#I debated which cap

[niobiumao3]

[narzissenkreuz-ordo]

people who scream 'dan heng is NOT dan feng whatsoever' yet always tag any dan feng content as 'dan heng'

[fictionadventurer]

*

[jellyfishvibes]

It might be because I've fallen down a research hole on the master sword but half the Zelda theory videos I've been watching as background noise just make me annoyed?

Like most of them are fine, fun even, even if they don't fit into my personal insane version of what I accept as canon I do like watching them, but now I might just be accidentally picking only theory's about the sword but they are starting from a standpoint that's wrong

Like I understand alot of Zelda canon, yes some of it is complicated and contradictory and shakily built on retconns but it's a 20 year old series that's expected

What's been lost over those 20 years is what used to be canon

Like for example a theory that the master sword in the wind waker is a different master sword then the one in oot, fine theory, fun depending where you go with it but the foundations?

You have to consider what was canon at the time of wind wakers release, you can't approach evidence like Ganon saying "go back to its maker and tell them it's garbage" or a change in art style as canon and they are now

Wind waker, and all the games before skyward sword, were running with lttp canon, in which the seven sages made the master sword and it's one big ability that made it so special as a sword was that it was resistant to magic, even to the magic of the Triforce, that was it's only claim to fame and why it was the blade of evils bane, this is during a point in canon before the golden goddesses had names, before they had finalized the colours corresponding to each goddess (the pendant of power is blue and the pendant of wisdom is red) the sword isn't even that special, it's level 2 of a 4 level upgrade system

And for the art style, Wind wakers version (while toonified) is remarkably faithful to the oot version, the original version of the model which has since been retconned into matching ss and beyond designs

The actual design change happened in twilight princess to bring it in line with the gritter more realistic artstyle

I do find it fun to find in canon reasons for these design changes over time, I'm literally in the middle of a redesign series of the master sword doing just that, but you can't make theory's about things that are currently canon without any mention of or even reference to what was canon, idk it is just ticking me off to watch multiple videos about the master sword and see no reference at all to lttp or the real world timeline of the swords design while trying to use symptoms of those designs to build theory's about current canon

[nerkmidcharm]

do u like my aliens

[so-very-small]

hiii im sorry for sending an anon ask instead of dming you but i kinda wanna remain anonymous qwq are you done with the g/t guilty pleasures? i remember i sent two of mine, one sfw and one nsfw, and i dont think i saw you respond to them yet. are there some you wont respond to? thats okay if so!! I just wanna know c:

no worries! im gonna answer all of the ones i have currently, there’s about 30 !! i think i know which two you’re talkin about, i’ll deffo make sure to get to those :)

but for my own sake im gonna put a cap on it now, so any guilty pleasures sent from here on out, i can’t guarantee they’ll be responded to

[lets-steal-an-archive]

By Bernie Sanders | July 13, 2024

I will do all that I can to see that President Biden is re-elected. Why? Despite my disagreements with him on particular issues, he has been the most effective president in the modern history of our country and is the strongest candidate to defeat Donald Trump — a demagogue and pathological liar. It’s time to learn a lesson from the progressive and centrist forces in France who, despite profound political differences, came together this week to soundly defeat right-wing extremism.

I strongly disagree with Mr. Biden on the question of U.S. support for Israel’s horrific war against the Palestinian people. The United States should not provide Benjamin Netanyahu’s right-wing extremist government with another nickel as it continues to create one of the worst humanitarian disasters in modern history.

I strongly disagree with the president’s belief that the Affordable Care Act, as useful as it has been, will ever address America’s health care crisis. Our health care system is broken, dysfunctional and wildly expensive and needs to be replaced with a “Medicare for all” single-payer system. Health care is a human right.

And those are not my only disagreements with Mr. Biden.

But for over two weeks now, the corporate media has obsessively focused on the June presidential debate and the cognitive capabilities of a man who has, perhaps, the most difficult and stressful job in the world. The media has frantically searched for every living human being who no longer supports the president or any neurologist who wants to appear on TV. Unfortunately, too many Democrats have joined that circular firing squad.

Yes. I know: Mr. Biden is old, is prone to gaffes, walks stiffly and had a disastrous debate with Mr. Trump. But this I also know: A presidential election is not an entertainment contest. It does not begin or end with a 90-minute debate.

Enough! Mr. Biden may not be the ideal candidate, but he will be the candidate and should be the candidate. And with an effective campaign taht speaks to the needs of working families, he will not only defeat Mr. Trump but beat him badly. It’s time for Democrats to stop the bickering and nit-picking.

I understand that some Democrats get nervous about having to explain the president’s gaffes and misspeaking names. But unlike the Republicans, they do not have to explain away a candidate who now has 34 felony convictions and faces charges that could lead to dozens of additional convictions, who has been hit with a $5 million judgment after he was found liable in a sexual abuse case, who has been involved in more than 4,000 lawsuits, who has repeatedly gone bankrupt and who has told thousands of documented lies and falsehoods.

Supporters of Mr. Biden can speak proudly about a good and decent Democratic president with a record of real accomplishment. The Biden administration, as a result of the American Rescue Plan, helped rebuild the economy during the pandemic far faster than economists thought possible. At a time when people were terrified about the future, the president and those of us who supported him in Congress put Americans back to work, provided cash benefits to desperate parents and protected small businesses, hospitals, schools and child care centers.

After decades of talk about our crumbling roads, bridges and water systems, we put more money into rebuilding America’s infrastructure than ever before — which is projected to create millions of well-paying jobs. And we did not stop there. We made the largest-ever investment in climate action to save the planet. We canceled student debt for nearly five million financially strapped Americans. We cut prices for insulin and asthma inhalers, capped out-of-pocket costs for prescription drugs and got free vaccines to the American people. We battled to defend women’s rights in the face of moves by Trump-appointed jurists to roll back reproductive freedom and deny women the right to control their own bodies.

So, yes, Mr. Biden has a record to run on. A strong record. But he and his supporters should never suggest that what’s been accomplished is sufficient. To win the election, the president must do more than just defend his excellent record. He needs to propose and fight for a bold agenda that speaks to the needs of the vast majority of our people — the working families of this country, the people who have been left behind for far too long.

At a time when the billionaires have never had it so good and when the United States is experiencing virtually unprecedented income and wealth inequality, over 60 percent of Americans live paycheck to paycheck, real weekly wages for the average worker have not risen in over 50 years, 25 percent of seniors live each year on $15,000 or less, we have a higher rate of childhood poverty than almost any other major country, and housing is becoming more and more unaffordable — among other crises.

This is the wealthiest country in the history of the world. We can do better. We must do better. Joe Biden knows that. Donald Trump does not. Joe Biden wants to tax the rich so that we can fund the needs of working families, the elderly, the children, the sick and the poor. Donald Trump wants to cut taxes for the billionaire class. Joe Biden wants to expand Social Security benefits. Donald Trump and his friends want to weaken Social Security. Joe Biden wants to make it easier for workers to form unions and collectively bargain for better wages and benefits. Donald Trump wants to let multinational corporations get away with exploiting workers and ripping off consumers. Joe Biden respects democracy. Donald Trump attacks it.

This election offers a stark choice on issue after issue. If Mr. Biden and his supporters focus on these issues — and refuse to be divided and distracted — the president will rally working families to his side in the industrial Midwest swing states and elsewhere and win the November election. And let me say this as emphatically as I can: For the sake of our kids and future generations, he must win.

Bernie Sanders is the senior senator from Vermont.

[moonlightcycle571]

Wouldn’t it be funny if Billy could only give powers to one person at a time, so the Vasquez kids take turns being Captain Marvel Junior (as they still look like kids) and they make everyone thinks it’s one shape shifting child.

Reporter: Captain Marvel, who is this new protoge worth you?

Marvel: you’ve met Junior though?

Mary, who wanted to take over: yeah we talked last week.

Reporter: ah what

At first it’s just Mary and Freddy (mostly Freddy cause he’s really into being a superhero) so everyone thinks Captain Marvel Junior is a shape shifting gender fluid kid and Marvel is a supportive dad.

But then the other Vasquez’s join in the fun

Reporter: Captain, new protoge?

Eugene, in it for shots and giggles: Claire, it’s me, Junior

Reporter: … you’re Asian now?

Eugene: woooooowww

Marvel: that’s low even for you

Reportee: but I-

Eugene: Both Captain and I have lived lives of many genders, colours and have been in many cultures. And yet you shame me for feeling nostalgic and reverting to an ancient form of mine.

Reporter: I- w h a t

It’s sparks a lot of debate of cultural appropriation for shapeshifters in general, with a lot of people invoking Martian Manhunter, fae and other shapeshifters. So naturally Pedro steps up

Captain Marvel and Junior both volunteering at a homeless shelter.

Reporter: … junior?

Pedro: yes?

Reporter: what are you doing

Pedro, making an ancient Mexican recipe he got from the Library in the Rock: making a dish I learned a couple of centuries ago from my then family.

Reporter, really doesn’t want to get cancelled: ok

Naturally this takes a lot of coordination, and a lot of people test them by giving info to one kid, and different info to the other. Solomon sees right through them cause the divine group chat is connected to Billy and the chosen Junior. Things were starting to chill for a bit. Then Darla joined in.

Darla, visibly younger than the other forms: Hi :D

Reporter: why do you keep getting younger and younger???

Darla: :3

At this point the reporter is so done. Are you a child with a lightning emblem on you? You are Captain Marvel Junior. And it seems to work most of the time.

Billy: *gets deaged as Cap*

Reporter: oh junior! New form? This one looks closer to Cap!

Billy: I’m not Junior???

Reporter: *bluescreens*

Bonus:

In a Justice League Meeting

Flash: So is Junior like a mantle? If so why is it only one kid at a time?

Hal: yeah, what do the others do when you take one at a time?

Billy, an absolute troll at heart: what do you mean, it’s the one kid?

Superman: what???

Billy: yeah so Junior hasn’t settled into which form they like the best and switch it up. I think they like it better that way.

Martian Manhunter, troll n2: *nods along* finding ones main form is an important part of self discovery. On Mars, many like to alternate between forms as they could not be tied down to one.

JL: ah

Bonus 2:

Batman: *slowly puts away the ‘Not An Adoption Problem’ Support Group invite*

Bonus 3:

Dudley: please please please please

Billy, fed up: WHY

Dudley: it’ll be so funny.

Billy: you know what, fine!

Later Dudley is given some powers but decides to only let the Reporter see him.

Reporter: … Junior????

Dudley: no one will ever believe you *flies off*

[the-oblivious-writer]

A Loving Distraction

Wednesday Addams x Reader

One-shot

Summary: Wednesday attempts what’s meant to be a “study” session, but being the distraction you are, you had other plans in mind.

Warning(s): kissing, established relationship, and no pronouns

Notes: dedicated to @101rizzlrr - ask and I shall deliver

You stare at your phone, thumb hovering over the text you're about to send to Wednesday. The message reads: "Meet me in the library? Promise to actually study this time."

The memory of your last "study session" brings a smile to your face. You'd spent more time debating the merits of different torture methods throughout history than actually reviewing for finals. Not that you minded - Wednesday's passionate defense of the rack over the iron maiden had been oddly endearing.

Your phone buzzes with her reply: "Bold of you to imply I was the distraction last time. But fine. West wing, third floor. Don't be late."

Twenty minutes later, you're climbing the worn stone steps of Nevermore Academy's library. The afternoon light filters through the Gothic windows, casting long shadows across the floor. You spot Wednesday at her usual table, surrounded by a fortress of leather-bound books. She's wearing her signature black dress, white collar crisp and perfect despite the late hour.

"You're four minutes late," she says without looking up from her notes.

"I brought a peace offering." You place a steaming cup of black coffee - no sugar, no cream - next to her elbow. "And I was delayed by Principal Weems giving her weekly lecture about proper uniform length to some poor first year."

"Excuses." But she takes the coffee, and you catch the slight softening around her eyes that passes for a smile in Wednesday's world. "I assume you're here because you're still struggling with Advanced Poisons?"

You slide into the chair across from her, pulling out your own textbook. "Some of us didn't grow up taste-testing deadly nightshade."

"Your loss. Mother always said it builds character." She reaches for your notebook, scanning your latest attempts at categorizing toxic fungi. "Your classification system is almost painfully wrong. Look at this - you've put death caps under 'slow-acting.' They can kill within 48 hours."

"Not everyone shares your enthusiasm for mortality rates," you tease, leaning closer to see where she's marking corrections in precise red ink. Her hair smells faintly of rain and graveyard dirt - a scent you've come to associate with comfort, oddly enough.

"Clearly. Which is why you need my help." She pauses, dark eyes flickering to yours. "Though I suppose there are worse ways to spend an afternoon than ensuring you don't accidentally poison yourself with basic mushroom identification."

"Aw, you do care."

"Don't be ridiculous." But her knee bumps yours under the table, and stays there.

The next hour passes in a comfortable rhythm of studying and bickering. Wednesday corrects your work with cutting efficiency, while you try to distract her by suggesting increasingly outlandish uses for non-lethal poisons. ("Think about it - just enough to make the entire school board mildly nauseated during budget meetings.")

"Focus," she chides, but there's amusement lurking in her voice. "Unless you want to explain to your parents why you failed this semester."

"They'd understand. I'd just tell them I was distracted by my brilliant, beautiful girlfriend who happens to be a walking encyclopedia of death."

"Flattery will get you nowhere." She turns a page with deliberate precision. "And that's not even close to my most impressive quality."

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. "Oh? Do tell."

"I can name at least fifteen ways to incapacitate someone with items found in this library alone." Her eyes meet yours, challenging. "Would you like a demonstration?"

"Tempting, but I think the librarian is still mad about last time." You reach across the table, fingers brushing her wrist. "Besides, I can think of better uses for our time."

Wednesday arches an eyebrow. "Can you now?"

The tension shifts, electric and familiar. You stand slowly, walking around the table until you're beside her chair. She turns to face you, expression unreadable but for the slight catch in her breath when you lean down.

"Much better uses," you murmur, and then you're kissing her. Her lips are cool against yours, tasting of coffee and secrets. One of her hands finds its way to your collar, pulling you closer with that controlled intensity that is so uniquely Wednesday.

You break apart at the sound of footsteps approaching, though you don't go far. Wednesday's normally pale cheeks have the faintest hint of color, and you can't help feeling a bit smug about that.

"That was…" she starts.

"Distracting?" you offer with a grin.

"Entirely inappropriate for a study session." But she's fighting a smile now, the real kind that makes her look almost human. "We have an exam tomorrow."

"True." You brush a strand of dark hair from her face. "But I'd argue that was an excellent practical demonstration of biological responses to stimuli."

Wednesday rolls her eyes, but she's definitely smiling now. "Your scientific method needs work."

"Then I suppose we'll need more practice." You gesture to the towering shelves around you. "We have the whole library."

"You're impossible." She stands, gathering her books with precise movements. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To find somewhere more private for your… research." She gives you a look that makes your heart skip. "Unless you'd rather stay here and actually study?"

You grab your bag, already following her toward the stacks. "Lead the way."

-----------

A/N: nice little one-shot before I post more angst

[kissingchamber]

illicit affairs

𝜗𝜚 synopsis: Tony finds out his son is dating his intern. His intern!

𝜗𝜚 pairing(s): MCU!Peter Parker x Stark!male reader; Tony Stark x son!reader

𝜗𝜚 warning(s): nothing really this is just silly fluff and Tony being clueless

𝜗𝜚 note(s): English is not my first language!!! Based on this request, hope u enjoy anon :3 title from taylor swifts "illicit affairs" !!

Everyone in the Avengers tower knows you and Peter are dating! Well, almost everyone in the Avengers tower knows you and Peter are dating. The only one who hasn't yet figured it out is the one and only, Tony Stark, your dad.

Honestly, it's a surprise he hasn't found out yet with the way you and Peter have been looking at each other with longing heart eyes and cuddling during movie nights. And he calls himself a genius...

It's sort of become a game for you and Peter, seeing how long it'll take for Tony to realize what's really going on.

What makes it even more unbelievable is that Pepper was the first one to know!

─────────────── ⋆ ───────────────

You make your way down to the lab where you knew Peter would be— he'd texted, telling you he would be down in the labs today— working on something for his suit with Tony.

You slide into the lab, finding Peter sat in a chair, eagerly chatting with your dad and typing something on a tablet at the same time.

You come up behind him, wrapping your arms around him, hugging him to your chest and burying your face into his hair. "Hi, Pete." You murmur.

"H— hey!" Peter's face flushes a pretty pink color and you can't help but smirk. He's so easily flustered.

You almost forget Tony is there until he starts talking. "Oh, hey kid! Care to help us a little? We could really use an extra set of hands." He says, acting like the way you're holding Peter is totally platonic.

You nod, mumbling a sure, but not before sending Peter a look. He cannot be serious... He shoots back an agreeing gaze.

─────────────── ⋆ ───────────────

It's movie night, most of the Avengers are scattered across the room, sitting in all kinds of weird positions that make you want to laugh. You and Peter are laying on one of the couches, practically entangled together.

Everyone is arguing about which movie to watch when Tony walks in with Steve trailing behind him, their arms filled with snacks.

Steve looks at you and Peter, mumbling something about lovebirds and takes a seat on one of the recliners.

Tony settles on a loveseat next to Pepper and joins in on the movie debate.

You and Peter share a look, Tony definitely heard what Cap said, right?

─────────────── ⋆ ───────────────

You walk into the kitchen where Peter is sitting on a barstool, leaning onto the island and nodding along to whatever Tony— who is currently refilling his coffee cup— is saying.

You press a kiss to Peter's cheek in greeting, sitting down on another barstool. He gives you a soft smile in response and grabs ahold of your hand.

Tony finishes getting his coffee, ruffles your hair and leaves the room wordlessly, like you hadn't just kissed your boyfriend— that he doesn't know is your boyfriend— right in front of him!

You and Peter stare at each other for a silent second before bursting into laughter. Tony is so clueless it's hilarious.

─────────────── ⋆ ───────────────

When Tony finally does find out it's possibly in the most embarrassing way ever.

You and Peter were in your room, making out on your bed, when Tony walked in.

"Dad—!" You yell and scramble to get off of Peter, whose face is currently the shade of bright red reminiscent of a tomato.

"Sorry, sorry!" Tony says quickly, at least he sounds apologetic.

You glare at him with no real heat in your expression. "You could've, you know, knocked before you came in. Like you're supposed to." You grumble.

"I know, I know. But uhm... since when were you two a thing?" He asks, almost sounding hesitant.

Peter looks like he's trying his hardest not to laugh, barely succeeding. "Everyone else figured it out months ago, if that gives you any idea."

"What—" Tony begins but you interrupt him; "And Pepper was the first one to find out"

"And she didn't tell me!?" He sounds so betrayed, it's so funny you can barely respond. "Apparently not!" You get out before bursting into giggles, Peter laughing beside you.

Tony turns on his heel and rushes into the hallway "Pepper!" He cries out.

At this, you and Peter can't hold it in anymore, erupting into the kind of laughter that makes your tummy hurt and leaves your sides sore afterwards.

And he calls himself a genius.

𝜗𝜚 note: this is longer that anything ive posted previously so thats why this took me so long to post 𖦹 ´ ᯅ ` 𖦹 thanks 4 reading!!! reblogs r super appreciated!! :3

[scudslut]

Sins and Honey Flavored Sweetness

daryl x fem!reader

wordcount: 4.7k

warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut under the cut, perv!daryl (not really, he just has a lil crush), male masturbation, unprotected p-in-v, oral f!receiving, mutual pining

a/n: i have never written something so descriptive ohmygod. do be warned lol, hugs and kisses byeee <33

Daryl knew there were unspoken boundaries when it came to you.

A thin line of loose salt, that whispered to him. Beckoned him huskily to dust his fingers through and have a taste, but daunting enough for him to keep his soles rooted in the dirt, salivating from a distance.

It wasn’t because you were already spoken for in any way; if anything, you kept your romantic interests simmering farther on the back burner than he did, which spoke volumes in itself. Or because you were younger than him, a couple of years wasn’t anything to turn a nose up over, especially nowadays.

It was, however, the place you held amongst your people. You were like bright, shiny gold within the group, dared not to be corrupted or led astray. The heart that kept everyone’s beating, even in the darkest of times, soothing hope into the atmosphere with your infectious smile.

Oh, and you were Rick's younger sister... which he hated to admit, only tempted him more. And he wasn’t quite sure as to why.

He’d mulled it over too many times to count, noting everything about you that allured him so intensely.

He liked the contrast between you two; like sun rays peeking through the clouds after a mid-summer storm. You were soft, fresh as clean linen and he was dark, brooding. He often fantasized about taking that sweet innocent nature of yours and painting it with his essence. He knew it was wrong and constantly shamed himself for having such perverted thoughts about his best friend's sister. But, god, how could he not?

Not when you pranced around him daily, teasing him with your velvety, feminine voice and kind touches. Touches that sent brisk shivers down his spine, sure to leave him breathless and bothered — another thing he secretly liked. You were addictive in that sense, he’d distance himself the minute he felt the familiar rush coursing through his veins and then crave it immediately once it was gone. A drug he couldn’t help but relapse from.

And it didn’t help that you were always so keen to assist him, doting on his every injury or problem with such gentle attentiveness and sincerity. That might be what he liked the most. It was fascinating how pure you remained in a world so plagued, always ready to nurture. It soothed a deep, restless, and scarred part of him, finding solace in it.

He'd come to learn you were like that with everyone though. So, he found himself grappling with things to deter your attention his way, playing dumb and clumsy just to have your sweet scent fill the nearby air. He felt like a horny teenager with a hopeless crush. It was absolutely ridiculous and yet, here he was once again, feet dangling off your kitchen counter as you searched the cabinets for some aspirin to aid in his 'headache'. 

It wasn't a complete lie per se - his sensitivity to light gave him troubles quite often but, whether it was enough to complain about or not, could be debated.

Nonetheless, he sat for you patiently, listening to your quiet humming as you searched about. He loved when you did that, singing your soft melodies under your breath mindlessly. It was such a girly thing to do, but it was comforting in a way, an airy blanket warming the silence.

"Ah, here it is!" drew him out of his thoughts, and he cast a glance at your bright smile of accomplishment. You popped the cap open swiftly, shaking out 2 little white pills, and handed them over with a glass of water.

“Let me know if you need any more. They should kick in soon, but I know how tough migraines can be,” you soothed, your sympathy never faltering. He bowed his head quickly, not wanting you to see the flash of guilt that surely crossed it. "Thanks," he mumbled as he tossed his head back, swallowing them both with a shivered grimace.

Wiping the water droplets from his chapped lips, his eyes found yours again and noticed a small smirk hidden in your features. “What?”  

You let out a chuckle, reaching for the glass he held to wash, “Oh nothin’... just don’t think I’ve seen you cringe like that before, is all.” 

His brows furrowed at your statement, “So?” he questioned further.

“Walkers, blood, rotting flesh… never. But an itty bitty pill?” Your laugh grew louder, finding the situation even more amusing as you explained it to him. “Whatever,” he scoffed, hopping off the counter with a smirk. He knew you would be expecting him to leave after that, you had helped him with his ‘issue of the day’ and there was no reason to linger any further. But he did.

Daryl scanned your frame as you washed the few dishes that were in the sink, chewing on his thumb habitually. You wore a white, long-sleeve shirt with a faded band logo printed on the front and some beaten-up blue jeans that seemed to cup your ass perfectly.

His mind wandered before he could stop it, imagining how soft and warm your skin must be underneath all those clothes. How soft and warm your hands would be wrapped around him, or better yet, your pretty lips taking him deep with a moan. He felt his own jeans tighten slightly and quickly diverted his gaze to the floor, clearing his throat as if it would erase those thoughts from his brain.

“Something else you need, Daryl?” You glanced over your shoulder, wrists deep in soapy water. 

“Nah, uh, thanks. I’ll see ya later,” he said and beelined for the door praying to god you didn’t see his flushed face and half-hard cock poking through his pants. He was so fucked. Couldn’t even look at you anymore without sprouting boners and picturing you on them, milking him greedily. 

He rushed down the porch and across the lawn, bursting into his shared house with Carol just next door. He didn’t even glance toward the kitchen to see if his friend was home, desperate for a cold shower to level him out. The house was dead quiet anyway, leading him to assume Carol was out for the day.

"Such a fuckin idiot," he cursed himself under his breath as he made his way down the stairs to his room. You probably knew honestly. Could tell how pathetically bothered you got him, and just put on a friendly face to keep from embarrassing him.

He left the bathroom door open in his distress and hastily shed his clothing, stepping into the tepid water. Immediate relief flooded his senses, feeling the cool stream wash away the sweat and grime the day had caked on. Pouring some homemade soap he was given into his hand, he scrubbed at his skin, determined to rid himself of your previous interaction along with the dirty thoughts that plagued his mind. He shouldn’t be thinking about you that way, it just wasn’t in the cards.

For starters, you would have to want him too, (which he knew would never happen), and even if you did, how the ever living fuck would he explain that to Rick?

‘Oh hey Rick, I have a massive hard-on for yer sister, you okay with that?’ Fuck no. Just thinking about that conversation had him cringing in awkwardness and he shut the idea down instantly. 

But there you were still, invading his thoughts with your dreamy laugh and perky attitude. Why did you have to be such a goddamn tease?

He leaned forward, resting his hands on the wall trying to regain some composure. He gulped down deep breaths of moist air, willing his body to calm itself down, but it was fruitless. The image of your body, pushed up against the wall under his hands, wet and flushed, bubbled to the surface. He groaned. Daryl knew what he had to do. It wasn’t the first time he had gotten off thinking about you, and he damn well knew it wasn’t gonna be the last, but it still felt wrong each time, pumping his cock when you were just next door. His body craved the relief though, relief only indulgence could satisfy. 

He hissed as he dragged his fingers along his shaft, gripping at the base and beginning to pump slowly. He was painfully hard at this point, each squeeze raking shivers over his damp skin while he choked out quiet moans. With his opposite hand, he flicked the water to a warmer setting, pitifully hoping the heat and steam would resemble something close to your body against his. God, if only you were here.

He sped up, swiping his thumb over his sensitive tip with each pass, sending jolts throughout his body. “Oh, fuck,” he groaned deep and husky, not a care for the noise filling the empty house.

You were there, clear as day in his mind, moaning along with him as he pounded into you, cunt gripping him like a vice. Your breath was hot and pitchy against his ear as you begged him to fuck you harder, to go faster, to cum deep inside you. His cock twitched at that, he was already so close.

“Fuck, y/n, baby,” he whined, humping erratically into his long-forgotten hand. The muscles in his stomach quivered in bliss as he stroked himself, lost in his detailed imagination. You were cumming, trembling around him in languid spasms with his seed spilling out of you, and Daryl was over the edge, tossing his head back moaning your name as he unloaded, letting the steamy water wash it away. 

It took him a few minutes to recover, catching his breath slowly and trying to avoid the guilt that would soon be settling in. What would you think of him if you knew what he did behind muffled walls? How he thought of you in such dirty ways, when you’d only ever see him as a dear friend. He wondered what you might be doing now. Traipsing around your cozy home, oblivious to his rapid, lustful heart meters away.

The water was beginning to run frigid and he let out a defeated sigh. Absentmindedly, he reached past the curtain for a towel and stepped out, drying his hair off roughly and then wrapping the towel around his waist, turning to the bedroom for fresh clothes and much-needed sleep. His mind ached to be thoughtless, consumed by the abyss of unconsciousness.

He should have known the world stopped playing fair long ago.

In a single moment, his heart stopped and his stomach dropped to the fucking depths of hell.

There you stood, feet frozen to the floor with his crossbow in hand, like he willed you into existence. He stuttered, his mouth opening and closing like a blubbering fish. He was sure his eyes were the size of saucers, he could feel them ready to pop out of his skull and run away. There was no fucking way this was happening.

Several beats passed. The silence deafening between you both and for a moment, he honestly debated stepping back into the shower. Pretend you were a figment of his tortured imagination and just hope you’d go away. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen ghosts.

“You uh- you forgot your crossbow when you rushed out today,” you finally broke the silence, solidifying your genuine presence. He glanced down to the bow and then back at you, lost for words. Did you hear him? He moaned your goddamn name, quite a few minutes ago though… had you been standing there long? Were you angry?

His racing thoughts were interrupted when you stepped towards him, leaning the bow against the doorframe and moving closer. Instinctively, he took a step back, “Thanks,” he replied shakily, but you kept moving closer. He noticed your gaze then. It wasn’t on his face, but on his abdomen, at the hem of the damp towel hanging off of him. Your eyes had a gleam to them. Something dark and lustful.

No. Surely, he was reading you wrong. 

“Daryl,” you spoke, and he audibly gulped, nervousness and absolute embarrassment flooding his system, “is there something you need to tell me?” 

He didn’t answer you, instead deciding to burn a hole into the floor with his shame. He couldn’t look at you. You knew. You had heard him and were teasing him about it and here he was, a coward who couldn’t even admit to it. And you had every single right. He crossed that salty line years ago, with his first sinful thought about you. Feasted on it, deluding himself into thinking all was okay as long as his actions didn’t physically involve you.

He barely registered your advances when he finally raised his head. You were so close he could feel the heat of your breath against his burning skin, the luscious scent of vanilla and pine filling the air.

“Can I see?” you asked quietly.

He nearly choked on his own spit. Your hand was skimming along his stomach lightly, suggestively toying with the towel that covered him up. “Huh?” His mind was blank. 

“Can I see you?” you repeated, and all he could do was give you a curt little nod, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to just yet, but rendered acquiesced. Your hand pulled at the fabric softly, letting it drop to the floor revealing his manhood to your hungry eyes. Nothing was making any sense. Surely, you did not feel this way too. Surely.

There were those whispers again. He shouldn't have let you do that. He should be recoiling, shielding himself from your gaze but he was statuesque, like you had drank the life out of him with one simple look.

"Were you thinking about me touching you?" Like you had to even ask. The answer was written in plain sight, right there on his forehead and in his bashful eyes.

"M'sorry, I-" he had no clue how to even begin this kind of apology, remorse coursing through his veins rapidly. The dots weren’t connecting, not yet. "I know it's wrong, I shouldn't have-,”

And then he felt you, pressing your lips against his softly — timidly as gentle hands feathered across his waist, coaxing him into you. Your kiss was buttery, lips so smooth and sweet he wanted to drown in them. You tasted like fresh honey and vanilla ice cream, hints of minty toothpaste caught on your tongue. It was intoxicating to say the least, swarming his brain with a muted buzz and he whimpered, much to his surprise, melting into your touch quicker than he would like to admit.

“Y/n, y/n, nah we can’t,” he heard himself say as he came to his senses slowly, but he wasn’t pushing you away. Why wasn’t he pushing you away? You couldn’t, right?

“Please,” you whispered against him, low and sultry. Who was he to deny you? God Daryl, get a grip.

“Y/n, no,” he repeated, allowing his tone to take some authority even if that was the last thing he truly wanted. You stepped back from him then, a hurt expression painting your features and he felt his heart squeeze. “Why?”

His brain was scattered. This felt like a nightmare; another cruel joke sent his way to haunt him for the rest of his life. There just always had to be a price, didn't there?

"He doesn't mind, you know?" you whispered and his eyes were on yours instantly. You traced soft shapes across his stomach, sending those shivers down his spine and effectively turning him into putty.

"What’re ya talkin' about?" He needed to regain his composure, he could barely breathe with you this close, eyes raking his naked frame with desire.

"Rick... you and me. He doesn't care," you stated, "thinks it's cute actually... my crush on you."

Your crush on him?

"He trusts you, Daryl, with everything. You're pretty much the only person he would want me to be with." He hadn't thought of it that way, only ever assumed voicing his attraction to you would result in his head on a platter, or his dick… or both.

You began peppering his neck with small kisses, trailing them down his chest and over his puffy nipples. He hissed when you nipped at one, licking over it after, soothing the burn. "Ya sure?"

You nodded.

"Ya sure ya want me?" he asked dubiously. His question was answered when you grabbed his hand gently, guiding it inside your cotton underwear, letting his calloused fingers trace your soaked folds. He could have cum then and there, spreading your slick up and down between his fingers like it was liquid gold. Fuck me.

"This all fer me?" he panted, succumbed to a state of disbelief at your evident arousal. You were so wet around his fingers, pulsing and bucking slightly with each feathered stroke. "Were ya listenin' ta me?"

Hair fell over your face as you nodded sheepishly, gazing down to watch his fingers massaging you. You bit your swollen, cherry-red lip, “Couldn’t help it, you sounded so- so good.”

Now that... that got him going. Imagining your pretty cunt dripping in your panties, listening to his gasps while he fucked himself to the thought of you. Who knew the golden girl would be so naughty?

Daryl felt his confidence build, watching you fall apart for him from such simple touches. The last wire holding him back snapped and he needed more. He had waited for this moment for so fucking long.

You whine as he retracts his hand, only to be completely shut up when he places the thick digit on his tongue, sucking greedily and sloppily. It was better than he ever could have imagined, similar to the honey of your lips but so much more sweet. He went back for seconds. And thirds. Until he was dropping to his knees, deciding to lick the goddamn plate clean.

You enveloped him in the best way possible, lifting one of your thighs over his shoulder as he tugged on your tight jeans, pulling them down enough to fit his head. His tongue pressed flat against your clothed pussy, and he sucked, tasting a mixture of your sweetness and residual laundry detergent on his tongue. His moans burned the back of his throat, desperately trying to hide them but you weren’t having it, tugging on his chocolate locks for more. “Don’t do that. I wanna hear you, honey.” Good lord. He silently thanked each lucky star of his that the house was empty before emitting a guttural groan between your thighs. If this was all he got from you, a little taste of the sugar you were made of, he would die a very happy man.

He took your clit between his lips, rolling it with his tongue. Your underwear was so wet with your arousal and his spit that it was practically see-through, just calling for him to pull aside. “Please,” you gasped.

“Hm? Wha’s that?”

He’d heard you just fine. He wanted to hear you again, and again. He was greedy and you were so damn sinful, “Please, need them off, need you.”

So, he complied, as any sane man would, shimmying them down your hips as he sucked and nibbled each inch of newly exposed skin. You watched him intently with half-lidded eyes, rocking slowly to let plush skin engulf his senses like a cloud. He felt you playing with his messy hair, taking small strands between your fingertips and moving them behind his ears to see him better. The gesture struck something deep within him. You were so kind, so focused on this moment and him, he’d be damned if he let it continue on the hard damp floor of his bathroom. No fucking way.

He stood abruptly, catching you off guard. “Bed,” he muttered, capturing your lips again in a haste. He couldn’t get enough. He didn’t want a minute to pass where he wasn’t tasting some part of you. Any part of you. Sweet, sweet honey.

You led your bodies backward till your knees hit the mattress, wasting no time as you crawled up to his pillows, taking him with you.

This moment right here, this feeling… he wanted to bottle it up. Freeze time and just stare, immerse himself into every tiny detail. It felt almost criminal to continue. You were a vision, panting and squirming beneath him; so much electricity and anticipation bouncing between your yearning bodies. Could you really want this just as much as he did? Was he truly that oblivious, all these years? Whatever that answer may be, he wasn’t gonna fuck this up. Not with you.

Your hands on his face coaxed him back to reality, molding into your touch like clay. Eager lips chased his as he pulled your shirt off and as much as he wanted to freeze time and memorize each freckle of you, the more skin each other touched the more obscene the kiss became. An unartistic jumble of spit and hands and moans and thrusts.

In all the time spent pining silently for the other, you both could care less about grace.

No, he needed to hear you. Listen to every octave of moan you had in you, all at once. He needed to know each and every spot that had you whimpering and begging, this second. If time did decide to stop at any given moment he needed to have you, be you, feel everything you had to offer, and soak in it till his skin pruned.

His lips sucked and bruised their way down to your navel, and then past, kissing up your folds with lustful intent. The sounds you made above him had him seeing stars and he wanted more. His tongue slipped past your lips, finally diving into the hive of your sweetness, rolling his tongue languidly over your clit. Your hands were everywhere around him, fisting at the sheets, the pillows, and then his hair as you desperately tried to push him closer. He didn’t mind. He’d gladly suffocate between your thighs, a death he’d welcome compared to the ones he fought from outside every day.

He dove lower, smoothing his tongue over your entrance but not delving past quite yet.

“Daryl,” you gasped above him.

Looking up between your legs, he caught a glimpse of your face tossed back in pleasure and he groaned, having to ground his hips into the mattress below to relieve some pressure. “What d’ya need, sweetheart?”

He’d give you anything. The moon if you asked for it — anything to keep those pretty sounds coming from your lips. “You, you, please you.”

“How so?”

He knew he was teasing you. He’d drawn back from your glistening slit, pressing little pecks everywhere that he could reach. Your hips, your pelvis, the little crease between your thighs and your cunt. That spot drew a deep moan from you, so he focused on it, sucking and licking till it was bright red and your hips were rolling so violently he wasn’t sure how he kept his lips on you.

“In, please,” you choked out, tugging him by his shoulders to move back up. He wasn’t done yet.

“What? Ma fingers?” he toyed further, continuing his kisses everywhere but where you wanted him. “Hm?”

He brought his thumb up to your clit, pressing lightly at first, rubbing lazy, torturous circles. His lips were on the inside of your thigh, so close to your entrance but seemingly so far. He knew you wouldn’t take much more of this, you were practically sobbing above him blubbering nonsensical curses about how much you ached.

“This pretty cunt wanna be filled, that it?”

His thumb pressed firmer.

“Uh huh,” you nodded, begging him. Oh, that sound would surely be the death of him.

He finally brought his lips to your supposedly aching entrance, delving deep with his tongue. The noises he made as he lapped on your honey were flat-out pornographic, and you writhed below him, drinking everything he was giving to you. Honestly, he didn’t know how much more he could take. He wanted to draw this out for hours, make up for every bit of lost time but seeing you like this, so needy for him had his resolve shattering by the second.

With a final peck to your weeping folds, he crawled his way up back to your face. You latched on to him instantly, sensing his give and taking absolute advantage of your moment. His hips rolled into yours slowly as your tongues danced and he hardly had to guide himself with how wet you were, his tip finding your entrance easily and slipping past. You moaned rolling your hips again and he nearly bottomed out, a long deep groan ripping out of him. If he thought your lips were buttery, lord save him.

Perching himself on his forearms, he held still, watching for any signs of discomfort. He assumed you hadn’t been with anyone in a while and he certainly knew he wasn’t small, if he’d grace himself with any sort of compliment.

Sensing nothing but pleasure as your walls pulsed around him, sucking him in further, he gave, snapping his hips harshly into you. Your moans were lewd on his lips, traveling down his throat and feeding the fire that burned in the pit of his stomach.

“Fuck, y/n, baby,” he groaned again, spiraling from the fact he was actually inside you this time. Not in his hand, pretending you were fucking shower water.

No, you were beneath him, latching onto his muscles like your life depended on it. He drove deeper, hitting a spot that had you gasping for air. He hit it again, and again, needing to feel you explode around him. He watched as your face contorted in pleasure as he pounded into you. God, you looked so pretty like this. All cock-drunk and needy.

He brought his thumb back to that spot on your clit. He needed you to cum soon, he wasn’t gonna last much longer seeing you like this and there was no way in hell he was going to finish before you. Your hips stuttered beneath him, walls squeezing around him and he knew you were close.

“Come on, pretty girl, you got it,” he whispered in your ear, sucking the lobe gently between his teeth. That must’ve broken you, because then you were cursing, spasming for him which triggered his own orgasm. Your cunt milked him, his seed spilling down your thighs exactly how he had pictured earlier and it was a fucking sight. He honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he had imagined this whole thing.

He fucked out both through the waves of release, and a bit past, dropping his head into your neck to muffle the obscene groans coming from his lips. He didn’t want it to stop, but your overstimulated senses ached for reprieve.

“Dar?” you whispered once you'd both caught your breath, guiding his stubbled cheek from its hiding spot. When his eyes met yours, they were filled with so much adoration and happiness he had to hold himself back from whimpering. Never in a million years would he thought he’d get you, and here you were, looking at him like the sun shone out of his ass. The same way he looked at you for years, it was jarring to see it reciprocated. How had he missed it?

You leaned forward, tenderly capturing his lips with your own, soothing him as you always did. He knew there was so much you wanted to say, that he wanted to say, but you didn’t need to talk about it tonight. Tonight you would simply soak in each other, a gift you both thought you’d never get and one you would never let go.

He felt you giggle against his lips, and he pulled back with a lazy, fucked-out smile, "What?" he mumbled curiously.

"How's the headache now, big guy?" you teased playfully and he realized then, you'd known he was fibbing today. Saw right through his measly excuse to spend time with you.

He blushed to the tips of his ears, bowing his head to hide it, "Oh, shuddup," he mumbled, attacking your neck in kisses and nips.

Your cheeky ass was gonna pay for that tonight.

[exhaled-spirals]

« To mention the global loss of biodiversity, that is to say, the disappearance of life on our planet, as one of our problems, along with air pollution or ocean acidification, is absurd—like a doctor listing the death of his patient as one symptom among others.

The ecological catastrophe cannot be reduced to the climate crisis. We must think about the disappearance of life in a global way. About two-thirds of insects, wild mammals and trees disappeared in a few years, a few decades and a few millennia, respectively. This mass extinction is not mainly caused by rising temperatures, but by the devastation of natural habitats.

Suppose we managed to invent clean and unlimited energy. This technological feat would be feted by the vast majority of scientists, synonymous in their eyes with a drastic reduction in CO2 emissions. In my opinion, it would lead to an even worse disaster. I am deeply convinced that, given the current state of our appetites and values, this energy would be used to intensify our gigantic project of systemic destruction of planetary life. Isn't that what we've set out to do—replace forests with supermarket parking lots, turn the planet into a landfill? What if, to cap it all, energy was free?

[...C]limate change has emerged as our most important ecological battle [...] because it is one that can perpetuate the delusional idea that we are faced with an engineering problem, in need of technological solutions. At the heart of current political and economic thought lies the idea that an ideal world would be a world in which we could continue to live in the same way, with fewer negative externalities. This is insane on several levels. Firstly because it is impossible. We can't have infinite growth in a finite world. We won't. But also, and more importantly, it is not desirable. Even if it were sustainable, the reality we construct is hell. [...]

It is often said that our Western world is desacralised. In reality, our civilisation treats the technosphere with almost devout reverence. And that's worse. We perceive the totality of reality through the prism of a hegemonic science, convinced that it “says” the only truth.

The problem is that technology is based on a very strange principle, so deeply ingrained in us that it remains unexpressed: no brakes are acceptable, what can be done must be done. We don't even bother to seriously and collectively debate the advisability of such "advances". We are under a spell. And we are avoiding the essential question: is this world in the making, standardised and computed, overbuilt and predictable, stripped of stars and birds, desirable?

To confine science to the search for "solutions" so we can continue down the same path is to lack both imagination and ambition. Because the “problem” we face doesn't seem to me, at this point, to be understood. No hope is possible if we don't start by questioning our assumptions, our values, our appetites, our symbols... [...] Let's stop pretending that the numerous and diverse human societies that have populated this planet did not exist. Certainly, some of them have taken the wrong route. But ours is the first to forge ahead towards guaranteed failure. »

— Aurélien Barrau, particle physicist and philosopher, in an interview in Télérama about his book L'Hypothèse K

[flemingsfreckles]

Drunk Dial

Synopsis: After a rough night out, you accidentally call your ex-girlfriend to come pick you up, causing unresolved feelings and confessions to be made.

Warning: mentions of alcohol consumption, drunkenness, mention of nonsexual nudity, language, unwanted sexual attention from men

WC: 3.7k

A/N: this was supposed to be like a 1k little fic and then it became this, I’m debating a part 2 if people are interested as well

You try and catch your breath as you pull out your phone, hand shaking as you click though your contacts. Your best friend was out of town, she’d be no help. You debate a few other names, some had kids, you couldn’t wake them at this hour, some you didn’t feel comfortable asking. Until your eyes fell on her name.

You shouldn’t call her. You were supposed to be no contact. But maybe she’d answer. She was in town, as far as you knew, she didn’t have kids, she was a safe person for you. You still shouldn’t call her. Despite knowing you shouldn’t click her name, you do anyway. Letting it ring and ring. As it rings, you receive a text.

Jessie: butt dial?

You respond embarrassingly fast. The ringing stops, you hear the automated voice begin to talk about a voicemail. You end the call and text her back.

You: No

Jessie matches your embarrassing response time, but instead of responding with a text, she calls you back.

“Hello?” She says. As she picks up the phone she’s able to make out the loud music muffled by the sound of the building and the noise of the occasional car on the street.

Your stomach sinks hearing her voice. You had gotten so used to hearing that soft, sweet, voice everyday until you didn’t. Until you went weeks without hearing it. You clear your throat trying to clear your mind. “I’m sorry, I didn’t have anyone else to call.” Your voice breaks slightly.

“What?” You can hear the sleep in her voice. That was the voice that you used to hear in the mornings after your spend the night, the voice you heard after she’d fall asleep cuddled into your side watching a movie. You hear her clear her throat. “What’s going on?”

“Oh my god you’re sleeping, I’m so sorry. I’ll call someone else.” You quickly pull the phone from your ear, you can hear Jessie talking but it’s too late as you hit the button ending the call. Less than a second later Jessie is calling you again.

You stare at her picture looking back at you. It was one you had taken of her on your one year anniversary date. You had taken her for a hike, packing a picnic for the two of you to enjoy with a beautiful view of a waterfall. The photo is her, black baseball cap sitting on top of her curls, smiling at you as she holds out a flower to you. You let it ring, and ring. Until her face disappears.

Jessie: Answer the phone.

Jessie: I’m not kidding.

Her face appears again, you sigh. You didn’t have much of a choice, she was still someone you trusted, you were too far from home to walk, not to mention it was 2am. you slide your thumb slowly across the screen, answering the call.

“Um.”

“Where are you?” Her sleepy voice is gone, instead it’s been replaced with one of concern.

“Outside of Marathon.” It was a bar the two of you frequented while together, which probably didn’t help, memories flashing through your head at every turn when you were inside. The booth the two of you shared the first time you went there. The table you stood at watching as she played darts with another patron, coming back between throws to cuddle into your side. You saw the large table that had been filled with Jessie’s teammates the first time she brought you to meet them. The bathroom stall that the two of you had done some rather inappropriate things in, it was all here, leading you to ordering drink after drink, drowning out your sorrows and the memories.

“What are you doing at a bar at 2 in the morning?”

“I went out Jessie. Which was a mistake, I’m going home now.” You huff, you didn’t want to have to explain to her. You didn’t want to admit that you were trying to move on. You didn’t want to have to admit that you got stood up, that would be embarrassing. You didn’t want to have to explain to her how you spent most of the night trying to reject men who thought they had a chance, one of them not caring for your rejection at the bar, finding you later on the dance floor and grinding himself against your backside, causing you to bolt from the establishment.

You hear loud rustling on the other end of the line. “Okay, I’m going to come get you okay?” There’s more sounds, likely of Jessie moving around but you can’t tell. The sound of keys and a door closing.

“No, Jessie you don’t have to, I can get home.” You stand turning, looking down both directions of the street. You could walk either way. It was a city, it was set up in blocks. Over a few up a few, or up first then over, it didn’t matter.

“No. There’s a reason you called, do not start walking home.” Her voice is stern, you can picture her face, eyebrows scrunched, her lips pulled tight. “Seriously, stay where you’re at.” You hear the car start. “I’ll be there in a few minutes, do not move.”

You don’t respond, instead choosing to hang up. You know deep down that probably will send her into a slight panic, thinking you weren’t waiting outside the bar. Per Jessie’s request, you stay where you’re at, but you wander over to the curb, sitting down in a rather clumsy manner. You think back though your evening, your mess of an evening. A couple of tears begin to flow as you feel sorry for yourself. You drop your head into your hands, your elbows propped up on your knees. You sit like that until your thoughts are broken into by a voice.

You hear your name being called and look over to see Jessie walking quickly toward you. You quickly bring your hands up to your face trying to clear the tears that stained your cheeks.

“Hey.” Jessie bends down when she reaches you. “Are you hurt?” You shake your head to her. “What happened?”

“I was supposed to be meeting this girl that I was sort of chatting up.” You swallow down tears and your pride as you continue on. “She um, well she stood me up, she never showed, so I had a couple drinks, and then a couple more, and then there was this man who tried to get me to go home with him, and he came up behind me when I was at the bar and he um.” Your eyes flick to Jessie. She was watching you with such intensity you felt as if you were suddenly under a microscope, being picked apart.

“You can tell me.” Jessie lets a hand come rest on your bent knee, giving you a reassuring squeeze.

“He put himself against me and it just, I asked him to stop, he didn’t, so then I ran. And I didn’t have anyone else to call, I’m so sorry. I just want to go home.”

“Don’t be sorry, I’ll get you home, can you stand up?” You nod. Ignoring her outstretched hand you attempt to get up yourself. Once you’re nearly standing it’s as if someone has spun the globe, feeling suddenly off balance you stumble a few steps.

Jessie’s hands are immediately reaching to you, one on your waist, the other gripping your bicep as she stands you upright. “Woah. You’re clearly not okay.” You hear her mumble to herself. “Come on, I'm parked just around the corner.”

“Piggyback.” You say to her. You didn’t want to walk your feet feeling like they were made of lead. You wanted a ride, Jessie frequently would pick you up on her back, or carry you bridal style, or across her front, it always made you feel special. Made, you remind yourself, in the past, she didn’t do that for you anymore.

“No, just, here I’ll help you walk.” She loops her arm around your shoulders and tries to get you to step but you let your feet remain in place, heavy to the ground.

“Jessssie.” You know you sounded whiny, but you didn’t care, the drinks in your bloodstream telling you it was okay. “Please.” You give her a pleading look, one you knew she had a hard time refusing back when the two of you were together. So what if you were pulling on her heartstrings a little, she was the one who offered to come get you.

Jessie lets out a huff, realizing it’ll be easier to get you to the car carrying you, instead of fighting your drunkenness the whole way. “Fine, but no piggyback, that’s not safe with you like this.”

“Koala then.” Before she can say yes, you're lunging at Jessie, wrapping your arms around her neck and your legs around her midsection.

You feel one of Jessie’s hands come to rest high on your back before the other finds its way to your ass, just like how she would have carried you when you were together. Her hand is only there for a moment before she whispers a quick apology and moves to your lower back. “Sorry, habit.” As soon as she apologizes she starts walking.

You rest your head on her shoulder, watching as she keeps her gaze forward, aggressively avoiding looking over at you. You admire her, her face, her eyes, the way her soft curls bounced in front of your face with each step she took, the smell of her shampoo bringing back even more memories. With each step your body gently bounces with her. Before you know it she stops walking and she slowly releases the hold on your back.

She keeps one hand on your back to steady you, her other reaches for the car door, opening it before gently pushing you toward the seat. “Get in.”

You're clumsy climbing into her passenger seat. Jessie’s hand comes to rest on the top of your head making sure you don’t hit it as you step into the car. As soon as you’re seated you let your head flop back to the headrest and your eyes fall shut as Jessie closes the door and she walks around climbing into the driver's seat. You hear the noises of the car as she turns it on, the radio softly playing.

“Put your seatbelt on.”

You hum back, hearing her words but the weight of your arms suddenly feels too much, your eyelids equally heavy, you didn’t want to open them, so you don’t. You remain in the passenger seat, eyes closed not moving. You hear Jessie shift in her seat, her own buckle being undone before she’s leaning over the console toward you, her hand blindly reaching for the seatbelt. You open your eyes to her face just inches from yours.

You begin to look at the freckles on her cheek. Freckles that you used to study when you’d wake up before her. The beautiful spots, you had once spent a whole evening trying to kiss each one, you spend hours and we’re still unable to kiss every single one. Freckles that haven’t changed despite everything between the two of you feeling as if it had.

“Close your eyes, you’re staring.”

“You’re pretty.” Is all that comes out of your mouth as you close your eyes again. Jessie finally is able to click your seatbelt before buckling her own. It doesn’t take long for the gentle movement of the car and your exhaustion to take over lulling you into deep sleep.

The raging headache you woke up to was preventing your ability to open your eyes, let alone pull yourself from your bed. You roll around reaching out to your nightstand hoping to find water but instead finding a lamp. You didn’t have a lamp on your nightstand. Your eyes open and then shoot wide when you realize where you were. You were in Jessie’s bedroom. You frantically roll over finding the other half of the bed to be empty.

You pull yourself from the blankets and the pillows that were encapsulating you in the smell of your former lover. Your feet touch the ground and you look down to see you weren’t in the jeans and shirt you had gone out in last night. You were in a pair of loose shorts and a simple shirt that you knew was Jessie’s.

You crack open Jessie’s bedroom door, looking out to the rest of her place, scanning the room until your eyes meet hers. She’s sitting on the couch, a pillow and blanket donned across the cushions, she had clearly slept there last night.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” She stands up from the couch but doesn’t move toward you. “Are you alright?”

“I mean, hungover, but yeah I’m okay, I think.” Your hands come down to the bottom of Jessie's shirt that sat across your chest. “I remember calling you but honestly, I don’t really remember anything after I got in your car.”

“I can tell you, if you want.”

You nod and make your way into her living room, sitting on a chair that sat adjacent to her sofa.

“You fell asleep on the ride home, I decided to bring you here, which I know wasn’t exactly what you asked but I was worried about you. I wanted to be nearby in case you needed anything, I don’t know what you drank or ate, it just didn’t feel right dropping you off at your place alone.” Jessie looks over to you, checking that you’re following her explanation.

You nod at her, encouraging her to continue.

“I brought you into my room, got some clothes for you, I then left to come get settled out here and then you came out here, um, without a shirt complaining that you couldn’t get your pants off so I helped you change. You said that was okay but obviously you were drunk so you can’t really consent but I figured it was okay, I just wanted to help you.”

You reach a hand out, placing it on her forearm. She stops talking, her attention being grabbed by the feeling of you hand on her body. “That’s fine Jessie, I asked and you were helping me. Plus it’s nothing you haven’t seen or touched before.”

Jessie smiles quickly, letting a quick laugh fall from her lips as she looks down shaking her head. “That’s what you said last night too. But, yeah then I tried to get you to brush your teeth, that was a challenge.”

You winced at your own behavior, embarrassed that you probably acted like a child. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be, it was fine. Then I got you into bed, made you drink some water, and you passed out pretty quick.” Jessie says, ending her sentence with a nod. What she didn’t tell you was how you had blabbered on about the girl you were supposed to have met that night.

“Jess, I don’t even think I want to date her.”

“Who?” Jessie asked as she rummaged in her closet for an extra toothbrush and a fresh washcloth.

“The girl who stood me up.”

Her hands froze as she reached for the small towel. She didn’t expect to have to talk about this with you. “Oh.”

“I think, I think, I’m just trying to get over you. Like you’re the love of my life, and we couldn’t make it work. And it hurts. And I want to fill that hole. So I got on Tinder, and I swiped and swiped and no one was even close to as amazing as you, but I’ll have to settle for someone right?”

“Um.” Jessie was pretty sure you had no idea what you were talking about, just letting every thought you had fall out of your mouth. She assumed you wouldn’t remember most of the night, especially this. She handed you the washcloth, to which you gave her a pouty frown. She sighed before wetting the washcloth herself, gently rubbing it across your face. As she wiped you began talking again.

“No one makes me smile like you did, no one makes me feel the heat, the butterflies, whatever it is, that feeling, no one can even compare. You’ve ruined love for me Jessie Fleming, no one can compete with you. I think I’m always going to love you, I still do. I want to text you after every game, I want to call you at night to hear your voice before I sleep. I miss waking up next to you. I just, I miss you. And I can’t have you. I was a distraction to you.”

The break up with Jessie had been amicable. You both came to the conclusion that life was too much. Jessie having to juggle the national team, being captain, dealing with the lawsuit, the drone scandal, on top of playing for Portland, she didn’t have time for you. You didn’t have much time for her either, having just gotten a new promotion, it came with new responsibilities. Responsibilities that had you in the office early and coming home late, responsibilities that had you traveling more often than not. The two of you watched as the living relationship you had built crumbled before your eyes, breaking both of your hearts. It would have been easier if you’d fallen out of love, if you had a huge fight, but you didn’t. Life had simply gotten in the way, and that hurt so much more.

“Let’s go get you tucked in.” Jessie says, trying to avoid the conversation you were having. She couldn’t do this with you, especially when she was pretty sure you didn’t know what you were even saying. She led you to the bed, pulling back the covers on what used to be your side of her bed, letting you climb in before pulling the sheet up for you. “Here’s water, drink some. If you need anything I’ll be out there.” She points toward the door.

“Stay?” Your question was almost a whisper, as if you were scared to ask. Jessie watched as you looked between her and the empty side of her bed.

“I,” Jessie shook her head at you. She longed so badly to be back in your arms, to fall asleep to the sound of your breathing. “I can’t.” She had turned and left you in the bed, her bed, leading herself to the couch where she knew she’d have a sleepless night, running through all the confessions you just told her.

”Well, I’m really, really sorry for putting you in that situation.”

“It’s okay, really.”

“No, it’s not, we were supposed to be no contact. I’m sorry I broke that.” You try to make eye contact with the Canadian, wanting her to know that while sure part of you was so happy to see her again, you felt embarrassed, you shouldn’t have made her come get you.

“It’s really okay, I’d rather you be safe than not call me.” Jessie grabs the pillow, placing it on her lap, her hands kneading at it.

“Well, thank you. Seriously.”

“Of course, I’m maybe not in love with you anymore, but I will always have love for you. And I’m always going to care about you. You can always call me.” Jessie said, knowing she was lying through her teeth. She still was very much in love with you. That’s why she jumped at the opportunity to come help, to see you again.

“Thanks.” You say quietly and Jessie nods slightly. The two of you are left in a silence for a moment. It was a new silence between the two of you. Silence had been common in your relationship, Jessie wasn’t always the biggest talker and you both enjoyed the peacefulness, but those had never been uncomfortable silences. This was uncomfortable.

“Well.” You clap your hands together across your lap. “I should go, get out of your hair, I’ve done enough.” You push up from the chair. “Where are my clothes from last night? I’ll give you these back.” You pull at the shirt you had on.

“Oh, don’t worry about it, just wear them home.” Jessie walks over to her kitchen counter handing you a reusable bag. “Here’s all your stuff, wallet is in there too. Your phone was charging next to the bed.”

“Yeah I grabbed it.” You show her the outline of our phone in the pocket of her shorts.

“Okay.”

“Okay. I guess I’ll be going.” You take a couple steps towards the door, finding the sneakers you had worn out the night before. “I’ll wash the clothes and get them back to you tomorrow, or I can bring you them tonight?”

“Whenever, it’s just sleeping clothes, I don’t need them back right away.”

“Okay.” You reach for the door before quickly turning to look at Jessie one more time. “Thank you again, and I’m really sorry.” The brunette just nodded at you. A smile that you couldn’t quite read across her face. She opened her mouth briefly before shutting it as if she wanted to say something but changed her mind. You head out the door, closing it behind you, unsure if you’d see her face again anytime soon.

As the door closed Jessie turned to face away from the door, backing up a few steps and letting her back rest against it for a moment. Maybe she should’ve told you, that you had told her about your feelings. Maybe she should’ve told you she still feels the same about you, that she’d be willing to try again, that she wanted to try again. But she hadn’t, and she’d have to learn to live with that.

[zvdvdlvr]

to the heart

cred: @/cafekitsune

Being John’s wifewho is a badass cook and finally meets the team!!

     Your mother always said that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Being married to the one and only John Price could only further confirm her statement.

     John was a military captain- forming, training, and leading men and women into missions that could very well take their lives. As well as gain muscle and a family, military folk also gained an iron stomach. At least in John’s case.

     The way he casually scooped up half the lasgma in the big pan made you wonder how he had survived off of packaged meals. John just shoveled down mouthful by mouthful as you eargerly awaited his reaction. Making something John wouldn’t like is borderline impossible, but you wanted to make only the best for the man that protected you and your loved ones in ways you couldn’t even imagine.

     When John finally asked you if you’d be open to meeting the men he unofficially adopted, you were immediately filled with a mix of excitement and anxiety. Your husband had refrained from the gory details of the missions he preformed but entertained you with stories of his team goofing off or doing something impressive (John was more proud of those men then he let on and you could tell). He had told you that the way he had described your cooking had the men salivating.

     You had decided to make a classic meal on the evening they were to dine with you. A simple but tasty spaghetti and meatballs dish. For the side- recipe you’d seen from Instagram- you cooked up a dozen fluffy pull-apart garlic/cheese/butter muffins (all dishes were John approved, of course, he’s eaten everything you’ve made). You debated a salad, but figured you’d just offer instead of set out a bowl in case they didn’t want any lettuce or anything.

     John pulled you out of the kitchen when he heard the sound of an engine come closer to your secluded country-side home. “They already love you with the way I talk about you, love. Don’t worry your pretty little head,” he murmured, pressing a sweet kiss to your forhead as he les you out to the porch.

     Eventually you found out John was exactly right. You greeted everyone with a hug- which was surprising to you that Simon seemed to melt into you like he hadn’t felt a good hug in years because, according to the stories John told you, Simon was anti-touch. Kyle was a sweet young man and you could tell how mich he admired John. Johnny was a handful, you observed. He immediately started taking cracks at Simon after he pulled away from the bone-breaking hug he gave you and recieved a sharp punch to the shoulder.

     “Plates and bowls are right there. Silverware’s on the table,” you said, gesturing to the respective items. “Come on, J,” you said, urging your husband up from his spot at the table.

     John carried your plate and his in one hand and weapped his hand around your waist with the other. “Are you doing alright so far, love?”

     You nodded with a bright smile. You easily got along with John’s teammates and they seemed to get along with you. And you could only hope that they liked the food you made.

     Luckily for you, though, you didn’t have to wait long for your answer.

     You were sitting down in your seat beside John when you heard a noise that sounded like a gasp and a whimper.

     Two spots to your left, the fork in Johnny’s hands shook as he chewed.

     “Is- Are you okay?” You asked skeptically. You’d avoided using any foods you’d known they were allergic to, so what was the problem? Did he not like it? Did the spaghetti go bad? Were the meatballs moldy? Did you add the wrong spices to the pull-apart muffins?

     “Lass… I need you to send me ma this recipe. I don’t- this is- serve this at my funeral, cap, bury me in this,” he babbled as he shoved forkfuls of noodles into his mouth.

     You breathed a sigh of relief, incredibly grateful for Johnny’s compliment and reaction. You looked at Simon and Kyle. To your surprise they too practically licked their playe xlean before bouncing back up to get an even bigger heap of spaghetti.

     John watched you through moist eyes and soft smile. The way you fawned over his team like a mother duckling made his heart race in ways he didn’t know was possible for a man his age. He didn’t have to tell you how much he cared for Simon, Kyle, and Johnny. You knew because you always knew- even when John couldn’t form the words to say anything. Seeing you all interact made his heart swell. John felt complete; pure, even. At times he wasn’t sure if he deserved this small but solid family, but he knew he would fight tooth and nail to protect each and every one of you.

[shamelessexplosions]

I'm about 8 years late with this but one thing in the Civil War dispute I have never seen anyone from either side point out (and I could just be completely wrong on this):

There is no indication Steve actually knew Bucky killed Tony's Parents

Steve knew it was Hydra because, and as far as I am aware ONLY because of Zola's little exposition scene in Winter Soldier where he shows a bunch of newspapers clippings of things Hydra is responsible for, including Howard and Maria Stark's death.

I repeat: things HYDRA is responsible for. So, yes, Cap knew Hydra killed the Starks, and knew Bucky was working for Hydra. That does not mean, because of that little exposition scene, Cap decided, 'oh yes, in the last 70 years Hydra has only had one man doing all their assassinations, so that must mean Bucky killed Howard and Maria.'

The thought it might have been him could have occurred to Steve, but either way, that would be a theory, and not something Steve has any reason to tell Tony.

For further proof, this exchange from Civil War straight after Tony & Steve watched the security footage:

Tony: "Did you know?"

Steve: "I didn't know it was him."

Tony: "Don't give me that shit, Rogers. Did you know?"

Steve: "...Yes."

To me at least, that 'yes' means Steve knew Hydra, as an organisation, killed Stark's parents, and he elected not to tell Tony, which he is shown to have found out in Winter Soldier so we know that. But his initial statement, "I didn't know it was him", we have no evidence wasn't entirely truthful.

(Whether Tony hears that 'yes' as 'yes I knew Bucky killed your parents' or 'yes I knew your parents death wasn't an accident/orchestrated by Hydra' is ...debatable, but either way I can't see any reason to believe Steve meant the latter, especially since he has already said he knew it wasn't Bucky specifically.)

Why didn't Steve tell Tony Hydra killed his parents?

I can think of a few reasons, whatever side of the Civil War divide you are you can probably come up with more:

1. Steve knew Zola was trying to distract Steve and Nat when he showed those newspapers, so was just trying to keep them engaged, and hinting there might be more to the death of an old friend and get Steve emotional would be a great way to do that. Steve might have suspected it was true, but with no actual evidence he didn't want to open Tony's old wounds.

2. The avengers were going after Hydra post-Winter Soldier, and Steve was worried about what Tony might do/how reckless he might be/didn't trust him enough to risk telling him the people they were targeting killed his parents.

3. It was more than 30 years in the past. If Steve didn't know it was Bucky, it would be likely the person who did it (or at least authorised it) was long dead or unfindable (again, 30 years cold case, no evidence except in a bunker in nowhere siberia that Zemo spent a year searching for when he knew exactly what he was trying to find), so there would be no justice to get, so it would be only hurting Tony for no reason.

But the point is there are a lot of reasons Steve wouldn't tell Tony (admittedly a lot aren't very good or wishful thinking, and Steve probably should have said something, but it is a common theme across the MCU that Steve doesn't always have as much faith in Tony as he should (and then sometimes Tony builds Ultron because he got scared and you can understand why Steve might not trust him when emotional), I'm not here to idolise either of them or say either were completely right in this movie, just point out one thing I see a lot of people complain about). A lot of those reasons don't hold if Steve knew that it was Bucky, and we will never know if Steve might have told him if he did, but you can't blame Steve for not telling Tony something he didn't know himself.

[shares-a-vest]

Eddie reaches for Steve's fruity-scented shampoo - the stuff he swears he hasn't been using each and every time he stays over. He pops the cap and then the lights go out.

He screams bloody murder and drops the shampoo bottle. He kicks it and presses his palms against the nearest surfaces. One on the tiled wall, the other on the glass as he does everything to stop himself from moving his feet because, if he trips on that fucking fruity shampoo that makes Steve's hair oh-so-silky, he'll go slipping and sliding straight through the glass and into the goddamn toilet.

And he cannot die like that, buck-naked as the day he was born.

Though, if he absolutely had to die in the nude, he'd want it to be while he's railing someone six ways from Sunday...

Preferably the hunk who is bursting in through the bathroom door and waving a flashlight right in his eyes.

Steve opens the shower and reaches in to shut off the water. Eddie palms around and grips his boyfriend's wrist, impossibly warm despite now being wet.

"Are you... uh..." Steve drops the light enough from him to stop spluttering about. Eddie blinks hard, regaining enough focus to find a sly smile tugging at the corner of Steve's lips as he attempts to be serious, "Um, are you okay?"

Alright, maybe falling head-first into the toilet would have been a little less embarrassing than this: Steve staring back at him and snickering. He cups his junk and grumbles.

"Towel?" he spits, holding out one hand.

"Sorry," Steve says as he hands the brown (seriously, why do the Harrington's enjoy brown so much) towel over, "It's just you looked like you were in the middle of some naked jumping-jacks."

"Stevie, I was terrified," he retorts, drying off his arms and hands first so he can get a better grip on anything so he can safely get out of the damn shower before it becomes a fogged-up glass tomb.

But Steve places the flashlight tight under one arm and spots him, hovering one hand and placing the other on his dripping wet hip.

"I know," he soothes, now completely serious, "I was scared too."

Eddie doesn't care that he is mostly wet and that his hair is completely soaked, he goes right into Steve's strong arms, feeling his navy-blue sweater quickly dampen between them. Steve maneuvers around to stop their bodies from completely blocking their light source and hugs him tight.

"So stupid," Eddie can't help but mutter, "How am I more scared of the fucking dark than I was when I was six? Besides, how do you even lose power out here in Richie Richville?"

"Well, considering this house is surrounded by trees," Steve shrugs, "We lose power quite easily in bad weather," he pulls back enough to give a dangerously-teasing smirk considering Eddie's state of undress, "Thought you'd enjoy some candles and what-not, anyway. Doesn't Bilbo Baggins scurry around his cottage with a candlestick?"

Now it's Eddie's turn to move away as he hurriedly wraps the towel around himself - to protect his modesty. Yeah... that.

"Excuse me?" he exclaims, "He lives in a Hobbit hole, for one. And I'll have you know his home is well-lit."

"Come on!" Steve scoffs, rolling his eyes and taking his hand.

He leads them back into his bedroom, which at least has some moonlight peaking in from the windows. And yeah, now Eddie can really hear the source of the power outage. The wind outside and the trees that shroud Loch Nora sound like a goddamn tornado.

"Though I think Rivendell surely must have had some sort of electricity," he wonders aloud as he attempts to focus on something else.

"We can debate the infrastructure of Middle Earth later," Steve chuckles and promptly shoves a pair of sweatpants into his hands.

Eddie steps forward, smiling bashfully.

"You mean it?" he coos, biting the 't'.

Steve's eyes flick to his lips as he bites his own, "I can think of a few things we could do that don't involve the power being on."

Eddie opens his mouth, readying himself for a lame line about their palpable electricity that will probably make Steve laugh when the damn radio crackles.

If a physical object could be a boner-killer, it's the damn radio Steve currently has attached to his hip.

"Steeeve is the power out at your house, overrr!" Dustin screeches the moment Steve fishes it from his back pocket.

"Yes, over," Steve answers. He holds a finger up, silently asking Eddie to wait as they make no attempt to move an inch from each other's personal space, "I'mfine-okaygoodbye!"

He clicks the radio off completely and tosses it on his dresser, paying no mind to the fact it sends his Little League trophy toppling onto the carpet.