#Brain Curds

[notsocheezy]

Brain Curd #100

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Now there are a hundred of them! Kind of a lot of pressure to make #100 special, huh? Here's to a hundred more... and then some.

Nearly fifty things you can do in one-hundred days:

Write every morning

Laugh

Drive to your appointments

Get that ‘check engine’ light looked at

Help your friends

Fall in love again

Cook dinner

Make a nice birthday gift for your fiance

Kiss for the final time, not knowing

Live

Mop the floors

Go to therapy on occasion

Sign up for life insurance, get denied

Survive

Cook dinner

Volunteer for a good cause

Spend too much money

Battle dysphoria

Get jealous

Fool your friends

Watch an eclipse

Fool yourself

Forget to claim your free scoop of ice cream

Become single

Cry at your twenty-fifth birthday party

Go to therapy, but not enough

Write every morning

See a concert

Try not to think about it

Have a stomach ache

Cook dinner again

Throw up

Finish making a film, sort of

Show it to ten people

Go see Rocky Horror again

Help your friends, but too much

Catch COVID

Cry alone in the darkness

Stagnate

Decay

Try to breathe

Try to sleep

Try to hold down a bite

Think about it, dammit

Get high

Cry some more

Try going outside again

Make some phone calls

Say goodbye from afar

Move on?

Stay tuned today as I reblog my ten favorite one-offs from the first hundred Brain Curds.

[notsocheezy]

Brain Curd #45

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please enjoy.

The chains weighed down my bony wrists as I awaited my public execution in the town square. Too weak to stand, I sat there on my knees, my head lowered. I couldn’t bear to look at the audience. Frankly, they were very ugly.

I could very much bear to stare daggers into the hooded executioner, however, who approached with a padlocked wheelbarrow.

“Hey, snake-fucker!” I said. “I thought I was supposed to get a last meal!”

He grumbled, setting the wheelbarrow down. “Ye did.”

“No!” I protested. “I haven’t eaten since last week before you locked me in these chains!” I rattled them around to punctuate my point. They were nearly loose enough to fall off.

“That must’ been yer last meal, then.”

I rolled my eyes. These people had no decency. What, you may ask, had I done to deserve the pain of death? I ‘stole’ a loaf of bread from a garbage heap behind a bakery so that I might feed myself.

I turned around and got a glimpse at the crowd. I was angry now, as one gets when so famished. Angry and justified in it, righteous in knowing that all I had done was steal rubbish from a bunch of purple-shirted blueblood fuckwits who had more money than they knew what to do with and less sense than the blind and deaf.

The mayor approached the podium to my left. It showed a real trust in these chains that he was willing to be so near me - near enough that I could get at his neck in an instant if I could only slip out of the shackles.

“Good morning, all,” he said, raising his hands in the air. “Today we are gathered to present yet another wretch with the Sword of Legend - the sacred artifact which needs no introduction.” He chuckled. “We’ve all seen what it can do.”

I rubbed the sweat and oil from my forehead onto my wrists as the sun beat down on me. The executioner unlocked the wheelbarrow and removed its lid. Inside was the most immaculate, perfectly polished sword I had ever witnessed. It was adorned with rubies and emeralds on the hilt. Clearly, great care was taken to keep it in such a condition.

“Isn’t it a bit gauche to decapitate me with a damn sword?” I asked the executioner.

He did not answer. He stepped back, out of my reach, and pushed the wheelbarrow just into my radius of bound movement.

I looked around. Everyone was staring at me now - the mayor included. I was supposed to do something. A duel? Was this meant to be a duel?

“Take the sword already, ya idjit!” screamed a woman in the audience.

I got up from the ground to stand on my feet, though I was weak from starvation. “If a fight is what you want…” I paused to let the blood flow back to my head. “It seems just a little unfair. After all… none of the rest of you brought a weapon.”

With the grease on my wrists, I slipped out of my restraints and took hold of the blade in one quick movement. Before anyone knew what was happening, my left hand tightly gripped the mayor’s hair and the right held the sword to his throat.

I breathed heavily, full of adrenaline. “I suggest you all think very carefully about what you do next if you’d like to see your mayor still living, come noon!”

The crowd was shocked. Clearly, no one had ever tried this before. I must have been the first with such a fast metabolism to go down a whole shackle size.

“You…” the mayor choked out. “You couldn’t be…”

“Couldn’t be the one to end your sorry excuse for a life? Afraid I can, if you don’t give me what I want.”

The crowd murmured. They were as confused as I was.

The mayor spoke slowly and chose his words carefully. “You wield the Sword of Legend. No person has ever done so before, and all who have tried have died a gruesome death at its touch. You are the chosen one.”

My stomach grumbled. “Can the chosen one get a fucking sandwich?” I pointed the tip of the sword at a spectacled man in the front row. “You! Yes, you! Get me a sandwich!”

He shook and nodded, running to a nearby shop.

“And don’t forget the pickle!” I yelled after him. “So…” I turned the sharp edge back to the mayor. “What’s the pay like for this ‘chosen one’ gig?”

Anyone who tried to wield the legendary sword would instantly turn to dust. Your country uses this as a method of execution. Little did you know, you were the chosen one it was waiting for.

[sharkneto]

favorite flavor of cheese curd go

classic fried cheddar curds with a good ranch to dip in

[megaawkwardhuman]

I think I accordantly made my brain associate eating chef boyardee beefaroni with watching hannibal

ok so I made myself some beefaroni a couple of minutes ago and while heating it up I felt the stronger urge to watch season 1 of the show again

and it wasn't until now while I'm rewatching the first episode that I realize that not only did I eat it at some point when watching the show for the first time but when I watched it for the second time I ALSO ate beefaroni

and I haven't really eaten it since then OR watched the show so now I think I might have accidentally programmed my brain whenever I eat beefaroni to think welp must be gay cannibal time! LMAO

[notsocheezy]

I think I might treat this as a writing prompt lol

Debates don't actually test any of the skills you'd want in a potential president.

I suggest we replace presidential debates with Taskmaster-style challenges where the two candidates and their staff have to navigate an intentionally convoluted simulation of a day in the work of the president.

Not only will it be 100x more entertaining, it would actually showcase their readiness or lack thereof for the job.

[acewardcullen]

Where's that meme about fascinating or exciting a woman by giving her cheese because I just remembered I still had cheese curds from my trip to Wisconsin and got really excited lmao

[lilyaceofdiamonds]

I love farmers markets i just bought so much fruit and berries and potatoes and carrots and different types of meat (for the freezer) and the best chocolate milk and apple cider and cheese

Can I afford it? Not really, but if i make Actual Amounts of Food and have Leftovers it’ll even out, right? A casserole dish of shepherds pie is like a weeks worth of dinner, even if it requires Cooking.

Depression brain please don’t forget about all the fresh foods in my fridge i’m begging you please let me cook things

[notsocheezy]

Brain Curd #228

Brain Curds are lightly edited daily writing - usually flash fiction and sometimes terrible on purpose.

I awoke with a start from yet another of those dreams. Those dreams, unyielding, in which he is with me. I have always hated those dreams.

Whether I find myself in a diner, or a grocery store, or strolling about my home town, he is always there, whether overtly or lingering in the shadows, hiding beneath the mask of someone else. He relishes being an unwelcome guest in my subconscious, drawing me to his flying monkeys and wannabes.

Long since incapable of finding pure love, I lay alone in my bed, groggy, having slept the night before to the sounds of YouTube on autoplay. Perhaps the only white noise worse than silence. My eyelids are heavy with the burden of lost rest, never to be clawed back from the unmerciful crawl of time.

I force myself out of bed and peek through the curtains. Orange-tinted storm clouds fill the sky. It must be Halloween. I yawn and head for the kitchen to boil a kettle.

I pour my cup of tea when suddenly the doorbell rings. What time is it? I ask myself, to which I reply, time to get a watch. The microwave clock reads half-past four PM. I suppose I slept in.

I look through the peephole and don’t see anyone. I figure it might be neighborhood children playing a prank, but it could be a package I ordered and forgot about. I unlock the door and open it, but it takes a moment to register what I see: my father, in the flesh.

I rub my eyes. This can’t be happening, this can’t be real - but when I open them again he still stands before me. He’s not supposed to be here, not even in my dreams. I pinch my arm, I bite my tongue, but nothing seems to wake me up. I am already awake.

“Trick or treat!” He says, holding out his arms, waiting for a hug.

“How did you find this address?”

“It’s almost my birthday! Didn’t you want to see me?”

“No. You aren’t welcome here. Please leave.”

I close the door but he sticks his foot in it, the sole of his open-toed shoe only barely damping the hit. He doesn’t flinch.

He pushes the door back open and leans inside. “Do you know what it took to get here? I’m not going back.”

Part of me is afraid of what he’ll do if I let him in, but the other part is afraid of what he’ll do if I try to keep him out. That’s the part that wins the argument. I open the door again.

“I’ll make dinner.” He says, as he looks around inside, scoping out a place to turn into a nest. He sets his backpack down on the couch, and I can smell sulfur on it from all the way over here by the entrance.

“I just woke up, actually, so dinner seems premature.”

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll make pancakes for dinner. You’ll love them, I promise.”

This is an uncharacteristic sort of compromise from him, and I get to wondering if this really is my father. After all, I haven’t seen him in five years, and he seems to look exactly as I remember him. The thing is, I’m not sure I remember what he looked like last time I was in the same room with him. He almost looks more like he does in that photo I keep stashed away at the bottom of a drawer, the one we took when I was ten. He doesn’t act much like I thought he did, either, but I suppose I haven’t known him for some time. Maybe he changed?

We stopped talking for the obvious reasons (those are the ones I can tell people who ask): he didn’t support me going to college, or my transition, or any of my passions beyond making him happy. But there were also the less obvious reasons: The chill I felt down my spine when we were alone, a sense of unease to hear his voice, fear when he was even slightly angry. The little reminders of childhood that I’ve learned draw me to other people who end up hurting me. Battle-worn red flags of heritage.

My teenage memories are molded swiss cheese, incomplete and green with envy of the children who were allowed to grow up without a father like him. Whether their father was a good man or a dead man or both, they were better off. I knew even then that the most I had to look forward to was writing and delivering the eulogy.

And now here he was, a trespasser in my home, standing at the stove, burning vegetable oil onto my carbon steel pan. The fishy stench of it chokes my uvula. I want to vomit. He always told me he’d haunt me after he died and here he was, haunting me not only in my dreams but in waking life as a shambling zombie of a parent that never was.

Was… was he?

I ran to my computer and checked the local obituaries of my home town. I scrambled to find anything, anything from the past year, then the past two, desperately searching my brain at the same time to try to recall when it was that via text he threatened (no - ‘promised’) to keep his death a secret from my mother and I. Then I came across the name. There it was, the obituary.

He was presumed dead on his birthday four years ago. The body was never found. There was no service. Nobody would have come anyway. And something - be it a mischievous fae or a demon or the man himself - was piloting his decaying body to make a pancake dinner.

He pushed open the bedroom door and presented the plate. “I hope you like them. I made them with love.”

“I’m not hungry,” I replied, sick to my stomach at the mere suggestion of more of what he called love.

He looked at my monitor and the smile melted off his face. “I keep my promises.”

Please comment, reblog, like, and follow if you enjoyed - I'd love to know what you think! Happy Halloween!

[dadsbongos]

jennifer's body - z.maki

part of the jjk movie marathon event / movie selection

...

warnings - vaginal fingering *nerd emoji*, thigh riding, maki's the top as per usual, car sex, you're a whiny bitch but maki's into it, potential cum eating

word count - 2.2 K / rating - R

Maki detests a lot of things, but above every single one of those things - she detests being put on missions with you most of all.

“Eek!” Maki’s balance is hardly thrown off despite the way you rip her arm to your chest. You hug her close and push your cheek to her shoulder, “Please protect me, Maki!”

She snorts, looking down at you curled around her form, “You’re a grade two, you know? You don’t have to hide behind me.”

Feeling the impression of your lips molding into a pout against her, you ‘hmph’, continuing down the creaky, dank hall, “A grade two can still be scared!”

Naturally, yes. However, the degree of fear you commonly express makes teaming with you such a hassle. Though not necessarily because she finds it annoying.

Maki feels your skittish fingers dance down to hers, and she clasps your hand tightly. Her heart throbs uncomfortably at the idea of your poor brain all stressed and overheating, skin chilled, and throat too tight to speak. A terrible thing that is. Yes, she hates it more than anything else in the world.

So Maki walks just a pace quicker than you, ensuring she’s upfront. But no matter that, she is not the one to suffer this mission’s great blowback.

As if freshly blistering up from between the floorboards, a puffy, mushroom-shaped spore oozes from beneath your boot. Mustard yellow curd gushes onto the ground from each pore with a soft puff of orange gas into the air.

“Damn!” Maki curls an arm around your waist and tucks you behind her.

The particles cling to your nose, itching and irritating; they claw down your throat and paint over the front of your uniform.

By the time Maki has splattered the curse, you’re feverish. Still coughing up dust and reaching out for her.

“Are you okay?” she cradles your sweltering frame in her broad hands.

“Car,” you wheeze out, falling into her stronger frame, “We need to get outta here.”

Your thighs squeeze together, hips mindlessly squirming into the sticky leather of the backseat. Leaning into Maki, you take her arm again, breasts squishing against her firm muscles and pressing her hand between the clench of your thighs. Her palm digs into the meat of your inner thighs and it takes about 60% of your brain power to keep from humping her hand.

Pressing your face to her neck, you know she can feel the softness of your lips on her smooth skin. You know she can feel the hot puffs of your words, “Maki… Maki I think we should pull over…”

“What?” her cheeks go pink, eyes falling to you from beneath her lenses. Her other hand comes up to cup your cheek, it burns beneath her skin, “Talk to me, huh? What’re you feeling?”

“Hmm,” you turn into the feeling of her cupping your cheek, and your gaze finds Maki’s crinkled face. Eyes wide beneath furrowed brows, lips down in a frown, “I feel so hot, Maki, please- “ you jerk up, rutting against her hand, “Please pull over!”

The car doesn’t stop. Maki moves her hand from your cheek to press against your feverish forehead. She barks over at Ijichi, “Hey, pull over!”

You all jerk at the sudden stop before Ijichi shamefully restarts the car to more carefully move off the side of the road. He turns in the driver’s seat to look at the pair of you, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. You think it’s cuter when Maki does it.

Oh, Maki.

You blink up at her lazily. Lashes fluttering. She reddens more at the movement, you like that.

“Maki,” you whisper, low enough so even Ijichi can’t hear, “I think it was an aphrodisiac.”

She looks away, pointlessly, to the back support cushions behind you. Her chin tucks close to her chest and you can hear the strain in her throat to whisper back just as low, “Can you hold out until we see Ieiri?”

“Mh-hmm,” you shake your head, thighs tightening around Maki’s hand and now using 80% of your brain power to not shamelessly grind on her, “No way…”

You need her. ‘Starved in a dungeon for weeks, and you finally see a fresh loaf of bread’ kind of need.

Maki feels something ugly burrow into her chest at the idea of Ijichi seeing you so weak and bothered. And something uglier arrives when she realizes it isn’t just because you’re an impaired friend - she doesn’t even want Shoko seeing you like this if she can help it. Looking over at Ijichi, Maki jerks her head towards the door.

“Wh-what?” Ijichi stutters out, head lowering.

“Get out!” she snaps.

“Yes, ma’am!” Ijichi jumps out of the car, slamming the door shut in the process.

Maki watches him shuffle towards the trunk and stand with his back facing the vehicle. He twiddles his thumbs and stares down the empty road. She thinks he might be pouting after getting yelled at. She doesn’t spend much time on the thought before you’re sitting up on your knees.

Her hand is (sadly) free from between your legs and you drop her arm to shakily place both your hands on her shoulders. You settle onto one of her thighs, arms curling around her neck. Your nose nudges hers and you press a kiss on Maki’s cheek.

She can feel how warm you are through your thin tights. Unsurely, Maki’s hands find your hips, “What should I…?”

You hum, moving to her other cheek and kissing there, too, “I need you, Maki.”

Her hands squeeze your hips. To stop you or ground herself, she isn’t sure. Both works, probably. Right?

“You’ll regret it later,” now, Maki’s hands try lifting you off of her thigh, “It’s not a good idea.”

“No!” you wail, nails digging into Maki’s shoulders, hips stubbornly remaining in place. You rear back to bat your lashes at her again, chest rising and falling with your gasping breaths, “Won’t regret it, I promise…” your hips lower on her thick thigh, she tenses below you, “I love you, Maki,” you kiss her cheek again, hoping to tempt her, “Love you so much. Need you so bad.

90% of your brain power goes towards not humping her leg like a dog.

She’s frozen solid, your feverish cheek presses to hers and you pray it melts through her icy exterior.

“So jealous of Yuuta,” you murmur, moving to ghost your lips over hers. They’re so much softer than you thought they’d be, and they taste like cherry chapstick. The kind that reminds you of cough syrup, “Talking about him ‘n’ how strong he is… I hate it. ‘m not stronger than you, Maki, but ‘m better than Yuuta,” you feel her grin, her body jolting to life as two hands find the sides of your face, “Just wanna show you that I’m better than Yuuta.”

“You’re jealous,” she ‘tsk’s, “but you’re the one calling Okkotsu by his given name.”

“Don’t be mad…” you fight against her hold on your head and purse your lips against hers, a chaste kiss from you to her, “I love Maki, not Yuuta.”

100% of your brain power is put into your self-control. It overheats your brain and Maki can almost hear the gears churning, smell the smoke pouring from your ears when you finally give up and rut down into her thigh with a shaky gasp. You roll your hips against her thigh once again to test her reaction - she flexes her leg and her hands fly down to your hips to guide your movement.

“Are you sure?”

You sigh against her lips when your clit catches sweetly on her thigh, nodding frantically and rubbing against her thigh faster, “Please, Maki? I’ll go totally crazy if you keep making me beg…”

She snickers against your lips, pausing to kiss you again while dragging your cunt over her flexed thigh, “Sorry.”

A pitchy whine is strangled in the back of your throat, the fire in your gut only burning hotter. Quickly unsatisfied with the dulling sensation between your legs, “Need more, Maki. ‘s not enough.”

Pulling back, Maki pushes up the leg you sit on, hoping to dig out the burning spores under your skin. She tilts her head, “What should I- what do you want?”

But you simply whine in response. Throwing your head back and grinding fruitlessly against her muscled thigh.

“Sorry, sorry,” she muttered, fingers abandoning your sides to dance up under your skirt, “So needy, you know that?”

“Hmph!” you lift your bobbing head to glare at the woman beneath you.

“What?” her nails bite into the snug, thin material of your tights. You gasp when the sharp pop of her fingers bursting the cloth rings out, she snickers at your doe-eyed stare, “They COMME des GARÇONS or something?”

Before you can begin jutting out your bottom lip and squirming off your tights by yourself, Maki worms her fingers through the gape and rips sideways. The warmth of her hand cups against your hot sex, the wet patch on your panties clinging to her skin. The sensation sends tingles down her spine. Down her spine and swirling around to her gut, swelling as you grind down into the heel of her palm.

“Please,” you lean down, pressing your forehead to hers. Heat fanning from your cheeks, and Maki can feel it. You know she can. You know she likes it, “Need you inside me, Maki.”

Her lithe fingers pull your panties to the side before running the pads of her middlemost fingers along your slit. Wetness glides down her skin, her head pitches up and her lips pucker. You meet her in the middle - soft and cherry-flavored - as her fingers slide inside you.

“So wet,” she muses against your lips, “I just slipped in, honey.”

“Need you,” you cant your hips down onto her fingers, “Need you so bad…”

“You really love me?” it could be teasing, but if you pry back the thickened, scarred skin beneath her uniform - you could feel that mushiness in her question. That softness of needing to know how you feel. Needing to know this isn’t a lie that some infection has conjured inside you.

“I love you!” her thumb nudges into your puffy clit, loosely swiping the characters of her name across the bundle. Fingers crooking up in an almost frenzied search for the little spot to put hearts in your eyes. You squeeze your arms tight around her neck, back arching and chest pressing close to Maki’s face, “Love you s’much, Maki! Wanna be your girl…”

She barely catches the admission over your whining moans.

“I’ll make you mine,” she juts her chin at you, “I’ll make all you mine.”

You squeal as she stirs the bubbling, electrified pot inside you, hips rocking down so you’re practically riding her fingers. Arms pulling back, you cup Maki’s soft cheeks and trap her head in place. Once again, your lips find hers.

Her wrist flexes with the force of her thrusting fingers, eagerly chasing the sensation of your velvety cunt sucking her deep inside you. The sloppy, crude sound of your wetness squelching out with every stroke inside your cunt makes her lightheaded. Her thumb quickens against your clit, and your thighs quiver on either side of her own.

“So pretty when you’re falling apart for me,” Maki rests her head against the seat, eyes lazily crawling along your form. She grins, wolfish in nature - like she could scarf you down whole if she pleased, “Really wanna be my girl, baby?”

She could.

“God, yes!” you firmly plant yourself against the heel of Maki’s palm, knocking her thumb off balance and grinding into the meat of her hand. Your juices drip down her hand as she continues to finger you in the backseat, watching the muscles in your thighs tense.

You’d let her.

“Then cum for me, yeah?”

A final press into your g-spot. One last nudge of your clit against her palm. Only one more peck of your lips to hers.

And you’re going limp, save for the unsteady twitching of your hips as the last of your release drools into Maki’s hand. Your head crashes down onto Maki’s shoulder, eyes drooping.

You yawn and Maki slowly pulls out of you, bracing her other hand against your hip to keep you from collapsing entirely. She settles you to slump fully on her lap. Her eyes stray to your cum, webbing between her fingers.

She wants it in her mouth. To slurp up the very essence of you and taste you on her tongue. But she pauses before committing.

That gas - powder? particles? poison? - could be contagious.

Though, if it were, she would’ve gotten it when kissing you, right?

But it could also be the sexual nature - the fact she’s ingesting your cum - that would spread it.

Looking down at you, your closed eyes and parted lips - if you aren’t sleeping, you’re definitely on your way. The heat is subsiding and your breathing has evened out.

There’ll be more opportunities later, she supposes. Mournfully, Maki wipes her sodden hand against her skirt before calling a shaky, flustered Ijichi back to the car.

[runawrites-blog]

Past

(Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Summary: You and Bucky's five-year-old son learns about his father's past as the Winter Soldier and has mixed feelings about it. While you wrack your brain over how to handle this situation, your son's fear of thunderstorms leads him back into his father's arms and gives you all an opportunity to talk. (Female Reader)

Word Count: 2,628

Warnings: Angst. Emotional Hurt/Comfort. Past Mind Control/Abuse. Crying. No Y/N. Petnames (Sweetheart)

A/N: I'm so sorry. This is pretty sad but it came to me when I saw this gif.

---

“Carry me, please, Daddy.”

Bucky smiled softly and quickly obliged, bending down to pick up your five-year-old son and setting him down on his hip, holding him securely with his arm. Your son Samuel smiled happily and leaned his head against Bucky’s shoulder, cradling his favourite plush to his chest as he let his father carry him. Making his way to the kitchen, Bucky passed through the living room, finding the television still going and realising he must have forgotten to turn it off which his son helpfully pointed out.

“Daddy, you forgot to turn it off!”

“You’re right, buddy.” Bucky nodded before looking at his son, widening his eyes dramatically and making Samuel chuckle. “Don’t tell your Mommy. She’ll give me a lecture on leaving it running again.”

Samuel grinned back at his father before nodding and cuddling back to him. “Promise.”

“Not good enough, little buddy.” Bucky grinned and held out the pinky finger of his free hand to Samuel. “You have to pinky promise.”

Samuel quickly grabbed his father’s pinky with his own and nodded. “Pinky promise.”

“Now let’s turn off the television and then go see if your Mommy needs help with the dishes, alright?”

Samuel nodded and cuddled back to his father while Bucky approached the television and grabbed the remote from the coffee table, keeping his son securely in his free arm so he wouldn’t slip from his grip. Just as you appeared at the door and Bucky feared a lecture on leaving the television on, the topic on the news changed and he felt his blood run cold. He would have preferred a lecture from you over what was shown on the news.

“After the recent hostage situation turned bomb threat and the subsequent intervention of a group sent out by SHIELD, there has been a renewed spark of unease that swept the nation. The subject of this unease is one of the members of the group, James Buchanan Barnes or as America knows him better, the former Winter Soldier. Barnes has--”

You quickly swooped in to grab the remote from Bucky’s hand but his grip was tight as a vice, leaving you trying to pry his fingers off it while the news anchor kept talking and your son’s eyes grew wide as the news coverage dragged on.

“Now as my co-host has so kindly reminded me, Barnes was found innocent after a long trial and was cleared to go on these missions, but people are now asking the question of whether or not a former assassin, responsible for the deaths of countless people, is the right choice of--”

Instead of trying to get to the remote you quickly got between the two of them and the television, spreading your arms to cover more of it. But your son had heard enough and he turned to stare at his father in what you could only describe as betrayal and fear. Bucky saw his son’s head moving and turned to look at him. As soon as he saw the look on his son’s face you could practically see his heart breaking.

“Did you hurt people, Daddy?”

Knowing that lying would only make this situation worse Bucky gave a curd nod to which Samuel reacted almost immediately. With tears in his eyes, he tried to wriggle out of Bucky’s grip, using his hands to try and dislodge himself from his father’s arms.

“Put me down! I want Mommy!”

You quickly swooped in to take Samuel from Bucky’s arms, not wanting the boy to hurt himself as he wriggled out of his father’s grasp. Once he was in your arms, Samuel started crying, burying his face in your neck and clinging to you with his tiny fingers.

“Honey, try to calm down.” You cooed gently, rocking from foot to foot in the hopes of calming him down a little. “It’s alright to be upset but I promise we can explain this to you.”

“I don’t want you to!” Samuel screeched, clinging to you as he sobbed. “Daddy hurt those people. The people on the news said so!”

You were about to answer when movement from Bucky made you turn, finding him with tears rolling down his face as he looked back at Samuel. Then he turned to leave the room, making his way to your bedroom and shutting the door behind himself. But you couldn’t go after him because Samuel was still crying in your arms. Deciding that a change of scenery might be a good idea you left the living room, walking over to Samuel’s room.

There, you spent the better part of an hour calming your son down until he eventually fell asleep in your arms and you gently tucked him in. Then you made your way to your bedroom, unsure of what to do about this whole situation but vowing to comfort your husband. Bucky rarely ever cried and seeing him do so now made your heart ache for him and you couldn’t even begin to imagine what he must be feeling right now. He had been through so much and now all of this was coming back to haunt him once more.

When you opened the door you found him lying on his left side on top of the covers, staring out into the rain. In the dim light of the bedside lamp, you could see tears still running down his face even though he was perfectly still otherwise, not sobbing or shaking at all, still trying to stay collected despite how much he was hurting.

You knew he’d heard you enter, his senses keen after years of training, but he didn’t react when you sat down by his side. For a few seconds, you remained quiet, thinking of what to say and when you figured it out you tried to keep your voice as gentle as possible.

“Bucky, do you want to talk about it?”

But he just shook his head, right hand cradling his vibranium hand to his chest, knuckles turning white with how tightly he was holding onto it. Gingerly, you reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, your thumb gently stroking his skin.

“Then I’ll talk.” You concluded, sighing deeply and scooting closer to him. “This was a lot for Samuel to take in but I know he still loves you.”

“My son is scared of me.”

“Sweetheart, he isn’t--”

“Don’t lie to me.” Bucky said, voice stern but strained with emotion as he shook his head mournfully. “I saw the look on his face. He was terrified of me.”

Your face contorted in sympathy and you slowly lay down behind him, arms coming up to wrap around his middle and your right hand covering both of his where they lay on his chest. “He is confused, James. He isn’t scared of you. He thinks we lied to him but I promised him that we’d explain everything tomorrow.”

Bucky was quiet for a few seconds before he released a deep sigh. “What do I say to him? What do I do now?”

“We will talk to him together. We explain what happened in a child-friendly way.” At Bucky’s silence, you leaned up to press a kiss to his tear-stained cheek, gently stroking his hand with your thumb. “I will think of how to explain this to him. We can figure all of this out together like we always do.”

Bucky didn’t answer but you felt his hand move to hold onto yours so you just inched closer, arms wrapped around him tightly. The two of you stayed like that, only moving so you could pull the blanket over your bodies. As you watched lightning crack across the sky outside your window you thought of how to approach this subject for a long time, thought of how to explain all of this to a five-year-old but you knew you had to do it somehow because both your husband and son were miserable. When Bucky spoke up again, over half an hour later, you couldn’t help but flinch, so deeply caught up in your thoughts that his sudden noise startled you.

“He used to feel safe with me.” He sounded nothing short of devastated, voice coarse and quiet but you still heard him, his words making your heart shatter. “Whenever he was scared, he used to come to me and I used to be able to calm him down, to make him feel safe.”

You remained quiet for a few seconds, once more at a loss of how to comfort your husband because while you were sure Samuel would still feel safe with his father you also knew that Bucky wouldn’t believe you if you told him as much. Gingerly, you pushed yourself up and from your new position you reached out to gently stroke Bucky’s hair, trying to comfort him at least a little.

“We will talk to him tomorrow and we will do it together.”

“Thank you.”

Lightning flashed across the sky once again and hit somewhere close by judging from the loud bang not far from your home. It made you worry for Samuel, knowing that your son was scared of thunderstorms and you were sure he would have been woken up by the loud noise of the lightning striking, followed by thunder rumbling across the sky.

“I will go check on Samuel.” You proclaimed, leaning down to press a kiss to Bucky’s cheek before sitting up on the bed. “I’ll be right back, Sweetheart.”

But before you could even get off the bed you heard Samuel’s small footsteps running down the hall, followed by him barging into the room, tears running down his cheeks as he sobbed in fear. From the corner of your eyes, you saw Bucky sitting up, worried about how distressed his son was. You got onto your knees and opened your arms, ready to catch Samuel and comfort him.

To your surprise, Samuel passed you by, all but jumping onto the bed and crawling onto his father’s lap instead where he quickly clung to him. Bucky stared at you in nothing short of shock but his son’s sobs quickly broke him from his stupor and he embraced him tightly, rubbing his back and shushing him.

“You’re safe, Sammy. It’s not dangerous, I promise.”

“But it-- it’s so loud!” Samuel shrieked when another crackle of thunder rolled across the sky, fingers digging into the fabric of his father’s sweater. “Daddy, it’s so loud!”

Bucky nodded along to his son’s words, hand still rubbing his back in soothing circles. “I know, Honey. But it’s just loud, not dangerous. You’re safe. I will keep you safe.”

“Even if I made you sad?”

“Always.” Bucky promised sincerely, pressing a kiss to Samuel’s hair. “You were scared and-- and confused. I don’t blame you for wanting some space from me.”

“But I made you sad!” Samuel protested, looking up at his father with teary eyes. “You cried about it. I can see it. I made you cry!”

Bucky quickly shook his head, supporting his weight with his left hand and using the right one to gently rub his son’s arm. “Remember when we talked about boundaries? About how it’s alright to for example tell someone you don’t want to be with them for a while?”

“Uh-huh.” Samuel nodded, reaching out to wipe at his eyes. “Daddy, why did you hurt those people?”

You watched as Bucky froze up a little, knowing that he was not only unsure of how to explain everything that happened but that it also still triggered unpleasant memories and feelings to talk about it. Gingerly, you placed your hand over where Bucky's lay next to him, squeezing it tightly and making him look at you. At your questioning look he nodded and you took a deep breath, having to now quickly come up with a way to explain.

“Samuel, we never told you this because you’re still very young and it’s a pretty scary thing to talk about, especially for your Daddy, but he had a really bad past. A long time ago he used to fight bad guys with your uncle Steve. And while your uncle Steve got his superpowers from the good guys, your Daddy got them from the bad guys against his will.”

“What does ‘against his will’ mean, Mommy?”

“It means he didn’t want it to happen. But they did it anyway and then when he got into a bad accident while fighting bad guys, they found him and took him with them. And then they gave him a metal arm and they made him fight for them.” You explained, biting your lip as Samuel looked back and forth between you and Bucky, waiting for you to go on while you wondered how to explain brainwashing to a child. “They used some technology to take away all your Daddy’s memories and did other bad things to make him do what they wanted.”

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours and you gave him another questioning look, worried that this was too triggering for him, but he gave you a tight nod, urging you to go on.

“It was your uncle Steve that found him and made all his memories come back. Then he took him in, helped him get better together with all his friends and now they work together for the Avengers, fighting for the good guys.”

Samuel looked back at Bucky, tears running down his cheeks again before he dove in to hug his father. “Daddy, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Honey.” Bucky promised but you could see how hard he was trying to control his breathing. “Your Mommy helps me a lot and so do your uncles Steve and Sam, your auntie Natasha and everyone else, like my doctors.”

“But you look so scared!”

“The things the bad people did to me were very-- very scary and when that happens to someone, sometimes-- sometimes when they think of the bad things they get scared again.” Bucky explained shakily, hand squeezing yours impossibly tight. “But I want you to know that I would never ever hurt innocent people again.”

“I know, Daddy.”

Gingerly, you got onto your knees so you could embrace both Bucky and Samuel. Releasing a deep breath Bucky leaned his head against your chest, whispering a quiet thanks at you to which you only kissed his head. Samuel looked up at you then, blinking against your tears.

“Mommy, will the bad people come back to hurt Daddy?”

“I wouldn’t let them. Steve, Natasha, Sam and all of our friends wouldn’t let them, either.” You promised to both Samuel and Bucky. “We keep each other safe.”

Samuel nodded before looking back at Bucky. “Daddy, are you still sad?”

“I’m fine, Sammy. I just hope you still feel safe with me.”

“I feel really, really safe with you, Daddy! You’re a superhero and-- and really strong and you love me and-- and I feel super safe with you!” Samuel exclaimed, drawing back from the hug to look at Bucky with wide eyes. “I promise.”

“And I promise to keep you and your mother safe.” Bucky said genuinely, holding out his pinky finger to Samuel. “I swear.”

Samuel looked at him for a few seconds before hooking his finger with Bucky’s and shaking their hands once and then he went back to hugging his father. You smiled, relieved that this issue had been somewhat resolved. Samuel would have more questions as he grew up but what was most important was that he knew none of the had been his father’s fault. When you looked up from Samuel you found Bucky looking at you with a teary but grateful expression, giving you a genuine smile.

“Thank you.”

“Always.”

[wtfsteveharrington]

my pretty little brain has been…. focused on cockwarming with carmy lately.

afab!reader, unprotected sex, fingering, cockwarming (obviously). basically you love your boyfriend & he loves every inch of you too.

carmy coming home after a long morning of doing interviews (which he hates frankly but he was forced into it for the sake of publicity for the bear) and he finds you in the bed. you were 'asleep' - aka you heard him come in and purposely pulled the blanket down your body, leaving your back exposed to your boyfriend. typically he'd shower, change, and be curled up behind you within 20 minutes of coming home. it had become an easy routine to settle into.

while sure you had chores to do, errands to run, but the sun was shining in through your windows and made the bed look so warm, so inviting. you told yourself just twenty minutes of napping before getting back to your tasks but here you are over an hour later and carmy certainly isn't complaining.

instead you hear his dress shoes being kicked off and scattering across the floor, the heavy sound of his pants and belt hitting the ground next. you're groggy but slowly waking up to the change in environment. he should shower - he should. but he walks around the bed to face you, clad in just a pair of tight briefs that have you half convinced this is a wet dream and drops to his knees. elbows on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing along your cheekbones. "you 'wake?" to which you just groan but bring your hand up to cup the backside of his hand on your face. "can be if you need me to."

to which carmy beams at you. being loved by you was the greatest joy he's gotten from life so far. he presses a kiss to your head and quickly makes his way to the bathroom to wash off the morning. you had chastised him one too many times for getting stains on the sheets or making the bed smell like whatever the tasting menu was that week for him to hop right in.

he's good at learning.

and the shower is quick. he takes time to scrub his scalp clean and wash his hair well because he knows how much you like to play with it. he wants it to feel clean and soft for you. they put some gel in it for the news that made it feel too stiff - he knows you'd hate it.

it doesn't take long before he's back in the bedroom and throwing the towel that was around his waist into the overloaded laundry basket in the corner. you're still sunk into the bed but this time flat on your back. your own hands rubbing at your legs, the oversized and cliche shirt you got on your last vacation with carmy pooling at your hips as your knees come up for him. you knew what he was after by waking you up. "wanted to get up and put on something prettier for you, carmy. couldn't do it."

he laughs. tries to keep it soft to not disrupt you but there's only so much he can hold back. there you laid in this cliche “cheese curd capital of the world” shirt he picked out as a joke while you guys drove through wisconsin on your aforementioned road trip. he loved it, loved the memories associated with it.

"look gorgeous, baby. you alway look gorgeous." the bed's dipping at your feet as carmen kneels on it, his lips coming down to start trailing kisses along one of your calves while one of his hands cups the back of your other. rough hands that have such a tender touch when it comes to you. your knees are falling open further under his warmth, drops of water landing on your skin from his still damp hair. "you're gonna get the pillows all wet."

he lets out a breathy laugh once again, this time the sound quieted against your skin. "i'll wash the sheets before we go to bed. just need you now." you hum as his lips work their way up to your inner thigh, carmen alternating between kissing and sucking at your delicate skin. "thought about you all day. kept answering the same damn questions over and over and all i could think about between ‘em was how much i’d rather be right here."

you let your head roll back against the soft pillow, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets under you when you feel carmen's breath even higher on your thigh. he’s taking his time while you’re losing your mind. "y'already woke me back up, don't tease me too please." he's humming against your skin, "not teasing, just savoring."

the drag of the sheets along his length is giving him just enough friction to keep him stimulated as he kisses the cotton covering your core. your hands finally tangle into his wet hair, keeping him in place as he licks the material. his eyes are heavy with the exhaustion of the day but he just needs you. the facade he had to wear during press wore him down.

there's fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear as he drags them off of your body, tossing them into the pile of his long forgotten work clothes. a problem for later tonight as well. carmen leans back, eyes dragging along your form. you can’t help but admire him too - your boyfriend kneeling between your legs. he smells like your body wash and you giggle to yourself knowing he must have mixed them up in the haste to get to you. his toned figure, the tattoos you’ve memorized covering his skin. the way his eyes look when he stares at you and his wet curls against his forehead. “look so pretty, carmy.”

carmen’s blushing from the attention. giving you a smile the pushes his cheeks up to his eyes. “thank you.” taking your compliment, letting it soak in. you feel two fingers drag along your folds, a thumb pressed to your clit as he slips one in shortly after the other. "just wanna be buried in you and go to sleep. you okay with that? promise i'll fuck you real well tonight." which has you nodding pathetically, hands clutching at his forearm.

he's slowly dragging his fingers out of you, keeping them crooked to take as much of your wetness as he can to glide along his length. carmen’s shuffling closer to you while pumping into his own fist, whimpering as the head of his cock bumps into your core. he lines up the length of himself between your folds, rutting against you. “carmen.” a warning.

the bed squeaks below the two of you as carmen leans over your body. his elbow next to your head, lips capturing yours in a kiss as he lines himself up. your legs go tight around his waist with your hands coming around his torso, fingertips pressing into the muscles while carmen slides inch by inch into you.

you’re both moaning into the kiss while you arch your hips up to encourage him to sink in faster. you discovered this awhile ago - carmen getting lost in you to help his mind turn off. it was almost embarrassing the first time you two woke up after a nap still connected, both still aroused. now it happened regularly. both of you love feeling needed.

he’s pulling away to kiss down your jaw before nuzzling your neck, “feels so fuckin’ good. hate being away from you, ‘specially like this.” pulling your body up against his as he carefully rolls the two of you to the side. it’s not graceful to stay connected but you two make it work.

pressed chest to chest, your leg hooked around his waist while he stays buried inside of you. his lips are working your jaw again, his eyelashes fluttering against your cheek. your eyes are getting heavy again. the sensation of being so full and so loved lulling you back into a comfortable headspace. “love you, carm.”

carmen kisses you on the lips again, “love you so much more.” he’s reaching behind his back to pull the forgotten blankets around your combined bodies. making sure the two of you were tucked in and comfortable before pulling you as close as possible and letting his mind finally relax enough to drift off to sleep.

[notsocheezy]

Veronica core

i lied i’m not into sex get on the operating table

[babsvibes]

To see your fortune, keep reading. Thank you @drawthething for the perfect spooky cute graphic, and happy halloween!

The Jack-O’-Lentil Burger

Lemme see, gimme your hand, come on come on. Oh. Oh wooow, yeah I’m getting some big energy here. Huge. It’s saying… you want an ice cream sundae with lots of chocolate sauce and nuts on the side. Or wait, maybe I’m just hungry. Or wait! Maybe not. This could be a sign that you should look for the sweeter things in life. Do it on purpose! Say “I’m gonna be sweet to me” … no go on say it. “I’m gonna be sweet!” There you go, there they are. Hey maybe you can find a bunch of trick-or-treaters and swipe a candy or two, haha! Just kidding… To enjoy the sweeter things in life, reblog fanart you enjoy with something nice in the tags!

If Looks Could Kale Burger

And that’s when I tell Ginger “hey, who’s the one driving this mustard on wheels” and she goes- huh? Ohhh, right right, the fortune thing, right. You should, uh, avoid dark tunnels and also take an umbrella. For the dark tunnel. Wait no don’t go in the dark tunnel. Wait, let me see your hand again. To always have an umbrella if you need one or don’t, find one of your favorite posts and reblog it again!

Beets of Burden Burger

Oh! Ah, nuts. You, uh, might not like this one. You’re going to lose something soon. It's not the end of the world, but it’s not fun either. Like, oh, one time I lost Gene’s favorite nickel. That was a rough two weeks. He couldn’t even be bribed with special crackers! Sorry, hon. To find your lost item or Gene’s favorite nickel, spend three minutes with a project you’re working on!

Texas Chainsaw Mass-Curd Burger

Look at you, so pretty, such a lovely face. And your hands! Oh, I’d kill for these hands. Not that I would, no I wouldn’t… maaaybee :) Okay, let’s see. Oooo I love it, you’re going to get good news soon! Maybe from me because I won’t steal your hands? Probably not, but there is good news coming. Alriiight, good one! To keep Linda from stealing your hands, leave a comment on one of your favorite fanfics!

Rest in Peas Burger

Uhhn yuhh yuhh gagaga oo… I got it! You know that thing? You know, the thing? Yeah, I think a solution is coming your way. But you might not like it. What’s important is that you look on the sunny side, and there is a sunny side! That’s what I tell my Bobby all the time. He uh… he’s getting there with the whole cheery thing. Sorta. To enjoy a "Keep Your Sunny Side Up and Your Cloudy Side Down, Stay Positive, Bobby, Things Are Gonna Be Okay Burger,” spend three minutes with a project you’re working on!

Every Breath You Tikka Masala Burger

Come on, what do we got? Hmmm, oh yeah it’s coming to me. I’m seeing… three bats and a purple tophat. The bats can’t wear the tophat. It doesn’t fit their head. Oh god, they’re trying anyway. Don’t do that, little bats! You’ll get smooshed! N- oh, no, okay yeah they’re fine. And they’re so cute, awww dressed up in their hats, adorable. I think that’s a good thing? To… accept whatever that was, share a draft that you’re proud of!

Sympathy for the Deviled Egg Burger

You might need to give me a minute, my brain bucket feels busted. Tina’s got a spooky secret admirer, and we’ve been trying to figure out who it is all day. Being a fortune teller isn’t an easy job, but neither is being a mom! Haha! Noo I love it, I love it. Maybe your fortune should be thanking someone who has helped you grow? Hmm, I AM getting a strong sense of loyalty. Maybe check in on someone, and make sure to let them know how you’re doing too. To spread the love, send a kind ask to a blog you admire!

Onion-Tended Consequences Burgers

Oh my god! Is this blood on your hands?! Or is it… tch, it’s just a bit of ketchup, so silly! Are you a prankster or a murderer? You were just eating fries? Yeah okay, sure sure sweetie… um, your fortune is that sometimes people jump to conclusions. Sometimes even you. Take a second and remember most people are just being a little silly, not intentionally mean. And most people are definitely not going to tell their husbands they met a murderer today. To get away with any other alleged crimes, post a headcanon or find one you enjoy and share it!

Human Polenta-Pede Burger

Mmmmhhhmm mmm umuinimumunim. Oh no. Sweetie, I’m so sorry, but you’re going to get food stuck in your teeth. And it’s going to be green! And the waiter’s going to see! Oh this is horrible, maybe we can take your teeth out? No, no we can’t do that… To laugh it off with the waiter, spend three minutes with a project you’re working on!

I’ve Created a Muenster Burger

Now this is a juicy one! Did you do something a liiittle naughty? Something involving the letter M? Or J? Or B? Oh yeah, I can tell, but that’s okay! Everyone has a bit of a wild story they’re hiding. Like this one time, I turned my back on Louise when she was a baby for two seconds! Two! And the next thing I know, she had crawled on top of the fridge with a packet of Froo Froo Fruities snacks and refused to come down. Can you believe that? Ohhh, but she was fine. She doesn’t even remember the bump she took coming down, so it all turned out okay. You’ll turn out okay too, I promise. To lessen the swelling, recommend a fanwork to someone!

[mothiir]

the lion and the pussycat

Cw: facefucking, dubcon due to the lions personality

— —

The Lion’s mouth crashes against the lower half of your face, and you know in that moment that you are dead. He’s going to do what he’s been threatening to do for weeks, and he’s going to kill you — if you are lucky it will be quick, his fangs against your jugular; a spray of blood, or a broken neck. You’ll die without knowing quite what you did to earn such ire from the Primarch, but at least your suffering will be minimal. 

His teeth graze your jawbone; you feel the feral heat of his mouth, the smell of his breath, like — like mint, actually. Odd. You thought it would smell of blood, that he would have curds of dried flesh stuck between his canines, like a beast from the wastes — but no. Mint. Spearmint, if you’re not mistaken. Your brain, careening sky-high with terror, picks out that little detail like it is somehow important. 

His hands — not gauntleted, for once, but bare, though no less strong, and no less lethal — go to your waist and lift you up. Your legs dangle haplessly; your nervous system feels like it is starting to shut down, tendons and muscles slackening; failing any other option, your lizard brain is trying to make the rest of you play dead. Like the Lion is the sort of hunter to be fooled by such a trick. Like he is the sort of man to leave his prey alone once it has perished. You know what he does to the things he kills; he’s made sure to show you. How he bears them to the ground, drives his sword into flesh, rends apart limbs, plucks out hearts, makes trophies from the skulls of once-terrible creatures. You have no idea why he insisted on making you watch, on threatening you so, but you have quickly learned that to look for meaning in the Lion’s actions is a fool’s errand. 

He explains himself to no one, not even his sons. He is a force of nature, as inexplicable as the storm, as ruthless as winter’s cold breath. 

He lifts you higher, his teeth at your jugular now. You taste your heart in your mouth, red and burning, and yet he still does not deliver the killing blow. Instead, he grunts with frustration. 

“Woman, your legs —there —“

Holding you up with one hand, he uses the other to manipulate your limbs to his liking — which, bizarrely, apparently is around his waist? Well: as around his waist as you can reach. Your thighs are forced into an awkward stretch, your knees resting at his hips, your feet dangling near his buttocks. 

“Tighten your grip — like that.”

You obey, rendered mute with fear and confusion. What is this — some kind of pre-slaughter ritual? Getting you to hold onto him so your body is more conveniently placed for the kill? You imagine him biting out a bloody chunk from your neck; the way the gore would stain his beard and splash down your front. Maybe he intends to devour you. You’ve heard tales of the dietary habits of the Emperor’s champions — of blood-soaked angels, and of dark-winged shadows who chew on human skin — and it only makes sense that the Lion shares appetites with his namesake —

His lips touch yours; his tongue fills your mouth. His hands slide from your waist to your arse and squeeze firmly; this time, the grunt sounds almost appreciative. 

It is only at this point that you realise oh. Oh. 

Having discovered your mouth, and apparently worked out the logistics of kissing someone less than a quarter of his size, the Lion rumbles deep in his chest; a sound that you feel in your marrow, and does little to quell your terror. He’s kissing you. Oh sweet Emperor he — you have no clue what to do, what are you meant to do, is he still planning to eat you —

He plunges his tongue deeper into your gullet, almost choking you. Drool slips down your chin — the divine drool of the Emperor’s son, you think, your mind unstitching with hysteria. 

The Emperor’s Son. The Primarch of the Dark Angels. 

And he’s kissing you. Badly. 

Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to cup his face, feeling the bristle of his beard beneath your palms. You’re half-convinced that he’s going to snap your hands off, leaving you with bloody stumps, but he doesn’t. He nips at your lower lip, and squeezes your arse again. You are going to be black and blue when he’s done with you; you can already feel your tender flesh start to bruise. 

Right. You refuse to let ‘choked to death on the tongue of a Primarch’ be your epithet. Mindful of his teeth, you kiss him back, tightening your legs around his waist, combing your fingers into his hair, trying to guide him into something a little gentler — or, at the very least, less wet. 

The instant you touch his scalp, he recoils, his gold eyes blazing.

”I’m sorry!” you say — by now you are well-used to gibbering apologies when he’s vexed at you, even though you are quite convinced you have done nothing wrong.

”Why?” he says, his voice low and rough, his nostrils flaring as he pants. “I liked it. Do it again. Do it while I fuck you.”

While he — what. Your mind goes shrill and empty with confused terror, your lips hanging open as you try to think of anything remotely constructive to say. The Lion resumes his dreadful attempt at kissing, his tongue slicking over your jaw before plunging into your mouth once more. 

“Wa — wait —“

You shove at his shoulders; a completely fruitless exercise, since you’ve seen him be hit by a literal tank and not move an inch, but he pulls back. 

“What?” he snaps. “What’s wrong?”

”While you — you want to have sex with me?”

”Of course I do,”  he says. “Now, take this off.”

He tugs at your tunic — dark green, embroidered with the Dark Angel’s insignia, standard wear for a serf — but, predictably, the gesture is enough to rip the fabric, splitting it up to the bottom of your breasts. 

“Wait!” you squeal, realising that he’s about to rip the rest away. “I don’t have any other clothes —“

”Don’t need them,” says the Lion, and before you can understand the implications of that, he’s torn the rest of the tunic away entirely, leaving you in leggings and breast-band. 

He glares at the breast-band like it has personally offended him. Maybe it has. 

“Wait — hang on please just wait — I thought you hated me!” you say, the words a stumbling mess as the Lion carries you over to his bed, sitting down, leaving you suddenly very aware that you are in his lap, and he is only wearing his loose linen underclothes, and uh —

Is that a sword? Please be a sword. Please be a warm, throbbing sword that happens to be directly adhered to his groin because if it isn’t a sword and it is what you think it is then you are going to suffer a far more ignoble death than ‘choked on Primarch tongue’. 

“I don’t hate you,” he scoffs. Man of few words. At the baffled look on your face he elaborates: “I want to bed you.”

”I — yes. I guessed that. Now. But — before — I thought you wanted to kill me.”

”I knew you were foolish, woman, but I didn’t know you were simple,” the Lion sneers, hooking a thumb under your breast-band to feel the soft flesh beneath. Despite yourself you shiver. 

“Wait, let me — “ To avoid losing yet more clothing that you cannot afford to replace, you undo your underwear for him, and place it to the side. The room’s silence is only broken by the crackle of the fire, and the sound of his heavy breathing, and your poor, racing heart, thundering in your ears. 

“Good,” the Lion says. He cups one of your breasts briefly, brusquely —squeezes it like he’s checking a fruit at the marketplace for ripeness — and then the room whirls around you, and your face thumps into his pillow. It takes you a moment to process what he’s done: flipped you onto your belly, which means — 

Cold air strikes your thighs as your leggings go the same way as your tunic. His teeth graze your calf, then close — bizarrely — around your knee, and you wonder if he has any idea what he is meant to be doing here. 

He hoiks you up by your hips, forcing you onto your tip-toes, and you feel his finger slide between your lips, prodding around like he’s looking for something. 

He has no idea what he is meant to be doing here, does he?

He finds your hole, and slides his finger in briefly. Your body, despite everything, has responded either out of unexpected arousal or sheer self defence and you’re slick and sticky around his digit.

Then he withdraws his finger, lifts you up even more, so your legs are forced to butterfly around him, and you feel something huge and blunt and warm nudge at your entrance and the head of it is bigger than your entire damn cunt. 

“Stop it!” you scream, loud enough to startle even yourself. “Stop it you damn fool, if you just put it in you’ll kill me!”

Silence follows, as thick as a shroud. Your flanks heave as you suck in air, and realise that you have called the Lion a damn fool, and he has burned planets for less. 

“What did you say?”

His voice is a low rumbling threat. Your fingers curl helplessly into his sheets. 

“I mean — my lord, you cannot just insert yourself into me — you are very big, and I’m not ready, and it will tear me and — and then you’d only be able to bed me once, and not for very long at that!”

Unless you want to fuck a split open corpse, you think but do not say. 

The Lion doesn’t let you go. You feel his cock resting across your buttocks, and onto the small of your back, like a damn threat. 

“Women birth children. They can stretch.”

”Well — yes. Yes they do and they can —“

He’s a virgin. He’s the worst kind of virgin, because he’s a genocidal war lord who thinks that he knows literally everything.

”—but that takes hours and hours of labour and the cervix has to open and you can’t just do it on command!”

The Lion huffs. “A failing of your kind.”

”Yes my lord,” you reply, rolling your eyes into the pillow. “A failing most severe. But — if I may? —“

You wriggle, and much to your relief he understands that at least, and lets you go. You roll onto your back, wanting to keep an eye on the Primarch. 

“When — “

You stop. You can’t start explaining what happens when a man and woman lie together to the Lion; you think he might well kill you for patronising him — and even if he didn’t, you’d probably suffer a shame-induced heart attack. 

Instead you try a different tactic:

”Humans are weak, frail things my lord — human women especially so. I can’t just…take your cock inside me with no preparation. It would damage me. I am — I am honoured that you desire me but — but can we start things slower? Please?”

He looks unconvinced; though that could just be his face, which — even at rest — seems set in an expression of simmering anger. 

“Like — can I —?”

You gesture to his cock; the absurdity of you being so careful to seek permission when his seduction technique was apparently limited to grabbing is not lost on you. Still. He’s a Primarch. The rules are different. 

“If I wanted my cock stroked I could do it myself.”

“Yes my lord. Of course. But — let me just —“

You lean forwards and lick up his shaft, tasting salty arousal and the plain-scented soap all the Astartes here seem to use. Soap. Mint. He washed before coming here. He brushed his teeth and sweetened his breath. He wanted to impress — if he just intended to force you he would have done so already. 

(The bar is on the Emperor-damn floor, isn’t it?)

He moans, his head lolloping back. You weren’t expecting quite such a dramatic reaction, and a perverse sense of pride kindles in your chest. 

“Yes — yes, like that,” he moans, and shuffles back against the headboard, spreading his legs wider. “Keep going.”

For the next half hour, you perform the most nerve-wracking fellatio of your life. You lick his shaft, and mouth gently at his balls; your jaw cracks painfully as you manage to wedge his tip onto your tongue, using your hands to slick over what you can’t reach. The only indication that the Lion is enjoying himself is the occasional little huff or moan — and the pulse of his pre cum onto your tongue. The only words he utters are —

“Eyes on me. Keep them open — want to see —“

— and so you pin your eyes open wide and try to blink as little as possible. As your wrists are starting to ache, and your jaw is twinging, his breathing changes, growing sharper.

“Swallow me —“ he pants, and pushes on the back of your head. His cock rocks forwards into your throat, knocking against your palette, and you instinctively try to draw back. He holds you in place, his hips twitching up, trying to work himself deeper. He’s not going to fit — but he does not see it that way. He wants to fit, so he will. You gargle and choke around him, eyes beginning to water, and he just forces your head down again.

“Swallow �� let me in —“

You gulp, hiccuping and choking, and his cock somehow sinks another few inches into your throat, stretching your gullet open. Your feet kick helplessly against the bed.

“So close — good girl — sweet girl —“

His words are disjointed; his hips stuttering forward.

“I’m —“

That’s the closest you get to a warning before he’s cumming down your throat; swallowing is less a choice, more unavoidable. He’s buried so deeply that his seed just spills inside. He keeps you held there, your lips sealed around his cock, until the last little oversensitive shiver.

Then, and only then, does he release you. You sputter and cough, mopping at your teary face, trying not to retch. 

“That was tolerable,” says the Lion. “Now, when you’ve finished your dramatics, get down there and do it again.”

[deja-mew]

Ridiculous Headcanons Pt. 1

Sorry in advance y’all. Okay so I was so bored at work my brain was rotting thinking of TFP characters for so long that I have this. Here’s what I think each character’s favorite cheese would be, if either they were human at some point and tried it, or could taste a big enough chunk as cybertronians; whatever excuse needs to be for them to have any opinion about cheese. (also could just be them as cheeses… idk, I work in Wisconsin, I’m always surrounded by cheese, this is what happens.)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Autobots

Optimus Prime: Optimus liked Colby Jack. Good, classic Colby Jack. He likes the two distinctive colors and just generally enjoys the flavor.

Arcee: Pepper Jack; well loved, timeless, and packs a punch too. She likes that it’s soft but not sweet. Also, Jack being in the name is a bonus.

Bumblebee: Velveeta. The color is great and it’s a universal, famous cheese; everyone knows it (at least in the USA), just like him. He had it in a mac & cheese and stuck with it as his favorite. (he strikes me as a mac & cheese sort of guy)

Bulkhead: He’d chose brick cheese because it has a good, versatile, underrated taste. Also, just like him, this cheese is softer than its name implies <3

Wheeljack: Cheetos. He didn’t care that they “technically wont count as a cheese”, they’re cheese flavored enough and they’re what he likes. Especially the flamin’ hot ones.

Smokescreen: Cheese curds. Warm, squeaky, proper cheese curds. Specifically the ranch flavored ones are his top pick.

Ultra Magnus: This was how Ultra Magnus found out he was lactose intolerant. He didn’t like any of them, and he won’t be asked to try again.

Ratchet: Ratchet chose blue cheese, purely because the flavor was so distinctive. It’s also a very mature choice of cheese, which just made sense for him. 

Decepticons

Megatron: Monterey Jack. The warlord refused to consume any cheeses but picked Monterey Jack just because to him, it sounded like an evil version of Colby Jack.

Starscream: Cheese whiz..?? When presented with the samples he didn’t bother to try anything, but automatically went for the can of cheese whiz, as if he already knew it..??? (He did what he had to do when he was rogue. Ik it doesnt make sense but its hilarious.)

Soundwave: Mozzarella. Soundwave had already heard of cheese on the internet indirectly throughout his few years of needing to interact with human information in order to serve Megatron. Because he understood mozzarella cheese to be a monumentally important cheese to human society, he internally likened himself to it, being himself monumentally important to the Decepticon cause. No one knew that this was why he chose mozzarella, they were just glad that he responded at all. 

Shockwave: When Shockwave received the cheese samples he did not taste anything and instead just.. Left to his lab and ran some tests.. After a while he decided on feta cheese, saying that it is among the healthiest of cheeses and therefore, for nutritional purposes, is the most logical choice.

Knockout: Camembert. It’s soft and fancy and french and… He hardly tasted much it, but liked pronouncing it, and appreciated that he could spread it on a cracker instead of getting a giant chunk stuck all up in his teeth.

Breakdown: Breakdown chose Parmesan cheese because he had once seen in a movie the grater that is used at restaurants where they just keep cranking it. He said it tasted as good as it looked in the movie.

Dreadwing: Dreadwing thought that Provolone was the ideal cheese. It seemed the most sensible.

St3v3: String cheese was St3v3’s pick, even though it is technically mozzarella. For him, it was a texture thing.

Airachnid: Cazu Marzu. It’s that maggot cheese that can kill you if you eat it. It wasn’t even on the sample plate, she just brought it herself.

Predacons

Predaking: Predaking chose smoked Gouda. He did admit that the smoke added a touch of familiarity to the cheese (seeing as, of course, breathing fire exposes you to plenty of smoky smells). Overall, he thought they were all pretty good, but somehow this was the only smoked one on the plate, so he chose it.

Skylynx: Skylynx thought the aged Swiss wasn’t that bad. The bitterness was enjoyable to him, and he found it best melted.

Darksteel: Limburger. It was the most controversial cheese on the plate, and that just made him think it was the most exciting one. The smell didn’t even bother him much, and he genuinely enjoyed the flavor.

[notsocheezy]

The Brain Curds philosophy.

quantity over quality is the key when starting a new craft/hobby/whatever

It took me thousands of stitches to figure out the best way to knit, to purl, to tension my yarn. I tried English and continental. Circular and straight needles.

All the advice and videos and tips in the world won’t replace actually doing the thing. Over and over. And ripping it all up and starting over.