#stilt-fishing

[deadpanwalking]

what does punk mean in gay?

This is a great opportunity to remind everyone that I'm not amenable to followers who are mentally and/or physically under 18 years of age. I'm not holding your youth against you, but as things stand, I can barely produce enough breast milk to keep up with my cat's nutritional demands—it would be irresponsible to take in another child.

[termagax]

i will admit i did watch that video of that guy butchering that alligator and every time he made a comment about how fatty the tail was i was like. taking notes.

[subbalakshmisastry]

The Dying Tradition of Sri Lankan Stilt Fishing , Novel Fishing Method, ...

[travelinsrilanka]

Tiny Coastal Town With High Value - Koggala

Koggala is a lovely city in southern coast of Sri Lanka. It’s got one of the longest beaches in the country, and the place is just stunning – really peaceful, away from the crowds.

Koggala Lake is a must-see too, with its little islands and heaps of birdlife. Even though there’s been some development, the town’s still got that laid-back vibe, and the seafood is unreal at the beachfront restaurants.

Whether you are up for surfing or just chilling out on the beach, Koggala is the perfect spot to escape and soak up the beauty.

[mowgliproductions]

Stilt Fishing The Dying Tradition of Sri Lanka Explore The Unseen

[biblicallyaccuratemeat]

A Firm Hand

MDNI!!!

A/N: I posted this on ao3 a little bit ago, so I figure why not post it here too! Beta read by @teaflavoredwitch Bucky Barnes x female reader, past Steve Rogers x reader implied/referenced, cheating, alcohol, kind of dub con if you squint, p in v sex, dom!Bucky, protective Bucky, dirty talk, kitchen sex, spanking, fingering, drunk sex, size kink, friends to lovers, angst and porn, shamelessly self-indulgent

Word Count: 5.3k

Steve Rogers is a jackass.

Captain fucking America, mister cherry pie and morals, was a self-righteous prick. Bucky had never felt more pissed off at Steve in his one hundred plus years of living than he does right now. You curled up in his bed, bawling your eyes out and practically chugging some cheap magnum bottle of whiskey. 

Steve, who apparently didn’t believe in too much of a good thing, when he decided to stick his patriotic dick in Sharon Carter of all people. Of course, you found out. Steve was a terrible liar despite having the balls to actually cheat on you. You don’t know why you immediately go to Bucky, but you do. In the year you’ve been dating Steve, you became rapidly closer with the former Winter Soldier. Perhaps it was the forced proximity, or maybe you were just kindred spirits.

Bucky, of course, falls for you. Hard and fast like an idiot. Forced to pine after his best friend’s girl as if his life wasn’t already a fucking sob story. Always the dutiful friend, listening to you vent about the pitfalls of your relationship with Steve and trying to offer sound advice. Bucky learns to tame the green eyed monster inside him, finding contentment as your friend and confidant. 

When you show up on his doorstep at eight o’clock on a Saturday night, he knows Steve fucked up. He knows it without you even having to say a word, because he knew this would happen. He knew, on some level, that Steve didn’t deserve you. Not that Bucky deserved you either, god knows he was even less deserving. But you went to him, so that has to mean something, right?

The intensifying of your sobs pull Bucky out of his reverie, head snapping in your direction again. Some commercial blares on his shitty little TV in the corner of his bedroom, Even the Nights Are Better playing in the background on some allergy medicine ad. 

“T-this was our song!” You wail, burying your face in a pillow as your body shudders with the force of your sobs. The bottle of whiskey remains clutched in your hand. If it weren’t for your inconsolable state, Bucky might’ve been impressed and slightly turned on at the way you chug the whiskey. A woman after his own heart.

Bucky grimaces, perched next to you, stock still, “Okay, dollface, I think that’s enough whiskey.”

He feels awkward and stilted, like his skin is on too fucking tight and the room is too warm. He feels way too self-aware, he’s tuned in to every little sniffle and hiccup.

Seriously, fuck Steve for this. Not only for breaking your heart, but also creating the perfect storm. You, vulnerable and drunk in his fucking bed of all places. A wet dream come to life, if he’s being honest.

He needs to get the whiskey from you. He practically has to pry it out of your hands, amber liquid sloshing inside the nearly empty bottle. Fuck. He should have cut you off way earlier. He grabs the remote, clicking the mute button, “Honey, let’s take some deep breaths, yeah?”

Bucky tries to smile reassuringly but it’s tight and stretches over his teeth in a weird way that makes him look more machine than man. You peer over the edge of the pillow smushed against your face, doe eyes blinking owlishly at him, “Deep breaths?” You echo, incredulously, “You want me to take deep breaths when I walk in on my boyfriend tongue deep in that blonde bitch? Are you fucking for real, Bucky?”

Bucky’s mouth opens and closes rapidly, like a fish out of water. He sure fucking feels like one, incredibly out of his depths. He’s not equipped for this, a tornado of hormones and heartbreak. His stupid silence somehow seems to agitate you even further, angelic features twisting and morphing through every stage of grief in a matter of seconds.

Your anguish quickly gives way to fury, chucking the pillow across the room, “Has he always been like this? Huh?” 

Bucky blinks taken aback, “What? Steve?” He sighs, running a hand through shortly cropped hair, “No, doll, he hasn’t always been like this. I’ve known Steve since we were kids, and he’s never been a saint but he’s not usually an inconsiderate, lying, cheating asshole either.” Bucky’s voice is hard and contemptuous.

Bucky takes your dainty hand in his, squeezing reassuringly, “Hating Steve isn’t going to make this better. It’s not going to erase the pain he caused,” He pauses, pursing his lips as he tries to find the right words, “You gotta let yourself feel this, dollface. Feel the anger, feel the hurt, the betrayal. Don’t suppress it, because that’s just gonna make it fester.”

His jaw clenches, teeth grinding together. Bucky silently attempts to work through his own feelings on the matter. On one hand, his never wavering loyalty to Steve, his brother in arms and every sense of the word. On the other hand is you. Heartbroken, far too lovely for his comfort and the odd, delicate bond between you two. Bucky swallows, his mouth filled with a metallic taste as he fights down the ever growing urge to hunt Steve down and beat him within an inch of his life. 

He realizes you’re staring at him, gaze hard, “Why didn’t you warn me?” You ask in a quiet, hollow tone that makes Bucky feel like his heart is going to shrivel up in his chest.

Running a hand down his face, Bucky huffs, “Warn you?” He echoes, “Honey, I… I didn’t know.” He implores, clenching his fists in his lap, “I swear to God, if I had known he was being such a fucking prick, I would’ve put a stop to it, I would’ve beaten the information out of him myself.”

“You didn’t know?!” You throw your hands up in the air, gesturing wildly, “You didn’t have a single fucking inkling? I don’t believe that for a second, Bucky,” You hiss, movements jerky and agitated as you tousle your hair, “You didn’t think to say, “Hey doll,”” You begin to mimic Bucky’s voice, “‘You’re about to date the goddamn devil!’”

Holding his hands up in a placating gesture, Bucky scoots back. Your accusation stings, hitting a nerve he hadn’t known was exposed, “Hey, hold on just a damn minute,” He says, his voice rising in defense, “I’m not fucking psychic, dollface. I knew Steve could be an inconsiderate ass sometimes, but I didn’t know he was straight up cheating on you.”

Bucky scoffs, a mixture of shock and anger coursing through his veins, “I’m not going to apologize for not knowing what my so-called best friend was up to behind your back. That’s not fucking fair.”

His gaze softens slightly, his voice lowering to a more conciliatory tone, “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t see the signs earlier. I’m sorry you got hurt. But don’t think for a second that I would’ve ever encouraged you to be with someone who would treat you like this. You mean too damn much to me for that.”

You’re still pissed, of course. Feeling self-destructive, though Bucky’s heartfelt declaration hits deep. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, a feral kind of rage filling you, “Oh yeah? Well… you’re… You’re an ass!” You shout, a half-hearted insult. You weren’t really trying, you just wanted to burn bridges. You push yourself out of the bed, stomping out of the room. Slamming the door for good measure, the sound echoing through the apartment like a gunshot. Storming into the kitchen, you begin digging through Bucky’s sparse cabinets for more liquor.

Bucky stared after you, stunned and hurt by your somewhat childish outburst. Your accusations burned like salt in a fresh wound. He stood there for a moment, anger and confusion warring within him. Then, with a fierce scowl, he stalked after you, his long strides quickly closing the distance between his bedroom and the kitchen.

The floorboards creak under his heavy footsteps as he follows the path down the hallway. When he reaches the kitchen, he grabs the doorframe, leaning in. “Hey, wait a fucking minute.” He all but growls, his voice a deep, dangerous rumble. “I know you’re hurting, but you don’t get to just accuse me of being an ass and then stomp away like a fucking toddler.”

He steps further into the kitchen, a breath away from crowding you against the counter, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Steve being a prick, but I won’t accept you throwing blame at me when I'm trying my goddamn hardest to be here for you!”

Bucky leans back against the counter, scoffing, “We both know you’re better than this, sweetheart. Don’t let Steve’s mistakes make you forget that. I’m not the enemy.”

You snatch a bottle of vodka out of the cabinet, there’s no more than a few sips left. You down it in one go, sighing tiredly, “I don’t need you to be here for me. I don’t need you to fix me, Bucky. I’m not some little dolly for you to glue back together. You don’t need to make your fucking amends with me.”

Bucky’s expression hardens, snatching the bottle from your hands, “Watch your fucking tone,” He whispers, cornering you against the counter. There’s a glimmer in his eyes, you see it. The Winter Soldier lurking in the back of his psyche. It sends a perverse thrill down your spine.

“I’m not trying to fix you. You’re not some damn doll, I know that. I’ve always known that.” He pauses, taking a deep breath, “I’m here as your friend, to listen, to support you. But I won’t allow you to take your anger out on me, honey.”

You’ve never been good at knowing when to quit, it’s never been your strong suit. Now is not an exception, you double down on your brattiness.  

“Don’t tell me to watch my fucking tone, I’m not a child.” You hiss, scowling up at him. He towers over you, all muscle and man. Damn him for being so fucking tall, built like a skyscraper. You damn near have to be on your tiptoes at this point, it’s ridiculous. 

He grasps your chin hard, cheeks smushing up and lips forced into a pout, “Watch it, little girl,” He murmurs lowly, licking his lips, “You can be mad. You can scream and shout and curse until you’re blue in the face. But you don’t get to talk to me like that.”

Those sapphire eyes flashed with a mixture of anger, frustration, and a hint of something else, something that made your insides feel molten and heady.

“I’ve taken a lot of shit for the people I love. I’ve been beaten, tortured, and turned into a fucking weapon. But damn if I’m going to stand here and take your anger when all I’m trying to do is be here for you.” Slowly, deliberately, he leans in closer until his breath is hot against your pursed lips, “I know you’re hurting. I know you’re angry. But I won’t let you push me away, dollface. I won’t let you be self-destructive.” His voice drops to a fervent whisper, “You fucking try me, sweetheart. I’ve dealt with terrorist threats and mad titans. Fuck, I’ve been a terrorist. You think a little thing like you is going to scare me off?”

Bucky’s hand snakes around to the back of your neck. You whirl around, the world spinning, and he pushes you face first into the hardwood. You all but shriek in surprise, eyes comically wide. Your left cheek squished on the cool flooring, shoulders pinned down. Your knees prop your ass up in the air, curving your spine into a sharp arch. He has you right where he wants you, submissively positioned. An offering, your perky backside up in the air invitingly. Your body betrays you, a fucking shiver of pleasure wracking through you. You can feel your cunt leaking eagerly at Bucky’s manhandling. 

You wonder if he realizes the effect this is having on you. All thoughts of Steve and his betrayal fly from your mind as your pussy throbs in time with your rapid heartbeat. Shame and arousal burn your cheeks, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will away your body’s traitorous reaction. 

This is Bucky. This is fucking Bucky. Steve’s best friend, your weird friend-ish acquaintance. You know him because of Steve. This is a bad idea, horrible. You need to put a stop to this immediately before you actually let him have his way with you on the kitchen floor. Because you’re heartbroken, you’re pissed, and you’re far wetter than you’ve been in months. You’re too vulnerable and fucked up, not to mention drunk to make a sound decision right now. And you know, you fucking know if Bucky asked to rail you within an inch of your life… You’d say yes.

So, “Bucky, uh,” You begin to protest meekly, all the fire and spit on your tongue moments ago evaporating.

The hand that is now pressing down in the middle of your back and pinning your sternum to the ground increases in pressure fractionally. A silent warning of the consequences of pushing back even further.

The words die on your tongue, you focus your gaze on a piece of lint by your face and huff. 

But then, slowly, deliberately he brings his hand down on your upturned ass. Delivering a sharp smack that echoes through the room. A surprised shriek of indignation rips from your throat, equal parts horrified and aroused. The stinging pain radiates across your tender flesh, a stark contrast to the coolness of the floor beneath you. “What in the fuck are you doing?” You demand angrily, scowl deepening.

“Keep testing me, honey, and I’ll show you exactly what happens to bratty little girls who don’t listen,” Bucky punctuates his words with another sharp smack to your ass, watching as the flesh and fat jiggle and redden beneath his organic palm.

He drapes his muscular torso across your back, leaning over your bent form. His breath is hot against your ear, his body a heavy, unyielding weight pressing down on you. It’s a comforting contrast from the rough treatment your butt is receiving, like a warm weighted blanket. 

Despite your best efforts to stay quiet, a tiny breathless noise escapes your throat. Halfway between a moan and a squeak, the flush staining your cheeks darkens further. You bite your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, simultaneously mortified and turned on.

Momentarily caught off guard, the super soldier freezes, his vibranium hand resting on the curve of your hip. A look of shock and disbelief crosses his handsome features. He had expected anger, perhaps even more fighting back, but never in a million years did he think you would react so unabashedly with desire.

For a moment, Bucky simply stares down at you, taking in the pretty flush of your cheeks, the way your lips parted around that sinful little noise. His cock, hard and heavy, strains through his jeans and presses into the curve of your ass. That all-consuming hunger that HYDRA tortured out of his system returns with a fucking vengeance. His blood sings in his veins at your little noises and rushes to his dick. 

A low, strangled groan escapes his throat as Bucky tries desperately to grasp at the last vestiges of self-control. His hand digs into the fat of your hip, squeezing and kneading almost unconsciously, “Fuck, honey…” He murmurs, his tone ragged with the overwhelming heat consuming you both, “Are you… are you getting off on this?”

Bucky moves impossibly closer, chapped lips brushing against the shell of your ear, “‘Cause if you are, honey… I’ll fucking wreck you and I won’t be held responsible for it.”

“Shut up,” You whine weakly, your shame and arousal fighting for dominance. Despite your half-hearted protest, you arch your spine deeper. You’re soaked, you know it. Embarrassingly soaked, probably through your fucking sweatpants at this point. Your cunt aches, feeling too empty. Bucky’s dark promise of wrecking you? Fuck if it doesn’t make you clench around nothing, needy and debauched. He’s barely touched you and you’re sure if he so much as brushes past your clit, you’ll cum harder than you ever have in your life.

Bucky’s eyes darken with lust as you arch your back, presenting your ass to him like a cat in heat. A low, approving growl rumbles deep in his throat. The hand on your hip slides back to palm the globe of your ass, sinking into the fatty flesh. You hope it bruises, god you want him to mark you. You want that vibranium arm to rip you into pretty little chunks and remake you into something new. Something Steve’s never touched, never kissed, never held.

“Shut up? Honey, the way you’re acting, you don’t want me to shut up,” He taunts, his voice a deep, seductive murmur.

That rips a pathetic whimper from your throat, eyes fluttering shut, “I’m too drunk for this.”

Bucky hums, “Yeah? You’re a big girl, you know how to say stop.”

You shudder, all but melting beneath him, “I’m too sad for this.”

Smack!

This time Bucky’s metal arm meets your ass cheek, you jolt, gasping. You’re panting openly against the hardwood, eyes screwed shut and blushing like a virgin. The intoxicating mixture of stinging pain and molten pleasure are far more powerful than the whiskey in your belly.

The former Winter Soldier all but rips your sweatpants down, bunching them around your knees. The cool air against your newly exposed skin makes you shudder, a perverse shiver racing down your spine. The rough, calloused pads of Bucky’s fingers dig into the tender flesh of your ass cheek, kneading and squeezing the malleable muscle possessively, “Fuck, baby, look at this ass… you’re fucking perfect,” He groans approvingly, hips rocking forward to grind his clothed erection against you, “Steve was a goddamn fool to ever even look at another woman.”

Without warning, he brings down his palm hard against your bare ass, the sharp crack of skin against skin filling the otherwise silent apartment. The biting ache blossoms across your nerves, quickly followed by a rush of heat and traitorous surge of arousal, “Maybe this is what you need, honey. You need to be manhandled, huh? I gotta slap that bratty attitude of yours outta your ass?” Bucky coos mockingly, dragging his blunt nails down the rapidly reddening skin.

You breathe shallowly, fuck it feels like you’re barely breathing as is. This is a side of Bucky you’d never dreamt of seeing, not even in your wildest dreams. He was always so stoic, quiet. It was like you were friends with a brick wall that used to be a sleeper agent. But this? Domineering, taunting, merciless Bucky? You were fucking drenched.

You hum in agreement, wiggling your ass back, too far gone now. Any sense of decorum or boundaries flies out of your little bird brain. All you know is Bucky’s punishing hand and his rock hard dick pressing against you.

He shifts, maneuvering your wrists to hold them firmly over your head with one large hand. He brings the other down on your backside in a series of sharp, biting slaps. A red handprint blooms across your skin, a brand. The pain gives way to a dizzying liquid heat that has you squirming and whining under him.

“Fuck, listen to you… making all those pretty little noises for me,” He pants, hips grinding slowly against the curve of your butt. Bucky was throbbing in his pants, achingly hard and straining angrily in the confines of his jeans, “Keep making those noises and I’ll bust in my fucking pants, honey.”

You can feel it now, how soaked you are. The cotton gusset of your panties clings to your puffy lips like a second skin. The evidence of your arousal is impossible to miss, the dark spot growing rapidly with each slap and taunting murmur. You rub your thighs together needfully, desperate for some kind of relief. Bucky’s gaze narrows in on your needy display, grinning wolfishly, “Fuck, honey, you’re absolutely soaked through,” His lips brush against your ear as he speaks, rolling his hips teasingly into your backside, “Is this what you need, doll? To be put in your place, spanked until you’re a needy, desperate little thing?”

Holding your wrists firmly above your head, his vibranium hand slides around your hip, fingertips brushing teasingly along the sticky fabric of your underwear. The material clings to your swollen, aching folds. 

“You leaking just for me, honey?” Bucky murmurs, nipping at your ear. He brushes the edge of his nail across the swollen bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. It’s so light that you almost don’t feel it, but you do and you sob in relief at the slightest touch. Your legs tremble, threatening to give out under you.

Bucky continues his maddeningly light caresses, “So fucking wet and ready for me…”

He circles your clit with the pad of his thumb, cool vibranium meeting feverish, swollen flesh. It swells and throbs under his ministrations. His fingers continue their unhurried exploration of your pussy, a single digit circling your entrance. You feel it push in slowly, sinking in one knuckle at a time. Your pussy flutters and clenches around the invading pressure, eager to be filled.

“This is what you needed all along, isn’t it honey? To be touched like this, to have someone take control and make this needy cunt drip?” He slides a second finger knuckle-deep into your dripping hole, pumping them in and out of your clinging heat as his other hand delivers harsh, biting strikes to your backside, “That’s it, honey, fucking take it.”

The thought of Steve’s vanilla, lackluster lovemaking paled in comparison to the passionate, almost feral way Bucky was claiming your body now. And his dick wasn’t even out yet. He could feel every inch of your silken skin trembling and quaking with need, your breathy cries and whimpering music to his ears. The tender, almost gentlemanly approach Steve usually had taken with you had left you wanting, craving something far more intense and fulfilling.

Bucky eases his fingers out and peels your panties from your sticky cunt, shucking the fabric to bunch it around your knees with your sweatpants. He reaches out once more, his calloused palm cupping the warm, plush flesh of your ass. He could feel the heat radiating off your skin, could feel the way your muscles clenched and trembled beneath his touch. His fingers sank into the giving flesh, squeezing. 

“If you don’t fuck me right now, I think I’ll die,” You whisper, needy with shame burning your cheeks. And in that moment, it may as well have been true. To drive the point home, you wriggle your ass back against his groin, a clear invitation.

Bucky groaned, the sound torn from deep in his chest. His cock throbs and jumps at your needy words, desperate to be balls deep in your tight cunt. Faintly, he realizes he should hesitate, take a moment to think this through. But the way you presented yourself so wantonly to him made every logical thought fly out the window. He couldn’t resist, not you, not like this.

His hands flew to his belt, working it open with shaking hands. He quickly shoved his boxers and jeans down his thighs, freeing his aching cock. It sprang up, long, thick, and flushed a deep, angry red. The swollen head was leaking pre-cum, a bead of moisture rolling down the shaft. He wrapped a hand around it, stroking himself a few times, before shifting closer to you. Bucky sweeps the tip of his cock through your folds, from hole to clit, coating himself in your sticky slickness. 

You gape at his dick, eyes wide as you peer over your shoulder. He’s fucking huge, because of course he is. Thick and girthy, this is going to hurt, you realize. And though that should deter you, or at the very least make you anxious, it only makes you wetter.

“Fuck,” You whisper, struggling to form a coherent thought, “You’re fucking huge. That’s… that can’t fit. It’s physically impossible.”

The bastard smirks, rubbing the small of your back, “Oh, it’ll fit, honey. I’ll make sure of that.”

You already feel your inner muscles tensing up, trying to force out something that isn’t even breaching you yet. A high-pitched keening noise rips from your throat as the bulbous tip sinks into your wet heat.

Bucky shudders as he feels your tight little cunt clenching and fluttering around just the swollen head of his cock. Fuck, you were so goddamn small, so fucking tight. He could feel every inch of your silky walls squeezing him, trying to push his thick tip out of your needy hole. It took every ounce of control not to just slam forward and bury himself to the hilt in your scorching heat.

He grit his teeth, his breath coming out in a low growl as he forced himself to hold still, to wait for your okay before he fucked into you. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises, holding you in place as he fought for some semblance of restraint. Where was all that goddamn self-discipline that HYDRA beat into him? His dick was barely inside you and he was already a slave to your nubile body. 

He rocked his hips slightly, just barely, letting you feel the thick, spongy head of his cock kiss your entrance with each shallow thrust. “Tell me to move, honey.” Bucky pants, sounding utterly wrecked, “Let me move.”

All you can offer is a small, pathetic whine in response. 

That’s all the confirmation Bucky needs. He starts to move then, his hips rocking in shallow little thrusts as he eases inch after inch of his monstrous dick inside you. His grip tightens on your hips, digging into the plush flesh of your ass as he keeps you in place for each teasing thrust of his cock.

“God, honey, I’m gonna fuck this needy hole just like you want,” He growls, sweat beading on his forehead from the effort of holding back, “Gonna rub this thick fucking tip all over this slutty pussy until you’re dripping and begging for my cock. Fuck… you’re so goddamn tight. Squeezing my cock so fucking hard.”

“W-we shouldn’t be doing this,” You gasp, screwing your eyes shut against the onslaught of sensations. You’re already feeling overstimulated, too warm and too full. Part of you screams to crawl away from the excruciating sensation of being impaled on such a thick cock. You try your best to breathe through it, willing your body to relax. Your cunt weeps, rivulets of slick dripping down and around Bucky’s dick. You feel the little droplets running down your thighs, mixing with your sweat.

Bucky hisses through clenched teeth as he feels your arousal dripping obscenely down his length, your thighs trembling. He loops an arm around your hips, holding you up as he watches the way his dick is swallowed up by your tight hole. He could see you struggling, hear the conflict in your whimper, the way you whispered this was wrong even as your body screamed for his touch. He knew he should listen to the voice in both your heads telling him to stop, to pull away before they crossed a line from which there could be no return… but fuck, he was so goddamn close to the edge already.

His hips rocked faster, fucking his cock in and out of your clutching heat with rough, rapid thrusts. A wet, obscene symphony of squelching and skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with his labored breathing and low, strained grunts of pleasure.

“We… fuck.. We shouldn’t…” He repeated your words dumbly, but even as he said it, his cock kept moving. You could feel the tip kissing your cervix with each throbbing, leaking thrust. “But fuck, honey, you feel too good… too goddamn good. We can’t stop now,” Bucky leans forward, pressing his chest against your back, his lips brushing down the side of your neck, “Fuck, gonna make this pretty cunt mine. Fill it up real good, honey.”

“Oh, god,” You gasp, a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you at his words. Your toes curl, fingernails scraping across the floor, “I want that, please. Wreck me.”

The desperate, pleading tone of your voice shatters the remnants of Bucky’s already frayed control. His eyes roll back at your words, groaning. He feels your velvet walls clench and ripple around his throbbing dick, grasping him like a hot fist. Without warning, his hand slides from your hip to your dripping sex, rough fingers finding your swollen, aching clit.

He teases the sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing tight circles around it with the pad of his thumb as he fucks into you hard and fast. His hips rock faster in tandem with the finger on your clit, each thrust pushing a gush of your juices around his cock and down your thighs. 

You feel like you’re on fire, every nerve alight and singing Bucky’s name. You bite down on your fist, attempting to hold back the shrieks of pleasure bubbling up in your chest, “Right there, god, please!” You squeal, trembling with the burning need to cum, “God, don’t stop. Please don’t fucking stop, right there.”

Your whiny, wanton moans bring Bucky’s climax hurtling at him like a freight train. He ducks his head down, sinking his teeth into the meat of your shoulder and shudders. The feeling of your slick little cunt gripping his dick was maddening, and the needy, desperate sounds spilling from your lips were pushing him closer to the edge, “Fuck, honey. Just like that, keep screaming for me. Gonna blow my load in this hot little cunt.”

You whine in response, Bucky’s rough treatment of your clit sending you careening over the edge. Your cunt clamps down violently, slick release gushing out of your hole. Lips parting in a silent scream, you shudder, shattering beneath him. Bucky lets out a guttural moan, his voice raw with pleasure as you cum hard on his cock. A puddle of sticky wetness forms between your legs on the floor, dripping down the fat of your thighs. Bucky can feel his own orgasm building fast and hard, his shaft throbbing and pulsing as he caresses your clit through your aftershocks.

“Yes, fuck! That’s it, honey. Soak me, pretty girl, gonna- fuck!” He grunts, his hips slamming forward and burying his thick cock to the hilt in your spasming pussy with one hard thrust. He groans long and low as your sex milks him for all he’s worth, his hot seed flooding your insides.

Bucky shudders, hips jerking as he empties his heavy balls inside you, thick ropes of pearlescent cum coating your fluttering walls. He presses his hips tight to your ass, grinding against you. That’s enough for your legs to quit on you. His eyes widen as your legs tremble and then give out, your body going boneless and pliant in his arms. He tightens his grip on your hips, hauling you back up onto your knees. Bucky’s heart races, a wild bird in his ribcage, as he struggles to catch his breath in the aftermath of his intense orgasm.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he eases his softening cock out of your well-used hole. A river of his thick cum oozes out after him, dripping down your inner thighs, joining the puddle of slick on the floor. Bucky can’t help but feel satisfaction at how fucked-out you look, sporting his bite mark on your shoulder. His hands slide around to cup the soft swell of your belly, his palms splayed across the gentle curve. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way it flushed and erupted in little goosebumps from his touch. His gaze heavy-lidded, dark with lingering lust as he murmurs in your ear, “We can’t do this again, right honey?”

[anony-mouse-writer]

grian as the strange man who appears suddenly on gem’s dock with no explanation. no one knows who he is.

no one saw him arrive and he has no car.

he’s never bought anything from the store, and a few locals said they saw him simply cooking and eating the fish he catches on the spot.

the only belongings he seems to own are his fishing gear.

when asked where he lives, he points to the cliff. there is a tiny blue house there, balancing precariously on wooden stilts. the house has never been there and no one’s seen it before, but the local gas attendant pulled up a 40 year old photo of her grandma on the beach, and sure enough, the tiny house is there, a wee speck of color hanging like a barnacle on the cold, wet bluff.

the age of his mysterious little home aside, no one’s sure when he visits it. he’s at his little dock before the earliest ships cast out, and the sickly glow of his lantern can be seen long into the coldest of nights.

the man has pulled the strangest things from the ocean. fish, to be sure, but other, stranger things. lily pads, far from their native biomes. fishing poles, tattered and worn, of various makes and styles- some look positively ancient. boots. giant shells with twisted patterns to match no living thing. a genuine horse saddle once. bowls. a bone that looked just a bit like a human femur.

and books. perfect, unblemished books, nearly glowing with some kind of energy and filled with a script both unfamiliar and unsettling to see.

he opens them each with a breathless anticipation that tastes like brine or maybe tears.

but whatever he sees in them is not what he wants, and each book is tossed aside with resigned disgust and something like despair, before the weathered pole is taken up to cast a line to sea once more.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Hot Daddy

Prompt Day 23: Hot Chocolate | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Mild Use of "Daddy" | Tags: AU, Meet Cute, Single Dad Steve, Platonic Stobin

"Hot chocolate?" 

Eddie's startled from his thoughts, looking to see where the unexpected question came from. He wasn't paying attention to his surroundings, off in his own world, as Wayne would say. Well, he says that, and that Eddie's lucky he doesn't accidentally walk into traffic.

Which, true. It has happened a time or two. But what Wayne doesn't know won't hurt him.

Locating the voice that had spoken is interesting, because Eddie was not expecting to look down, or expecting a hot man next to a table full of little girls clearing running a fundraiser. There's a little girl looking up at him expectantly, and she must have been the one that asked.

Hot guy's hand is resting on her shoulder protectively, and she must be his daughter, since she's his little doppelganger.

The guy is eyeing him, and Eddie knows he looks scarier than he actually is, so he smiles, trying to look less intimidating. At least the girl isn't scared of him, it seems. Not his tattoos, not his piercings, not his heavy leather and attitude.

"Hi, sir!" She says, all chipper, like it isn't freezing cold, "We're selling hot chocolate and cookies to help pay for camp."

It's a script, and a little stilted, but she's got the spirit, that's for sure. And he hasn't been called sir in, well, ever, maybe.

"Of course," he says, and shifts his duffle bag to his other arm so he can reach for his wallet.

The little handwritten sign has their pricing, which he is certain is too low, and he fishes out a ten dollar bill, handing it over.

"Keep the change," he says, and the girls squeal and jump up and down. 

The man finally grins, like Eddie's won him over, just a little. 

Suddenly, there's several girls wanting to be involved in the translation, handing him a sack of cookies, napkins, as hot dad pours hot chocolate out of a stainless steel dispenser.

"Marshmallows?" he asks, and Eddie grins.

"You know it."

He shakes some into Eddie's cup, then a few more as he meets Eddie's eyes and winks, then hands it over.

"Thank you," Eddie says, and he could look into those golden eyes all day. He'd love to see them in the daylight. He bets they are so warm.

"Thanks for supporting the cause," the pretty-eyed hot dad says, and Eddie takes one more long look at him before walking away.

It's good hot chocolate and great cookies. He's impressed. 

The table isn't there the next night, or the few after, and Eddie feels a little bummed out that he missed his opportunity to flirt a little, feel him out.

He wasn't wearing a ring.

Eddie's certain of that. He looked. He also knows no ring isn't the end all and be all, some people just don't wear them, but no ring means that he might have had a chance. And a chance is all he needs.

So, he was hoping they'd be back now that it is the weekend again, but no luck.

"Why so mopey?" Robin asks, and Eddie turns to look at her. 

"I saw a guy on the sidewalk, and I hoped he'd be back on the street corner tonight–"

"Eddie!"

"–but maybe it was just a weekend thing?" Eddie ponders.

"Eddie, are you trying to hire a prostitute?" she asks, eyes huge.

"What? No!" He throws back his head and laughs, "He was a perfectly respectable man! With a little girl!" 

She raises an eyebrow.

"His daughter!"

Eddie's just digging a deeper and deeper hole as she laughs at him.

"I'm not following," she says, leaning on the counter of the music store. She started about two months ago, and so far, he likes her.

"There was a booth of kids doing a fundraiser. The dad that was supervising was hot."

She laughs at him, but it doesn't seem mean. Then her face changes, "When was this? What'd he look like?"

"Last Friday. Good hair. My height? I don't know. A real pretty dude."

"Swoopy hair?" she asks.

"What's swoopy hair?" he asks, and she makes a motion with her hands, and well, maybe?

"Yeah, maybe," he says, as if the image of this guy hasn't been burned into his retinas.

Then, he really hears what she's been asking:

"Robin. Robin Buckley. Do you know hot daddy?"

"Ew, no. Never say that to me again."

"Sorry," he mutters, feeling chided. 

"Steve–" she starts, and he really, really doesn't want to hear about her Bobbsey Twin of a best friend Steve right now. He feels like he knows more about Steve than he knows about Robin, which is crazy for someone he's never met.

"Robin. No more Steve stories," he says, resting his forehead against the counter, banging it slightly.

Steve's a teacher. Steve's a coach. Steve played sports in college. Steve could have gone pro. Steve's a single dad. Steve's the best.

Steve, Steve, Steve.

He doesn't have the brainpower to deal with the Legend of Steve right now.

"Eddie–"

"Robin!" he interrupts. 

"Fine. Don't let me talk," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. 

And it's finally, blissfully, silent. At least for a few minutes.

Eddie's behind the counter when the bell over the door jingles. He looks up, and – hot daddy.

Robin elbows him in the ribs, "I told you never to say that again!"

"I didn't know I did!" he yelps.

She laughs, "Steve, this is Eddie. Eddie, this is Steve."

"You're Steve?" Eddie asks, and he knows his cheeks are red.

"The one and only," Steve says, and Eddie really wishes he'd paid better attention when Robin talked about him now. If wishes were horses, indeed.

Steve's holding two to-go cups, and leans up against the counter, handing one over to Eddie, not Robin. 

Eddie takes it, dumbly. It's hot chocolate, and Eddie looks down at it:

555-0083 Call me Hot Daddy

Steve winks, and turns and walks back out.

Eddie's gonna kill Robin.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun! ☕

Notes: Punctuation is important, Steve. Should Eddie call you on the phone - or call you hot daddy. Decisions, decisions. Why not both? 🤣

[cranberryberry]

omg

Tripod fish (Bathypterois grallator) - Schmidt Ocean Institute

[bamboozledbird]

oᥒᥴᥱ ι'm ყoᥙrs ι'm ᥲᥣᥕᥲყs ყoᥙrs //stiles stilinski imagine characters: stiles stilinski, fem!reader, mentioned malia tate pairing(s): stiles x you word count: 4k tags: exes to ???, hurt some comfort, set in s5 warnings: some light emotional cheating, i think that's it, sad boy hours, *pats stiles’s head* this boy can fit so much trauma in here

a/n: long time no see. i've missed you my babies, and thank you so much for all the love while i was gone. i'm back with my usual overdose of angst and em dashes. i can't help it; i have a sickness. also, the timing of when stiles and malia got together is a little fudged, so they probably started dating in 4b.

It’s an icy slice of fear that wakes you up. A white flash of ‘fight or flight’ behind your sleep-sticky lids. A rattling that doesn’t belong to the pitter-patter of sleet or the whiplash of wind against your bedroom window. You sit up on your forearm, peek out from behind your fleece blanket, and pray until you’re nauseous that there isn’t a pair of glowing eyes waiting for you on the other side of the glass. 

The sleet leaves angry rivulets in the dirt-smudged panes. Sad little lines of streaming water, flooding in time with the choppy squall—you can’t help but think it looks like weeping.

A soft sigh falls from your mouth and stirs the stilted air in the room: No skulking eyes…but a foreboding sense of unease still looms above your head like the plumes of steely clouds outside your window. They swallow every trace of starlight and shift every so often in your peripheral vision, almost like they’re alive.  

The rattling sounds again, soft but deafening in the darkness. It’s a familiar sound, someone scrambling on the loose tiling of your roof, but a forgotten one. It's strange, sweet-sharp, and out of place in your current reality.

A noise that shouldn’t exist outside of a memory. 

Stiles spills into your room and lands on his knees, dripping water onto the hardwood floor. His hair is plastered to his forehead from the storm outside, and the dark clouds are a mocking reflection of the look on his face. 

The moon has eclipsed all the sunlight in his eyes, and it feels so, so cold.

For a moment, you think you’re dreaming, or maybe you’re still stuck in that luminescent oil slick spill between sleep and consciousness. Stiles looks like something from a dream—from a nightmare. He’s a boy, but he isn’t. He’s there, but he isn’t. He’s lost to something you can’t see, swept up in the storm and turned into something else.

The glow of your phone illuminates the pinch of your brow, the squint of your bleary eyes. 3:27 am. Stiles used to sneak in through your window a couple times a week, even during the day, just to avoid the parental inquisition. He still does sometimes, rarely, only when Beacon Hills is on the verge of collapsing—and it always seems to be 3 in the morning. 

He only ever needs you at 3 in the morning now. 

It makes you feel a little sick, the reminder that the only string tying you together now is barbed wire.  

You sit up in your bed and wait for Stiles to say something—to move—but he doesn’t. He just sits there, soaked to the bone on his knees, and stares at something beyond the shifting shadows on your bedroom walls. 

“Stiles?” 

Stiles doesn’t reply. Doesn’t even make a sound. 

You crawl out of your bed and sit down on the floor next to him, draping a woven blanket over his shoulders. It almost matches his flannel, blue and checkered. It’s a little thing that would’ve made you smile before, mostly because Stiles would get this warm look in his eyes when you did: so fond it felt like worship. 

It’s fall. The air smells like apples and earth. You watch the shadows of little fish swim in jagged circles through murky lake water. Stiles is a warm presence against your side. 

He buries his nose in your hair and hums, “You like the pieces.”

A fish breaks from the group and bubbles near the surface. Its silver scales gleam in the setting sun: a piece of a fractured landscape, a detail that steals all the color in your peripheral vision. 

You watch the fish swirl for a moment, almost like it’s dancing, and then shrug with a little grin. “I guess.”

You feel Stiles smile against your temple.

“Me too.”

Now, the only color your retinas can detect is black. 

Stiles’s pupils swallow his face, and they stick to everything like tar. Seep into the room and stain the moonlight until the blue haze over his skin looks more sickly than luminous. He looks alarmingly corpse-like, so still on your floor, slimy from the storm keening outside—hollowed out from the storm rotting inside. 

You sigh after a moment; a soft little sound to break the surface of strained silence coating the room. “Come on.”

It doesn’t take much prodding. Stiles bends to your guiding hands mindlessly and sits down on the edge of your bed without so much as a grunt. Pliant and robotic in the same breath. Ever the paradox, your boy is.

Though. 

He’s not, really. Yours, that is. 

Not anymore. 

Not for a long time. 

“Everything’s so fucked up.” 

Stiles is quiet, but his whisper still startles you. His voice is raw—and maybe, you’d really convinced yourself that he was dead. It feels like he is sometimes. At least, a version of him. Stiles, in the mole-speckled flesh, he’s a ghost of the boy you knew, a killer of the figment boy you never lost. A paradox. So difficult to read. Impossible to hold on to. 

Stiles doesn’t notice that you’ve gone silent, but he doesn’t really seem to notice anything beyond the wet film over his eyes. 

“I don’t…I don’t see a way out this time. I don’t know…” he scrubs a hand over his face and looks infinitely older than eighteen, “I don’t think I can fix it—any of it.”

You’re reminded, briefly, of the night he broke up with you. When you looked up, saw the look on his face, and you knew. You have the same sick feeling in your stomach now, and you want to crawl inside yourself until the flip-flopping of your intestines stops—to wring them into little knots until there’s nothing left. 

Stiles looks like he feels about the same, so small on your bed for such a lanky man. 

“What?” You pull your knees to your chest and hold onto your shins so that you don’t reach for him. “The Nemeton? We’ll find it again…eventually, and—”

“No,” Stiles grits his teeth and closes his eyes, “I mean, yes, but it’s…everything. Everything’s falling apart.” 

“Not everything. You’ve always got—”

“Not anymore.” Stiles gets that dead-inside look behind his eyes again, and your stomach turns. “You and me…and Scott—”

Your sheets whisper against your legs as you shift towards him. “Scott?”

You’ve seen Stiles wear pretty much every expression under the sun—backlit by shitty diner lights, laughing; tangled up in navy sheets, panting; drenched in sweat, sobbing—but god. The way Stiles looks now, like his soul has been bleached from his bones, drained from his eyes with a power drill, it’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen. Worse than the when the Nogitsune stole his face, because it’s Stiles. Whatever this skeleton on strings is, it’s him.  

“I fucked up.” Stiles whispers so softly you can barely hear him over the cracks in his voice, “I fucked up so bad.”

It takes you a second to realize that he’s talking about Scott. Dumb, considering you asked, but you’ve imagined him saying that to you so many times it almost feels like a memory—like he’s talking about you. 

You clear your throat and pull at a loose string on your blanket until it snaps. “He’ll get over it. He always does.”

Stiles just shakes his head, keeps his eyes trained on his muddy sneakers. “Not this time.”

Your fingers twitch with the impulse to grab his hand. “What happened, Stiles?”

“I…” Stiles rubs his hand over his mouth, trying to wipe away the taste of his thoughts. He swallows and then stands, tugging a little on his wet hair until it sticks up in random tufts—it would be cute under any other circumstances, if Stiles didn’t have a disturbingly manic look in his eyes and a desperate tumble of words flooding from his split lip. “The ends justify the means was just a thought experiment, right? Machiavelli was an academic, not a soldier—you know what kind of people actually practice Machiavellianism? Stalin, Mao—Peter ‘fuckin’ killed my own niece’ Hale.”

Your brow scrunches as you try to find the invisible path connecting all his seemingly disjointed thoughts. “Stiles—”

“And I know I rag on Scott all the time for being too soft,” Stiles sneakers squeak against the floor as he continues pacing, without a breath or so much as a glance in your direction. He might as well be pontificating to the darkness. “I mean, fuck, how many times have I said it’d be easier if we just killed the psycho? A dozen? Definitely enough for one of those stupid fuckin’ ‘take a shot’ memes.”

Stiles stops abruptly mid-step and finally looks at you, really looks at you, for the first time tonight. His Bambi eyes look so big right now, completely open and boundless on his sweet face, like the child he hasn’t been since sophomore year. “I didn’t…I don’t really mean it, you know. I don’t actually want...” 

His voice is so small it breaks your heart.  

“I know,” you say softly, coaxing him to stay here with you, in the moment.

Stiles blinks at you slowly and hangs his gaze on your face like it’s the moon. “I know it would kill him…feeling like this.” He spits it out like ‘this’ is something vile, poison on his tongue.  

Your stomach sinks, and a prickling sensation of hot-cold settles through your sinew. You lick your drying lower lip and methodically rub your clammy palms up and down your thighs. “Feeling like what?”

Stiles’s momentary dip into the present fades with the next blink of his clumped lashes. 

He starts pacing again, bending and flexing his fingers with twitching gestures that clarify little and worry you greatly. “I get it, totally support it as a concept. I mean, the greater good outweighs a scumbag or two—conceptually, because how do you really define scumbag? And that’s if you use a qualifier; real consequentialists think it’s totally fine to kill whoever the fuck you want as long as it’s in the name of a good outcome.” 

You blink a few times and drag your tongue over your teeth, “Right…killing innocent people: bad. That’s the general consensus.”

Stiles’s eyes dart back to your face. “What if they aren’t?”

“Aren’t what?” 

Maybe, if it weren’t almost four in the morning, you’d be able to follow his tangential breakdown. Maybe, if you hadn’t become dependent on his quiet sleep-babbling to fall asleep at night, if he hadn’t become the only thing capable of bleaching the nightmares from your eyelids, your temples wouldn’t be throbbing so violently. But it is almost 4 am, and you haven’t fallen asleep next to Stiles in over a year—no matter how right he looks when he sits down next to you on your bed.

Stiles’s throat bobs with his swallow before he says, “What if they aren’t innocent?”

“Stiles,” you grab one of his hands and search his face, scan every solemn line and curve for some semblance of meaning, “what’s going on?”

Stiles chews on his bottom lip and lets out a ragged breath, going stiff—bracing himself for the fallout. His voice is thick with fear when he finally whispers, “What if they were going to hurt someone you cared about?”

You let out a heavy sigh and study his expression, eyes flickering across the unrelenting question written in his pinched forehead and glassy eyes. “Do the ends justify the means?” 

Stiles nods and bites down on his jagged thumbnail, “Yeah.”

You hold Stiles’s gaze so that he can see your eyes, so earnest they almost look pained, and nod, slow and definitive. “Yeah.”

It takes a second, but when his body catches up with his brain, Stiles collapses in on himself. Turns into a ragdoll of relief and wet clothes, and drops his head into his shaking hands. 

“F-fuck,” Stiles exhales and wipes his face dry with cruel scrubs of his hands. “Sorry—I just…” he digs his thumbs into his temples and trembles, “I’m losing my fucking mind, and I didn’t know where else to go.” He glances up from his hands, looks so devastatingly lovely as he peers up at you through his wet lashes it hurts, and murmurs, “There wasn’t anywhere else…anyone else. Nobody…” 

Stiles shakes his head slightly and clears his throat, but his words are still syrupy with so much meaning when he says, “I don’t really feel like I’m…me anywhere else.” He pauses again, and you forget how to breathe when his gaze refocuses on your eyes. His tongue flicks over his split lip, and then he whispers, “I’m not me unless I’m with you.”

This boy. This boy. He can wreck you without even trying. 

You have to reorient yourself before you get stuck on the drizzle of honey in Stiles’s eyes. They’ve always been so…alive. There’s an entire ecosystem in his irises, savanna grass swaying under the glow of sunset. A blackhole in his pupils, bending and distorting your every thought to Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.  Stop. Breathe. Count your fingers. 

Your arms are around your shins, the air is cold, and Stiles has someone who isn't you.

You still wake up with the taste of him sticking to your teeth, sweet honey and sharp cloves, but it’s never enough. Lately, it lingers like a cavity.  

You spent so long thinking you weren’t supposed to be friends, and you weren’t. You were supposed to be together—now you don’t know what you’re supposed to be. How can you belong to a memory?

What does Stiles think when he looks at you now? Does a thought even come? 

Does he ache for who you were that Friday at the lake? Does he still love that girl in his arms–orange and warm under the setting sun, blissfully unaware of the end? 

Oh, he does.

Stiles aches for you, thinks of you, constantly. He meant what he said; he only feels solid when it's just you, him, and the shiny little bubble that keeps out the rest of the world. He doesn’t feel…real when he’s around other people, pretending like everything’s fine. Like he hasn’t lost every shiny piece of the life he had before his mind was stolen. 

That’s how it is for Stiles now; there’s before, and then there’s after. He can feel the schism widening with every single fucked up thing he does. Lately, it feels like that’s the only thing he does: completely and catastrophically fuck up. 

The thing is, when they finally got him—it—out, Stiles thought that would be it. Happily ever after. Evil expunged. Demon defeated. End-stop. No page turn. Cheers to the Nemeton. Stiles learned, very quickly, that you can’t purge darkness. It always leaves a mark. 

The days after…everything, Stiles discovered that rotting was a real human emotion. He still can’t believe people don’t smell it on him. The remnants of Stiles haven’t stopped putrefying in the Nogistune’s absence, and he just knows, somehow, that something this malignantly alive is contagious. He didn’t want to ruin you—doesn’t, Stiles corrects himself before he can finish the thought—doesn’t want to contaminate something so good with something so sick. 

Or maybe…maybe it was because Stiles knew that you’d see it. You’d see it, and you’d leave. 

The only clean thing he has is memories. He can’t stain the past. The figment girl in his mind can’t hurt. Can’t die. Can’t run. Stiles keeps you there—or, at least, some version of you, a you he can keep underneath the shelter of his ribcage, where you can watch the sunset turn fish scales into topaz in his maroon jacket, happy, forever.

Stiles can’t really remember the last time he saw you, the real version of you, happy. You must have laughed without him at some point, but he can’t think of anything other than when you were with him. Well, that, and the end. Stiles remembers the end with painful clarity. 

You were at a lake. The lake. Somehow, it only occurs to Stiles now how shitty that must’ve been for you. Anyway, you just sat there for a while, and he just listened to the silence wash over the world like a flood until the sun reached its peak. He remembers thinking: Holy fuck, this is what they meant. All those stupid songs and poems. This is what it means to break. Stiles couldn’t stand the way you kept your eyes closed, like you were afraid of seeing the inevitable car crash. If I kiss her, he’d thought, everything will be okay. If I kiss her, she’ll forgive me. 

Stiles didn’t kiss you. He just said, “I’m sorry,” and the words hung heavily over your heads. In the harrowing quiet, Stiles thought: I never realized cordial could sound so much like cowardly. 

“What are you doing here, Stiles? What is this?” 

Your voice drags Stiles from the gutters of his mind, and feels a fresh wave of shame when he hears how tired you sound. What is he doing here? Stiles knew it was a mistake before he even started his Jeep, but the flicker of doubt in Scott’s eyes drowned out his best intentions. 

“I just…” Stiles swallows, and his hand moves to scratch at his wounded shoulder reflexively. He…he just needed to be with the only person on the face of this planet that still knew him—who would get it.

You get tired of waiting, and when you speak again, Stiles feels about two inches tall. 

“You should be with her.” You say it nicely enough. Polite. No venom to fill the awkward hollowness. Cordial. 

Fuck. Stiles fucking hates cordial. He kind of wishes you would yell at him. At least, then, he’d know that you still cared. 

Stiles clasps his hands together between his thighs and leans his weight onto his elbows. He probably should be with Malia. No. He definitely should, but he’s not. And right now, like this, he doesn’t want to be. 

“She’s not good at…” Stiles clears his throat and sits up a little, “she tries, but she just…can’t.”

It’s not even her fault, and that’s probably the worst part about it. He doesn’t want to be another bad thing that’s happened to Malia Tate, but bad things just seem to be his specialty lately. 

“You know why you like her, right?” you say softly, not unkindly, but Stiles thinks he isn’t going to like the answer—mostly, because he’s sure it’s true. 

“No.” Stiles pauses and draws a circle on his knee with his pointer finger, “Well, I mean, yeah. Didn’t know you put so much thought into it.”

You don’t bother to dignify such a blatant lie with a direct response. That’s fair, Stiles thinks, and tries not to shrink in on himself.

Instead, you lift your shoulder like it’s made of marble and murmur, “She needs you.”

It’s innocuous enough—sweet, even, under different circumstances—but Stiles feels it like a blade. He clears his throat; it doesn’t help the dryness. He manages to arch a brow as he pushes out a raspy little, “So?”

The corner of your mouth lifts into a small smile; Stiles can still see it quiver. “You’re a control freak,” you bump his knee with your own, and it’s the first place on his body Stiles can actually feel, “and you and I both know she’s never going to be the one to end it.”

That was just like you; even your jokes are wrapped up inside an argument. It always left him frozen in a maddening power struggle between quipping something snarky and kissing you. No one else has ever managed to keep him on the ropes like you, and maybe that’s why no one after has managed to keep his, admittedly, short-attention span for long. After all, Stiles has always liked his sweetness with a little bite. 

Of course, now there’s no sweetness between the two of you. It’s all uncomfortable silences and unspoken thoughts that leave his teeth aching for something more

Stiles’s jaw goes tight as he brings his lips to his knuckles, feeling a bit like bearing down on the bone. “That’s what you think happened?” He glances at you, eyes a little haunted, “I couldn’t control you, so I ended it?”

You tilt your head to the side, so sympathetic it makes Stiles a little nauseous, and murmur, “I think you realized that I didn’t need you; I think it scared the hell out of you.” You say it so softly, carefully—and it impales him in the heart, right through the fucking center. 

It would be one thing if you were angry; people say stupid shit they don’t actually mean when they’re angry all the time—but this? You look like you mean it. You look like you mean it, and you’re saying it for his own good. The look on your face, it looks a whole lot like the truth 

And.

Maybe it is. 

It’s not like you’re wrong. Stiles remembers thinking it, more than once. He remembers more than a few mornings where he woke up to the sound of your breathing, your warm breath washing over his neck, and he thought he’d probably die if you ever stopped. It felt like an epiphany every time, the reminder that without you his world would be irreparably changed. 

Dark. Without you, Stiles’s world would go dark. 

Maybe, the Nogistune was just an excuse. Maybe, Stiles had been leapfrogging over his heart since the moment you met. Avoiding the future. Wrapping the present around your body and constantly thinking: I can’t believe it's not over yet. 

Yet. Yet. Yet. 

Maybe, Stiles thought about it so much he tempted fate. Maybe, that’s why the Nogistune chose him. Maybe, he should stop scapegoating the devil. He did end up with Malia after all. 

It’s different with her. Not bad necessarily, just different. He takes care of her, and he’s good at that. Making the plan. Having the answers. 

Being in control. 

With you…that was different. 

Stiles is a cynic at heart, but when he looked at—looks at—you, he felt less lonely. When he was with you, he kind of got why his dad used to always show up to work 15 minutes late because he got distracted by the way his mom made coffee. The simple domesticity, the comfort of a morning routine for the rest of his life, the concept of tried and true blue love: Stiles got it all when he saw you.  

You saw his happiness, and you gave it back to him. Every single time. That kind of love…it’s become abundantly clear to Stiles that kind of love is hard to find. Like maybe, once in a lifetime hard to find. 

Stiles swallows hard and shakes his head. “Whatever it was that I was afraid of,” his voice drops to a whisper, “this is so much worse.”

You’re still the only person he can really cry in front of. Stiles is reminded of that when his eyes burn and something wet drips onto his lips. He sniffles quietly, feeling so incredibly small when he realizes the sound is coming from him. 

Stiles can’t look up from his shoes—won’t—and then you speak. You’re so quiet he almost misses it. 

“Life’s a lot better when you’re in it.”

The corners of Stiles’s mouth twitch into a small smile. The first one in about a week. Feels like much, much longer. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

[noras-dc-shenanigans]

Adoption | Learn

“So let me get this straight.”

Danny stared at the group of vigilantes in front of him, a look of utter disbelief etched onto his face.

“Batman had a baby with Catwoman, she hid it from him, gave the baby up for adoption, and that baby is me. And you’re all here because Batman’s other ex also had a hidden pregnancy, but she’s a homicidal maniac who wants to make sure her son is the only blood child because of some weird cult rules?”

If they’d been in a cartoon, there’s be crickets chirping. He continued, voice growing less disbelieving and more angry as he went.

“And because some cult wants to kill me, I have to give up my whole life, cut off all contact with my family and friends, go live in a state 900 miles away, and stay cooped up— for an unknown amount of time— in Bruce Wayne’s mansion, because that’s who Batman really is.”

A stilted silence filled the room of the safe house Danny had been dragged to a few hours ago, sans the unnecessarily long explanation he’d just summarized.

After a few more moments, Nightwing stepped forward and smiled gently at him an oh, that rankled Danny. He did not need whatever kid gloves the guy was about to pull on. Before Bluebell had a chance to open his mouth, Danny channeled his inner Jazz and raised his hand for silence. Nightwing paused, and Danny proceeded to give them all a single, flat, unimpressed look, and then stated factually,

“I’m not leaving, I’m not staying with yet another frootloop billionaire, and I’m not in the least concerned with dying. So. You can all go back to where you belong, I’ll stay here, where I belong, and if any cultist come knocking I’ll deal with them just like I’ve been dealing with every other threat in this town the last six months: alone. Because apparently the entire Justice League is too busy to respond to calls for help about inter-dimensional threats popping in and out of my parents basement on a daily basis.”

… Okay, so Danny may have been yelling a bit by the end, but it was justified! And oh, Danny really wished his life was a cartoon right now, because that cricket chirping would be been perfect. He’s pretty sure he broke a few of them. Nightwing looked ready to cry.

Good. Danny was too tired to deal with this sh*t.

Thanks to the whole Pariah Dark thing last month, Danny was apparently immortal now anyways, so even if the cult people managed to completely destroy his body, he’d just reform in the Zone. Because he was now connected to it, and only another ghost could End him like he had Pariah, because of some weird dimensional rules. Apparently, since humans couldn’t rule the Infinite Realms, they just, like… didn’t qualify to kill him. That went for aliens, demons, gods, and other non-human beings of sentience.

So Danny’s got that going for him at least. About time something useful came outta this whole disaster of a school year.

But he’d gotten off track. Before him stood a truly ridiculous number of vigilantes, and they all looked like he’d just slapped them with a fish and then played violin with it. For a few minutes, Danny just basked in the stuttering and bewildered looks, before he noticed Nightwing drawing himself up in righteous determination and decided that yeah, he was done now.

At this point, being a dramatic a**hole to people (or ghosts) who were annoying him was just second nature, so he straightened to attention, raised his hand in a salute, and then let himself sink through the floor, perfectly stoic.

The stuttering turned to panicked shouts, and Danny’s last view of his apparent siblings was a few people lunging for him and missing, winding up tangled together on the carpet.

‘Ahhhh, yesss, I will treasure that memory always! Ah well, time to get home! Maybe I should scout out for those cult people, mess around with them. Maybe follow them back sometime, meet my half-brother. That could be fun, me and Ellie can make a road trip of it this summer! Maybe by then, the Justice Losers will have gotten their heads out as their butts.’

Meanwhile, back at the safe house, several frantic calls were being made about the dimensional threats and the League of Assassins and the possibly meta human, definitely vigilante brother.

Amity Park was about to get a lot more chaotic.

[loud-mouth-loser]

not him - 2

summary: marc has had his eye on you for a while now. he's seen your interactions with steven and has held himself back from taking you for himself, but what happens after he finally makes a move?

pairing: marc spector x reader

rating: more angst

cw: pining (really intense pining), jealousy, miscommunication, mentions of past kiss.

wc: 2.7k

part one

[author's note is at the end of the chapter to avoid chapter spoilers!]

---

Marc’s POV

It’s your laugh, that soothing, sweet sound – so inviting that he wants it to soak right into his skin. When he hears it, he holds it close to him, making sure he doesn’t miss a single note. Letting it replay in his head until the next time he sees you. 

Marc has never considered himself a funny guy – or hadn’t for a while. He never had a reason to joke around, a reason to smile or laugh, but then there was you.

So now he tries his best to incite that laughter, if only for a mere taste of your sweetness.

He’s equally addicted to that view. The sight of soft lips parting into a bright smile, your shoulders shaking with each stilted breath, your eyes glistening with unerupted joy; a bliss that he’s craved to know since the day his brother passed. And it’s genuine. 

Everything about you is genuine. 

Then, when you come down from the laughter, you look up at him with a ghost of a giggle still thrumming in the air, still tugging at the corner of your mouth. He can’t help but stare back, wishing this moment could last forever. 

It’s just you and him, nursing sweating bottles of beer on his ratty old couch, the TV running quietly in the background as you unconsciously lean closer as the night progresses. He plunges into that gaze wrapped in innocent moments and admiration, a look that whispers unspoken sentiments and unattainable promises. 

You are looking at him, yes, but you also see him. 

He feels it wrap around him, a warmth that reminds him he’s worth being around, that you want to be there with him. It sparks a revelation within himself that if he could make you laugh, or even look at him the way you do, maybe…being him is ok. 

And maybe he wants to stay.   

But then there’s that smile – no, not your usual amused grin or the bashful one he attempts to lure out whenever he gains enough confidence to tell you how pretty you look – the cherry-red lie that’s specially curated for Steven. 

It’s a mask you use to preserve your friendship, to convince the oblivious man that you’re happy for him even when your side of the bond is crumbling, struggling to stand up straight. 

The first time Marc saw that smile was from the reflection in his apartment. 

He usually doesn’t stir or interfere while Steven is fronting, unless there’s an emergency of course, but there was a pang of energy that woke him up. And now he’s wondering if it was you. 

He watched broodily from the fish tank; jaw clenched tight as Steven sat in front of you holding your hands in his. He knows he shouldn’t be jealous, but he can’t help the ire burning low in his chest as he watches you position yourself closer to Steven, eager to hear what he has to say. 

Marc’s eyes drift from your hopeful face to your joined hands. 

He wonders how that feels: to hold your smaller hands in his, to squeeze them just so as to remind him that you’re real and there with him, to feel you squeeze back and run the soft pads of your fingers over his callouses. 

Your softness smoothing over his jagged ends. 

You like it – the touch. Steven’s touch.

He can see it. 

But you’ve always liked it when Steven gives you physical affection, even if it was all platonic. You’d lean into him, practically craving it, eagerly presenting yourself to his hand. And he’d give it to you, merely enjoying the closeness you offer him – nothing more. 

Your eyes are wide, and you lean in, listening intently, but at the same time, you’re not hearing a thing. Marc can see that you’re lost in Steven, a feeling he’s often had around you. 

The giddy comfort you felt from his touch instantly dissolves as he continues to speak, “And we kissed…” You lean back from him, quickly covering your reaction with a blank expression. Marc can see right through it. 

Needless to say, Marc also isn’t too happy hearing about Steven’s escapades with his estranged wife; He’s always been protective of Layla, but now more than ever. Layla had once been his rock, keeping him grounded as life attempted to sweep him away. She was the only person he trusted for a while, the only one he could lean on and hold whenever he wanted to give up. 

Because of that, he left. 

Too much of a great thing can only lead to a horrible ending. 

Right?

He convinced himself he did it because he didn’t want her to get involved in his life of violence, of his life as an avatar. She was always getting dragged into business that wasn’t hers, used as bait to lure him out of the shadows, and Khonshu was starting to hint at making her his next avatar. 

That is a reason, a sound reason, but he can admit now that that wasn’t the main reason. At some point, Marc realized could never love her the way she wanted him to.

When he first felt it, he couldn’t shake it. He was forced to face it until it utterly consumed his thoughts, until he could taste it hanging from each word, turning every whisper into a sour void. He felt unworthy of her affections and ashamed that he continued to take and take, drinking in every last drop of warmth she could supply. Anything to numb that looming darkness that threatens to drag him under the bloody viscous waves of his past. 

And all he could give in return was surface-level words and cool kisses. Guilt dripped from his embrace and soaked against her soft skin, and he knew he had to pull away. 

Steven, the lovesick puppy, was completely oblivious to what he was inviting her back into: danger, violence, and an unspoken truth.

Marc should be jealous that his wife and alter are continuing to fraternize behind his back, or angry that Steven went against his wishes and welcomed her back into his life, but he’s not. Mostly, he’s nervous to face what he wasn’t strong enough to do, scared that he’ll continue to push it away until it swallows him whole. 

Then there’s you.

Your eyes are glassy and empty as you nod robotically as Steven rambles, lost in his own words. “...the most brilliant woman I’ve ever met.” Your hands attempt to retreat from his and Steven doesn’t notice, but he does. 

The audacity of Steven to talk about this stuff to your face astounds him. How can a man who shares his body be so clueless? So stupid to not see what’s right in front of him, offering herself for any ounce of attention he shows.

“I love her.” 

And there he sees your heart shatter. 

“That’s great, Steven. I’m so happy for you.”

—

All he can do is stare back, eyes taking in your swollen lips and wrinkled clothes. Your bodies breathe together, catching a breath as you process what just happened. There’s a voice in the back of his head urging him to pull you back in, to drink the ambrosia of your lips until you melt against him and beg for more, while he still has the chance. But he knows that if he were to move the spell would be broken.

And he was right.

When the stare breaks so does the moment. You clumsily slip off of his lap and sit back on your side of the couch. His hand hovers over your figure as you move away from him, a ghost of the touch he once had on you, desperate to stop you from leaving him. Fingers grip painfully into his palms as they curl into a fist of frustration and loss.

You both sit there for a second. It’s easier to think when your bodies are pressed against each other. When you aren’t tempted to lean in for one more kiss.

This wasn’t supposed to happen, he wasn’t supposed to get this far. 

Ever since meeting you, he’s tried his best to keep his distance, to watch you pine for Steven from afar as he harbored his own longing for you. Marc never believed he deserved it, you, always taking three steps back before he could touch a perfect thing. Before he could ruin what was already breaking. 

He’s supposed to be detached from real life, from anything outside of his work. He’s convinced himself that he was okay with letting you go, even promising Steven he would give him complete control of the body once he was done with Khonshu. But now he doesn’t think he can. He can’t leave you.

Marc finally builds the courage to look over at you. 

Your eyes are closed, not squeezed shut, just closed. The soft glow of the TV pools over your body. You could probably feel his eyes on you so you begin to talk. 

“I’m confused.”

“Confused.” He repeats with a soft nod, letting the word settle in his mind.

He doesn’t know what else to say. Of course, you’re confused, this whole night has been a series of bold actions and heated words. One second you’re having a pity party at your crush’s flat and the next you’re crawling on top of his alter. You still haven’t had time to really go through your emotions.

“You like me…” You finally look at him, brows furrowed as you navigate through your thoughts.

“I do.”

“And I like Steven…” He frowns at that but nods. You both know it, that’s how you ended up here in the first place. “..And Steven likes Layla, but you’re still…married?”

He sighs, “It’s been over for months, sweetheart.”

“Well, aren’t we a group of lovers?” You joke. 

Neither one of you laughs.

Deep brown eyes meet yours, “I meant what I said. Steven is blind if he can’t see what’s right in front of him.”

“I-I don’t know where to go from here.”

He places his hand on top of yours. And you let him. 

“Stay…” He didn’t mean to say it out loud, didn’t mean to say anything at all, but when he’s with you, he feels out of control. 

He sees the little furrow of your brows as you digest the implications of his suggestion. Stay and forget about the consequences. Stay and pretend it's just us. Stay and let me love you.  

“Marc –” 

He interrupts you before you can finish your thought. 

“For tonight.” He just isn’t sure he’d be able to take what you were about to say. If you could stay like this, even for one more night, just you and him and the memory of that embrace, he thinks, maybe he’ll be okay. Even if you leave him in the morning. Even if you run away from what could have been. “It’ll be easier to understand after a night of rest.” 

You stare solemnly at the edge of the couch, “Yeah.” For a moment he holds some hope that he’ll be able to hold you tonight and sleep like everything is right in the world. But then you gently slip your hand out from under his. “I should probably go though.” His palm burns. You push yourself off the couch in search of your discarded jacket and shoes.

“You can crash here,” He feels desperate. You’re slipping from his hands and he’s frantically grasping at the evading warmth. “It’s late and there’s more than enough space in this flat.” He wants to reach out again but he’s afraid you’ll reject his touch this time.

“Steven has work tomorrow morning.” You say sheepishly as you slip an arm into your jacket. Of course, you’d know Steven’s schedule. “He needs to wake up early…and it would be awkward to find me on the couch.” As if he’d let you sleep anywhere but in his arms.

“Ok, but I should walk you home.”

You tug at the bottom of your coat, flattening it onto your body. “It’s fine,” You look back at him, hovering by the door, “Really, I’m fine.” He doesn’t miss how you’ve switched from talking about the situation to yourself.

He murmurs your name, not knowing what he can say to make you stay.

“Marc.” You echo back, voice soft and – tired. “I guess I’ll see you later.” 

—

“Whot was that?”

Steven didn’t wake up for work the next day. In fact, he didn’t ‘wake up’ at all. Marc did. He woke up around 1 pm with a throbbing headache and a loud, berating British man yelling at him from the inside out. 

After you left, he sat there in silence and moped, hoping you’d stop in the middle of your commute home and realize you wanted to come back to him. You didn’t. Once he received the ‘got home safe.’ text from you, he decided to drink whatever was left in the fridge before passing out. He’s regretting it now.

“Steven, please.” He presses a hand over his forehead, trying to soothe the ache as he blearily stares at the mess of empty bottles from last night. “Not right now.”

“Not right now?! You snogged my best friend!”

“Oh, come on.” Marc tugs on a shirt before making his way to the bathroom. In the small cheap mirror, Steven stares right back at him, a disgruntled glare burning right into his skin, “You weren’t going to do it.” That makes him blush. 

“If–If I had known…”

Marc tries to ignore him, splashing some cool water on his face to wake himself up. How can Steven even complain about it when – “Wait – how did you even find out?”

“I saw her…” He says uneasily, “pulling away.”

Marc groans into the towel as he dries off, “You were there? How much did you see?” 

“It’s not like I planned for it! I’m not a perve or anything, I was just…pushed to the front all of a sudden!” Shit, he must’ve gotten too excited. “I tried to leave as soon as I got there.”

“For the record, I wasn’t planning on any of that happening either.” 

“Why would you do it then? You’re going to confuse her.”

“Confuse her? Steven,” He shakes his head, “She’s obviously in love with you and you still wave whatever weird relationship you have with my wife in her face.”

“Well, hold on a minute–”

“Go back to sleep, Steven.” Marc walks over to the couch, longingly staring at the spot he was in last night. “I gotta clean up.”

–

Your POV

Your hands nervously fiddle with your phone, opening, closing, and reopening your messaging app. You stare at the text you sent last night:

‘got home safe.’

You actually got home 15 minutes before sending the text, but he doesn’t need to know it took you that long to type out 3 words. It’s crazy, you tell yourself, how many texts you drafted, edited, and deleted before hitting send. What if he doesn’t want to hear from you again? What if Steven gets it instead of him? What if he thinks you’re being clingy just because you shared one kiss? One, blissful, enamoring, show-stopping, kiss?

He hasn’t answered it yet. 

Read 1:56 am

Which is fine. You’re fine. It’s only 3 pm and Steven is probably still at work, so he hasn’t had a chance to text you back. It’s fine.

You hate the way your heart skips a beat when a typing bubble comes up. Fuck, did he see your pathetic attempts to text him earlier? You quickly exit the app, not wanting to expose yourself if he sends the text and you immediately ‘read’ it. The phone vibrates abruptly in your hand as a banner drops from the top of your screen.

‘Hey 🤠! –’ Already from the emoji use you can tell it’s Steven, ‘–Wanna meet up for tea ~4:30? Let’s go t…’

You let out a sigh. You know you shouldn’t feel disappointed. Steven is your best friend and you love hanging out with him, but there’s this anticipating giddiness when you think about Marc. The feeling you used to have about Steven…

It’s crazy how one kiss can flip your life so completely. Not just that, but how fast you went from mourning the chance of one relationship to melting into the development of another.

You open up the conversation. You really should talk to him. 

‘okay 🫡 i’ll meet you there'

---

a/n: sorry this took so long (literal months). i had half of this written for a while and was so sure i'd get it done within a few weeks, but then I let it sit in my drive until I picked it up TODAY and finished it lmao.

so most of this chapter delves into marc's thoughts before and during what happened in the first part, some of steven's thoughts + the aftermath of the kiss. i know a lot of ppl wanted a confrontation between the reader and steven, but I didn't want to rush into it when we don't even know how marc really feels ab the reader :3

i thought it would be interesting if steven found out about the kiss through marc (and I also didn't know how to write out the reader admitting it to him) bc that's how marc found out ab steven breaking the readers heart. i also wanted to explore how the reader is grappling with her feelings towards the two guys!

i def want to write more, but I can't promise when the next part will be out. I'm a notoriously inconsistent and SLOW writer, so bare with me. thank you for all the support on my angsty journey and I hope you enjoyed this chapter <3

[world-my-hearts-span]

Another thing they did was to cast the shortest guy in the cast as Karl the giant.

the funniest thing the directors did was cast the tallest guy in the entire cast as the guy named tiny Tom

[moonstruckme]

OK so this idea is for like Sirius its the holiday and they’re exchanging gifts well siris gift to her it’s kind of meh not a lot of thought into it. So she freaks out because her gift to Siri is like really personal after she opens up her gift she snatches his away from him and runs(of course he gets her tho) Blah blah blah cute convo turns out he had another gift but was scared to give it to her blah blah blah

Xoxo love you 💕

Thanks for requesting sweetness! I am totally tapped out of gift ideas atm so you'll have to forgive the poor gift choice in this, just imagine them as whatever you like haha

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

“Come on,” you tug Sirius over to your Christmas tree by the wrist, sitting in front of it eagerly. 

“I thought we were going to do gifts after the movie,” Sirius complains, letting you tug him down beside you with a reluctance you know has to be feigned. Sirius loves gifts, giving as well as getting them. You’d been just friends for years, and you’d held back from getting him anything too sappy that might reveal your humiliating mega-crush, but now that you’re dating you’ve finally given yourself permission to get him whatever you like. 

“Oh, don’t bother, I know you want yours already,” you tease, fishing it out from under the tree and setting the box in front of him. The resistance doesn’t completely fade from Sirius’ expression, but he gives you a small smile. 

“Fine, I’ll be generous,” he says. “You can open yours first.” 

You grin at him, leaning over to kiss him on the lips and marveling at the fact that you can. “Thanks! I’m so excited.” 

“I can tell,” he jokes, somewhat quieter than usual. It nettles at something in your nervous system, but you ignore it for now, taking the tissue paper out of the little bag with an enthusiasm you can’t bother to be embarrassed about. 

You peer in, and it’s all you can do to keep the smile plastered on your face when you see what’s inside. “Candies,” you say, imbuing your voice with as much pep as you can manage. “Wow, I’ll be well fed this year. Thanks, Siri!” You can’t stand to stay under his gaze a second longer, swooping in for another kiss. It feels stilted and awkward. 

“They’re your favorites,” he says with a tentative little smile. “I thought I’d better stock you up.” 

“You’re a genius.” You grin, unwrapping one of the candies and popping it in your mouth. “Mm, thank you, honey.” 

“Course.” He looks down at his present, starting to fiddle with the ribbon. “My turn, I guess.” 

Your heart turns to stone, dropping all the way to your stomach with a dull thud. “Actually,” your voice squeaks a bit as you reach forward, taking your gift back, “I think I gave you the wrong one.” You start looking under the tree, trying to find a replacement that won’t be too sorely missed. 

Sirius brow puckers. “Really? It had my name on it.” 

“No, I think this one is for Mary—”

“Babe, I saw my name right there.” He leans over you, taking the present from where you’ve stowed it in your lap. “See? Right on the top.” 

Your blood rushes in your ears, which is ridiculous, this is Sirius, you’ve known him for years, you shouldn’t be nervous around him—but fuck, how can you really be sure you know each other at all after what he just gave you? If he’s expecting something similar, you’re about to be so mortified. “I think that might have been a mix-up,” you say weakly. “I’m pretty sure yours has someone else’s name on it too—”

“Hey,” Sirius seizes your wrist when you grab for the gift again, holding it protectively to his chest, “what’s wrong with you? I know you didn’t mix up the names, sweetheart.” You strain against his grip for a few moments, but Sirius is surprisingly strong when he decides to be. It’s little effort for him to keep you at bay. He gives you a hard look. “What’s going on?” 

“I just…” You give up your attempts to steal the gift back, but you can’t look at him. You gnaw at your lip. “I’m sorry, I might have gone a bit overboard. It’s…you can open it, just, sorry.” 

Sirius' features soften, but he’s quiet, wary as he peels off the wrapping paper. Your heart climbs back up your throat when he opens the box. For a horrifying second, he’s frozen, but then his hand dips into the box and emerges with your gift, holding it all too delicately. 

“Baby,” his voice is barely more than a whisper as he admires the small clay ornament, a likeness of his animagus form. “Where did you get this?” 

“I made it,” you admit, shoulders gravitating towards your ears. “I couldn’t find one that looked right in the stores, so…”

“You made it?” Sirius sounds awed. “Fuck, it’s amazing.” His eyes move to yours, still holding your gift suspended in the air between you. “Thank you, sweetheart. I love it.” 

It’s like someone’s been inflating a balloon in your chest and has just finally let it deflate. You can breathe again. “I’m really glad,” you say, and your smile may not be huge but at least it’s not faked. “I was worried it was too much.” 

“No, this is perfect.” Sirius places the ornament back in its box with heartbreaking care, giving you a sad look. “Fuck, I’m an ass.” 

“No, you’re not—” you start automatically, but he cuts you off. 

“I am. I’m a total coward, too. I’m so sorry, doll, I just—I freaked out.” He puts a hand in his hair, fingers curling in the dark locks. “I have a better gift for you, just one second.” 

He stands, leaving you in confused silence. You hear something rustling by the entryway of your flat, and then Sirius comes back a second later with a nicely wrapped box. 

“What’s this?” you ask when he sets it in your lap. 

“Your real present.” Sirius seems almost bashful, looking down as he gets situated on the floor again. “Go on, open it.” 

You almost don’t want to destroy the wrappings on this gift, clearly done with much more care than the first, but you take the paper off bit by bit, opening the top of the box. 

“Sirius,” you breathe. “Honey, what is all this?”

“It’s, uh, it’s just stuff from our first few dates.” You look up, and he’s playing with his rings. “Pictures, receipts, ticket stubs, shit like that. I know you’re a sap for that stuff, so.” 

“I’m a sap?” Laughter comes fizzing up out of you despite the tears blurring your vision. “You’re the one who collected it all!”

“Oh, technicalities, I only—hey.” He finally meets your eyes, noticing your state. “Hey, don’t cry. Shit, I knew this would happen. I should have stuck with the candy.” 

“I don’t understand,” you warble as he chases determinedly after your tears with painfully gentle fingers. “Why were there two?” 

Sirius sighs, pressing an apologetic kiss to your cheek. “Like I said, I freaked out. I was planning on giving you this, but on the way over I started thinking about how we haven’t been dating that long, and maybe it was too soon for something so…relationship-y, you know? So I panicked and bought a bunch of candy at the store.” 

You’re laughing by the end of it, shoulders shaking with amusement even as tears continue to dribble down your face. Sirius coos and kisses them away. 

“I guess I am a sap,” you say cheerily. “I never even thought about if my gift would be weird.” 

“Not until I made you,” Sirius groans, pulling you in for a hug. “Pretty sure that doesn’t make you a sap so much as it makes me an idiot, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” You smile into his shoulder, curling your fingers into the material of his shirt. “We both got to give our sappy gifts, and if the apocalypse goes down, I’ve got enough candy to last through New Years’.” 

[someforeignband]

🪱Wiggly Worm Wednesday!🪱

having thoughts about eddie and steve going to visit steve’s grandmother! (im spending the week with my nanna and am having thoughts)

It starts with this nebulous idea that Steve’s parents didn’t want to take care of Francesca’s mother after her husband died, so they moved Steve’s maternal grandmother to a 65+ community in Sun City, Arizona. Just like their son, they’d much rather ship off Franny’s mother instead of dealing with her needs. So, they leave sweet Cecilia in a massive 2,900 square foot condo in the Arizona desert, all by herself.

One afternoon in march, Steve gets a call from his Nonna. She explains she has had some plumbing issues and neither Franny, nor Richard is returning her calls. She complains that there’s palm fronds in her yard, and with the state of her back, she just can’t fix all of these things on her own.

“How do you feel about a trip to Arizona?” Steve would ask Eddie, after a two-and-a-half hour long conversation with his grandmother.

Thusly, a PanAm flight to Phoenix was booked. It was Eddie’s first time on a plane. Despite his nerves prior to getting on the flight, he has a marvelous time. Eddie discovers that he loves turbulence and puts his hands up and giggles the whole time.

Steve, to Eddie’s dismay, is the exact opposite. He squeezes the armrest the entire 3.5 hour flight. He can’t stand how relaxed Eddie is, not understanding how someone like Eddie could just be so calm.

Once they land, Steve tries to brief Eddie on his Nonna’s disposition. “She’s sort of a firecracker, Eddie. Very particular about pretty much everything. I’m sorry if she’s mean to you.”

Eddie tells him not to worry about it, assures him they’ll get through the weekend.

To Steve’s delight (and Eddie’s utter surprise), Nonna takes to Eddie like a fish to water. He can talk about the Bible with her. Wayne’s been pretty devout his whole life, so when Eddie makes a comment about her dish towel with Philippians 4:6-7 printed on it, Steve knows Eddie’s going to practically be family.

Cece is ecstatic to be able to show the boy pictures of Italia and tell him stories about her upbringing. She shows him pictures of Franny, pictures of her late husband, and her collection of photos of Steve’s baptism. It keeps Cece distracted, while Steve gets to work fixing her kitchen plumbing.

Steve can’t help but grin to himself like a madman as he tinkers with her pipes, listening to his Nonna and his boyfriend volley back and forth. Sharp as whips, the both of them, and god it was nice to watch Eddie get on with someone who was blood to him.

Steve didn’t have much family that bothered to be in his life.

It was nice.

And best of all— at least for Nonna— Eddie can eat her food. Eddie can seriously put it away. Steve stops after one helping of Parmigiana di Melanzane, but Eddie has two more servings, and saves room for dessert.

“Eat up, Edoardo,” Cece pats his cheek. “Too skinny, Stephano. You starving him?”

“Never, Nonna,” Steve laughs, shaking his head, watching Eddie shovel another spoonful into his mouth, grinning at Steve across the dining room table.

Despite the fact that they’ve been seeing each other for a few months, after dancing around each other for the better part of two years—Eddie’s feeling things about Steve fixing his grandmas plumbing, doing yard work, etc. The flush in Steve’s face, hands on his hips, complaining about the state of the yard: Eddie’s never felt more in love (and other tingly, warm sensations).

Further, Eddie watches Steve and Cece scream at each other in stilted Italian as she tries to pick up a scorpion and take it outside with her bare hands. Finally, after about forty-five seconds of screaming and the scorpion trying to wiggle away, Steve takes Eddie’s boot and smacks the thing with a scared squeal. It crunches under the sole and twitches a few times before dying on the salmon colored tile, guts splattered everywhere.

“You handled that well,” Eddie muses, once the whole ordeal is over, taking a dishcloth and floor cleaner, scrubbing at the thing’s guts.

“I couldn’t let her get stung. She’s seventy-nine!” Steve says, then shudders. “I never wanna do that again.”

Later that night, Eddie sips coffee out of a lumpy clay mug, a Stephano Original, while she and Steve play rummy. Catching eyes over the table, they smile at each other, knowingly. After a while, Eddie gets tired, slinking off to the office, where Cecilia had set him up with an air mattress.

Before Steve retires to the spare bedroom that night, his Nonna pulls him aside, wrapping him in a warm hug.

“Ti voglio,” She whispers, kissing his temple, smoothing his hair back.

“I love you too,” Steve answers quietly, thrown off by the unexpected display of affection.

“And,” She pauses, scrunching her dark eyebrows together, deciding exactly what to say. “I really like that boy, Stephano.”

Steve’s chest fills with warmth, not knowing exactly if she means what he hopes she means. But at that moment, he’ll take it.

“Me, too, Nonna.” He whispers, grinning at her. “Me, too.”

TAGGING ONLY @yours-etc!!!! WRITE SOMETHING I MISS YOUR WRITING

[autumnbrambleagain]

Favourite caves of qud mods? I wanna dive in and fully mod my game

I don't have the energy to turn these into hyperlinks so you have to do the work of typing these names into the workshop and finding them, I apologize that I am not apologizing.

Hearthpyre and the Clever Girl Fork are obvious necessities. Starapple Valley and Regrowing Plants and Qud Fishing is on that list too for being able to make your own imprint on the world. With how the uh, story's themes go, I am even more feeling validated in my decision to spend most of the game building bases and farming and stuff.

Dynamic Background Color because I don't even remember what the game looks like without it anymore. I think I use the More Dots mod too.

Allography lets you add descriptions to things, including yourself, which is great.

1 Percent Loot Drops adds a ton of neat, very balanced items.

Cleaning Robots lets you have robots that clean fluids and I honestly just wish one in on EVERY settlement so they don't become giant messes after one visit. Indispensable mod.

Choose Your Fighter is good if you aren't a lunatic like me who just makes your own phenotypes and sprites and pets and dialogue for every character you play.

Jademouth is what I would argue to be the best, most diegetically natural town mod in the game. It adds very little to the world outside of itself, and adds a very much needed mid-game town with a fun quest and good characters. None of the writing feels out of place, it doesn't add encounters all over the map, it keeps to its own lane and does an great job of it.

Cryptogeology is an incredibly good quest which helps guide you to each town in the game naturally, has a ton of flavor, and a really decent reward. It feels like a natural part of the game.

Tealeaves adds a much-needed merchant to the Six Day Stilt who is also very well written and lets you get a chance at Newly Sentient Beings rep.

Issachari Evolved adds much needed variety to that faction.

Nightmare Treats gives you a lot more ways to reroll mutations, AND ways to gain mental stats. Eat them. It's safe. Nothing bad will happen.

Wired Child is a fun mid-late stage quest in Ezra that gets you a VERY nice weapon if you can manage it.

Return of the Arcwyrk. You need more enemies in your life. zzzap.

Knife Fights at Eddy's is mandatory, I'm sorry I don't make the rules.

A Specter is Haunting Qud adds some VERY nasty enemies and you deserve to be killed by them. Things should be scarier. Get scared. Basically Templar Hologram Wraith Knights but they're Eater ghosts. Fucked up! I won't tell you how to beat them figure it out yourself.

Village Finder because I hate the "go to each parasang and press + and then -" when looking for villages. Am I that dumb my character can't notice villages when walking through them.

Folk Scrap and Mundanity. Mandatory. Very flavorful.

Baboons of Babel adds much needed variety to baboon faction.

Judicators of Qud add a fun neat challenging robot who is kind of like if a leering stalker and a feral lah had a baby that wasn't the sum of its parts but something all its own.

Disjecta Membra's lore feels a little out of sync with 1.0, and it makes the game a giant mess. So basically, enemies can be infected, and when they die things get Interesting. It can cause huge problems and it's a fucking mess. It can make Call to Arms an unworkable disaster and Templar historical sites become unmanageable. I love it. I cannot play without it. It makes the game so much more challenging and stressful, especially in the early/midgame. The writing is fucking incredible even if its flavor doesn't line up exactly right anymore. Do not do this on your first playthrough but after your first playthrough install this and suffer with me forever. This might be my favorite new-content mod tbh.

Your Own Personal Relics is a neat adjustment to the Item Naming system which honestly I just wish-name things when I mod them to max anyway but it's neat.

Feline's Furnishings are good tiles.

Fluid Storage is great and the Klein Bottles are fantastic and putting 500 drams in their weightless moebius will never go wrong for you ever.

I think that should do you with the unimax's share of the mods I use!

Sidenote, Eule does a lot of mods that are Very Cool but also last time I used them they had a problem of all of them would spawn things in the jungle, so with all of them active every jungle screen would have like, their populations taken over by all the Argent Somethingorother and the Unseen Adversaries and the Arboreta Guys. None of them work with 1.0 anyway I don't think, and the mods ARE very high quality! But their spawn rates were extremely overpowering to the point where the jungle was basically just entirely made of those 3 factions and it was a Bit Much.

I'm also about to try out the Labyrinthine Trail and Xeototin Mechanical Somethingorother for the first time but I haven't done them yet so i have no comment.

Also Facial Equipment Diversity is neat too.