apple round

by the way...

you’ve got your finger on the trigger but your trigger finger’s mine

This party is the first big, public party she’s been to with him. The first one with Shawn’s celebrity friends, the first one with press access and important wrist bands. And they’re not really there together. She’s not complaining; neither of them want to share their thing (relationship, her knowing subconscious supplies) with the whole world yet. Even only a limited number of Shawn’s friends really know what’s up with them, because it’s relatively new and they’re still exploring.

They’ve both already decided, though, that whatever it is, it’s too important to share with TMZ and ET and whatever other gazing eye or camera lens that might be turned their way.

They’ve been mingling separately for about an hour now, and she doesn’t think she’s even seen him since they showed up (separately, but together, amongst a crowd of his home friends). She’s not bad at mingling with celebrities alone - she’s good at curbing her enthusiasm and pretending she’s not quite as starstruck as she she feels. She sticks out like a sore thumb, in her humble opinion, but she’s mostly just glad no one’s asked her why she’s there, alone at a glitzy LA party.

She’s in the middle of drumming her fingers against the bar to the beat of the music, waiting for the bartender to mix her drink when she spots him a few feet away, sticking out in a the throng of people as he talks animatedly with his hands like he’s wont to do after a beer or two. Her stomach flips like she’s seeing him for the first time, and now she wishes she’d ordered a huge glass of ice water to sooth her suddenly dry throat.

She’ll never get over that, how she falls for him a little more each times she sees him. It’s part of the reason she’s even at this party, pretending she doesn’t really know him and hasn’t been seeing him naked regularly for the past five months. She’s fucked for him. Fallen harder for this gangle of limbs, pink lips, and brown curls than she would’ve guessed, no matter how taken with him she was when she first met him.

She’s been taken with men before. None have lasted quite so long before. And none of them have ever made her so eager to be vulnerable before. They’ve never made her feel safe enough for that. Shawn’s different. She’s still nervous around him, gets butterflies even five months along, but she’s never scared with him.

(She’d gotten so used to being scared.)

The bartender places her bellini near her fingertips and she hums a quiet, “Thank you,” before bringing the wide-brimmed glass to her lips. She lets her elbow rest back against the bar as she sips her drink and watches the crowd. She forces herself to avoid Shawn, has to convince herself she doesn’t need to watch him every second of the day like she desperately wants to.

It’s not like she’s trying to keep tabs on him, or something. She just likes looking. He’s such a pretty thing, with soft curling hair, pink full lips, and apple-round cheeks that flush any time she reminds him how good he makes her feel. She loves that he’s a performer because his job almost always gives her one reason or another to stare at him, to soak in as much of him as she can.

She likes watching the way he is with people, how he curbs his charm to appeal to whoever he’s talking to, adjusts his demeanor in order to connect to someone. He’s not always the smoothest– they both know he still stutters talking to a pretty girl, especially a pretty girl they both like– but he always manages to leave an impression, to leave whoever it is wanting more. It’s why he’s so good at his job, she supposes.

She needs to stop waxing poetic about her maybe-boyfriend in her own head as she scans the crowd for celebrities she might know. She’s trying to focus on the lyrics of the song beating in the background when she feels a body sidle up to hers at the bar. She’s mid sip when she gets the inclination to turn, has to finish drinking as she looks at the man ordering a beer next to her. She’s swallowing and lapping bellini from her top lip when he finally turns to look at her, catches her with her tongue swiping across her lips.

He smiles. She can’t pretend it’s not sexy.

She knows he’s not Adam Brody, but he looks a lot like Adam Brody. Tall, curly black hair, light blue eyes, strong jaw accented by a trimmed beard that trails down his throat and draws her eye to his adam’s apple. Well. She certainly has a bit of a crush.

She drags her eyes back up to his face, but decides she has to focus on his eyebrows as she talks to him, can’t stand to quite look him in the eye as she says, “Only beer? Nothing else behind this extensive bar could entice you?”

That gets her a low chuckle, and she focuses on the cool drink in her hand, has to ignore the flush blooming in her cheeks. The guy shrugs a bit as he turns to face her a bit more, resting his forearm on the bar as he says, “You caught me. I’m afraid I’m not so creative when it comes to alcohol.”

She takes a drink of her bellini as she listens to him, tries to ground herself in reality somehow because she hopes to god she’s not imagining his british accent in her head. She hadn’t noticed it with his murmured, “Beer, thanks,” earlier, but it almost knocks her over now that he’s speaking clearly and directly to her.

She clicks her tongue in response, tilts her head and asks, “When are you creative, then?” in a tone she knows is coy and flirty, but there’s no chance in hell of anything more than this exchange occurring, so she decides to have fun with it.

He ends up being a musician, like she could’ve predicted, but not much of a singer, he claims. He likes instruments, likes to compose, and is actually quite impressive with the range of orchestral instruments he can play. If she weren’t busy falling in love with someone else, British Adam Brody would be a perfect candidate for a fuck buddy.

So she puts her hand on his arm and laughs at his jokes and lets him tell the bartender that she’ll take another bellini. She wonders, briefly, if Shawn is watching her as she plays with this man like a cat does a mouse. She’s not doing this for that reason, to get his attention and make him jealous or whatever. She’s just playing her character– single girl at fancy L.A. party– and she’s actually having some fun. And, well, what else is supposed to do when she can’t talk to the guy she’s actually with?

She doesn’t think Shawn would be jealous, but for a moment, she worries. It isn’t an attractive trait, and she doesn’t want to go there with him, to have jealousy be a problem. It’s suffocating, when someone treats you like you belong to them, like a dog or a piece of chattel.

She doesn’t think Shawn would do that to her, she’s found him far too agapic for that, but she’s also never been in a situation quite like this before. She’s faking it, but she’s flirting with this guy and he’s taking the bait like the gullible dope he is, and she worries Shawn might be a bit gullible, too.

British Adam Brody orders another beer and slides himself closer to her in the process, and she’s close to excusing herself for the restroom when someone slaps a hand on his back in greeting and distracts him long enough for her to slip away, leaving her second bellini glass in her wake.

When she’s slipped far enough away to focus on the crowd before her, she easily spots Shawn looming over the crowd. She sees the broad expanse of his chest first and gives herself a moment to admire it as she steps towards him. She gets closer and tears her gaze from his chest, letting herself finally look at his face.

It’s not until their eyes lock that she realizes he’s already been looking at her, his gaze a breathtaking contrast of dark, yet amused. She’s not surprised by the dull throb she feels between her thighs as she manages to smile sweetly at him, not feigning innocence per se, but definitely not acknowledging her recent shenanigans.

She keeps her gaze on his, keeps smiling right at him as they get closer and his lips tug up into a little smirk she has to pretend doesn’t make her want to melt into the floor. She looks away from him as she dodges the group he’s with and walks past him, heading for the lounge area she noticed earlier.

It’s less crowded than where she was before near the bar, and there’s a free loveseat in the corner. Sitting there, she’s not facing the main party but rather a large, floor to ceiling window that showcases a devastating view of the ocean. She’d almost forgotten they were on the beach.

She’s busy watching the waves lap against the shore in the light of the moon when she feels a large, warm palm cup her shoulder. She swallows her startle and just tips her head slightly, opening herself to the room a bit as Shawn leans down over the back of the loveseat, bring his head near hers so he can murmur in her ear, “Having fun?”

His fingers curl into her skin as she smiles then wets her lower lip, turning her head a bit more so their noses are dangerously close to brushing. “That bartender makes a good bellini,” she replies seriously, as if she’s constantly on the search for the world’s best fruit & champagne mixed drinks.

She gets a chuckle from him as he pulls away, his hand falling from her shoulder and she has to stop herself from being so disappointed. They can’t touch while they’re here, not really. Not like she wants to, at least. She scooches to put some distance between them as he comes to sit next to her on the loveseat, and she has to ignore the little bemused look he gives her because she knows keeping a few extra inches between them is definitely more for her benefit than the party’s. No one would care, or even notice, if they were sitting thigh to thigh in the corner of this party, but she knows herself. Knows her thigh pressed to his is step one of ending up in his lap with her lips attached to the strong cut of his jaw. She doesn’t like to think of Shawn as a weakness, but in cases like this, he’s absolutely her demeanor’s Kryptonite.

“I was actually talking about your friend,” he continues once he’s settled, a smirk once again blooming on his lips as he slings an arm across the back of the small couch, resting closer to her shoulders than she’d like at the moment.

He doesn’t sound mad, or even vaguely peeved when he mentions British Adam Brody. Again, his expression is more one of amusement than envy, like he’s ready to discuss the prank they’re both planning on pulling later or something.

She has to stop herself from reaching over and carding her fingers through his hair as she turns to face him a bit more. She feels like she’s barely keeping herself together as she concedes, “He was pretty. British, too.”

Shawn’s laughing again, a bit fuller now because he knows she has a thing for English (and Scottish and Irish and Not-American) accents she won’t exactly admit to. She feels her cheeks flush but doesn’t act on it, just rolls her eyes a little as he finally manages to say, “Was he a wizard?”

He knows she hates it when he calls everyone with an English accent a wizard, and that’s why he still does it to this day, even though she stopped reacting and started playing along a few wizards ago.

She grins, runs her tongue across the front of her top teeth, then purrs, “I don’t think the wand was his instrument of choice, actually,” in a tone that sounds a bit more lewd than she’d intended, but it gets Shawn’s brow to raise nearly to his hairline before he grins and shakes his head, leaning back a bit more comfortable as he lets his hand drop casually to her shoulder, fingers dragging across her skin.

“I’m sure he was dying to show you his favorite instrument,” he matches, like he loves the idea of someone else being hot for his girl, loves that he knows she’s gonna pick him every time. Like he’s proud of himself for being so lucky, for accomplishing something as great as being her guy of choice.

His hand on her shoulder burns her skin and her paranoid mind tells her the whole party is watching them, when she knows the whole party doesn’t give a shit about them. Regardless, she has to take a moment before wrinkling her nose and shrugging a little, “To be fair, I was acting a bit interested in a private concert.”

Shawn’s grinning, and then he’s not, when he says, “Wait. You still mean sex, right?” And yeah, she loves him. The metaphor was getting stale, anyway.

She can’t stifle her laughter as she nods, and it’s Shawn’s turn to roll his eyes as he holds up a defensive hand and mumbles, “Okay, okay. I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Sorry,” she finally says, laughter dying down as she takes a breath, “I just think you’re cute.”

“And that British guy definitely thought he was gonna get laid,” Shawn deflects, bringing the conversation back to her game.

“How long were you watching us?”

“Long enough.”

“That’s creepy, babe.”

Shawn huffs a little, but the corner of his mouth is tugging up in a fond smile as he replies, “I didn’t have to watch him long to see him check you out.”

“Well, I do look pretty cute tonight,” she muses, looking down at herself.

She feels his fingertips against the angle of her jaw, fingers curling under her chin so he can guide her gaze to his. He looks heartbreakingly earnest when he finally says, “You look beautiful,” like he’s correcting a serious mistake she’s made.

She still blushes every time he says it, still can’t believe how sincerely he seems to mean it. She feels the heat in her cheeks and wonders if he’ll ever stop affecting her like this. The way he’s looking at her is stifling, and she has to look away whilst biting her lip, trying to keep herself from doing something stupid like kiss him.

He must realize how particularly intimate the moment is only once she’s turned away, and then his fingers fall quickly from her chin like she’s on fire and he’s burnt himself. Her eyes close for a moment, and she lets herself miss his touch as her lungs search for a calming breath.

She hears him clear his throat awkwardly and she wants to laugh. So she does– loudly, fully, brightly. Her head falls back as she does and she ends up leaning into the back of the couch, right into the crook of his arm.

Her laughter begins to subside and she blinks open her eyes to look up at Shawn as he starts to speak, “Are you laughing at me?”

She sucks in a breath, trying to stop her remnant giggles before she replies, “Only a little.”

“You were laughing a lot,” he corrects, his eyebrows raising.

“I was laughing at us,” she clarifies, settling more confidently into his side, then turning to face him a bit so she can see his pretty face clearly.

“At this,” she says as she lifts a hand vaguely between them, grinning like she might start laughing again. “It’s annoying, to have to pretend, but it’s also… Kind of funny. Like, is this how Hannah Montana feels?”

“Are you drunk?” is his only reply, even though he’s grinning at her like the sun shines out of her ass.

“I’m. Buzzed? Buzzed. Buzzed is a word. I’m buzzed.” Her cheeks hurt from smiling as she prattles on but she can’t stop. And she’s well aware it’s not really the two champagne-heavy bellinis making her act like this. Alcohol she can handle– it’s him she think she’s drunk on, now.

She missed him. She’s happy he’s here now, even if they’re going to have to break apart in the next two minutes before someone comes looking for him.

“You’re funny when you’re buzzed, Hannah,” Shawn teases, the smirk pulling on his lips causing her heart to stutter before her humming brain can come up with some sort of retaliation.

“I’m funny always, Jake Ryan,” she goes with, arching a challenging eyebrow.

Shawn’s face drops, lips drooping to a frown as his brow wrinkles and he asks, “Who’s Jake Ryan?”

She could’ve guessed that he wouldn’t know, but she sounds much snappier when she answers, “Hannah Montana’s boyfriend!” with an eyebrow raise that says, ‘Duh!’

(And so what if she’s never actually said the word ‘boyfriend’ to him before?)

His eyebrows raises in response for a moment like he’s trying to process what she’s said, but then he grins and says, “Okay.”


“I’m Jake Ryan,” is all he says back, smiling like he’s got a stupid secret he doesn’t want to keep hiding.

“Actually, Jake Ryan was Miley’s boyfriend because Hannah Montana didn’t have a boyfriend. So If I’m Hannah, then… Wait, hm. Actually– no. Yeah. I don’t remember. I guess it doesn’t matter,” she finishes with a shrug and the devastating urge to rest her head on his shoulder and let him carry her home when they’re ready to go.

Despite his disgusting adorable laughter at her rambling, she forces herself to remain upright, to stay only generally tucked into his side rather than halfway in his lap like she wants to be.

She hears him say, “I hate this,” as his laughter subsides, and she looks up at him, giving him a frown and her best puppy dog eyes.

“You hate hanging out with me?”

He scoffs, shakes his head, “I hate hanging out with you when we can’t like. Be ourselves.” He looks forlorn when he finishes, like someone just told him he’s not allowed to have his favorite food anymore or something. Well, sadder than that. She likes to think he likes her more than food. If only a little.

“Yep,” she nods, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis, “This blows.”

With that, Shawn shifts beside her, pulls his arm from her shoulders and stands up before turning to her, offering a hand for her to take as he says, “Let’s go.”

She blinks, thinks maybe she’s more drunk than she thought and is imagining it. It’s real, though, and he’s standing there waiting for her to slip her palm against his. She laughs as she says, “Go where?”

Shawn smiles, slow and smooth again like he’s got a secret, then says, “To the hotel.”

She bites her lip as she watches him, says, “People will see if we leave together,” but takes his hand and pulls herself up anyway.

He doesn’t let her keep any space between them once she’s standing, instead pulls her close and wraps his free hand around her waist. She cranes her neck to keep her gaze on his like she always does when they’re this close, then watches his smile change into something more serious as he lifts his shoulders in a casual shrug.

“I don’t care if you don’t,” he murmurs, fingers curling into her side like she’ll float away if he doesn’t hang on to her.

“I don’t care. Like, at all,” she replies, presses herself even closer to his chest.

“Good,” he starts, keeping her close as he starts for the exit, “Because when we get back I’m gonna spread you out and make you come harder than that asshole from the bar ever could.”

Well, she can’t argue with that.

He keeps her close as he guides her to the door, and she decides that maybe a little jealousy doesn’t hurt, after all.

anonymous asked:

Could you do 3,7, and 16 with Steve please?

3. “For some reason, I’m attracted to you.”- Steve Rogers

People had certain preconceived ideas about Steven Grant Rogers, thinking he was this figurehead for all things good and honourable. What they didn’t know was, he was secretly a little shit.

The two of you had been dating for 6 months, so you were now well used to all of his little quirks. The sassiness that no one would expect, the dorky jokes that made you groan on a daily basis, and the just plain stubborn way he acted. But all of that didn’t mean you didn’t love him more than anything.

On a weekly basis, you would drag Steve down to the grocery store with you, insisting you couldn’t carry all of the bags without him.

Perusing the fruit and veg section, you rolled an apple round the palm of your hand as Steve grinned beside you.

“Hey doll?” Steve murmured, holding an orange in his hand, “Orange you glad to see me?”

Shaking your head, you placed the apple back on the pile, not intending to give your boyfriend the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Y/N? Don’t we make a nice pear?” He then asked, holding out the said fruit in your direction, a huge smile on his lips.

“For some reason, I’m attracted to you.” You muttered, placing a carton of strawberries in your cart. 

“Sorry Doll.” Steve chuckled, moving behind you to wrap his arms around your waist he placed a kiss on the top of your head. “I love you, from my head tomatoes.” He grinned, quickly swiping a pack of the said food and throwing them in the cart.

Groaning, you lent your head back to grant him access to your lips, smiling as he chuckled against them.

Prompt ListRequest a prompt!


Title: Breathless

Pairing: Byun Baekhyun x Reader

Genre: Smut, fluff

Warnings: Morning sex, sinful acts involving oranges, Byun Baekhyun, thin white shorts, not-so-timid erections

A/N: Inspired by the song by Shayne Ward (You should listen to it!).

Originally posted by chanyeol-ie

Byun Baekhyun awoke with what felt like eyes leaded with dust and a head full of sand. He stretched comfortably against the sheets, his soft skin melting deeper into the cotton. His tongue was laden with a tangy, unfamiliar taste. He blinked, staring past a long, pale arm to the sight of his beloved beside him, sleeping soundlessly.

He watched as your chest gently rose and fell beneath the duvet, your breasts and shoulders hidden beneath the pale sheets. Sunlight slanted through the thin curtains, giving the room an amorous, white glow. Your cheeks were warm and pink against the pillow, soft from the tranquil herbs of sleep.
Gently moving as not to wake you, Baekhyun slowly slipped from beneath the covers. His morning erection rocked expectantly against his thigh, but he ignored it, snaking across the floor with the gentle treads of a butterfly. He bent to the floor, replacing his naked legs with the familiar, silky cloth of his white pajama shorts, and listlessly shrugged on a white dress shirt, not bothering to button it closed. He escaped quickly to the bathroom where he carefully cleaned up, brushing his teeth until they gleamed a blinding, pearly white, and washed his face. When he was done, he shifted down the hall and towards the kitchen where he gathered a clean, wooden tray, a sturdy pitcher of orange juice and a food hamper from the cupboard. After pouring two glasses of orange juice and a cold jug of milk, he placed the food hamper on the counter and carefully ripped it open, removing a wrapped set of toasted muffins, four plain bagels, six slices of bread, a fresh wedge of cheese, two handfuls of grape and apples and a round, bumpy orange. He placed a sturdy, china plate in the middle and carefully glazed it with the food, keeping the orange locked in his hand. When he was done, he turned to regard it sturdily.
It was cold and stone in his hand, yet felt like it could easily melt into a pool of runny, warm juice if pinned under his gaze long enough. Shaking away any further thoughts of perplexity on trivial, piddling fruits, he fixed it calmly next to the stash of cheese and turned to pluck the slices of bread into the toaster.
While he waited, he gently garnished two of the bagels with some sweet cinnamon spread and sliced the cheese into limp, even pieces. When the toast was ready, he tossed them readily onto the tray, which he took steadily into his hands, and started out of the kitchen and back along the hall, starting to recognize the familiar taste lingering on his tongue.
Your taste.
When he returned, the bedroom was still worn with the familiar albescence of waning dawn and his erection was now fitfully jerking against his thigh. He set the tray nicely against the bedside table, careful not to make too much noise with moving things around, and bent down so he was level with your peaceful sleeping figure. Brushing a loose strand of hair from your eyes, he admired the slip of bare shoulder peeking from the heavy coat of duvet. Seeing you like that made him want to hold and protect you even more and he fretfully hoped he’d showed you that last night.
A smile tugged impatiently at his lips as you began to stir, your hair moving to splay across your neck. He knew how much you hated that and moved it slyly, carefully studying your face as you wearily came to consciousness.
You twisted your head, turning to look at him. He was beautiful—the way the white light fluidly fell around his exquisitely lean form, his shirt parted around his nude front, the smooth dips in his stomach and sharp angles of his pectorals greeting you smugly.
“Good morning, princess,” he brushed a strand of dark hair from your eyes, smiling warmly.
You giggled, almost childishly. “Shouldn’t a princess receive a kiss the moment she wakes up?”
“I thought a kiss was what woke a beautiful princess up,” he mused, leaning forward. His nose brushed yours and a blush bloomed in your cheeks. He smiled, eyes flamed with compassion, and closed his lips over yours. It was a warm, sweet kiss and you fretfully bit back a groan as his tongue gave you a wet, warm greeting. The taste of sweet fruit and tea exploded into your mouth—the taste of Byun Baekhyun. You cupped the back of his neck, tugging him closer as his tongue gently lapped against yours.
He shrugged a hand beneath the covers, skimming his fingers across your hip as he pulled from your lips. “Breakfast?”
You furrowed your eyebrows as he gestured soundlessly towards the tray on the bedside table. You smiled, suddenly aware of how unbearably hungry you were as Baekhyun took the tray into his hands and perched next to you on the bed.
“Good sleep?” He grabbed the knife from the tray with one hand, fixing a bagel on the plate with other. You nodded as he began to garnish the bagel with warm cinnamon spread, occasionally licking his thumb and fingers free of it.
He nodded enthusiastically, and you watched as both his eyes and hands fell in concert across the blanket covering your breasts. You emitted a shaky gasp and Baekhyun’s eyes lit above his smug sneer. He gently lowered the duvet, exposing your chest. His eyes glittered as he marveled at your rounded breasts, his fingers reaching to dance over the curved rosebuds tipping the flesh. He brushed your nipples softly with his thumb, the air swirling around them becoming blissfully warm. He quietly hummed and straightened himself again, seemingly in a freshly good mood, and took the handle of the knife once more between his delicate fingers and started the blade along the edge of the orange. A blush bloomed in your cheeks as you remembered how those fingers had sinfully worked you to euphoria.
You quivered as you felt a drop of wetness hit the top of your chest. You looked down to see a strip of orange-colored liquid snaking almost languidly down to your nipple. A chuckle sounded from your right, brimmed with immorality, and you turned your head to look down at him. He was grinning nefariously from the pillow, but you noticed his hands had moved. They were now tipped almost purposefully over your breasts, the juice from the knife seeping freely to your skin. He pulled the knife back and sank the tip between his lips, coaxing the tangy-flavored stickiness into his mouth. You remembered how he’d poised his lips just like that when he’d been in between your legs the night before, his eyes and tongue flickering wickedly.
He divested his mouth of the knife, driving it deep into the orange until the hilt was perfectly damp with yellow-orange liquid. His eyes roamed over your body, vigilant and watchful, and he gently plucked the knife from the base of the fruit, moving it so the flat end of the blade suspended just over your right breast. He lowered it slowly and you swallowed a gasp the moment the cold blade touched your skin. The flesh became doused with streams of bright, runny liquid and you watched as several drops swirled around the mounted bud of your nipple.
“Mmm,” he reached to gently cup the underside of your breast, his fingers dipping into the full, soft flesh. “What a mess, I’ve made. Guess I’d better clean it up.
You watched as he dipped his head forward and took your breast into his mouth, humming against you. He drew on it lightly, pulling softly, almost tentatively, at the nipple, measuring your reaction carefully.
"You’re killing me, Byun Baekhyun.” He reached up, tenderly cupping the bottom of your other breast as his lips closed around the nipple, suckling sweetly. When he was done and faintly assured all his “mess” was cleaned up, he looked up at you, flicking an excess strand of hair off your bare shoulder.
“Wouldn’t that be such a sweet death?” he murmured, lower lip grazing your nipple.
You shivered, unable to meet his eye. His breath grazed your neck and you sank your teeth into your lower lip, concealing a moan.
“Don’t be shy with me, sweetheart,” his hand ran up your bare thigh, which softened against his touch. He closed his lips around your nipple again, feeling it peak even further in his mouth. His pride seemed to swell as you finally released a soft, shrill whimper and he moved a hand down beneath the duvet to caress your hip.
“So beautiful,” he gently pecked the other breast, the nipple mounting almost immediately at his touch. He smiled, reaching out a single finger to graze the rosy bud. You shivered, sharply taking your lip between your teeth as his finger ghosted across your nipple, sending tuffs of heat swirling around in the flesh. “So sweet.” He leaned forward, drawing it into his mouth whilst reaching under the duvet to grab your thigh. He gently pulled you from under the sheets and placed you gently on his lap, paying homage to your breast all the while. You cupped the back of his head as he stared up at you, running careful fingers along your skin with one hand. You heaved the tray off his lap and leaned across his legs, planting it firmly on the bedside table. The orange juice quivered with disappointment on the wooden surface.
“Are you sure you just want to discard breakfast like this, sweetheart?” he whispered, feigning concern as he ran a hand across your stomach.
“Oh, I’m sure,” you murmured, reaching below the duvet to slip a hand inside his shorts. His face immediately darkened as your fingers folded tightly around his erection, breath catching against you. You pressed kiss after kiss against the slope of his throat, stroking surely, but hesitantly. The incoherent growls in your ear propelled and coaxed you onward as you splayed your lips against his bare pectorals, nipping gently at the arched flesh. His soft, harsh grunts turned into pants as you quickened your speed, petting him definitely.
He suddenly arched up off the bed, wrist folding tightly around your hand as he wrenched your fingers free of his erection. Perplexed, you tried to study his face to see what was the matter, but he crushed his lips against yours, breathing harshly.
“Not now, baby,” he panted, stretching a hand between your legs. “I don’t want to come yet.” He began to pet you softly, latching the skin of your neck between his lips. He sucked, not to hard, but not gently either and a dark, purplish mark fused in his lips’ wake.
You drew your lip tightly between your teeth, shamelessly beginning to slide against his fingers. A smirk formed on his face again as he watched you, panting and beginning to slightly curve against him with need. His other hand splayed gently across your ass, guiding you forward as he leaned to press an earnest kiss against your heart.
“What happened to being shy?” he breathed against the muscle beating frenetically in your chest.
“I want you too bad to care anymore,” you whispered, reaching to draw the flesh of his neck into your mouth. He stilled, a groan spilling in your ear. You remembered how he’d groaned and quaked for you last night—sex with Baekhyun was absolutely nothing less than fulfilling.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he roused, reaching to grope you by the ass. His erection was sitting expectantly between the crevice of your asscheeks, twitching slightly against your skin. “I need you.” He pressed chaste kisses against the hollow of your throat and the supple skin of your neck. “Now.”
You groaned, feeling as he rocked against you. Driven by need, you took him into your hand, pinning him right up against your entrance. Then, making sure to poise yourself straight to attention, you drew yourself down onto him with a quick, sweeping motion. He groaned, loud and fervent against your throat and you cupped the back of his neck, pressing kisses all along the crown of his head.
“God, I love you,” he whispered against your throat. “I love moving inside of you.” He leaned back against the pillow, blonde hair spilling against snowy cotton. You watched as his erection slipped in and out of you, lined with gleaming licks of wetness.
“Damn,” he rasped, reaching to pet your clit. You gasped, fighting back the urge to grab his wrist. Your stomach flamed with something tight and unbearable and as you fought it back, he began to quicken his movements, rubbing you in time to his thrusts. “Damn, you’re so wet.”
You ran your hands across his chest, mapping the surface, painting the warmth of his nipples with your fingers and coloring the flesh of his hips with your palms. He caught your waist firmly with his hands, edging you onward, bucking to meet every single roll of your hips. He was slow, yet passionate, his face a mask of free euphoria as you moved in blissful concert, his mouth slack with ecstasy, his eyes deep and loving. The twinges of the sensation seemed to swirl and jet around you, catching you in its blissful halo as you rose and dropped against him.
“Look at me,” he grated as your head began to lull back. He cupped a comforting hand around the back of your head, long, delicate fingers bringing you back to eye level. It was too much—too intense—swirling in his eyes was a hazy collection of emotions: love, affection, lust, concern. You bent forward, brushing your lips with his, but you didn’t draw them in completely, just grazing them lightly. He tugged you forward, trying to ease your mouths together, but you remained still, all the while still moving sinfully against him.
Desperation filled his eyes as he pulled at your hips in rebuttal, locking his lips together in earnest.
“Please,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and throaty, his eyes locked on yours. “Please—if anything — let me kiss you.”
You swallowed, feeling your dominant facade slowly crumbling beneath his soft gaze. You drew his lips slowly into yours, savoring the taste of him, the feel of him melting into you. He lifted up and his bare chest slid against yours, his arm folding around you. You watched, mouth aloft, eyes burning with bliss as he heatedly rocked into you, his hips pouncing from the bed with each thrust. Your head fell back, your eyes closing as pleasure wracked every inch of your body, overtaking each particle, twisting it into a tight knot of ecstasy. He held you close, his mouth planting searing spots across every space of skin. You struggled against the strong, overbearing hands of orgasm tugging freely at you, coaxing you forward into its hot, smoky depths; you wanted to hold on—you didn’t want it to end yet, you didn’t want to let Baekhyun go.
“Look at me, love.”
It was like lifting the heftiest load of lead from your eyelids: your forced open your eyes, looking down into the sea of rust-colored oblivion. His eyebrows were narrowed and nudged together, his whole face crinkled with pleasure. You could tell he was close, not just from the sound of his heavy, ragged moan, increasing in volume, but from the sharpness of his movements, the dutiful charge of his hips, the snapping of his pelvis, the tight drawing of lower lip between teeth. You arched against him, reeling and tightening, as he leaned forward, lapping and sucking at your breasts. His hands went to cup your ass, guiding and gently mapping your movements, bringing you closer and closer to the brink of ecstasy.
And then the knot that had been binding you tightly, concealing you from the face of pleasure, had suddenly been set loose. The world seemed to tumble around you, a blinding haze of white, brown, and orange, and at once you felt that time seemed to let go of you. You were suspended in mid-air, poised like a rocket sent to space, frozen in a period of free, scorching lust.
Something tightened again, deep in your stomach, and you finally, gloriously fell.
And then hands were slowly bringing you back to reality, grabbing and pulling you towards a wall of soft skin. Your head fell against a damp, clothed shoulder and the smooth skin of cotton seemed to slowly lull you from your daze. You felt Baekhyun’s hand gently smoothing out the curves of your back, rising and falling rapidly against his fingers. With the other hand, he carefully lifted your face, bringing you up to face him. His hair was a bright, tousled mess, blonde threads falling in loose heaps all along his temples and forehead. A trickle of sweat fell smoothly between each of his pectorals, which were rising and falling rapidly against your own chest.
God, he was beautiful.
“Are you okay?” He reached to cup your chin with the other hand, regarding you peacefully. “Y-You looked like you were about to faint. You were all flushed.”
Instead of responding, you reached forward, breathlessly splaying your lips across his, kissing him with every last ounce of energy you had. You smoothed his face with both hands, mapping your fingers across the angled curves of his cheeks, sailing the point of his chin with your thumb. He groaned against you, pulling you closer and you folded your arms tightly around his neck, never wanting to let go.
Unfortunately, he broke away.
“Gosh, that was amazing.”
You sniggered, a blush blooming in your cheeks. “We really should—have breakfast in bed more—often.”
He squeezed you tightly, smoothing the curve of your chin, drawing sensual patterns along the skin of your hip with his other hand. “Catch your breath first, sweetheart. And yes, we really should.”
You leaned forward again, dragging his lips into yours as he melted into you again, the tip of his erection probing your asscheeks. “Can I at least say one thing?”
He nodded, his hair bobbing wildly against his forehead.
“I love you.”
He smiled, his eyes sparkling with warmth. He kissed you, a nice, light peck as his hands glided along your hips. “I love you too.”
And then you were leaning into him again, drawing him inside, and with a soft, hoarse groan, the cycle started all over again.

Eve Argues Against Perfection

by Diane Lockward

And the woman said, The serpent
beguiled me, and I did eat.

–Genesis 3:13

Beguiled, my ass. I said no such thing.
You say I lost the gift of Paradise.
I couldn’t lose what I never had.

You say the serpent tempted me to eat.
You omit that he entered the Garden
on two legs and walked like a man.

And here’s what your story always ignores:
I had pure gold, rare perfume, precious stones,
but Adam hadn’t touched me all those years.

Perfection in the Garden didn’t mean that way.
Not having it and not wanting it
was God’s idea of perfection, not mine.

So when that serpent strolled up to the tree,
all upright and fine, he threw off the balance,
and I began to pray, Oh, let him be mine.

When he held out the apple, so round and lush,
when he stroked it to a keen red glow,
I didn’t fall to temptation–I rose to it.

I ate that apple because I was hungry.
I wanted what lay outside of Paradise,
a world without the burden of perfection.

Now you call all sinful women my sisters.
I say, let them claim their own damn sins.
The apple may not be perfect, but it’s mine.


um yes im wearing an easy access dress for that sole purpose!

Eighth Christmas

the series is as follows so far:

FirstSecond ThirdFourthFifthFifth Christmas, Part 2SixthSeventhEighthNinthTenthEleventhTwelfthThirteenthFourteenthFifteenthSixteenthSeventeenthEighteenthNineteenthTwentiethTwenty-firstTwenty-secondTwenty-third


Scully spent Christmas Eve at Maggie’s surrounded by loud family, mounds of presents, her mother’s recently acquired goldfish and what felt like a gigantic hole where her heart should have been. William enjoyed his Merry-Go-Round ride from relative to relative, drooling, patting, sitting up and pulling hair whenever possible. She, on the other hand, spent her time staring into space, remembering the two Christmases that Mulder spent with her family, sitting behind her on the floor, hand gently resting a hair’s width from her thigh, shin folded against her back end as he shuffled up close, watching the festivities over her shoulder, his breath so close to her, so warm and soft on her neck.

Suddenly, a restlessness shook her, a need to move, a need to see him, a need to hold him so strong she had to stand, pacing back and forth to the confusion of her mother, who watched her quietly from the couch. Her circle took her from the living room to the kitchen, down the hall, past the bathroom and stairs, soon returning to the living room. She traced the path four times before she found Maggie standing in her way in the darkened hall.

“Honey, are you all right?”

Rooted there, hands playing with themselves, wringing absently, “I need to go home, Mom. I just … something … I need to go. I’m sorry. I know it’s not that late but if you won’t hate me, I’m going to get going.”

She didn’t want to see them go but something in Dana’s tone of voice drove her to nod her head, “of course. Just tell everyone Will kept you up late last night and you both need your rest.”

Crooking an eyebrow and trying to smile, “lying on Christmas Eve. God will not approve.”

“I’ll deal with the repercussions but I think it will be fine.” Giving Scully a hug, “just don’t forget to come back in the morning. I’ll have been too long away from my little Will by then.” Stepping back, Maggie gave her a soft look, “we’ll be up at 6am, like usual, Mass at 9, breakfast at 10:30, like always.”

“We’ll be here, promise.”

With a smile, “do your best.”


Scully managed to get into her apartment and lock the door before she stopped dead in her tracks, her senses coming on line instantly. Putting Will’s carrier gently down on the floor partially under the end table, she slipped her gun from her waist, then began scouting the apartment, not sure what was bothering her but looking thoroughly through every room, closet, behind ever door and under every bed. Once she was satisfied, she returned to the living room, retrieving Will first before her eyes finally processed what was different.

Hanging on the Christmas tree, dead center and nearly hidden by an angled branch, was an ornament that had not been there earlier in the day.

Spinning quickly on her heel, she half expected to see him standing behind her, ready to scare the bejesus out of her, kiss her, hug her, cry when he saw how big his son was becoming. Instead, she only saw an empty kitchen, cold and dark, the misery overwhelming her instantly; she’d missed him, missed him sneaking in, missed him wanting to see his little boy and her, missed him so close she could smell his soap and taste his skin.

She burst into tears.


It was well after midnight before she finally began dozing, her head nodding, her ears finally relaxing to every sound made within the apartment. She was just slipping into a half-formed dream of Mulder when she felt a pair of ice cold lips on her own. Eyes flying open, Scully saw him, so real and so very close that the first thing she did was swing, heavy-fisted, catching him squarely at the top of his cheekbone, sliding her knuckles across his closed eye and ramming into his nose. After a millisecond of hesitated confusion, she was crouching over his hunched form, Mulder holding his face and groaning.

Yanking his hands away, she twisted his head towards her and kissed him, amazed he was real and whole and in front of her when she missed him the most.

He kissed her back for a few moments, then pulled away, whispering, “what the hell was that!?”

She met his mouth again and he stopped asking questions, too busy running his hands over her, pulling her tightly against him, to worry about a bruised cheekbone and burning eye. He only separated enough to pull the sweater over her head, making a note to comment on it eventually, once he remembered how to say more than a moaned ‘I love you’ in the general vicinity of her bare breasts, smooth thighs, curved ass and valleyed back.


The fear, however, set in the moment the pooled sweat between them began to evaporate. He felt her muscles tense, coiling in preparation to defend him, to kill him, to throw him from her house in fear for their son’s life.

His hands came down on her upper arms, his leg holding her knees, voice almost inaudibly, “don’t do this yet … please?”

She beat him to the punch, sliding sideways from his grasp and off the bed, shivering suddenly in the cold darkness, “do what? Wonder if somebody’s going to break in here and kill you? Shoot you in my bed?”

Mulder shushed her as he sat up, pulling the sheets around his shoulders, “yell any louder you’re going to wake up Will.”

“What the hell are you doing here, Mulder? You’re supposed to be hiding somewhere, far, far away from the eight thousand people who have you at the top of their shit list.”

Seeing this might not go as smoothly as he’d hoped, he sat up, pushing aside sheets, reaching out to wrap his fingers around her hip to pull her closer, “I couldn’t stay away. Not on Christmas. The guys have been dropping hints that I’m somewhere in southern Florida and the surveillance team that had eyes on you tonight gave up and went home to their families or their bottles of whiskey or their mothers, I have no idea, but Byers gave me the all clear to come in and I did and you belted me.”

Stomach clenching, “there’s a team on me?”

“Yeah. Skinner’s guys so not too terrible but I couldn’t have anyone, not even Walter, know I’m here so I had to wait until they left.”

By now, she was trapped between knobby knees, thigh muscles giving under the pressure of his hold on her, “then where did the ornament come from?”

Not smiling, wishing with all his heart he’d been the one to hang it, “I gave it to Frohike to hang for me in case I didn’t make it inside.”

She kissed him again with a fierceness fueled by six-month separation, her lips hovering over his when she finally pulled back to catch her breath, “do you want to see Will?”

His arms tightened around her, a spasmodic jerk of nervous anxiety, “yes, please.”

After pulling on pajamas, she retrieved their son, climbing carefully into bed before laying him between them. Mulder settled beside him immediately, head against the mattress alongside the boy’s, staring in wonder at his perfect nose, curved chin and pursed lips, “God, Scully, how can I ever leave him again?”

“You don’t have to.”

Allowing Will to blur slightly as he focused on Scully over his head, “please don’t make this harder. I have a few more hours then,” tears ran rivers down his cheeks at this point but she made no move to clear them, “God, don’t fight with me now, okay? I can’t handle it.”

Heart breaking, she cried with him, watching him smooth his fingers over light eyebrows and reddening hair, button nose and chin cleft, apple-round cheeks and near-translucent eyelids. Quiet tears fell on small pajamas and Scully held her boys as close as possible while they snuggled on the rumpled bed, breathed lullabies sung to sleeping ears. Mulder lived, for a brief moment, the mundane, homebound existence he wished for and dreamed of every hour he was awake and every moment he slept.

Eventually, exhaustion drove her to sleep but Mulder remained alert, basking in the precious time he was part of a family again.

His family.

His tiny, bigger than the world family.


He stayed until just before dawn, holding his boy close for the last hour, cradling him to his chest, memorizing his smell, his fingers and toes, his hummingbird heartbeat and the sounds he made, from cooing to grunting to that soul-melting sigh that made Mulder shut his eyes, try to absorb the perfection that was his son.


Scully woke to an empty bed, Will gone but making noise on the baby monitor, demanding breakfast and a clean diaper. The depression settled in quickly, the cold, heaviness of the apartment telling her he was already gone.

Moving automatically to Will’s room, she found a note hanging from the crib, taped and innocently waiting to be read. Forcing herself to wait until she’d changed Will and fed him, she finally settled him on her hip before unfolding the paper.

An hour later, she forced herself to get both of them ready for the return trip to Grandma’s house, Scully finally giving up halfway through, moving to the tree to examine yet again the ornament he’d left behind: one of a little boy in an oversize Yankee jersey, cap askew, glove at his feet, bat too large to hold up off the ground with the words ‘Daddy’s Little Home Run Hitter’ written underneath.

On the opposite side, Mulder had carefully printed in his trademark Sharpie “I love you” and the year.

luminescence | jhs

summary: hoseok + birthdays = a wild time


pairing: hoseok x reader
word count: 2k
genre: fluff
a/n: not much to say about this one! requested by @heart-baek-bleed​! happy birthday!

It might be your birthday, but you’ve never been the biggest fan of surprises.

Which is exactly why your boyfriend has decided to surprise you with a spontaneous birthday date to an undisclosed location, two things that make you shake in your boots at the thought. Hoseok’s lovely, he really is, but this is pushing it, especially when it’s your birthday, and you should be calling the shots, not him.

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Okay so @all the people getting angry at the writers making bilingual people randomly switch language:

This is not wrong. I do this.

I go “Ah, yes I like- eh- Apfel? You know that round red fruit… APPLE!”

What bilingual people usually don’t do is just switch one word out and keep talking. I usually try to stick to one language and if I’m missing a word, I say it in the other language first, then try to explain it. Sides if my other language can be understood by the person I talk to. Then I sometimes don’t bother to correct myself.
And it’s not always that you don’t know the word, sometimes you just forget it.
And it usually doesn’t happen in every second sentence. Way more rarely.

So all in all:

Wrong: “I just love Äpfel they’re so great. Best fruit ever.”

Right: “I just love- eh Äpfel? Red round fruit- APPLE! Yes that’s the word. I like apples, they’re the best.”


N99 Street Cute Project - Part 3

Sims4 - Sims2 DECO (most from City Life Expansion)

Festival Lights (4 styles) - cloned from Country Lights (Lighting/Wall)
Poles - cloned from Big Apple Sculpture (Deco/Sculpture)
Parking Meter - cloned from Big Apple (Deco/Sculpture)
City Street Map -cloned from Big Apple (Deco/Sculpture)
Column - cloned from Big Apple (Deco/Sculpture)
Round Street Planter - cloned from Big Apple (Deco/Sculpture)
Apartment Mailbox - cloned from painting (Deco/Wall)
Poster Sign Electric Box - cloned from Big Apple (Deco/Sculpture)
Fire Hydrant - cloned from Big Apple (Deco/Sculpture)
Street Advertising Sign - cloned from Big Apple (Deco/Sculpture)
Depricated Mailbox - cloned from Big Apple (Deco/Sculpture)
Ranger Station - cloned from rug (Deco/Misc)
Camping Site Restroom - cloned from rug (Deco/Misc)
Modern Republic Restroom - cloned from rug (Deco/Misc)


Hopefully this fixes the blue on 1 side of the Festival Lights. Please let me know if it doesn’t!

DOWLOAD SFS - Festival Light Meshes UPDATE

Harold was a Liar

by reddit user AtLeastImGenreSavvy

I’ll be posting new, different stories on my personal blog, please be sure to follow @sixpenceeeblog

My brother, Harold, almost never told the truth. He was six years younger than me, and, although our mother tried to hide it, he was her favorite. It was easy to see why. Harold was adorable. He had round apple cheeks, curly blonde hair, and big blue eyes. Even at age seven, he was a social butterfly. He was always on the move, always playing with a different set of friends every week, and always charming.

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||❥ morning rivalries

m e a n i e ! p a i r i n g

Originally posted by wonghan

word count: 1,739


includes: wonwoo and mingyu prepare themselves as well as their daughter for her first day of school. 

@purplelucia suggested this 2 me lov u but hope u ch**e cause guess what i’m a puddle now n i’m suffering from meanie. ALSO QUICK NOTE, D/N STANDS FOR DAUGHTER’S NAME BC I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO NAME HER SO THAT’S UP TO YALL. 

Out of the two, Wonwoo was always the first to wake up. His charcoal strands would twist and curl in different directions, letting his hair share appearance with a bird’s nest. The bare soles of his feet would sink into the carpet as he carefully tucked back the heavy curtains, weak lemon lighting pooling between the gaps and grazing the honey skin of Kim Mingyu.

He liked to sleep on his stomach, with his arms slipped underneath the cool linen pillows. Throughout the night the blankets were destined to be rumpled about and yanked in this direction, that direction. Either way, Wonwoo would always rouse from a cloaking slumber with the view of the blankets strewn from Mingyu’s back, allowing the lighting to gather tenuously along his muscles.

There was something about the manner each ray crossed his skin, how when he shifted in the slightest because somehow the room had grown a little brighter, the lighting would flicker on his lithe back like sunlight glimmering through water. Wonwoo would card his messy bedhead back and sigh, usually allowing him to sleep for just a moment longer. However, today was a different occasion, much different.

“Mingyu,” Wonwoo uttered smoothly while walking around to his side of the bed, a gentle palm cascading down the younger’s perfectly dipped spine, “It’s time to wake up early for once, it’s D/N’s first day of school remember?”

Mingyu groaned, his cheek only pressing further into the pillow as Wonwoo patted the base of his spine. “Wake up.” The elder lilted a little louder, giving the caramel haired boy another chance to stifle his dreaming. A few floppy strands of charcoal fell over Wonwoo’s eyes as he leaned down further, until he could view how Mingyu’s fanned lashes fluttered.

He looks so pretty, Wonwoo thought, though he would rather get his palms slapped with a ruler than admit it so suddenly, to flare Mingyu’s ego so early in the morning.

“Babe,” Wonwoo lowered his voice, using his fingers to tap under Mingyu’s chin. The younger finally opened his cloudy eyes, lips pinching into a smirk at the endearment Wonwoo hardly used.

“Yes gorgeou-“

And then his snide reply was being whittled to a whine as Wonwoo glided his fingers to Mingyu’s golden cheek, giving it a slight slap.

“Wakey wakey, eggs and get off your ass.” The elder gleamed with a smile so incredibly fake.  

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I lived! When your favorite part of the Addams Family Values movie is recreated on stage in drag. Of course you’re gonna record. This tango was everything. Sharon as Morticia as Cher. Ha. At Castro Theatre in San Francisco.

Color Theory: A fake SU episode

Episode summary (from @fakesuepisodes​): Peridot tries her hand at cooking an apple pie, but the resulting dish ends up not tasting any good. Peridot insists that she followed the recipe, but Steven and Connie discover that Peridot used onions instead of apples in the pie after mistakenly perceiving both to look similar to each other. Worrying that Peridot is colorblind, they try hundreds of ways to get her to understand the difference between colors, to the point where Steven’s room is covered in rainbows and color wheels. An increasingly frustrated Peridot desperately tries to understand what she’s being shown… when Garnet simply removes her tinted visor off her face. Peridot then spends the next five hours obsessing over color.

Actual episode under the cut (1367 words)

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Belle’s song

“So… hello Belle… nice to meet you,” Andrew says, smiling politely. “Before you start, just tell us a bit about yourself. I have heard wonderful things about you from your manager and label but we would like to get to know you better”

Belle swallows thickly, the room suddenly feeling too narrow, the air too thick.


If there was one thing on this planet Belle hated, it was talking about herself.

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