of the best. Pointed out with trembling hands as being a model soldier, even if he gets a little sloppy at times. 

So to be the person to break him down slowly piece by piece until he’s a babbling mess underneath you is the greatest honor you could ever ask for.

His fingers are clutching the bed sheets, strong brow furrowed, sharp incisors digging into his swollen lip, a blanket of sweat clinging to his skin, love bites scattered across his board chest, and he looks up at you through thick lashes like a starved man in love with the meal sitting on his lap.

“Schatz,” he pants. “Ca-Can’t take much anymore...”

You run a gentle thumb across his cheek and smile sweetly at him. “Just a little more, sweetheart? For me? For mommy?”

Before he can answer, you lace your fingers through his hair and tug at the ends, eliciting a groan from his parched throat and a buck of his hips. Glistening tears fill his eyes, nearly spilling over his puffy cheeks, but he only barely manages to hold them at bay. His neglected cock throbs between your bodies, but his attention remains on you. Nodding his head, he leans his forehead against your shoulder and groans when you run your fingers down his spine.

“Good boy, König,” you murmur against the shell of his ear, and he whines at the praise, hips trembling as he fights the urge to buck them.  “Good boy. You’re so pretty like this, you know that? My pretty, good boy.”

He preens under your saccharine words, hot mouth filled with whimpers and moans, scarred knuckles bone-white and hands nearly numb, chest heaving as he tries to maintain control. “All I ever want to do is be good for you...,” he mutters.

Unsatisfied with his sudden shyness, you pull at his hair again, rougher this time, demanding his attention. Though he hisses at the pain, melted sapphires flicker up to meet your gaze, and you're pleased to see submission shining through the tears. “Hm? What was that, baby? Didn’t quite hear you.”

Another whimper and he licks at his dry lips. Oh, he's in it deep now. “Jus’ want to be mama’s good boy,” he mewls, eyes pleading with yours, hands at his side no matter how much they ache to touch you and, judging by the steady pulse of his cock, you're driving him to the brink of sanity. “‘s all I want to do.”

Your fingers stoke his cheek, and he nuzzles against your palm, mouth catching your fingers and kissing the tips.

A dangerous mixture of adoration and submission swims in his eyes, causes his pupils to swell until they're nearly consuming his shining irises. And he looks so enamored with you, so sickeningly in love and obsessed despite the ache in his cock and the tremble in his hands that it's difficult to keep yourself from consuming him completely. Devouring him until he’s a lovely stain on your lips and kept safe in the deepest depths of your stomach. All yours, yours, yours. Your good boy, your pet, your peace and sanity, your love and irrationality, all of it, encased in the ribcage of one of the most deadly soldiers seen in recent years. It makes you dizzy with control.

Humming with approval, you drag your digits down to the valley of his chest, nails grazing the skin enough to make him shiver. And right when he begins to lean into your touch, you lightly twist his nipple. He hisses with pain and screws his eyes shut, but you can feel his cock harshly throb against your thigh. You give his other nipple a twist for good measure. This time, his head lolls back and a low moan crawls its way out of his throat.

“That feel good, baby?” you ask. When he doesn’t answer, you pinch his chin between your thumb and pointer finger and force him to look back down at you. He appears to be stunned, surprised, as if you just pulled him out of his favorite dream. “I need you to answer me, baby boy,” you remind him gently.

He blinks a few times and nods. “Y-Yeah. Feels really good, mama.”

Too good, almost. The places where your soft skin is pressed against him feels raw, sensitive enough to bring tears in his eyes and cause his chest to ache. The legs wrapped around his waist weigh him down as his heart slams up into the ceiling, taking his rationality and any hope he had of maintaining control with it. Even after all of this time, you still manage to turn him into a puddle of love with a few kisses and honeyed words dripping from a sweet tongue. Keeping his head clear is becoming more and more difficult, and your sparkling eyes are beckoning him to allow himself to drown in the safety you provide him with.

Just do it, he tells himself. Just let go. You're safe, you're safe, you're safe.

A welcomed sharp pain blooms in his nipple again, but this time is soothed with your tongue after, teeth grazing and lightly nibbling. His knuckles might split if he keeps clutching onto the bed sheets so tightly. He might not care if they do. It if means you'll keep doing whatever it is you do to make him feel so vulnerable and exposed, he'll do it again and again until his hands are full of stitches and he can't move them anymore. Even then, he might find a way to keep doing it, even with all of the familiar gore.

“So handsome.” Your warm breath fans across his chest, and he shivers under it all. “My handsome boy. So special and sweet. So good for me, hm? Are you my good boy?”

He lets out a whimper when you brush your lips against his neck. “J-Ja! ‘m your good boy!”

“Maybe even my best boy. How does that sound, sweetheart? Do you want to be my best boy?”

“Always.”

It’s hypnotizing watching his head loll as you continue to tweak and play with his nipples, how his Adam’s apple bobs whenever you drag your tongue across his jugular, feeling his thighs twitch with every little movement from you. He’s putty in your palms, allowing you to manipulate him any way you wish, trusting you to handle him with clean hands, and you’ve learned how to mould out his best curves over the months you’ve been together. Thick fingers dig into the fleshy parts of your hips when you grind against his cock, and his brows pinch in concentration to keep his inevitable orgasm at bay.

You pout up at him. “I thought you wanted to be my best boy. What’s the matter, darling?”

König looks down at you with bashful eyes, a heat rising to his cheeks again and bringing out the freckles splattered on his nose. “I do! But I’ll cum if you keep doing that…”

And, by god, when you tilt your head to the side, he thinks he might melt into a puddle. “Hm? What’s the problem with that?”

“It’s embarrassing, cumming so early...”

“You think mommy pleasing you is embarrassing?”

This time, König shakes his head vehemently and tightens his grip on you, voice cracking with panic. “No, of course not! Just…” He looks down at where your bare pussy brushes his hard, weeping dick. “You’ve only just played with my nipples and grinded on me a little, and I’m all riled up and aching.”

You cup his warm cheeks in your hands and guide his eyes to yours, and you can feel him melt underneath you. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing wrong with that. We can take a break if you really need one, but you don’t need to worry so much about cumming early. I like getting you off. That’s the whole point of doing what we do. So don’t worry, love, okay? If anything, you cumming early is a compliment.”

After a few shaky breaths, he nods along with you and loosens his hold on you. Take control, shiny sapphires say. Fuck me, break me, make me yours. And Heaven help any man who tries to compare himself to König because he’s so fucking pretty–all blown pupils and swollen lips begging you to toy with him however you wish. There’s nothing in this world that even comes close to him; nothing that can capture your heart the way he does; nothing that gives you the same high he does.

König looks up at you as if you hung the stars in the sky, but little does he know they were hung in his image.

And so what if you can’t help yourself from rolling your hips a few more times. So what if you suck and nibble on his neck so anyone who looks at him knows he’s loved and fucked properly. So fucking what if you swirl your tongue around his pebbled nipple until he’s rutting against you again. Sharp fingernails drag down a muscular chest, and König cries out your name as thick white ropes spurt from his cock.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers, eyes screwed shut and cheeks flushed. “‘m sorry, mommy, didn’t mean to cum without your permission.”

“Shh, shh, ‘s okay, König,” you reassure him and plant a tender kiss on the tip of his nose. When he comes down from his high and peeks his eyes open, you push on his chest a little and shimmy your hips down. “Lay down, baby boy. Can you do that for me?”

And just like a rubber band, König snaps back into the fuzzy headspace that makes listening to your every command the most imperative thing he can do. Your glistening cunt is hovering over his face as soon as he gets into position, and he doesn’t need to be told twice what it is you want him to do. Large hands grip the fleshy parts of your thighs and pull you down until his nose is brushing against your soaking slit, electricity dancing across where your hot skin meets his. Blue eyes peek past your mound, searching for the unspoken permission he longs for, and when you run your fingers through his dark hair, he knows he has it.

König is almost certain he’s addicted to the taste of your essence; honeydew on a parched tongue and bringing every nerve in his body to life. There are clouds in his head, stars dancing behind his eyes, sunlight coming out of his fingertips and splaying across your skin, and he has an angel sitting on his face and moaning out his name. He swirls his tongue around your clit, sucking and licking and nibbling in ways that has your thighs shaking around his head.

“O-Oh, König,” you moan out and dig your fingers into the headboard in front of you to regain your balance. “Oh, baby boy, just like that. Fuck, you’re so good.”

A groan reverberates in his chest, and you grind your hips when the vibration hits your cunt. All he can possibly think about is pleasing you, lapping at your pussy until you’re creaming on his tongue and screaming out his name, praising him for doing such a good job—because that’s all he needs, really. In a world full of deceptive words meant to inflate fragile egos, all König has ever wanted is someone to love him for who he is currently, not who he could be.

As if you can read his mind, you card your fingers through his thick hair, eyes full of unadulterated love and unabashed pleasure, and contently sigh. “Pretty baby boy. Look even prettier with my pussy in your mouth. Do I taste good, baby?”

He answers by burying his face even more into your heated core, tongue lapping at your puffy folds before latching onto your swollen clit. Expert fingers ease into your tight core, and he whines at how much you’re clamping down on him. He’ll never get over how reactive your body is to his touch. You might be the one sitting on the throne, but he’s the one making sure it’s the best throne to sit on.

“König, sweetheart, you make mommy feel so good. Fuck, such a good boy.”

Flowers begin to bloom in his chest, and he thinks he might be capable of more than just burying bullets into skulls. He’s surrounded by love, reminded of how precious it is and how fragile it can be if handed by rough palms. He can hear how much it causes your voice to tremble and shake, how it grows peonies and tulips until his chest is a garden and petals sit on the corners of his mouth; can see how your eyes overflow with it until he’s almost certain he’s drowning in it.

Never did he ever think of himself as someone worthy of the sweet words tumbling out of your lips, but you make it so easy to swallow them down and keep them locked behind his ribcage. An odd sort of guilt attempts to burrow  itself in his guts, as if trying to starve him of the affection he so hopelessly craves, but it’s quickly washed away when your eyes find his and he sees the same flowers that rest in his lungs. He’s allowed to be and feel loved. He’s allowed to indulge in the blanket of security you provide him with. He’s allowed to be something other than König: contractor for Kortac and insertion specialist for Kommando Speziälkrafte. He’s your good boy, and he thinks that’s the highest honor he’s ever received.

And, oh god, does he make you feel good. Good doesn’t even begin to describe the sunlight flooding your veins right now, the fire burning in your guts, the twitching in your thighs. König has become an expert in the matters of your pleasure, quickly learning how to curl his fingers inside of you and at what rhythm. He might be known for his petulant attitude and glass ego, but he’s a perfectionist down to his core, and every time he finds himself with his face buried in your heat, he takes notes of how to improve his technique.

It isn't long before you can feel yourself clamping down on your partner’s fingers, hips grinding in tandem with his tongue and shaky fingers pulling at his hair. And König drinks it all in, half-lidded eyes watching your jaw slacken and chest heave as your body shutters above him, drunk off of the reassurance that he’s good for something other than murder. Your orgasm washes over you as subtle as a tsunami, juices flowing out of you and coating his face until it drips down his chin. He doesn’t bother wiping himself clean. He likes having the reassurance that he makes you feel good enough to unabashedly release all over him.

König is high on carnality and voracity, submission and dominance and the freedom it gives him to love and be loved with every flaw but on display for prying eyes. He’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe, and safety is such an indulgence in a life spent on a battlefield. Open-mouthed kisses are pressed against your twitching thighs, and König smiles against your warm skin when he hears you mewl.

“Did I do good, mama?” he asks and has the audacity to sound bashful.

A chuckle slips past your lips. “So, so good. Mommy’s good boy, remember? And my good boy makes me feel the best.”

“Always want to be your good boy.” It’s his personal mantra at this point; the thing that plays on repeat in his ears while he’s losing himself in all of the flowers you plant in him with delicate hands and a soft heart. For no one could put such gardens together, tend to them and keep them as flourishing as you do, flowers overflowing until they’re crawling out of his mouth and spilling onto the floor. He’s full of love, full of life, full of beauty and colors that you’ve been kind enough to offer him. He can only hope to be the best vase he can be.

Somewhere along the way you’ve crawled onto his lap and dug a condom out of the side dresser, opened wrapper laying useless on the bedsheets and the latex rolling over his half hard cock. He hisses as your palm grazes over his sensitive head, but swallows down any whines when you place a tender kiss on his chest. It’s obvious he’s completely lost himself in his favorite headspace—swollen lips slightly agape, watery sapphires being swallowed by blackholes, hands trembling as if it strains him to not touch you, and, somewhere in the mix of all of the obedience and passion, you swear you see a flash of sunflowers.  

Gently, tender for the man who feeds off of your affections like a starved animal, you lace your fingers through his and place them on your hips, steadying yourself and finally giving him the touch he craves. “C’mere, baby. Gimme a kiss, yeah? Do you want to give mommy a kiss?”

“Please,” he whines out. “Want to kiss you so bad, mommy. Please lemme kiss you.”

“So cute,” you coo, tracing your finger over the outline of his lips, “when you’re so desperate for me. Are you desperate for me, baby? Want me so bad?”

König is babbling incoherently underneath you, begging and panting to touch you, begging to kiss you, begging to be worthy of such things. And yet, despite how much he whines and pleads, he remains with his hands by his side and his back against the headboard, because, above all else, he’s obedient, waiting for your permission, waiting to hear you tell him how good he is and how he deserves a reward. “Need you, mama,” he slurs, light eyes peeking through dark hair and pleading. “Need you feel you. Please, mama, let me feel you. I’ll make you feel so, so good! I’ll be the best boy! Just need to be close to you. Just need to love you. Please, mama, let me love you.”

You bring your lips close enough to ghost over his, close enough that you can feel his minty breath fanning over your face, close enough that he remembers what love tastes like and his tongue is yearning for it. “Kiss me then, König. Kiss me and touch me and love me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. With shaking hands, he cups your face in his palms and slots his lips against yours gingerly. In a world where König is known for being aggressive and abrasive, he’s gentle with you, lips slowly sliding over yours and memorizing how sweet love tastes when swimming across his tongue. His hands drift down your shoulders where they trace all of the bumps and outlines of bones and muscles, before sliding down to your breasts, grazing over your pebbled nipples and goosebumps, and then finally resting on your hips, rough palms massaging the plushness of your body. And, just like every other time you’ve allowed him to love and be loved, he kisses his way from your mouth down to the hollow of your throat, your pulse thumping against his lips and reminding him of how fragile you both are.

Your pussy slides against the underside of his cock, and he whines into your mouth, nails digging into your hips and muscular thighs twitching. He’s insistent on kissing you, however, insistent on sliding his tongue in your mouth and committing obsession to memory. Because all he can do is obsess—obsess over you, over the way you make him feel, over how your hands trace the planes of his body, over every sound that falls from your mouth and nestles into his ears, over how sweet you make submission feel. He’s in over his head, he knows it, but as long as you continue to hold his hand, he thinks he might be okay with it.

And maybe it was you shifting your hips, or maybe he bucked his up at just the right angle, but somehow you’ve wound up impaled on him and moaning out his name, and König is certain he’s died and gone to heaven, pretty lilies and orchids laid out on his tombstone.

His cock stretches your pussy so nicely, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to feeling so full, feeling his veins drag against your plush walls and his head nearly kissing your cervix. Even with a condom on, everything about König’s cock is deliciously addictive. You give yourself a breath of a moment to adjust to his size, and right when his eyes flicker up to meet yours, you begin to rock your hips.

König loses all semblance of control at the sudden feeling of your warm walls around his shaft, babbling nonsensically and pathetically whimpering your name over and over, hands shaking and chest heaving. If you thought he was on the brink of losing it before, he’s absolutely gone now, not a trace of constraint or control to be found in his pleas for, “More, mama, oh bitte, can’t get enough of you. Never get enough of you.” Part of you suspects he’s still sensitive from his first orgasm, but that part is quickly crushed when König wraps his arms around your waist and begins to buck up into you.

“König,” you pant. “You’re such a good boy, oh my god! Fuck, keep fucking me like that. Oh, you’re so good!”

Tears poke at the edge of his eyes, whether it’s due to overstimulation of his body or mind, you’re unsure, but you keep bucking your hips in tandem with his, careful to match his distraught pace as you both chase your highs. And, oh, he’s so beautiful like this; all blown pupils and parted lips as he tries his damndest to make you feel a fraction of what he feels, terribly hopeful that you feel for him what he feels for you.

“F-Fick, mama, you make me crazy,” he moans out, “Making me so insane and needing you. Ich liebe dich zu sehr.”

Desperate doesn’t even begin to cover how he feels towards you and all of your flowers, though it’s often a sentiment used. Carnal, obsessive, incapable of thinking of anything or anyone else in your presence, willing and wanting to do anything just to see a glimmer of joy on your face, so fucking consumed by you he’s learned how to keep you in his ribcage.

The sunlight in your veins has broken through the surface, basking both of your bodies in warmth and security you couldn’t possibly find anywhere else. With his fingers creating crescent moons in your skin and his cock hitting all of your favorite spots, it’s impossible to not lose yourself in the greatness of it all. Your arms are wrapping around his neck in an attempt to bring his body—no, his heart—closer to yours, and König buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“So good,” you cry out, and you can feel him moan into your skin. Your bouncing is getting sloppier and sloppier by the second as the coil in your abdomen tightens, and König’s thrusts and whines are becoming more feral. So close, so close, so close. “König—”

“Ich komme gleich, Gott,” he manages to slur out, the English language a nuisance to try and translate to. “Komm mit mir, mama, bitte! Ich flehe dich an, cum with me, mama!”

After a few more messy thrusts, König’s hips stutter to a stop as your pussy milks him for all he’s got. Exhausted, your body falls apart on his, all lead muscles and rubber bones, and he catches you before you slide off of him. He mumbles something you don’t catch, and right when you lift your head up to ask him, he’s sliding his still-hardened dick out of you and tossing the used condom in favor of a new one.

“König?” you question. “What are you—?”

“Not enough,” he states adamantly. “Haven’t loved you enough. Bitte, mommy, let me love you s’more.”

He should be tired. He should be worn down to the bone. After two orgasms and being in this headspace for such an extended amount of time, he should be outright exhausted and ready for a bath. But König is looking up at you with a hard cock, blown pupils, and hungry lips ready to devour as much as you will allow him. He’s pleading all but with his voice and, like the obedient boy he is, eagerly waiting for your answer. Even with so many flowers in his body that they’re beginning to pour out from him and petals scattered across the bed, he still wants to prove he’s worth it all.

You can feel a monster start to stir in your chest—a monster starved of all affection and ready to feed on whatever scraps are tossed its way, sharp claws delicately caressing the very same plants you presented him with. You want to devour him piece by piece until your lips are stained with his blood and all of his shards are protected in your stomach.

And the worst part of it all is you both know he would let you. He would absolutely allow you to eat, eat, eat! Sharpen your teeth and bite as hard as you want! You’ll never go hungry as long as you’re with me! Just eat, goddammit, eat, eat, eat! Eat all of me until we aren’t sure where you end and I begin! Eat until I’m swimming in your veins! Just fucking eat!

Hunger is such a hard thing to ignore, especially when you have such a pretty meal right in front of you.

Rather than answer him verbally, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in for another soul-crushing kiss. He has you underneath him before either of you have time to grasp the consequences of obsession and infatuation. With an ease that onlyKönig could possess, he pins your knees up to your chest, lips brushing against the length of your calves before he begins a steady rhythm of thrusts.

“Baby boy,” you mewl. “You’re so good, you know that? So, so fucking good. Your cock is amazing, darling. Keep fucking me just like that! O-O-Oh, König!”

With claws as sharp as diamonds, you dig your nails onto his back, and he cries out your name until it’s all he dares to think about. “F-Fick, mama,” he swears, and throws his head back, “du bist schön. You know that right, mommy? Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

His skin is on fire, a beautiful display for you to drink in as he brings himself to the brink of sanity. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts; he’s so overstimulated that there’s tears burning behind his eyes and his legs feel as if they may give out any second. But you’re looking up at him as if he’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen and he just wants to be able to say he’s worthy of it all. He’ll keep feeding the monster growling in your chest until he’s just a sad pile of bones. He’d burn himself down to ashes if it meant keeping you warm. He’d rip out his own vocal chords if you woke up one day and decided he talks too much.

Anything, anything, anything to love and to be loved. 

His whines and moans become more and more warbled the closer he gets to his orgasm, and you’re drinking every ounce of his submission. Unable to maintain self-control in the face of greed, sharp teeth pinch his nipple, the swell of his pecs, his shoulder, his neck, his jaw—anywhere you can feed and hear him cry out in delight, just so long as you eat, eat, eat. Every time enamel pinches plush flesh, you can feel a piece of him slither down your throat and land in your ever-growing stomach—somewhere he’s learned to consider home. Whispers of praise and love dance across his skin, your hands running up and down his spine as if coaxing him to give you just a little more of himself, just a bit more so you can sedate the beast and continue to be the practical person he knows and loves.

“Mama,” he pants out, “ca—oh gott—won’t last much longer!”

“So fucking good for me,” you moan and can feel his cock beginning to throb with the need to release. “There go you, just a little more. I’m so close, darling.”

Shaky hands claw their way down a broad chest, and you dig until you can hear a hiss leave his lips. “Bitte, mama, komme mit mir, bitte!”

“My baby wants me to cum with him, hmm?” you tease, albeit weakly. He’s losing control, you both know it. His abs flex with strain, his brow is shining with sweat, and his lips wobble with weakness, and yet he’s fighting to have you cum first just so he can taste how sweet you are on his tongue before the guilt washes it all out.

“Ja, bitte! Ich flehe dich an, mama, komme mit mir!”

“O-O-Oh, fuck...” The monster in your chest is roaring so loudly, you can hear the echoes of it ringing in your ears. “I’m cumming, sweetheart, cum! Cum with me! You deserve to, baby boy, deserve to cum with me.”

And he does so, embarrassingly quick, your name a prayer on his lips and your voice crying out his. For the fourth time that night, you’re both left panting and clinging to each other. He collapses on you, careful as to not crush you under his weight, burying his face into your chest and struggling to catch his breath.

“You did so well for me, darling,” you mumble against his shoulder, your lips fumbling to kiss everywhere your teeth sunk into. “I love you so much.”

“Ich liebe dich auch.” Voice muffled by your skin, but you still hear him nonetheless. “Ich liebe dich so sehr.”

“C’mon, let’s get you in a bath and I’ll cook some food for us, yeah? That sound good?”

He whines out and nuzzles his face more into you, hands pulling you closer to him and refusing to let go. “In a little bit.”

You smile down fondly at him, though he can’t see. “Snuggles first?”

“Snuggles first,” he confirms. And, for a little bit, everything feels right in the world.

Reblogs/comments are always appreciated! ♡

Another stickers edits!!

This time Star Rail, featuring my cosplay group again

Alex - Imbibitor Lunae

Solar - Robin

Leo - Misha (Rip Misha)

Me - Bronya

This was so fun! So please give me requests to do more please-

Thinking about that one post that was like

"Wade and logan spending multiple life times worth together, going through absolutely everything together to the point seperating them would just be plain cruel because of how soul tagged they are with each other and this just so happens to be the universe where they alone outlive everyone theyve ever known time and time again, so here they are, alone, but in each others arms in an old canadian moutian cabin, their front lawn looking like a grave yard with how many loved ones they kept with them. Theyre both old, wades wrinkles are just the light of this white manned beasts life and yet, they put collars on one another in the most caring and adoring way, caressing one anothers cheeks as Logan gives him not only the best 10 life times but also the gift no one else could bare to give him. Death. Unseathing his claws into his chest as quick as he can. And Wade to him, a knife stabbed critically. The best gift you can give your lover who can't die is the best life, yes, but a peaceful and coddled death is the ultimate goal. To lay there, bleeding out without a care in the world as Logan memorizes those pearl like eyes, and wade imprints the small smirk he has into his memory for eternity.'

And then someone reposted with two skeletons holding each other?

To that, I pitch after the last kiss Wade will ever give him, He smiles, because he knows he's made Wade as happy as humanily possible. Laying there for years or for hours, they're unsure. But they do know one thing.

"See ya at home, bub." He tells him with his last breath, an ungodly amount of blood gushing out the side of his mouth. But he's not sad. No, no neither of them are. They're relieved. Logans last act of service was bringing Wade Home. The place he never really felt right because he knew he was supposed to be dead by now.

And they'd find them in a week.

After the buzzards get loud.

After the insecets have made their claim.

After the foxes has had their taste.

After the raven has had it's say.

Id be home with you, I'd be home wih you.

Id be home with you.

I'd be Home

with

You.

Working overtime

Somebody here?

Hey guys.

I have a question.

Why I find so few picture abaout this Pairing?

XemSai (Kingdom Hearts)

Reno x Rufus (Final Fantasy VII)

Zemyx (Kingdom Hearts)

Cloud x Zack (Final Fantasy)

Marluxia x Larxene (Kingdom Hearts)

Young Eraqus X Young Xehanort (Kingdom Hearts)

This ships are awesome guys T_T

Please give me more~

My gift to @alecthewreck for The Breakroom 2024 Holiday Exchange Event.😊 I'm a sucker for soulmate AUs and I thought the prompt you gave sounded perfect for reed900💙💙

Thank you @thebreakroomds for hosting! I had a lot of fun💙

I really liked episode's today, BUT can we talk about this photo ?!

First, how did Glomgold get this picture, well after it's the only Flintheart Glomgold.

But most importantly, the photo itself, there is Launchpad and Gyro and Beakley! I guess it's supposed to be a family photo ... FAMILY.

And know that Scrooge included them in his family even if it has already been shown, it is so nice to see it in (small) details like this

My heart, just look at Scrooge's face! He is so happy to have them! And the way his hand rubs Louie's head and his protective arm behind Dewey and Webby, huh it was truly great.

I wonder when this picture was taken .... Surely after Shadow war and before Della's return since she is not on the picture, but where are Duckworth and Donald? Maybe Duckworth just can not appear on the pictures since he is a ghost. And maybe the photo has been taken after Donald's left. After this photo was used to gather the enemies of Scrooge so there was not to be a different number between the 2 families.

help I've fallen (willfully tumbled) down a rabbit hole (fem andreil/ trans aftg) and can't (refuse to) get up

anyways thanks to @togemythia and @neilsdimples for single (double??) handedly fueling my abysmal sleep patterns

I feel like something big is coming and I don’t like that🥹. I love it. Keep going I can’t wait to read the next part!!!

Gold Rush [II]

Steve Rogers x Plus-Sized Reader

Series Summary: Everybody wonders what it would be like to love Steve Rogers, to get a taste of the golden light he leaves in his wake wherever he goes. You know what it’s like. And more importantly, you know it won’t last. Based on the Taylor Swift song.

Word Count: 9.9k

Chapter Warnings: body image issues, a mention of disordered eating, derogatory remarks about weight made by a family member, angst, fluff, implied sexy times loll

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“Hey…hey, sweetheart. You’re still here.”

Somewhere in the back of your subconscious, you could feel rays of light hitting your face, the faint smell of Irish Spring soap slowly filling your nostrils, and the feathery touch of fingers dancing along your cheek. You refused to open your eyes, though, savoring that blissful ignorance that always marked the moments before waking up, that sweet space where the realities of the day were yet to come crashing down on you. 

You held onto that bliss for as long as you could, even as the light beyond your eyelids grew sharper, the fingers on your cheek growing more defined and solid, the trails they traced onto your skin becoming clearer. You slowly blinked yourself awake, squinting at the early light that spilled from the window, the gentle weight of a large hand cradling your cheek. It took a few more blinks for Steve’s face to come into focus, a soft smile gracing his lips, his hair slightly damp and falling onto his forehead.

You jolted a little, sitting up and rubbing at your eyes to wake yourself up faster. “Sorry, I overslept,” you said, your voice groggy with sleep. A quick glance at the clock on his nightstand told you that you should have been gone an hour and a half ago.  

“No, it’s okay,” Steve said softly, his thumb slowly sweeping along your chin. “I would have let you sleep longer, but Bucky should be back soon. Wasn’t sure if you wanted to meet him this way.” He chuckled, his fingers migrating toward your hairline. 

You let yourself lean into his touch for a moment, the last tendrils of drowsiness trying to pull you under again, but you pulled yourself together, getting up and putting on your clothes from where they were scattered on the floor. You were slipping into your pants when you glanced over at Steve, and there was a pensive sort of grin on his face as he looked at you, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite place.

You raised an eyebrow at him. “You know, a picture would last longer.”

He rolled his eyes at you playfully, but you didn’t miss the dusting of pink that began to color his neck and ears. “You’re usually gone before I get out of the shower. Never get to say bye to you.”

You paused, your hands hovering above the undone button on your pants as you regarded him. It wasn’t an accusation, but there was a stitch to his tone, one that was close to regret, and you felt warmth creep up your neck and face. 

“I don’t want to get in your way,” you said simply, averting your gaze from him in favor of your pants. You zipped them up, adjusting your shirt and sleeves, fiddling with anything to avoid looking at him and spontaneously combusting. 

“I wouldn’t mind if you got in my way,” he teased.  

You looked up at him then, a grin you couldn’t help tugging at your lips. It was unfair how easily he could do that, to pull a smile out of you without even trying at all, especially when he was just standing there in a tank and grey sweatpants that left little to the imagination. You weren’t sure if it was something you loved or hated. You looked around for your bag, grabbing it and slinging it over your shoulder before turning to look at him again.

“Well, you get to say goodbye today,” you said teasing back, tilting your head at him. “So, bye Steve. I’ll see you around,” you added, giving him a little wave.  

“Bye,” he said with another chuckle, waving back, but there was still that something behind his eyes that made your chest ache.  

You turned towards the door before he could catch any trace of regret on your own face, before he could somehow convince you to stay, grabbing your jacket and the knob before he stopped you.  

“Wait,” Steve said, and you froze, your heart beginning a gymnastics routine. You turned to look at him, and you swore he looked like he was ready to jump out of his own skin.

“Yeah...” you prompted, a prickling of nerves igniting in your gut.  

He took a breath, his gaze shifting around the room, his jaw clenching a little as if he were trying to hold back the words dancing on his tongue. You had the urge to step forward and soothe him, to wrap your arms around his middle and kiss away whatever nerves had him so jittery all of a sudden, but you managed to restrain yourself.  

He cleared his throat. “Are you busy on Saturday?” 

You hated the tingle that ignited at the bottom of your stomach. “No, I’m not,” you said, the paper you had to work on being shoved to the back of your brain. You tilted your head at him, attempting something resembling a smirk. “Your place, or mine?” 

“Actually,” Steve began. Was he turning even redder? “Actually, I was thinking we could have dinner together that night. The Miami game is probably going to be canceled because of the hurricane, and I thought maybe we could go out for once.” There was a small wrinkle between his brows, and he scratched the nape of his neck, his whole figure braced for your response.

You blinked at him.  

And blinked some more.  

Dinner.  

The word rattled through your brain a few times before you actually gave voice to it. “Dinner?” you parroted. You know, like an idiot.  

“Yeah. It’s the meal that usually follows lunch. Comes before breakfast depending on how you divide the day,” he said, his mouth twisting up into a wry smile, far less shy now.  

It was your turn to roll your eyes, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “Do you mean, dinner at the mess hall?” you asked warily. 

Even on Saturdays, the place was packed. It would be impossible to escape notice, not when everyone on campus knew Mr. Fantastic’s face, no thanks to the endless advertising budget the football program had. His likeness could be found on posters scattered all over the state, let alone the school. There was no going under the radar with Steve Rogers.

“No, not there,” he said quickly, and you relaxed a little. “There’s this place I know, off-campus. It’s a hole in the wall, I barely found it myself, so we shouldn’t run into anyone there. If you’re worried about that.”

His words hung in the air, stagnant between the two of you, heavy with unsounded implications. Regardless of getting caught, you and Steve had never done anything like that before. It wasn’t part of the bargain, the deal you had struck up all those weeks ago at the end of the summer semester. 

No strings attached.

That was your mantra for this whole thing, the three words that kept you tethered to the real world once you stepped over the threshold of Steve’s door. But here he was, asking you to go to dinner with him. Not breakfast, or lunch, or brunch. Dinner. Dinner sounded all kinds of stringy to you. 

“Only if you want to,” Steve added, cringing a little. He was definitely getting redder. “There’s no pressure or anything, I, well—I thought we could—it’d be nice to—”

“Okay.”

He froze. “What?”

A slow, wide, and borderline delirious smile invaded your face, one you couldn’t have stopped if you tried, strings be damned. “I said ‘okay’. Dinner sounds nice.”

Your smile was reflected back to you, and you swore his eyes turned an even richer shade of blue. It took your breath away, the way he looked at you. 

“Okay, uh, so I’ll see you,” you said quickly, breaking eye contact first. “Bye, Steve.”

“Yeah, bye,” he called after you, and if he had any more to say, you didn’t hear it because you bolted out of his room, heading towards your own dorm to get ready for class.

Your heart thundered as you made your way out of the building and onto the main pedestrian path that ran through campus. You had passed a good number of people on your way out, but no one you recognized, and no one who seemed concerned about where you had been or where you were going. Cold wind nipped at your cheeks as you kept walking, the festive Halloween banners and decorations flapping along from where they hung on the lamposts and trees along your path. 

Dinner. 

Maybe it wasn’t as big of a deal as you were making it out to be. Maybe the man was just hungry and felt like extending an invitation. That’s what friends do, right? He probably already took a bunch of his friends to this hole in the wall, he was just being nice. It was the least anyone could do after sharing bodily fluids. Right?

But if that were the truth, if he had taken other people there, you were sure it wouldn’t be deserted like he said. From what you could tell, the football team moved in droves, and if their beloved quarterback was going to be there on a Saturday night, then the others would surely follow. 

So why did he invite you?

You were so stuck in your head about the whole thing that your feet took you to your room on autopilot, and you barely registered that you weren’t alone when you finally got inside. 

“Well, there you are.”

You jumped and looked up to find Wanda sitting on the edge of her bed, tying her auburn curls up into a ponytail, her hazel, cat-like eyes trained on you intently with a sweet-looking smile. You schooled your face into something normal looking, grinning back at her as naturally as you could. 

“Hey, how was your night with Vis?” you asked, not bothering to take off your coat. You had planned to take a quick shower before class, but you abandoned that to avoid suspicion. Instead, you went over to your desk to gather the books you needed, moving as casually as you could. 

“We had fun,” Wanda said, slowly and deliberately. “You weren’t here when I came back, though.”

You swallowed hard, hoping she didn’t hear it. “Oh yeah, there was an early staff meeting at the Writing Center, so I left before you came back,” you said, a mixture of pride and shame washing over you at the way the lie rolled off your tongue. You stuffed the last book into your bag and faced her with a smile. “I just came to pick up some stuff.”

“Huh. We can agree on that, you did leave before I came back,” she said, her smile turning wolfish. “Problem is, I came back at 10. Last night.”

You froze. 

Wanda smiled some more, clearly amused by having caught you in a trap, getting up and crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Vis’ ex called, said there was an emergency with one of his boys, so we had to cut things short,” she explained, taking a step towards you. “Imagine my surprise when I came back to my dorm, expecting to see my friend studying like she said she would be doing when I left, and coming back only to find an empty room. Funny, right?” 

She took a couple more steps towards you, and you backed up against your desk. “Where were you last night?” she asked innocently, batting her eyelashes, but you could see the sinister undertone behind her facade. 

Wanda scared you sometimes. 

You side-stepped towards the door, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Uh, you know what, I’m gonna be late for class, so maybe we can talk lat—”

“Oh, please, I already know you were with him,” she said, dropping the sweet act and giving you a plain look. 

You froze again. 

She knew? 

How?

“I’m not an idiot, you two are so bad at hiding it,” she clarified, raising an eyebrow at you. 

You ran through your recent memory, trying to find anything that might have clued her in, a slip-up, or something that could have given you and Steve away, but you were coming up short. Before this, you had always been so careful, which meant Steve himself must have said something to someone, maybe someone on the team, maybe—

“Did Pietro tell you anything?” you squeaked out.

Wanda blinked at you. Then blinked some more. And some more. 

“YOU’RE SLEEPING WITH MY BROTHER?”

“WHAT? No!” you yelled, holding your hands up. “I’m not sleeping with Piet, you said you knew I was with—aaaaaand, you were tricking me,” you realized, glaring at her before heading to the door. “Bye, Wanda.”

She intercepted you, blocking the door like a starfish stuck on the aquarium glass. “Ha! I knew it, so there is a him! Who is he?”

“Goodbye Wanda,” you gritted out, grabbing the doorknob to open the door, but your friend was stronger than she looked. 

“If he knows my brother, then,” she gasped, “he’s on the team!”

“Wanda!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” she said, deflating a little, though she still stood in front of the door. “Fine, but I’m not just trying to be nosy. I was worried last night. I called and texted you, and you didn’t answer, and I was halfway to going to campus security, but I had a feeling you were with someone, and I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt like you gave me when you found out about Vis.” She frowned, but it was filled with concern, and your chest ached. “I just want to know that you’re alright.”

Guilt washed over you at what she said, and you sighed, letting your bag slip off your shoulder and thud onto the floor. “Okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. And I didn’t even look at my phone last night because…well, yeah. I was with someone.”

Wanda perked up again, raising her eyebrows and covering her mouth with her hand. 

You rolled your eyes at her, but that didn’t stop the heat that crept onto your cheeks. “It’s nothing, it’s just a fling, or whatever,” you said, but the words left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue, one that you ignored and swallowed back down. It was only the truth, after all. 

“And how long has this fling been going on?” Wanda asked with a smirk, crossing her arms again and leaning back against the door.

You sighed again. You’d already lied to her enough, there was no point in avoiding her questions now. “Since August.” 

“Three months? That’s a long fling,” Wanda said slyly, adding unnecessary emphasis on the last part.

“Well, that’s what it is,” you assured her, ducking down to pick up your bag before she could catch anything on your face that might reveal the tingle sparking in your gut at the thought of Steve. “And I really do need to leave, or else I’ll be late.”

“Fine, I’ll be patient. I’ll find out who he is eventually,” she singsonged, pushing off the door and stepping aside with a flourish. “In the meantime, we can figure out what cheap, last-minute costumes to wear to Kate’s thingy on Saturday.”

You paused as you opened the door, cringing as you looked back at her. “That’s on Saturday?”

“Yeah, she moved it because there’s no game. Why?” Wanda asked, narrowing her eyes at you. 

“I made plans,” you offered up, hoping that would suffice. 

She stared expectantly. 

“I’m going to dinner.”

Staring.

You conceded. “With the Fling.”

Wanda’s whole face erupted, her mouth opening wide to scream, or squeal, or something, but you covered it with your hand. 

“It’s just dinner,” you told her before taking your hand back. “We’re friends, it’s friendly. Stop reading into this, I can practically see what you’re thinking,” you said, poking at the middle of her forehead gently.

“Friends don’t take each other to dinner,” Wanda said plainly, giving you a look to match. 

“We’re friends, and we have dinner together all the time,” you countered, gesturing between the two of you. 

“Yes, but I also don’t know what your vagina looks like,” she said matter-of-factly. 

You opened your mouth to protest, but Wanda was already maneuvering you out the door, patting your shoulder consolingly. 

“Fine, fine, whatever you say,” she said, stopping just over the threshold, leaning against the door frame. “I hope you and your friend have a nice time at dinner, but know that I will kick his ass into another universe if he hurts you.”

You rolled your eyes again, but you grinned at her. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem. It’s probably going to be over by the time finals come around.”

“Still,” she shrugged, shooting you one last warm smile before stepping back into the room and closing the door after herself.

You stood there for a moment, Wanda’s words rolling through your mind. Friends don’t take each other to dinner. That was silly, preposterous even, yet those were the words that kept echoing through your mind for the rest of the day, the rest of the week.      

Despite your best efforts, your impending dinner with Steve Rogers was the only thing you could think about. You couldn’t remember anything any of your professors said, you were on autopilot for all your sessions during work, and for the life of you, you couldn’t remember the ridiculous horror movie you and Wanda had watched on Friday night. Any time you tried distracting yourself, it didn’t work, and before you knew it, Saturday came, and you found yourself sneaking towards the far edge of campus by one of the lesser-used gates, Steve’s taillights getting closer with each step you took on the pavement. It was chilly, despite having your coat on, but you weren’t sure if the shiver you were fighting was because of the weather or because of the prospect of spending time with Steve that didn’t involve getting naked. 

Either way, you had no time to think about bailing or coming up with some kind of excuse to leave, because his car door opened and he stepped out, rounding the front to the passenger’s side and opening the door for you. He waved as you approached, and you waved back, your stomach doing somersaults as you got closer. 

“Hey,” you said when you were in front of him, the warmth from the car’s heating system seeping out of the open door. 

“Hey,” he said, a small grin on his face. If you hadn’t known better, you would have said he was as nervous as you were, his hand gripping the car door handle a little harder than necessary. There was a beat of awkward silence before you slipped into the seat, thanking him with a small smile as he closed the door for you and got back into the driver’s side. 

The car’s cabin felt too small when he finally shut his door. It was like you were getting too much of Steve Rogers at the same time; he was too close, it smelled too much like him, the soft classical music playing out of the speakers was too him. And while you had been as close to him as any two people could physically be, this was too much. It felt like sitting next to an undetonated warhead, or a nuclear reactor, too much raw potential energy that left your skin feeling singed and blistered. 

“Ready?” he asked, glancing over at you with his hands on the wheel. 

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and he smiled again, nodding more to himself than at you, as if he were trying to convince himself this was still a good idea like you were. He pulled out of the campus gate, waving at the security guard as he made a left, pulling onto the main avenue and following it for a while.

He made small talk with you; apparently, Bucky and Nat had gotten into an argument, but that was their M.O., fight hard, and make up even harder. Coach Fury was going harder on the team as Rivalry Week got closer. Every year on Thanksgiving, the Howling Commandos played their biggest rival, the Red Skulls, and this year the Howlies had the home-field advantage. There was buzz already on campus, despite the game still being a month away, and everyone was rooting for a third Howlies win in a row. You told him about the shenanigans that happened in the Writing Center, and how you were all starting to prep for the big Composition Studies conference that was held in the spring. You even told him about how annoying your philosophy professor was, and you were surprised to find that Steve had taken his class in the past, too, sharing his own horror stories that made you laugh. 

By the time you had realized that there was a change in scenery outside the windows, you were much more relaxed than you had been all week, and you felt yourself sink into the soft upholstery of your seat, taking in the dark trees running along the road on either side of the car. 

“Okay, why do I get the feeling you’re taking me to a cabin in the woods to kill me and harvest my organs for the black market?” you asked, turning to face him better. 

The corner of his mouth twitched up, but he kept his eyes on the road ahead. “I thought you’d pick up on that a lot sooner,” he said wryly, and you laughed, poking at his thigh with your index finger. “I told you, this place is pretty out of the way.”

“How’d you find it, then?”

He glanced at you for a second before looking back out the windshield, his hands adjusting on the wheel. “I found it on a drive a few semesters ago,” he said, though it sounded like there was more to it than that. You waited. “Sometimes, I like to just drive. Clears my head after a long week. I’ll pick up and just drive anywhere. Preferably somewhere quiet,” he continued, glancing at you again. He let out a sharp breath, as if he had admitted to doing something wrong, and you felt a small splintering along the middle of your ribcage. 

You understood what he was saying between the lines; he was a monument on campus, the face of one of the most popular and profitable college sports programs in the country, and he had to be a student and a human being all at the same time. You couldn’t imagine the pressure he felt every day, the weight on those broad shoulders. 

You didn’t say anything for a moment, facing the windshield and taking in the line of trees whizzing by. You thought about what he said at the party, about him not really knowing you at all. He had extended an olive branch, hadn’t he?

“Uh, you know that building behind the cafe? Rathskeller, I think it’s called?” you asked, glancing down at your hands. 

“Yeah, you mean ‘Rat Cellar’? With the haunted basement?” Steve said, chuckling a little. 

You smiled and rolled your eyes at the building’s nickname on campus; whoever had donated a bunch of money to have it built got the short end of the stick. It was an unfortunate name for a nice, albeit neglected building. “Yes, ‘Rat Cellar’. And the basement isn’t haunted, there’s a lounge down there, like any other lounge on campus.”

You saw Steve glance at you from the corner of your eye before looking at the road again. “You’ve been down there?”

“Yes, plenty of times,” you told him. “I used to go there all the time after work, or a particularly stressful test. I found it freshman year, and it became my quiet spot. To clear my mind,” you added. 

There. Branch extended. 

You turned your head fully to look at him, in time to catch the slow smile spreading on his face as he looked ahead, and your heart swooped, its wings fluttering against your ribcage. 

“And you’re sure it’s not haunted like people say?” he said carefully, his gaze sliding over to yours as if you’d snatch the branch away again. 

“Nope. Haven’t seen one ghost.”

“Maybe they just don’t like you,” he rebutted, and you both laughed, the sound filling the car with warmth. “Why don’t you go there anymore?”

You shrugged, still looking right at him. “I somehow always end up in your room, now.”

His eyes stayed on the road, but his smile grew wider, his hand reaching over to rest on your thigh. You only hesitated for a moment before lacing your fingers through his, encasing his hand between both of yours. 

It was strange, how natural this all felt with him, how easy it was to hold his hand and follow him out to the middle of nowhere. He almost felt like yours, like you could do this every day with abandon, without a care in the world for all eyes to see. And it hit you that you could do just that, that this could be your reality if only for a couple of hours on a Saturday night drive to nowhere.

It wasn’t much longer before the trees were replaced by the lights and storefronts of a small town that looked like it came straight out of a Hallmark movie. After a few blocks, Steve pulled the car into a small parking lot, one that was overlooked by a small, squat metal building with large windows and a red neon sign that read Monty’s. You could see that it was a retro ’60s diner, but not because it was styled that way; you were sure this building was actually around for the Kennedy administration. Maybe even Eisenhower. 

“This is it,” Steve said, putting the car in park. 

“I can see that,” you murmured, taking in the red booths you could see through the window. “Are you sure your car isn’t the DeLorean?”

He only chuckled in response, getting out of the car, and rounding the front to open your door for you. When you stepped out, you reached for his hand again, just because you could, braiding your fingers with his like it was nothing. He paused, staring at your joined hands for a second too long, as if he were trying to save the moment in his mind for later. He looked up at you and barely gave you time to prepare for what he did next, his free hand gripping the back of your neck as his lips left a soft, lingering kiss on your forehead. 

Somehow your knees managed to avoid buckling altogether, and he led you inside the diner where you were met with vintage furnishings and the tell-tale smell of fry oil and coffee. 

“Well, well. Look who the cat dragged in.”

You turned to follow the voice, one that smoked no less than three packs a day, and you found it was attached to an older Black lady, her grey dreads tied up in a beehive, her polo uniform shirt, slacks, and apron wrinkle-free despite the fact that it seemed she had already worked a full shift as she walked out of the door that led to the back of the house.  

She came to a stop in front of you both, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at Steve in a glare that had you wondering what he had done in this place to warrant it, mentally preparing to turn and run back out the door if need be. You were about to do as much when Steve let out a loud laugh, stepping forward and giving the lady a bear hug, which she surprisingly reciprocated, her face softening with affection. 

“Now, I thought you had gone and forgotten about us over here,” she said, patting Steve’s back a couple of times before pulling away. 

“I wouldn’t dare,” he assured her, his own face beaming with fondness. 

That’s when she turned her attention towards you, a warm smile still on her face. She looked you up and down, then glanced at Steve, placing a hand on her hip. 

“Is this…?” she asked him conspiratorily, and you had a feeling she somehow already knew your name. 

Steve ducked his head a little, glancing at her through his lashes before taking a step back to your side and grabbing your hand again. “This is Y/n. Y/n, this is Rain,” he confirmed, gesturing between the two of you. 

Rain’s gaze slid back to you, and she leaned in with a smirk. “You know you’re too good for him, right?” she stage whispered to you. 

You barked out a laugh, and Steve groaned, earning him another pity pat on the back from Rain as she grabbed two menus for you, gesturing for you to follow her. 

“I’m assuming you want your regular spot,” she said over her shoulder as she led the way, already heading towards a booth towards the far end of the diner, tucked in a corner by one of the windows. She set the menus down, and you and Steve sat at opposite sides of the table as she took a notepad out of her apron.

“You boys gonna send those Skulls packin’?” Rain asked Steve, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.

Steve shrugged a little, resting his elbows on the table. “We’re sure as hell gonna try.”

“Alright, well, you better try your way to winning ‘cause I have 50 on ya’ll,” she said, chuckling a little. “You know I don’t like losing money.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve promised with a wink.  

“Mmmmm-hmm,” Rain hummed, giving Steve another severe look, even though you could see the smile fighting its way onto her face. “I’ll get your drinks and give y’all time to look at the menu.”

Steve ordered a Coke and you stuck with water, and Rain left with the promise of coming back soon. You almost wanted to tell her to stay, to sit next to you for this whole dinner because you were again acutely aware of how alone you and Steve were, nothing and no one there to distract either of you from the other. For a moment, it was quiet at the table, Steve looking at the options on the oversized laminated card in front of him, you trying not to fidget.

“They have the most amazing burgers here,” Steve said, slicing through your panic. He looked up at you with a crooked grin, and that was enough to slow down your heart rate, your chest filling with something warm and bubbly. 

“That’s good to hear, burgers are my favorite,” you said, grinning back. 

“Yeah? They have really good milkshakes, too,” he said, his eyes glinting with something that made your stomach do a somersault. 

“Does that ever make you nervous?” you asked him suddenly, nodding to where Rain had been standing. 

He blinked at you, clearly taken off guard by the change in subject, but his mind caught up quickly. “Not so much anymore. I used to go crazy thinking about how much money some people bet on our team to win, but now I just focus on playing. It’s the only thing I can really control.”

“Still, it must be a lot of pressure. You’re practically the face of the team,” you said. You had no clue why you were pressing the issue, but tonight felt like the kind of night to do it, to peer behind the blue eyes and chiseled jaw that haunted your daydreams. 

Steve raised his eyebrows, letting out a puff of air as he leaned over the table a bit more. “I dunno if I’d call myself the face of the team…”

You tilted your head and gave him a plain look. “ESPN did that piece on you last semester.”

“It was only ninety seconds,” he said, matching your expression. 

“Ninety seconds in broadcasting is a lot, Rogers. They don’t waste that kind of time on just anyone,” you said matter-of-factly. “You are the face of the team. A not so bad looking one at that,” you added with a smirk. 

Steve laughed, shaking his head. He opened his mouth to respond, but he closed it again after a moment, hesitating as he fiddled with the edge of his menu. 

“Actually,” he began, cringing a little as he scratched at the back of his neck. “I’m not supposed to say anything yet, but I have a meeting tomorrow morning with Fury and a couple of people from the PR department. Apparently, there’s this documentary being made about college sports around the country, and a couple of NFL teams are interested in hosting some student players for the summer as part of it. I was chosen,” he said, chewing at the inside of his cheek. 

“What?! Steve, that’s amazing,” you said, and an inordinate amount of pride swelled up in your chest, you almost choked on it.

He only shrugged, his gaze still fixed on the table and his ears growing a darker, rosier shade. “I guess so.”

“Don’t be all blasé about this, this is incredible,” you exclaimed, poking at his shoulder. “You’d get to train in the big leagues, this is a huge deal!”

He laughed, but there was still something conflicted about it, as if he couldn’t believe the words he had just said. “It doesn’t guarantee anything. Less than two percent of college players make it.”

“Yeah, and even less of a percentage make it onto the shortlist for the Heisman,” you said pointedly.

He gave you a soft glare from behind his lashes, but his mouth still slanted up in a small grin. “It’s just a list.”

“Wow, you’re infuriating,” you said, and he snorted. “Steve, you do realize you deserve all this, right? You’ve earned all the praise and accolades you get, and you’ve earned your way to this opportunity, too. You should be bursting and dancing in the streets right now.”

“Maybe,” he said, running both hands through his hair. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I dunno, I don’t think of all that when I play. When I’m out there, the only thing I can think of were those times when me and Buck were younger, and his dad would teach us a few combinations in their backyard. He played in high school with my dad, and I think he kind of expected Bucky to do the same. I was way too scrawny to even dream of playing, but I did it anyway. I think it was my way of getting to know my old man. I think I’m still trying to do that.”

He glanced at you hesitantly, as if he had said something he shouldn’t have, and your chest ached, the pain pulsing along with your heartbeat. You had known Steve’s dad had died when he was a baby. It was one of those well-known facts that anyone following his college career would know, but you hadn’t expected him to be so open about it with you, to trust that part of himself with you. It was something you’d tuck away within you, somewhere safe where the other vital parts of you were locked away. 

“That was a lot, wasn’t it,” he said, trying to sound light and teasing, but it fell a little flat.

You shook your head, grinning over at him while you tried to gather your voice. “I bet he’d be really proud of you,” you whispered.

“You think so?” he asked, his voice soft and heavy all at once. 

“I do,” you told him, and you meant it.

You felt his foot move against yours under the table, hooking the back of your ankle with his and drawing it closer to him. You pressed your lips together in an effort to contain your goofy smile, but you still reached across the table with your palm outstretched, which he happily snatched up. He brought your knuckles to his lips and left two soft kisses there, his gaze never leaving yours, and you felt heat zap over every part of your neck and face. 

“You better cool it in here, Casanova, this is a family establishment,” Rain’s voice rang out closer than you expected. 

You jumped, instinctually trying to pull your hand away from Steve, but he kept it firmly rooted in his. Rain slid your water in front of you with a knowing look, and you felt yourself heat up again for entirely different reasons. 

“You’re not drawing tonight?” she asked Steve as she gave him his drink. “I don’t see your little book anywhere.”

He chuckled, scratching at the back of his neck while the tips of his ears dusted pink. He opened his mouth to respond, but you beat him to it. 

“Book?” you asked Rain, raising your eyebrow over at him. 

“Yeah, you never see him scribbling around in that thing?” she said, miming the action with her own pen as she pulled it out of her pocket, along with a small notepad. “He’s always hunched over it, sometimes I have to remind him to actually eat,” she said smirking over at him. 

“He’s never mentioned it before, no,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him playfully, resting your chin on your hand.

“Well, you should tell him to show it to you. You might like what you see,” Rain said slyly, sharing a look with Steve that made him flush even more. “I’ll take your orders now, before Loverboy over here burns a hole through the seat.”

You ordered a burger with fries, and Steve got the chicken-fried steak with gravy, which didn’t take too long to come out. The two of you continued to talk, and it felt just as easy and carefree and right as it did in the car ride over, as if you’d known each other for much longer than you had. The more you talked, the more you felt yourself being tugged into his orbit, drawing closer and closer to him, and for once without putting up a fight. And in the middle of it all, you realized that he was drawing closer to you just the same, that he was being towed along just as you were, letting himself fall into your gravitational pull. 

“I think that was the best burger I ever had,” you proclaimed, pushing your empty plate aside, taking a long sip from your water. “I am so full, but if Rain brought out another, I would make room,” you laughed, only half joking. It really was an amazing burger. 

“I told you, the food here is great,” he said smugly, leaning back against his seat, his own plate long emptied before yours. It was a wonder where all that food went on his tiny waist. 

You laughed some more, coasting on the high you were on, too lofty on cloud nine to think about the next words to come out of your mouth. 

“When I was little, my dad used to tell me I looked twelve months pregnant after dinner and I think that’s an accurate description now,” you said with a chuckle, rolling your eyes at the memory. You glanced down at your stomach before you looked up at Steve, expecting him to laugh too, but when you met his gaze, his face was stone-cold sober, a wrinkle forming between his brows. 

You felt yourself sober up too, heat flaming across your neck and face as you fully registered what you had said. The silence was thick, and heavy, and awkward between the two of you, and you wanted to crawl out of your skin or find a real flux capacitor and undo the last sixty seconds of your life. 

“He said that to you?” Steve asked quietly. There was a strain to his voice that you didn’t miss, his gaze steady on yours, his eyes bouncing between both of yours as if he were searching for something in them.

You took a sharp breath, looking down at where your hands were fidgeting on the table. “Uh, I mean yeah, he used to,” you said, pushing past the boulder forming in your throat. You dared a glance up at him, and his expression was still the same, carefully maintained, but there was something rippling under his skin you couldn’t quite place.  

You shrugged, taking another sip of water, trying to roll it off your back, put him at ease. “I haven’t spoken to him in years, so it doesn’t matter. You’re not the only one with daddy issues,” you tried to joke, but it came out too dense, too acidic to land that way.

Steve still said nothing, concern slowly etching onto his features, and for some reason that made a fire ignite in your belly, wisps of defiance curling up along your spine. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To get to know you more, to learn more, to see more? If he wanted more than just the physical, then it included this, the dark, raw, and jagged pieces of you, the parts of you that you’d rather forget. 

“He also used to tell me if I kept eating, I wouldn’t be able to see my toes,” you said, ignoring the faint wobble in your words. “Which never made sense to me, because every time I looked down, I could see my feet perfectly fine. I didn’t get it until I was at school one day and realized that I could see my toes, but I could also see my belly, and the way it stuck out more than the other girls.” 

Your brain was screaming at you to shut up, but you kept going, peeling away the ugly bandage and exposing the foul and bubbling scab underneath for Steve to really see. 

“After that, I started not eating lunch. I’d get on line and get my tray so the teachers wouldn’t say anything to me, but I wouldn’t eat it. I did that for a while until I almost passed out after recess one day, ‘cause I started skipping breakfast, too. They started paying more attention after that.” The wobble got worse, but you kept going, staring straight at Steve, daring him to accept what you were saying. “My belly still stuck out, and I could still see my toes. I was in fourth grade.”

Your voice broke at the last word, and you hated yourself for it, the rims of your eyelids burning with the promise of tears, but you stood your ground, staring at the gilded man in front of you and waiting for him to start making excuses to leave, to ask for the check, to run out the door and never look back. 

But he didn’t do any of those things. Steve Rogers just looked at you for a long moment, his cerulean gaze burning through you before he slowly leaned forward, forward, forward, until his face was only centimeters from yours, his breath fanning over your lips for a second before his own descended on them, hard and sure and unrelenting, yet still softer than anything you had ever known. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized that this was the first time he had kissed you in public for other eyes to see, even if there were only a couple more patrons at the diner. But you pushed that thought away, along with any others as you kissed him back, just as hard and sure, and sweet and soft. It was a kiss you wouldn’t forget. 

“Now, I was gonna give y’all another minute, but I was concerned you’d run out of air,” a voice said out of nowhere, and you and Steve broke apart, your lips making an obscene smacking noise. You looked up to find Rain shaking her head at both of you, her hands each carrying a large milkshake topped with whipped cream. 

“On the house,” she said, placing them on the table, holding back a smile. 

“Thank you,” Steve said, clearing his throat, wiping at his mouth with his thumb. He grinned up at Rain, but she was far more immune to his charm than the average person. 

“Mmmm hmmm,” she hummed in response, side-eyeing him. “Let me know when you need the check. And you better take care of my girl over here, or I’ll come after you, fifty bucks be damned,” she warned, giving you a wink.

“I will,” Steve assured her, smiling over at you. 

You smiled back.

Steve reached over the table for your hand again, and you freely gave it, his thumb tracing circles along your skin. It was silent again as you drank the milkshakes, but it was a comfortable kind of silence this time, one that settled between you like a well-worn blanket rather than a pendulum. You said your goodbyes to Rain, promising to return soon, but it was still quiet between you and Steve for the ride back to campus. It was silent as he parked, and it was still silent as you two made the familiar trek back to his dorm building, uncaring of who saw. 

He didn’t let go of your hand the whole way, not until you finally reached his room, the sanctuary you both shared, the one you needed more than anything that night. 

Steve shut his door, the click of the lock echoing through the room. You took a few more steps into his dorm, and it felt like the first time all over again, your eyes roaming over every detail, all of it somehow feeling new and familiar at the same time. 

“So, you draw,” you said, finally filling the silence between you, somewhere between a statement and a question. 

You turned to face him, and he was already looking at you, leaning against the door with his arms crossed. You couldn’t read his expression; his face was blank but his eyes were dark, a tempest brewing behind his irises. It didn’t make you nervous, though, a tingle igniting in your stomach, the tips of your fingers buzzing. 

After a moment, his lips lifted with a small grin and he pushed off the door, taking two long strides until he was right in front of you, his chest only millimeters from yours. He didn’t say anything as he raised his hand to cup your cheek, his thumb running a slow path along your bottom lip. You tilted your head down a little, playfully biting at his finger, and he laughed, framing your face with his other hand and placing his lips over yours. 

It was hard not to get lost in the kiss, but you weren’t one to be fooled, pushing at him a little until you could look him in the eye. “I don’t think so, Rogers. Show me,” you said gently, narrowing your eyes at him. 

He narrowed his eyes right back, but deflated with a sigh, shaking his head as he begrudgingly stepped around you, his hands gliding along your curves until you were out of reach. 

“Fine, but I hope you’re not expecting anything good,” he said, his voice slightly muffled as he rummaged around his closet until he came back out with a wide, leatherbound portfolio. 

He went over to sit on his bed, raising his eyebrows expectantly, and you joined him, your thigh lining up with his. He handed you the folder, and it was surprisingly heavy, a few sheets of paper peeking out from the sides. There were even some small sketches on the brown leather itself, some faded beyond clear recognition, some that looked newer, like the tree in the corner, or the subway window towards the middle. You glanced up at him, your hands poised over the opening, and he nodded at you, though his grin was shyer now. 

You gasped at the very first drawing you saw. 

It was a dog, a happy-looking golden retriever with its tongue sticking out, its little eyes closed with mirth. It wasn’t so much that it was a dog that impressed you; it was that it looked more like a black and white photo than a pencil drawing, as if Steve had printed out a picture from the internet and put it into his sketchbook. 

You looked over at him with a plain expression. “I hope you’re not expecting anything good,” you said in a poor imitation of his voice, and he laughed some more, running a hand through his hair and glancing at you through his lashes. “You’re so full of shit, Rogers,” you said, nudging him lightly, and he nudged you back, turning the page to the next sketch for you. 

The beginning of the book was mostly random, a detailed tree here, a lone basketball there, all so painstakingly drawn and shaded, but as you went on, you became even more impressed. That’s when people began to appear as Steve’s subjects; there was a portrait of who could only be his mother. Sarah, you remembered Steve said her name was. You could see where he had gotten his eyes and his nose, and his smile, her warmth jumping off the page. Then there was a sketch of Bucky Barnes, the famous defensive end on the team whose handsome face was often plastered on posters, on television, and most notoriously on Instagram. But here, in the confines of Steve’s book, he looked less like the giant everyone knew him to be, and more like a young man with stars in his eyes, the corners of them crinkling from the smile on his sketch’s face. 

It was at that point you looked at Steve again, but he avoided your eye contact, focusing on his friend’s penciled countenance. 

“Steve, you have a gift,” you said quietly, meaning every part of it. “These are amazing, thank you for showing me.”

He didn’t say anything, but he finally looked at you, the storm brewing in his eyes again. His gaze landed on your lips and stayed there for an agonizing moment before he looked you in the eye again. 

“Keep going,” he whispered, his voice rough and low. 

You examined his face, not understanding the severity laced in his expression, but you did as he said, flipping through a few more pages of the book. There were a couple more sketches of Bucky and a few other familiar faces from the team, all equally as photorealistic as the others. You were about to ask Steve what he wanted you to see, why he wanted you to keep going, when you finally landed on a page with another familiar face. 

Yours. 

Your eyes were closed in the drawing, and from the looks of it, you were sleeping, your head resting on an unfinished pillow, your hand tucked under your chin. The drawing looked different than the others you had just seen; where every other sketch looked like it had taken long, painstaking hours to do, this one looked rushed, pencil strokes wide and hurried as if he had been trying to capture something that would disappear at any moment. 

You still looked soft, though. Peaceful, like nothing bad in the world had ever touched you. It took you a moment to realize you must have been in his bed when this was drawn, even longer to realize you were holding your breath. 

“You fell asleep, and I couldn’t help it,” Steve whispered, the words tickling at your shoulder. You didn’t trust yourself to look at him. “I didn’t think I’d get another chance.”

You let out your breath in a slow, quivering stream, the sound slicing through the quiet room harshly. You remembered that first night you had spent in his room; you hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Everything between the two of you was new, still unraveling, and the few times you had been together before, you had made sure you were out the door before he even caught his breath. 

But you had been so tired that night, so drained from class and work that you let yourself close your eyes for a second until they opened again with the first rays of morning light, his arm draped across your middle. 

You worried your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down to the point of pain before turning the page and finding yourself again.

This time, you could have been looking at a photo. It was an actual photo that existed, one of the rare ones someone could find on the internet of you. It lived on Wanda’s Instagram page, a carousel of photos she had taken to celebrate the beginning of this semester. Wanda didn’t have a hoard of followers you were worried about, so you had let her post it, some of her relatives from Sokovia congratulating you both on another year at college in the comments. 

You were standing on her bed, fixing the fairy lights she had insisted on hanging up. Your hands were stretched up to reach the string of LED buds, your head turned to look at her because she had called your name. 

You looked happy in the photo, one of the reasons why you didn’t mind it. Your face was scrunched up with laughter, your eyes barely open with how wide you were smiling. You were wearing an old high school t-shirt that was riding up, along with a pair of shorts that stopped right at the top of your thighs. 

And Steve had captured it all. 

From the top of your head to the tips of your toes buried in Wanda’s bedding, he had captured every detail of you. He had immortalized every single flaw in graphite; the widest parts are your arms, which you always tried to hide with cardigans and long sleeves. The rolls that butterflied your back, the ones your mother had always grabbed onto when she urged you to eat less, lose more. The hip dips that made wearing leggings borderline torture. The dimples of cellulite that riddled your thighs, the stretch marks that chased after them, all of it, every last thing you hated to look at in the mirror was there, on full display, as if they were details he couldn’t leave out, as if they were somehow precious and vital and important enough to get right.

You stared at the drawing until your vision blurred, until an errant tear fell from your cheek and hit the page, threatening to smudge your left foot away. 

Fingers gently grasped your chin, and you squeezed your eyes shut, still not able to look at him. A boulder formed in your throat, more tears building behind your eyelids, your lungs barely pulling oxygen in. 

It was too much, it was not enough, it was everything all at once, hitting you like a bullet train and leaving no survivors in its wake. 

The book was taken off your lap, a thud sounding somewhere on the floor, two large, warm hands bracketing your face, thumbs wiping at your heated cheeks. 

“Sweetheart. Look at me.”

You shook your head, shutting your eyes even tighter, trying to pull away, but his hands kept you rooted in place, pressing into your skin with desperation. 

“Baby, please. Look at me, I need to see you,” he pleaded, his voice thick and unsteady. 

You didn’t want to. You didn’t want him to see you, you wanted to run away, far away from him, far away from those eyes that never failed to pull you into their endless blue harbors even when all they promised was shipwreck. 

You didn’t want to, but they opened of their own accord, because when it came to Steve Rogers, you were ready to accept any tragic, watery fate that awaited you.

When you met his gaze, it was filled with concern, a hard line drawn between his brows, his jaw clenched as he surveyed your face, looking for something, anything. He opened his mouth a couple of times, each a false start until he took a deep breath and released it, his shoulders deflating and his face softening into something that made your chest crack even wider.

“They look like me,” you croaked, your voice a mangled mess you hardly recognized. 

You didn’t have to clarify for him; he knew you were talking about the drawings, about how they held every facet of you somehow, how he had enshrined you on paper completely unfiltered and raw. 

He breathed out a laugh, his thumbs still sweeping over your face gently, as if he were sketching you again with his bare fingertips. “I wouldn’t want them to look like anyone else,” he said trying to sound light and humorous, but he was anything but.  You knew he meant it. He would give you nothing less. 

You wanted to retreat again, to fold into yourself, but you forced yourself to stay, to look right at him despite your foundation shaking dangerously, the ground beneath you breaking away piece by piece. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, so simply, as if he were only stating the sum of two plus two. “You have to know that. You’re breathtaking, inside and out. And—” he faltered, ducking his head a little before piercing you with those blues again. “And I don’t want to see anyone else. I just want you.”

You crumbled, then. The cord that had been wound up tight within you since the diner, since the beginning of the week, since before you could remember snapped, and it all came flooding out like the deluge after a dam breaks. 

You cried, and he held you tight, molded against his chest while he whispered sweet nothings to you, letting you know that he was there, and that he saw you, and that he wanted you. And eventually, when his words weren’t enough, he used his lips, the salty brine of your tears mingling between your tongues. When that wasn’t enough, he used his hands, his warmth, his hips. He poured every part of himself into you, and you did the same, falling into a rhythm that was desperate and bittersweet and hopeful until you didn’t know where you ended and where he began.

Eventually, there was stillness, silence, peace, with the exception of your breaths gasping and mingling together in a soft symphony, his forehead resting on yours. You gently ran your hand through the soft strands that crowned his head, the ones that reminded you of sunshine, and sand, and the distant cry of seagulls. Of paradise.  

“Steve,” you whispered, hardly hearing yourself. 

He hummed in response, his nose nuzzling further into your cheek, the arm he had around your waist tightening ever so slightly. 

“I only want you, too,” you finished, giving his words back to him, meaning every syllable with every fiber that held you together. 

He lifted his head then, his gaze washing over you, a riptide that swept you out to the edges of the map where “Here Be Dragons” was inscribed. He smiled and stole your breath in one fell swoop, his lips capturing yours again, slow and sweet, like you had the rest of time to yourselves. 

You were floating. You were on clouds far higher than nine, you were unreachable to manmade instruments and satellites. 

You were weightless.     

But falling always feels like flying until you hit the ground.

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