#and hiding under rocks

[gecklio]

looking after your roger (parum aurantiaco) is a lifelong commitment. his enclosure must be kept in perfect conditions with no less than ONE fern and ONE twig

[dreamingstarfruits]

My f/o laying on top of me like a weighted blanket would fix me

[aroaceleovaldez]

my personal favorite interpretation of Nico's confession to Percy in BoO and Percy's reaction is that. Nico was one foot in the grave at the time - heavily injured, exhausted, probably suffering from blood loss, actively turning into shadows, etc etc. And he mentions himself several times that he's not acting quite like himself, such as smiling a lot and his mind wandering and his vision being unsure. Dude is OUT OF IT. He is one strong breeze away from crumpling on the floor and falling unconscious for multiple days (again).

a.) no wonder Will was like "three days in the infirmary now. you will melt into a puddle if you try and summon a wishbone." cause Nico was probably standing there with a glassy look in his eyes waving like a leaf in the wind on the verge of collapsing.

b.) just imagine Percy's pov: The guy you've known for three years stumbles up to you on the verge of death, clearly still bleeding and half-fading into nothingness. Obviously a little delirious at best. Normally he's extremely awkward talking to people and hates physical interaction and every time he talks to you he looks like he wants to run away as fast as possible. You are 80% sure he wants you dead but is trying to be polite about it. He walks up to you with the confidence only someone suffering from extreme dehydration/major blood loss on the verge of passing out can have, tells you that you're not his type, high-fives your girlfriend (who you thought he had a crush on?) (you weren't even sure he knew what high-fives were. you're still not sure he does) and stumbles off without finishing the conversation. You ask your girlfriend if she understands what the hell just happened. She has no idea either. You decide to chalk it up to him having no idea what was going on either.

Three days later Nico wakes up in the infirmary in a cold sweat, having remembered that interaction and goes "WHAT HAVE I DONE?!"

[may-be-a-plant]

Do you think Zeb is considered some sort of minor diety to the rebels?

Do you think in between tasks on Yavin IV, he's whispered about in hushed but awed tones?

After all, they might not necessarily know his name, but they sure as hell know him as the guy that charmed the pants off of a notorious ISB commander.

Zeb: Hey, new kid, have you had a chance to settle in to your new quarters yet?

Pilot: Yeah, thanks, I was gonn- WAIT AREN'T YOU THAT GUY

Zeb: Uhh, what guy?

Pilot: The GUY! The 'ISB Whisperer'!

Zeb: The..the what now?

Pilot: The 'Agent Seducer'!

Zeb: ...

Pilot: The 'Muttonchop Magician'!

Zeb: PFFFTT!

Kallus, from behind the pilot: For kriff's sake, please don't encourage them.

[oopsarboreal]

I hope I love SCP forever. it's got everything. such as: wretched old man truly, though, I think it's lovely. I love that there's no set canon or official movie or tv show. I love that two people can be doing ENTIRELY different things and both be contributing to the SCP universe/fandom. It's massive but in a comfortable sense, in that way. I love that one person's Clef will be wildly different from another person's Clef and people are chill about it. I love how it didn't arise from a big media company test-screened to perfection but from forum threads. a sincere collaborative effort across the internet. I love that there's an infinite content glitch with the site constantly getting articles: you will literally never run out of SCP media to enjoy. i love that there's still kids who stumble across it and for a moment it's real and terrifying. did i mention the old men yet

[seaglassdinosaur]

The guitar! The guitar belonging to the Twins’ abusive father and passing it onto Sammie! The one that to Smoke represents a generational curse and something they should shun and bury. He and Stack couldn’t cut the pain out of themselves, nor the struggles they’ve experienced as Black men in America, but Smoke thinks he can prevent it from being spread, if only Sammie will give up the Blues, become a respectable musician, and bury that fucking guitar.

Passing on the guitar is indicative of the older generation passing down trauma and history, but it’s also providing tools of transformation. Smoke and Stack couldn’t make anything of the guitar, nor spin their pain into art, but Sammie could.

In Sammie’s hands, that curse, the pain they carry becomes music and connection. Sammie has a way to process their suffering and struggle, and sings about love, sings about his own strained relationship with his father, and sings about the pull he feels between propriety and passion. He sings about culture. The guitar is more than just their family history, it’s their people’s history, and while Sammy cannot erase history, neither can he ignore it; he refuses to bury the guitar.

The idea Smoke pushes Sammie toward is that if it’s possible, it’s a blessing to cast off our painful, ugly history. To escape that history is to find freedom in the world.

But Sammie disagrees. He inherits the same history as them, the same connection to the evil of his uncle, the same ancestry and the guitar. Instead of running from it, trying to assimilate and be a ‘proper’ Black man as Smoke insists, he leans into his heritage, leans into all that impropriety, that history, and rebuilds that fucking guitar. The haunting instrument that’s brought them so much trauma and trouble, that Sammie set aside for so long—it’s been tucked away in a case as he aged, but was never let go of. It’s always ready to be played, always within arms reach. His pain, his past, his people, Sammie carries them with for the rest of his life.

[leashybebes]

the long way home, bucktommy, e, 13k

It's finished, gang! The entity formerly known as exes with detriments is available to read on AO3 here

I could get embarrassingly gushy about how I feel about this fandom, and about being in a place where I can write again, but I'll save it for embarrassing tags on random posts. Love y'all.

Tagging a few people who asked to see the finished product.

@thecarrott @rdng1230 @aisatsana441

[scarlettriot]

Alright. I simply cannot get the idea of getting hot and heavy in the back of some limo with Ei and a little sprinkle of sneaking around too. I don’t know where this came from or anything so here. I’m leaving it. And that’s all.

It’s sorta smutty so no minors or ageless. They’re aged up, in case that wasn’t self explanatory. Reader gets a little jealous. Other than that it’s basically just fluff with fucking.

I did not proof this what so ever. Sorry. I’m tired. I don’t even have a rough word count for you but it’s pretty short.

The two of you leaving together after some big award show after he finally breaks into the top 10. Only you’re most certainly not the woman his agencies PR team has been setting him up on dates with. The super model who’s been all over him, the face of his active wear line, the woman they want to see him with.

He’s been putting on a good show for them. Even dipped her in front of all the camera the red carpet was lined with and kissed her as a hundred flashes went off.

But, gods, she’s just not you. The cute little waitstaff always serving drinks at these events. The black skirt they make you wear hugs your curves so tightly and he can see every dip of your plush hips and he remembers what it was like the first time he got to feel you.

He was stiff in his perfectly tailored pants before the hors d’oeuvres came around. 

The first chance he got, he’d slipped away. Thankfully, his accomplishments were already recognized. He’d done his part, stood up, waved, went on stage, he didn’t give a damn about anything or anyone else. He just needed to find you again.

“I— oh fuck— I’m gonna have to get back before someone realizes I’m— I’m— right there, right there, yes please—!” It was too hard to think when his fingers were buried deep within your cunt.

He had you propped up on the back of his limo. Making you cum with your skirt all bunched up. “Don’t think you gotta go anywhere yet, pretty,” he chuckles and licks off his fingers.

“I do though, I do,” you tried forming a sentence, “I could get fired,”

He pulled your legs around him and carried you around to the door to slip inside with you. “Told you I’d get you a job at my agency, then you wouldn’t have to worry about this job.”

You sucked on his neck as he undid his belt, “don’t know how your girlfriend would feel about me working with you daily… having this happen far more often?” Because you’re not stupid, you knew if you took him up on that offer you’d be on his dick every chance the two of you had.

“She’s not my girlfriend and you know it.” He made that abundantly clear the first time he made a move on you months ago and you questioned him.

He’d just barely slipped his cock free before you were sinking down on it with a groan that would reply in his head for a lifetime. “I don’t think she knows that.”

He chuckles and it makes you clench around him. “You’re real cute when you’re jealous,” hands grip hard on your hips and he pushes you down as he grits out, “and if she does know it, that’s—not— my— problem—” rocking his hips to watch your eyes roll back.

“You’ve said it yourself though, she’s what your PR team wants. I’m nothing like her.”

He huffed before his arms wound under your legs so he could hold you up and fuck up into you as he damn well pleased. “Also told you that I don’t care what they want. You say the word and it’ll be you on my arm at these events, not her.”

You laughed before he made it into a blissed out moan.

“What? Don’t believe me?”

The windows were fogging up, anyone walking by would damn well know what was happening here. And he didn’t care at all. He’d bullied himself into you over and over again, tearing at your little outfit, unable to help himself.

Of course, you didn’t seem to mind with the way you were babbling now, tits bouncing with your head tossed back, pleasure coursing through you. “What’s the matter, pretty? Can’t do anything more than moan for me now? Should I stop and letcha think?”

His pace slowed and you cried out, “noooo!”

“Then answer me, baby, you believe me, don’t you?” Gods, for a man railing you within an inch of your life, his tone was soft and sickeningly sweet. “Promise if ya let me I’ll do this to you all night long.” Not that these quickies weren’t fun but just once he wants to see you splayed out in his bed. “I’ll make you cum over and over, as much as you want.”

He took your chin and made sure you were looking at him as he added. “I want you. For more than just a fast fuck at a party. Lemme take care of you, in every possibly way there is.”

With his cock filling you up so completely, and his eyes carrying so much hope, how could you ever deny him?

[discordghost]

also the way pearl stopped and asked "okay aside from gem, who would you guys like me to team up with in the next life series." she is Aware

[somekindabard]

I think it's really important for any yellowjackets fan that was not alive in the 90s to know how accurate that ice cream shop commercial was. Commercials back then were fucking terrifying. So were some of the toys and tv shows. Tai being haunted by creepy ass 90s character is so real. That is the most brilliant way to tie in the no eyed man and I can't wait to see what they do with it. It really adds to the supernatural vs psychological debate. I love how everything can be either or. Him being in the dreams/hallucination definitely feels supernatural! Aaaand it's also not far off that multiple girls saw that commercial as kids, it scarred them, and it stayed in their subconscious. It's just such good writing I love it.

That is one of the most realistic things so far. Every friend I know that is my age has at least one sworn enemy from the 90s that's haunted them to this day. Many of us have the same nightmare! Here's a few examples:

[rillils]

pairing: Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes rating: T wordcount: 2121 tags: established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, kid fic, Bucky's metal arm, domestic boys my beloved notes: this smol thing is just an attempt at getting me out of an agonizing writer's block. it fills my @stuckybingo card square O2 - Touching foreheads, and my @wintershieldbingo card square Fluff. I also used this amazing post as a reference for Bucky's (most recent) metal arm. summary: Now, at sixteen months old, Sarah refuses to be laid in her crib for the night unless the arm is laid down beside her. Nineteen pounds of unyielding vibranium, with a grip that could crush a human skull as effortlessly as it could an egg, and she makes it look almost precious. Endearing. Something to be loved; worthy of being loved because she loves it.

You can read it on AO3, or under the cut!

-

It’s not that Bucky means to circle back to the nursery, tonight. In fact, he ought to head straight to bed and catch some hard-earned zee’s while he still has the chance, now that the princess’ diaper’s been changed, and his teeth have been brushed minty-fresh and his sleep shirt is not smeared with drool, snot, or sticky remnants of Sarah’s dinner. But the pull is too strong, and so here he stands, one-armed and bone-tired and hovering by Sarah’s crib like a lovestruck puppy, unable to walk away. Again.

Yes, it’s a curious predicament.

Made so much more curious by the odd presence in his daughter’s bed – a lumbering silhouette of gleaming metal, peeking out from under Sarah’s favorite blanket like a second, strange-looking baby, that she demanded to have with her.

That one right there, that’s a recent development, and one Bucky can’t truly make sense of just yet. But he can’t look away.

It ties a knot in his chest, his heart squeezed tight in the middle, between his lungs and his stomach and the cage of his ribs, beating wild and fluttery and disbelieving at the sight. At the sharp, cutting tenderness of his daughter wrapped protectively around the log-shape of his prosthetic arm, her little body curled like a parenthesis around it; her tiny fingers splayed over the glossy black plates of his bicep, her warm breath misting the rounded swell where his shoulder is.

It nearly hurts to see it; but it’s a sweet hurt, this one.

The first time Sarah saw Bucky pop the arm out its socket, she was four months old and sitting back against Steve’s chest, happily gnawing on her own dimpled fist as Papa bounced her gently in his arms.

Bucky hadn’t meant to show her; not yet, at least.

He’d been so careful up until then, almost to the point of paranoia, only ever removing the prosthesis when Sarah was already asleep, and dutifully slipping it back on for her late-night feedings; too scared that she might cry, startled by the anomaly of it all; afraid, or so he told himself, that she might simply be too young to understand.

“I just don’t think she’s ready to see that,” he’d shrugged at Steve’s prodding, just a few nights before, curled up in bed with the metal arm still firmly on, comfort be damned, because Sarah had only just dozed off again with a full tummy and a clean diaper, and the sun was about to rise anyway.

Steve had gathered him close, his broad chest pressed like a shield against Bucky’s back, and he’d threaded their fingers, warm flesh and gold-rimmed vibranium, together.

He hadn’t made Bucky say it out loud. That he wasn’t ready yet. Ready to be the thing their daughter was afraid of. The thing that made their sweet baby cry and twist away in fear, sobbing, seeking safety and shelter in somebody else.

But Steve had known.

Bucky had felt it. In the comforting hold of Steve’s arm wrapped around his waist. In the enveloping warmth of Steve’s voice as he rumbled, soft into the tousled fall of Bucky’s hair, their heads sharing one pillow, “It’s all right, Buck. You’ll choose when.”

And then one night, Bucky had simply forgotten himself.

He hadn’t even realized what he’d done, not until Sarah had abandoned her drool-coated fist to burst into happy, cascading, heart-squeezing giggles.

Bucky had seen his own surprise mirrored on Steve’s face. Steve’s mouth was agape, his eyes wide with shocked delight – while Bucky himself stood frozen from head to toe like a deer in the headlights, the metal arm still gripped in his hand.

Steve had spoken first, hot on the heels of their daughter’s first laugh.

“Oh my god, Buck– Do it– do it again.”

And cautiously, careful not to feed the little bubble of hope already blooming in his chest, Bucky had. Eyes locked on their baby, he’d allowed the arm to click back into place; and then, with a trembling hand, he’d popped it off again.

Sarah had lost it, erupting into peals and peals of these sweet, full-bellied giggles that made her little tummy shake under Steve’s hand, and something – something had come loose inside Bucky’s chest. A weight that had been sitting on top of his lungs for longer than he’d realized, stunting his every breath.

He’d cried, after.

He’d wet Steve’s shoulder with his tears, and then he’d laughed, his cheeks still glistening, raking his flesh-and-bone fingers through his hair, almost hysterical with relief.

“Thank God,” he’d half-chuckled, half-sobbed, his face cupped in Steve’s big hands, Steve’s lips warm and soothing against his brow. “Thank God...”

Now, at sixteen months old, Sarah refuses to be laid in her crib for the night unless the arm is laid down beside her.

Nineteen pounds of unyielding vibranium, with a grip that could crush a human skull as effortlessly as it could an egg, and she makes it look almost precious. Endearing. Something to be loved; worthy of being loved because she loves it.

She takes after Steve in that respect.

She can’t have missed Steve’s open doting on Bucky’s artificial arm, he muses: she’s been exposed to it her whole life. Every day since they brought her home, she has been the primary witness to Steve’s relentless displays of affection.

Before she could ever even process her surroundings, she was already watching Papa pepper feather-light kisses up Dada’s shiny metal arm, or lace their mismatched fingers together, or bring Dada’s metal hand to his lips to kiss the black and gold of Dada’s knuckles.

Maybe it was Steve, then: consistently, unwittingly teaching their daughter that this strange part of Dada can be loved, too. Maybe this is all his doing. Or maybe, maybe Sarah decided that all on her own. After all, Bucky muses with no small amount of pride, she’s proving herself to be just as willful a creature as her father ever was.

He reaches down to stroke the softness of her hair, cradling the back of her head in his palm.

His baby. His sweet little weirdo.

“You know you’ve been standing there for like twenty minutes now, right?”

The voice comes in a soft octave, one notch louder than a whisper, but no more than a gentle rumble.

Bucky turns his head, and he finds Steve exactly where he expected to find him: his big body leaned leisurely against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest and a knowing smile curling his lips. Bucky hasn’t been seventeen for a long, long time; but the whispering flutter he feels now in his heart knows no age.

“Shut it, Rogers,” Bucky teases back just as softly, straightening up with one last caress to Sarah’s wispy hair. “Like I didn’t catch you doing the exact same thing just a couple nights ago.”

Steve pushes himself off the doorframe, hands held up palms-out, briefly ducking his head in a humble “guilty as charged” gesture.

“She asleep?” he asks, approaching Bucky and the crib on soundless socked feet.

Bucky nods. He can’t stop his gaze from traveling back to Sarah’s slumbering frame, sweet and cozy under her blanket.

“Out like a light,” he says, and if it sounds even half as hopelessly fond as he thinks it does, well, that can’t be helped, now can it.

He feels Stee’s arms loop around his waist, soon followed by the familiar jut of Steve’s chin hooking over his shoulder, locking the embrace in. It’s a gentle hold, Steve’s thickly muscled arms fitted just snugly enough around him, and Bucky sinks into it with a pleased sigh, happy to soak up all the warmth Steve is so generously offering.

His only hand settles over Steve’s own, where it rests against Bucky’s stomach, his thumb stroking absently over the downy hairs dusting Steve’s wrist.

“I don’t get it,” he speaks quietly into the comfortable silence. “She could have her pick of stuffed toys to sleep with. I mean, we’ve got ourselves a whole-ass zoo up there,” he adds, gesturing towards the shelf currently hosting a small army of stuffed bears, penguins, unicorns, the odd shark, two giraffes, and a pink crocodile he won for her at a fair, which Sarah barely ever deigned with a passing glance, “every shape, size and color under the sun, but nope. She has to cuddle up with the lump of metal.”

“It’s not just any lump of metal,” Steve corrects him, with a meaningful squeeze of his arms around Bucky’s middle. “It’s you. Smells like you. Feels like you. It’s like you’re right there with her, holding her.” His lips know a spot hidden in the crook of Bucky’s neck, and they find it now to place a kiss there; the warmth of it tingles right under Bucky’s skin, dancing like so many sparks of gold down his spine. “That shit beats a measly teddy bear one thousand to nothing, honey.”

That gets a chuckle out of Bucky. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” And he can’t see Steve’s face, but he can hear the smile in his voice when Steve speaks, pouring sweet mumblings in Bucky’s ear as he rocks their bodies gently in his embrace. “This way, she can fall asleep knowing that daddy is here, that daddy loves her. That he’ll keep her safe from harm.”

It feels like a sin to disturb this, but Bucky turns around within the circle of Steve’s arms, coming face-to-face with him. There, there’s the smile he couldn’t see before, private and sweet and only meant for him to see, so genuine it reaches up to the crinkles of Steve’s eyes.

If he were to touch his face right now, Bucky’s sure he’d find that same shape on his own lips.

“You really think so?”

“Absolutely.” Steve’s hands come to rest on Bucky’s hips, giving them a little squeeze hello. “Trust me, I’m an expert,” he murmurs, shining those luminous, earnest eyes of his on Bucky like they won’t steal the breath right out of his lungs. “I know what it’s like to feel safe in your arms.”

Bucky couldn’t say which of them leans in first, but their foreheads touch; and he can see the minute quiver in Steve’s eyelashes, when Steve’s eyes slip closed. Feels the ghost of Steve’s breath, grazing hot like a kiss against his skin.

Steve’s voice drops, ever softer.

“Only place I ever felt safe in my whole life, Buck.”

And it’s lucky, truly – lucky that Steve’s one of the only two people in the whole world capable of cracking Bucky’s heart open like this, and fill it with an ache as sweet as the one pulsing inside him now. And it’s unfair, so cruelly unfair of Steve to make him feel so tender he might just come apart, like he’s a wad of cotton candy and Steve is water, and the first cooling touch of him will dissolve Bucky into drops of pure sugar–

–now, in this moment where everything speaks of home, and they’re standing right here, breathing each other’s air, whisper-talking in their tried and true “the baby is sleeping” voices, socked feet on the cold floor and flecks of copper glinting in Steve’s beard when the lamplight hits it just right, and Bucky never imagined that love could make you feel so full it actually hurts.

He cups the back of Steve’s head, sinking his fingers in the dark gold of Steve’s hair.

“You gettin’ sentimental on me, Stevie?”

Steve chuckles under his breath, leaning back just so he has enough room to gaze into Bucky’s eyes.

“Always, honey. Can’t help but.”

“Well,” Bucky says, casting one last glance towards their sleeping daughter. “I got another arm right here, if you were wantin’ something wrapped around you tonight. Maybe not quite so shiny as the other one, but it still does the trick. Whaddya say, sweetheart?”

Steve looks at him, his eyebrows pinched together and that soft, tiny crease in between that Bucky knows so well, the one that tells him of Steve’s unabashed fondness when Steve himself can’t; the one that tells him, I love you, before Steve has even lined up the words on his tongue.

Bucky wants to kiss him.

Bucky forgets, sometimes, that he can kiss him. That he gets to kiss him, and when he doesn’t, it’s only because Steve beat him to it and kissed him first.

Steve doesn’t kiss him now, though his eyes say that he wants to, with every fiber of his heart he wants to.

“Yeah,” he rasps, soft as a breath and painfully tender. “Yeah, I’ll take that. If you don’t mind.”

Bucky, Steve will learn, does not mind at all.

[dualcosmog]

0825 Dottler

[i-like-forcefem]

Made an account on a girls-meet-up platform recently and know it's really really refreshing to just look at real photos of real women for an hour

Media really only shows you the prettiest faces with the best editing and lighting and just-seeing the photos normal gals looking for other girls put forward

It's nice

I'm feeling so much less dysphoric despite plastering my main source of it for all to see

Since I know all the other girls are doing exactly the same thing

It really gives me hope in the world! Girls are beautiful, unique, and look like themselves

I love girls <3

[overlording]

art to go with @mal-co-holic's excellent fic for a friend. you should go read it 😎

[canon-gabriel-quotes]

Wear headphones :]

Transcript:

*grunting*

I'm- I'm coming just- Tch

I'm almost there... Agh~

Audio Source

ok fine here's the context

Transcript:

Yay! I'm finally at the top of these stairs! *laughs*

[hyunpic]

HYUNJIN ♡ 231119 FANSIGN