#messier marathon

[quiltofstars]

The Surfboard Galaxy (M108, upper right) and the Owl Nebula (M97, lower left) // David Cheng

Located near the Owl Nebula (M97) on the sky, the Surfboard Galaxy was discovered by Méchain in 1781, only three nights after he found M97. Messier himself observed it about a month later, although he didn't measure its position and so did not include it in his catalog.

William Herschel (1738-1822) independently discovered it in 1789. It wasn't until 1953 when American astronomer Owen Gingerich (1930-2023) identified it as M108.

[kuiperkat]

March’s Night Sky Notes: Messier Madness

by Kat Troche of the Astronomical Society of the Pacific

What Are Messier Objects?

During the 18th century, astronomer and comet hunter Charles Messier wanted to distinguish the ‘faint fuzzies’ he observed from any potential new comets. As a result, Messier cataloged 110 objects in the night sky, ranging from star clusters to galaxies to nebulae. These items are designated by the letter ‘M’ and a number. For example, the Orion Nebula is Messier 42 or M42, and the Pleiades are Messier 45 or M45. These are among the brightest ‘faint fuzzies’ we can see with modest backyard telescopes and some even with our eyes.

Stargazers can catalog these items on evenings closest to the new moon. Some even go as far as having “Messier Marathons,” setting up their telescopes and binoculars in the darkest skies available to them, from sundown to sunrise, to catch as many as possible. Here are some items to look for this season:

M44 in Cancer and M65 and 66 in Leo can be seen high in the evening sky 60 minutes after sunset. Credit: Stellarium Web

Messier 44 in Cancer: The Beehive Cluster, also known as Praesepe, is an open star cluster in the heart of the Cancer constellation. Use Pollux in Gemini and Regulus in Leo as guide stars. A pair of binoculars is enough to view this and other open star clusters. If you have a telescope handy, pay a visit two of the three galaxies that form the Leo Triplet - M65 and M66. These items can be seen one hour after sunset in dark skies.

Locate M3 and M87 rising in the east after midnight. Credit: Stellarium Web

Messier 3 Canes Venatici: M3 is a globular cluster of 500,000 stars. Through a telescope, this object looks like a fuzzy sparkly ball. You can resolve this cluster in an 8-inch telescope in moderate dark skies. You can find this star cluster by using the star Arcturus in the Boötes constellation as a guide.

Messier 87 in Virgo: Located just outside of Markarian’s Chain, M87 is an elliptical galaxy that can be spotted during the late evening hours. While it is not possible to view the supermassive black hole at the core of this galaxy, you can see M87 and several other Messier-labeled galaxies in the Virgo Cluster using a medium-sized telescope.

Locate M76 and M31 setting in the west, 60 minutes after sunset. Credit: Stellarium Web

Messier 76 in Perseus: For a challenge, spot the Little Dumbbell Nebula, a planetary nebula between the Perseus and Cassiopeia constellations. With an apparent magnitude of 12.0, you will need a large telescope and dark skies. You can find both M76 and the famous Andromeda Galaxy (M31) one hour after sunset, but only for a limited time, as these objects disappear after April. They will reappear in the late-night sky by September.

Plan Ahead

When gearing up for a long stargazing session, there are several things to remember, such as equipment, location, and provisions:

Do you have enough layers to be outdoors for several hours? You would be surprised how cold it can get when sitting or standing still behind a telescope!

Are your batteries fully charged? If your telescope runs on power, be sure to charge everything before you leave home and pack any additional batteries for your cell phone. Most people use their mobile devices for astronomy apps, so their batteries may deplete faster. Cold weather can also impact battery life.

Determine the apparent magnitude of what you are trying to see and the limiting magnitude of your night sky. You can learn more about apparent and limiting magnitudes with our Check Your Sky Quality with Orion article.

When choosing a location to observe from, select an area you are familiar with and bring some friends! You can also connect with your local astronomy club to see if they are hosting any Messier Marathons. It’s always great to share the stars!

You can see all 110 items and their locations with NASA’s Explore the Night Sky interactive map and the Hubble Messier Catalog, objects that have been imaged by the Hubble Space Telescope.

[luvcaleb]

DO YOU WANT MORE?

nsfw (18+). includes implied marathon sex, unprotected sex, breeding, breast play, squirting, caleb fucks roughly but still does tender gestures <3, nicknames (pipsqueak is possibly the worst they could've picked for a canon nickname but this is my attempt at making it sound hot). filthy smut from top to bottom. likes and reblogs will be very helpful !!

“C'mon, pipsqueak, raise your hips.”

Caleb squeezes your waist, his thrusts changing from a deep, persistent grind that makes you feel every inch of his cock to a fast-paced pounding. You've long lost feeling in your legs, and the only thing keeping you from sprawling on the bed is Caleb's tight grip on your hips, fucking into you relentlessly from behind.

“Ah...! Wait, Caleb, haah, no more...!”

Each thrust loudly snaps the bedframe against the wall, but it isn't enough to hide the squelching noises between your legs. Slick and cum drip down your thighs, staining the sheets into ruin. They get even messier with a few more thrusts as you gush around his cock unannounced, squirting into the cum-soaked bedsheets.

Caleb groans as your cunt squeezes around him, trying to coax out more of his hot cum. “Fuck, baby, you're so tight... Feels good when your cunt sucks on my cock...”

His hand slides to your squirting pussy, rubbing circles on your clit. More slick jets out of you, soaking his palm. Squealing, you try to crawl away him him, gripping tightly on the blankets that have been slipping off the bed.

The delicious pressure against your clit releases, but Caleb pulls you back to his cock. He straightens your back to press against his chest, bottoming out in a single thrust to hit the deepest spot in your pussy. “Ngh, why are you running away? Didn't you say you'd last longer than me, pips?” He pants against your ear, hand tenderly running along your side to soothe you, yet his hips don't stop their merciless thrusts. “Or are you tapping out now?”

Perhaps hours ago, you would have answered with a vehement refusal. But now, with drool dripping from your lips constantly agape from moaning, your clit too sensitive from his insistent flicking and rubbing, and your thoroughly-fucked cunt filled with his loads of cum, the idea of calling it quits sounds appealing.

“I'll do whatever you want, baby. Just say the word,” Caleb murmurs against your skin, his lips molding over your neck to suck another hickey among the marks he already made. “If you want to stop, I'll run the bath and take care of you. We'll cuddle on the sofa and watch that new movie you've been looking forward to.”

His hips stop, having pulled all the way out, the tip barely brushing against your cunt. “But if you don't want to stop...”

Slowly, his hand travels up your torso, squeezing your tits. He plays with your nipples, evoking another gasp out of you. “I'll make you feel good. Fuck any other thought out of your mind so you'll only think of me.”

You whine as his cock rubs along your wet folds, catching on the strings of cum dripping from your pussy. The tip circles around your clit, teases at your opening, just putting it in enough to make you feel its thick girth, but he pulls out too soon.

“What will you choose, baby?”

Your hazy mind can't come up with clear thoughts, foggy from the pleasure. But forming an answer is the easiest thing to do—it's not like he left you with any other choice, anyway.

“Please fuck me, Caleb,” you sob, clinging at the arm cupping your breast. “Please put your cock inside me. Fuck me even if I tell you to stop. Cum... please cum more inside m- ahh!”

You're roughly flipped onto your back, but he holds your head softly to lay you down on the pillow. It's only at this moment that you get to see Caleb's face, brows furrowed, sweat dripping down his temples, his lip bitten red from the strain of holding back. “Shit... you really do know how to rile me up, pipsqueak.”

He looms over you, muscled arms caging you on the bed, chest heaving up and down as he pants. He fixes his position, resting his weight on his knees, and he uses his hands to spread your legs wider. His eyes are dark with lust while he stares at your abused hole, spilling cum on the sheets below you.

“Maybe this time, I really will fuck you pregnant.”

The statement doesn't even register in your mind because he immediately thrusts inside, pounding at your cervix. You gasp, aimlessly grasping at anything you could hold onto as you lose your mind, a fresh stream of cum soaking his cock.

His abs ripple with each thrust, the dirtiest groans and pants leaving his lips. “Fuck, you're so cute... cumming already when I just put it in.” Caleb leans closer, catching both of your wrists to make you wrap your arms around his neck instead of the dirty sheets. “When did you become such a pervert?” He drops his head to suck at your tits, licking your nipples.

It's your fault, you want to say, but all that leaves your mouth are noises you didn't think you were capable of making until Caleb touched you for the first time months ago, and he hasn't stopped since. You heard couples would be insatiable for the first few weeks of dating, but it feels like you're never going to go past that phase.

“Can't even speak because my dick's too good, huh?” Caleb chuckles, thumb resting on your lips. He rubs the tip of your tongue, pleased when you dart out to lick him. “You're the absolute cutest...”

The sounds between your bodies are downright lewd. His cum sloshes inside you every time he fucks you to the bed, forming a creamy ring at the base of his cock. He's filled you up so much with his huge cock and cum, that you wonder how you even have the space to breathe.

Caleb's the type to try to be quiet, but he's not holding back his moans now, groaning his pleasure against your ear.

“This feels too good, shit... Feel like I'm gonna cum soon...” He tucks the hair covering your face behind your ear, pressing a gentle kiss at the corner of your teary eyes, so different from the rough fucking he's giving to your pussy. “I'm gonna blow my load inside you. You want that, don't you?”

You nod desperately, leaning your face on his hand that's cupping your cheek. He smiles, nuzzling against you, but the sweet moment lasts only for a few seconds before he thrusts even faster, chasing his release.

“Fuck, here it comes, I'm cumming...” Caleb drives his cock the deepest it can go, his balls slapping against your ass. “Oh, fuuuuck, I'm cumming!”

Thick, hot strings of cum coat your insides once more, crammed into the tight space of your cunt. Your squirt splashes against his pelvis and abs as you moan high and reedy, scratching lines down his back. He hisses at the slight pain, spurting more cum at the feeling, and he collapses on your body, making sure not to suffocate you with his weight.

“Ah... damn... I don't think I've cum that hard in a while...” He ruffles through your hair, soothingly patting your head. “You doing okay?”

“You're too intense,” you say, your voice weak and groggy. You wrap your arms around him, content to fall asleep and let Caleb take care of things from here.

“Hey, don't fall asleep now.” He pokes your cheek, trying to stir you awake. When you open your eyes, you see Caleb smiling, the one that means he's up to no good. “After all that you said, do you really think this will end with just one round?”

[catherinnn]

Guilty as Sin

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

a blurb where Hopper catches you two in the middle of a cozy night at Lover's lake.

warnings: very smutty but (unfortunately) they can't get to anything.

masterlist

It was the middle of the night. Lover’s lake was practically empty since it was a Thursday night. But Wayne had interrupted your plans with your boyfriend when he announced that he had the day off and planned on watching a marathon of those really old movies he loves so much until he fell asleep on the couch. So the idea of watching some slasher with Eddie until getting bored and started making out was out of the question. Hence, plan B: parking at Lover’s lake to smoke, star-gaze and then a make-out session. 

You were currently in the back of the van, sat on Eddie’s lap, french-kissing him. 

His hands grab onto your waist like a dog to a bone. Your hands tangle in his hair and pull on it every so often like you know he loves. 

It isn’t until he starts to move your hips ever so lightly back and forth that it gets messy. 

You remove the leather jacket off of him, his hands get out of the sleeves to now grab your hips as if he wanted to leave marks. Tongues dance together as if it was a tango. 

Eddie was very talkative during sex usually. But there are times, like this one, where he just got lost in the moment, in your touch, in your body, and stayed quiet. Paying so closely attention to every single detail of you, that form sentences would just interrupt him.

He moves your skirt upwards to slide his hands under it and grab two handfuls of your cheeks. Moving you easier now to grind your clothed sexes together. The kiss gets even messier somehow. You lift his shirt and suddenly decide it’s getting in the way too much, so you take it off of him and throw it beside you two. 

He stops kissing your lips to move lower. One thing about Eddie is that he loves to mark you up. So his lips cling to your neck like ivy and you whisper your moans and whimpers in his ear. He keeps moving your hips to his liking. Back and forth and pushing them down harder to feel more friction. 

You can feel how your underwear gets wetter and wetter, just like he can feel his pants getting tighter and tighter. 

He nips and sucks and licks and kisses your neck with no mercy, like a lion to its haunt. 

Both of you so lost in each other that you don’t even hear the footsteps around the van. That is until a bright light is directed at both of you, scaring you and blinding you in a matter of seconds. 

“What the fuck?!” Eddie shouts, startled. And when your eyes get –kind of– used to the light, you are able to see Hopper standing there. 

“What the hell are you two doing here so late?” He asks tiredly and you get off of your boyfriend to sit next to him now, he still grabs you as if this was just a momentary interruption.

Eddie sighs. “If I said we were just talking, would you believe me?”

Hopper just looks at him unimpressed.

“Well, we were! just… quite a few minutes ago” Eddie adds.

“Kids, this is a public place, I can’t allow you to stay here and do this with no mind” 

“Oh come on, Chief! it’s called Lover’s Lake for a reason. Just give me 30 minutes and we’ll be out of here” Eddie tries to negotiate. 

“30 minutes?” Hopper bursts out laughing. “What will you do with 25 minutes of spare time after you’re done?” 

“What-?” Eddie rolls his eyes at the teasing and you have to bite down your giggle.

“You running some kind of scam, Munson? Cause I don’t see how else you landed a girl like her with this van and that hair of yours” he teases. 

That actually does make you chuckle. 

“Hop, buddy, be honest with me, we know each other well enough. Are you just jealous? When was the last time you got frisky in a van? Huh? I should lend you the keys sometime” Eddie mocks him too. 

“Alright, kid. You’re starting to piss me off. Put your shirt back on and get going. Go climb her window while her parents sleep or something, i don’t care” 

You try to get up to leave but Eddie’s hands on you tighten to stop you before you can even move forward. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, you’re kicking us out or whatever, but can we just take a second to appreciate the romance here? I mean, I parked the van under the stars with a perfect view of the lake. It’s practically poetic, man” 

You don’t even know why he keeps trying to fight with Hopper. 

“I’m tearing up, kid. Now get the hell out” 

“Let’s just go, Eds” you tell him. 

“Damn it, I get it! Public indecency and all that. But shouldn’t the police be more concerned with, I dunno, actual crimes? Rather than two –hot– consenting adults getting cozy?” he keeps rambling.

“Alright, what do you think? Should I be concerned about drugs being dealt in school instead?” Hopper throws at him.

“Alright! we’ll get out of here, officer” Eddie quickly catches the hint and gets up.

[delilahsturniolo]

— ♡ six thirty . . . c.s

in which . . . chris can’t resist fucking you in the morning

warnings . . . smut, cockwarming, unprotected sex, making out, praise, use of pet names, soft!dom!chris. (no somnophilia!!)

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

POSITIONS WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #6

it’s 6:30 a.m. and the sun hasn’t fully risen yet. the room is bathed in soft blue-gray light, quiet except for the steady hum of the fan and the lazy rustle of sheets. your eyes are half-closed, still drifting somewhere between sleep and consciousness, and chris is beside you, warm, tousled, bare-chested. his arm is already draped over your waist, fingers curling slightly like they don’t know how to let go of you even in his sleep. he shifts a little, breath warm against your neck, and then… he kisses your shoulder. slow. soft. like it’s instinct. like his mouth just belongs there. “you awake?” he murmurs, voice gravelly, ruined by sleep. you hum, pressing your back against his chest. “barely.”

“mm. good,” he whispers, nosing along your jaw. “just stay right here.” you feel him smile against your skin before his lips find your neck, slow, warm, and unhurried. it’s not a kiss meant to wake you up. it’s a kiss that says i missed you even in my dreams. you turn to face him, eyes still heavy, and he looks wrecked in the prettiest way. messy hair, swollen lips, that sleepy look in his eyes that makes your stomach flutter.

“you always kiss me like that before sunrise?” you tease, voice soft. he grins, lazy and dangerous. “only when you sleep in my shirt.” you glance down, his shirt hangs off your shoulder, thin and wrinkled. no bra. just skin and fabric and heat building between you. “you gonna start something you can’t finish, chris?” you murmur. his hand slips under the shirt, fingers grazing your hip. “not a chance.”

the kiss starts slow, just a brush of lips, lazy and sweet. then he deepens it, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist like he needs you closer. your fingers curl into his hair, tugging just enough to pull a groan from his throat. he rolls you onto your back, never breaking the kiss, moving over you like he’s done it a thousand times. his knee slots between your thighs, his mouth claiming yours again, deeper, messier. your breaths start coming faster, mouths moving like you’ve got nowhere to be. because you don’t. “you know,” he mumbles against your lips, “we could sleep in…”

“you think i’m sleeping after that kiss?” he laughs, low and warm, and then kisses you again. and again. and again. hands exploring slowly, lips trailing fire down your neck, across your collarbone, under the hem of his shirt. every touch feels like a question he’s already answered a hundred times.

his shirt rides higher up your body with every kiss, and you swear it’s the only thing keeping you from coming completely undone. his hand slips beneath it, palm warm against your stomach, fingers skimming slow, lazy circles that have you squirming underneath him. “you’re so warm,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “so soft…” you tug at his waistband, fingertips teasing just under the hem of his boxers, and he hisses through his teeth, forehead dropping to yours, breath hot. “careful,” he warns, voice low and strained. “you’re gonna make me forget how to be gentle.”

“maybe i don’t want gentle,” you whisper. that’s all it takes.

he exhales sharply, eyes flicking to yours for permission, just a flicker. and you nod, already pulling him closer, already lifting your hips to meet him. the shirt is gone first. his hands tug it up and off in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere over his shoulder. his eyes rake down your body like he’s been starving, like this is something he’s craved in secret every damn night you’ve slept next to him. and then he’s on you again, mouth on your chest, your stomach, your thighs. kissing, biting, marking you slowly. you moan into his hair, fingers tangling, pulling him closer as he takes his time with every inch of skin like it’s something sacred.

“fuck, chris,” you whisper, breath catching. he smirks against your skin. “yeah, baby? you like that?” you nod and grab his jaw, pulling him up to kiss you again, this time desperate. teeth, tongue, heat. it’s sloppy, breathless, perfect. he groans into your mouth, grinding into you with just enough pressure to make your thighs shake. he kisses you hard, and this time, there’s no teasing. no waiting. he lines himself up with your entrance, eyes locked on yours, and when he pushes himself in, you both gasp. the stretch. the heat. the way he fills you like he was made for you.

he moves slow at first, deep, deliberate, his name spilling from your lips like prayer. every thrust pulls another sound from you, every grind of his hips makes you arch and cling to him harder. he’s everywhere, in everything. the morning light catching on his skin, the rough groan in your ear, the hand on your thigh keeping you wide open for him. “chris..” you mumble, his thrusts nice and slow.

“you feel unreal,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “you are unreal.” you kiss him before you can say something too soft. but he already knows. he always knows. you reach that edge and cum together, his pace quickens, your legs tighten around him, and the air fills with broken moans and whispered curses. when it hits, it’s not just physical. it’s electric. overwhelming. consuming. like you’ve given in to something that’s been building for so long. afterward, he doesn’t move right away. just collapses against you, both of you still panting, bodies tangled and sticky and flushed.

“so…” he says eventually, grinning. “this our new morning routine?” you laugh, lips brushing his shoulder. “if it is, i’m never leaving this bed again.”he hums, trailing lazy fingers down your spine. “let me just keep my cock in you, yeah?” chris smiles, his cum and his length still stuffed inside you. and with the sun barely rising, chris wrapped around you like gravity, and your body still buzzing from him.

© delilahsturniolo

💌: shittt i missed my opportunity to do the greatest thing ever and post this at 6:30 am but i slept in!! 😭

[p0orbaby]

The Dog House

summary: leah misses date night, she tries to make it up to you

warnings: leah being leah i guess…

a/n: based off this request !

word count: 1.2k

-

Leah’s been distracted lately. It’s not that you’re not important to her—you are—but there’s a lot going on. Training, media obligations, a sudden obsession with learning to bake sourdough bread for reasons you don’t quite understand. And her house is full of these massive jars of starter that she’s named things like “Gertrude” and “Stephen” and “Samantha.” Stephen’s the strongest one, apparently. Not that you care.

You’re trying to be supportive. Really, you are. But it’s getting weird.

So when you text her a gentle reminder about date night, you’re half-expecting a response that sounds like it’s written by one of those clunky bots—like, “Of course, darling! Can’t wait to see you tonight! ❤️❤️❤️” That’s what she’d usually do. Instead, you get nothing.

Hours pass. You start to get annoyed. Then you get anxious. Then you start wondering if maybe Leah’s planning some big surprise and that’s why she’s not responding. You imagine her secretly arranging a rooftop dinner with fairy lights and a string quartet, where she’ll confess she’s been so preoccupied because she’s actually writing a book about how incredible you are.

But then you come back to reality and grasp she probably just forgot.

By 7 PM, you’re pacing around the flat, wearing the outfit you picked out two days ago—a dress you specifically bought because Leah said you looked “so fucking sexy” in red, even though it’s so tight you can’t even breathe properly. Your makeup is perfect, your hair is styled, and you’re sitting on the couch, stewing in a potent cocktail of Chanel No. 5 and disappointment.

Finally, you text her again.

> Hey, you on your way?

Nothing.

Ten minutes later, still nothing.

By 8 PM, you’re starting to wonder what the protocol is for someone forgetting a date night. Do you call? Do you show up to their house with a “We need to talk” face? Do you… dump them? No, that’s too extreme, even though it would make a great story for your friends.

Finally, at 8:13, your phone buzzes.

> Shit. Be there in 20. Promise. Don’t hate me

You almost laugh, except you’re too irritated to find anything funny right now. Twenty minutes? Twenty minutes is nothing. She probably still smells like whatever alien protein shakes she drinks after training, which you pretend to like but secretly think taste like a mix of chalk and regret.

But you wait. Because you love her. Or because you’re a sucker. Or both.

Leah arrives at 8:42, disheveled and clearly not sorry enough. She’s holding a Tesco bag, which is never a good sign. Tesco bags mean last-minute attempts at forgiveness, and you don’t care how cute she looks in her sweats.

Okay, you care a little, but still.

“I’m so sorry,” she says as she bursts through the door, dropping the bag for life onto the floor like she’s just run a marathon. “I lost track of time”

You cross your arms and give her a look. The kind of look that says, Really?

“I know, I know,” she continues, talking at a speed that suggests she’s trying to cram a day’s worth of apologies into the next thirty seconds. “I’ve been so caught up with—”

“—Stephen?”

Leah blinks. “Stephen?”

“Your sourdough. Stephen”

“Oh. Right.” Leah runs a hand through her hair, which only makes it messier. “I might’ve forgotten to feed him, too”

“I’m sure he’s devastated,” you say, deadpan.

“I’m devastated,” Leah says, doing her best impression of someone who’s sincerely regretful. She takes a step closer, giving you that puppy-dog look that normally melts you but tonight just feels like she’s trying to disarm a bomb. “But I have a plan”

You raise an eyebrow. “A plan?”

“Yeah. A plan to make it up to you.” She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet like she’s about to reveal a new Tesla or something.

You stare at her, unimpressed. “Does it involve anything that’s not in that bag?”

She laughs, and you can’t help but soften a little. She’s got this laugh that makes you feel like everything is going to be okay, even when she’s screwed up royally.

“Come on,” she says, grabbing the bag and heading to the kitchen. “Trust me. You’ll love it”

You don’t follow her immediately. You want to see how this plays out before you commit to pretending everything is okay. So you stand there in the doorway, watching as she pulls out ingredients that don’t really go together.

“Leah, what exactly are you planning to do with pickles, chocolate syrup, and a single red onion?”

She grins at you like she’s just cracked the code to the universe. “It’s a surprise”

“I’m surprised you even made it here alive if that’s what you’ve been eating lately”

Leah’s grin doesn’t waver. She’s on a mission now, and there’s no stopping her. “Look, just sit down. I’ve got this”

You sit, but mostly because your feet hurt in the heels you’re wearing and the sofa is closer than the bedroom. Leah’s bustling around the kitchen, and you can’t tell if she’s actually cooking or just making noise to buy herself more time.

Minutes later, she emerges with a tray. The tray has candles on it, which is at least a step in the right direction. Then you see what she’s made.

Two plates of what can only be described as… nachos. But they’re not nachos. They’re a weird interpretation of nachos where the tortilla chips have been replaced with some kind of protein bar, the cheese is… okay, there’s no cheese, and the toppings are just random things she found in your fridge.

She sets the tray down in front of you with the pride of a five-star chef presenting their signature dish.

“Voilà!” she announces, beaming.

You stare at the concoction in front of you, then back at her. “Leah, what the hell is this?”

“It’s my way of saying sorry”

You look at her, then at the nachos again. “You could’ve just said ‘I’m sorry’ like a normal person”

“But this is better,” she insists, her enthusiasm unwavering. “It’s like, an experience”

“Yeah, I’m experiencing regret,” you say, eyeing the “nachos” with suspicion.

Leah laughs again, this time a little sheepishly. “Okay, so maybe the food’s not great. But it’s the thought that counts, right?”

“You’re seriously expecting me to eat this?” you ask, poking at one of the protein bars with your fork like it might bite back.

Leah’s face falls just a little, and suddenly, you realise that she’s actually trying. She’s terrible at this—so, so terrible—but she’s trying.

And that’s why you love her.

“Fine,” you say with a sigh. “But if I get food poisoning, you’re sleeping on the couch”

She grins, leaning in to kiss you on the cheek. “Deal”

You end up eating the nachos. They’re awful, but Leah’s so happy you’re eating them that you can’t help but smile. She’s sitting there, watching you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the world, and you can’t help but remember that this is her way of showing she cares.

After dinner, she pulls out a bottle of wine—an actual, normal bottle of wine—and the two of you sit on the sofa, talking and laughing until you’re both too tired to keep your eyes open.

She falls asleep first, her head on your shoulder, snoring softly. You’re still a little annoyed at her, but you know she’ll make it up to you in other ways. And tomorrow, you’ll probably laugh about this whole thing.

[danysdaughter]

Come Home To Me (Pt 2)

pairing | 40s!bucky x 40s!reader

word count | 8.8k words

summary | he came home in pieces, broken but breathing, and slowly—painfully—learned how to be whole again in the arms of the woman he loved and the child he never thought he’d meet. now, with another baby on the way, and a house built from promises once whispered in wartime, james buchanan barnes is finally learning what it means to be at peace.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v sex, smut and fluff, lactation kink, post-war bucky barnes, domestic!bucky, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, parenthood, healing, slow burn recovery, baby fic, pregnancy, period-typical sexism, protective!bucky barnes, monster-in-law, dad!bucky

a/n | in honour of father's day here's some dad!bucky, and based on this request. and oh my days, everyone wants a part 2 of everything guys, lmao. and I won't lie to you guys I totally forgot about Steve.

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

divider by @cafekitsune

He came home, but it wasn’t easy.

There was no parade. No smiling reunion with a neat, happy ending. No soft fade to black.

It was harder than that. Messier.

Bucky didn’t come back whole. He came back in pieces—some broken, some missing, and some so twisted by what had been done to him that he didn’t know how to name them anymore.

At first, he didn’t sleep.

Not really.

Not more than an hour or two at a time, and even that was borrowed—fitful, heavy with sweat, jaw clenched so tight it clicked when he finally startled awake.

You kept the light on. You learned quickly not to touch him before he saw you. You moved slowly. You kept your voice low.

And sometimes, like tonight, even that wasn’t enough.

You startled awake just before it happened—some instinct in you catching the shift in the room. The tightness in his breath. The tension pulling at the air. You turned just in time to see his fingers curl into the sheets, his body twitching once, then twice—

Then the sound came.

A sharp, guttural gasp. Then a choked noise, somewhere between a cry and a growl. He jerked upright like he was being yanked by invisible hands, panting like he’d run a marathon, eyes wide and wild in the dark.

You didn’t rush.

You sat up slowly, careful not to touch him yet. “Bucky,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond. He wasn’t here yet.

“Bucky, baby—it’s me.”

His chest heaved. One hand fisted the blanket. The other trembled against his thigh. You could see the outline of the scar running down his forearm, barely catching the low light from the window.

You reached out then, slowly, and touched the back of his shoulder—warm, damp with sweat.

“Hey,” you said again, more firmly now. “You’re not there. You’re here. With me. You’re safe.”

His head snapped toward you, eyes still frantic. And then slowly, slowly, you saw the panic fade. It didn’t vanish. It never did. But it loosened its grip, just enough.

You scooted closer and slid your arms around his torso, your cheek pressing against his bare back. His skin was damp and chilled under your touch, muscles coiled tight as wire.

“You’re here,” you murmured again, letting your hand move in slow, steady circles across his chest. “You’re home. You’re in our bed. You’re not there anymore.”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

You felt the way he exhaled, like something had been knocked loose in his chest. His shoulders slumped. His hand—still trembling—came to rest over yours.

You kissed the space between his shoulder blades.

“You’re in my arms, Bucky,” you whispered. “That’s all that matters now.”

He turned then, slowly, and buried his face in your neck.

You didn’t say anything else.

You just held him.

────────────────────────

The morning came slow, gray light spilling across the floorboards, pooling in soft patches along the bedroom rug. Bucky hadn’t gone back to sleep. He rarely did after the nightmares. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, blanket wrapped tight around his waist like armor.

You were still dozing, curled under the covers behind him, one hand resting lightly where he used to be.

He stared at the metal.

At it.

The glint of it in the light made his stomach twist.

The way it didn’t move unless he willed it to. The soft, nearly silent whir when he flexed the fingers. The weight of it, always present, always reminding him.

It didn’t feel like part of him. It felt like a warning label.

Disfigured. Crippled. Not whole.

He hadn’t said those words out loud, but he’d heard them. From Hydra. From the dark, aching corners of his own mind. And he believed them, most days. Even if you didn’t.

Especially because you didn’t.

And then—

The bedroom door creaked open.

He stiffened, breath catching.

Tiny feet padded across the floor with that unbalanced, wobbly rhythm unique to toddlers. A small gasp of effort as chubby fingers gripped the edge of the bed.

“Mama?”

Your eyes fluttered open.

Jamie peeked his head over the edge, messy-haired and pajama-clad, his smile all gums and mischief. When he saw Bucky sitting there, back to him, his whole face lit up.

“Pup!”

The name hit Bucky like a punch to the chest.

He didn’t turn around.

He didn’t move.

Jamie grunted and tried to climb up himself—made it halfway before you reached over and pulled him gently into the bed, settling him beside you.

Bucky stayed frozen, shoulders tense, head bowed. His right hand curled into the blanket. The left stayed still. Cold. A weight.

Jamie didn’t seem to notice. He crawled clumsily over the mattress until he reached his father’s back and pressed a small hand—warm, sticky, unbothered—against Bucky’s spine.

“Pup…” he said again, softer this time.

You felt Bucky’s breath hitch.

He finally turned, just slightly. Enough to see Jamie’s wide eyes blinking up at him, so open, so trusting.

He lifted his metal arm an inch, then stopped.

He couldn’t do it.

“I don’t want him near this,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “I don’t want him touching it.”

You sat up slowly, Jamie still leaning against your hip. “Bucky…”

“It’s not right,” he said, voice tight. “This—this thing on me—it’s not safe. It’s not normal. What if—what if I drop him? Or he gets scared of it? What if I—hurt him?”

“He’s not scared,” you said gently. “Look at him.”

Jamie leaned forward again, unbothered by the tension in the room, babbling softly as he reached for Bucky’s hand. The metal one.

He didn’t hesitate. He wasn’t afraid.

“Pup,” he said again, gripping one thick finger and holding it in his tiny fist.

Bucky stared down at him.

And then at his hand.

Jamie didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He giggled.

Bucky made a sound then. Barely audible.

You touched his back, light and steady.

“He loves you, James,” you said. “All of you.”

Bucky looked at you, eyes wet and uncertain.

“I don’t know how to be a father,” he whispered.

You smiled, soft and aching. “You’re learning. And that's okay.”

────────────────────────

The nursery was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp near the rocker. The curtains swayed gently in the breeze from the cracked window, casting shifting shadows across the floor. The scent of lavender and baby powder lingered in the air.

You sat in the rocking chair, Jamie cradled against your chest. He was already asleep—limp with baby weight, warm and soft, his cheek squished against your shoulder, little fist curled near your collarbone.

You hummed quietly, the same old lullaby you always sang, your voice barely above a whisper.

The creak of the floorboards behind you was soft, hesitant.

You didn’t need to look to know it was him.

Bucky stood in the doorway, shoulder pressed against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He wore a sweater his mother had knit him during the war—worn thin, sleeves pushed to his elbows, exposing the steel curve of his arm where the fabric stretched too tight.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Just watched.

The expression on his face was unreadable—but his eyes… his eyes were full of something heavy. Something quiet. Something hopeful.

You shifted Jamie just slightly, brushing a kiss to his hair before looking up.

“He’s out,” you whispered. “Didn’t even make it through the first verse.”

Bucky smiled faintly, lips barely twitching.

Another pause.

Then—softly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask—he said, “Would it be okay if I tried next time?”

You blinked.

Your heart clenched.

You nodded immediately, your voice catching slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He looked down, shoulders tense like he was waiting for shame to set in anyway. “I… I just don’t want to mess it up. He’s so small. And I’m just—this isn’t exactly what they trained me for.”

You stood slowly, careful not to jostle Jamie, and walked to him—closing the space with soft, sure steps.

You reached up with one hand and brushed his hair back gently from his forehead.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you murmured. “Just present.”

He nodded, eyes shining but never quite falling.

“He already thinks the world of you, you know,” you added, glancing down at Jamie. “To him, you’re not the man Hydra tried to make you. You’re Pup.”

That broke him a little.

He stepped forward, kissed your temple, then Jamie’s soft head, his metal hand brushing your elbow—light, reverent.

“Next time,” he said again.

“Next time,” you promised.

And he stayed with you in the doorway until the room was only breathing and warmth and the soft creak of the rocking chair.

It started the way it always did now—quiet, soft, familiar.

You were curled into Bucky’s chest, the baby monitor humming faintly on the nightstand, your fingers tracing slow circles along the seam of his shirt. His arms were around you—flesh and metal—and you were safe. Always safe with him.

But tonight, the air between you felt heavier.

Not sad. Not distant.

Just… thick with something waiting.

Your hand slipped under the hem of his shirt, fingertips brushing warm skin. He sucked in a breath—almost imperceptible, but you caught it.

He always did that when you touched him now. Not because he didn’t want it. But because some part of him still couldn’t believe he deserved it.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly, your voice barely a breath against his collarbone.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he nodded. “Yeah. Just… gimme a second.”

You pulled back slightly, eyes meeting his in the dim light. “You sure?”

His gaze dropped, jaw clenched.

“I’m not what I was,” he said quietly. “Not the man you married. Not even the one you remember.”

You reached up, touched his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble there. “Neither am I.”

He looked at you again—eyes scanning your face, searching.

“I’ve got scars, Bucky. Stretch marks. Softness where there wasn’t before.”

“Don’t care about that.”

“Then why would I care about yours?”

That hit him.

He swallowed hard, then slowly pulled his shirt over his head. His chest was broader now, more muscle from the serum, more shadows carved by pain and reconstruction. The metal shoulder gleamed dully in the dark, the seams where flesh met steel jagged and raw.

You sat up, eyes on him.

Then you reached out, slow and steady, and placed your hand flat against the scarred seam of his shoulder.

He flinched. Just a little.

You leaned in and kissed it.

He closed his eyes.

Your lips trailed lower—to the angry red line that crossed his ribs, to the curve of his side, to the center of his chest. You didn’t rush. You just breathed him in.

“I still love every inch of you,” you whispered. “Even the parts you don’t.”

When he kissed you, it was different.

Slower. Reverent.

Like he needed to relearn your mouth, your breath, your shape beneath his hands.

When his hands slid under your shirt, you let him.

He paused again.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

You took his hand and placed it over your stomach, over the softness you used to be self-conscious about.

“I grew our son in this body,” you said. “How could I ever hate it?”

His eyes shimmered.

And when he touched you, he moved slowly at first.

His fingers slid your nightdress up, exposing inch after inch of skin—soft, real, yours. His hands trembled just slightly, and not from fear. From reverence. Like you were something holy he didn’t think he’d ever be allowed to touch again.

You reached up, carding your fingers through his hair. “Bucky,” you whispered, and that alone undid him.

He bent down and kissed your breast—gently at first, then with more intent, his lips closing around your nipple, tongue swirling as he moaned low in his throat. When the faintest taste of milk touched his tongue, he froze.

His breath caught.

Then he sucked harder, greedier, and you gasped.

“Oh,” you breathed, back arching into him.

He groaned, long and low, hands tightening on your hips. It was like something had snapped in him. Like this was the thing he hadn’t known he needed—your milk, your warmth, the undeniable proof of the life you’d carried while he was gone.

He drank like a man starved.

His tongue lapped, lips pulling, and when more milk spilled into his mouth he moaned again, eyes fluttering shut, like it was feeding him in ways nothing else had.

You clutched at his hair, gasping softly. “Bucky—Bucky—you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he growled against your skin, voice raw. “Please. Just let me.”

And you did.

Because how could you not?

This was his way of coming back.

Of reclaiming what he thought he’d lost.

He switched to your other breast, suckling hungrily, one hand sliding between your thighs to find how wet you were for him. His fingers brushed your folds and he groaned against your nipple.

“Christ, baby…” he murmured. “You’re dripping. All for me?”

You moaned, breathless. “Always for you.”

That undid him.

He kissed down your belly, trailing wet, desperate heat until he was between your legs—worshipping you like he hadn’t just sucked your milk like it would keep him alive. His tongue moved slow at first, savoring. Then faster, deeper, tasting everything you’d held back.

You writhed beneath him, clutching the sheets, your body breaking open under the weight of it all.

He made you come with his mouth.

Then again on his fingers.

Then slid inside you with a low, guttural moan—deep and full, like it was dragging out of the hollow part of his chest that had ached for years. Your body welcomed him without hesitation, soft and wet, pulling him in like it had missed him just as much.

His hips pressed flush to yours, breath shaking. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not yet.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

You cupped his face, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “You’re home, Bucky,” you whispered. “You’re right where you’re meant to be.”

He made a sound—half whimper, half breath—and dropped his head into the crook of your neck.

When he started to move, it wasn’t just thrusting. It was pouring. Every slow, deliberate roll of his hips felt like he was trying to bury himself deeper—like he could hide inside your body, crawl into your ribs, and finally, finally rest.

“You feel like home,” he gasped against your skin. “I don’t—I don’t wanna be anywhere else.”

You held him close, thighs wrapped around his hips, heels pressing into his back to pull him in even deeper. “You’re okay, baby,” you whispered, lips brushing his temple. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

His pace quickened, hips snapping harder now, his body trembling with the force of his own desperation. Every thrust felt like a prayer, a plea—don’t let me go, don’t let me disappear, don’t let this be a dream.

He shifted, chest heaving, and latched onto your breast again—drinking you, moaning into your skin like it was too much and not enough all at once.

“I missed this—you,” he panted, voice breaking. “Missed your voice, your body—your smell, your taste—fuck.”

You stroked his back, nails dragging lightly down the thick muscles there. “I’m here,” you breathed. “I’m not going anywhere. You can have all of me, James. As much as you need.”

He whimpered into your chest, hips driving into you harder now, deeper, almost brutal with how tightly he held on to you.

“Let me stay,” he gasped. “Please—please, let me stay.”

“Stay, baby,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes. “Stay as long as you need. I’ve got you.”

He cried when he came.

Not loud. Not broken. Just silent tears pressed into your neck as he buried himself as deep as he could and let go.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t even try.

His breathing was uneven against your neck, forehead pressed to your collarbone, arms locked around you like if he let go, he’d disappear again. His body was still trembling—small, helpless shudders that rolled through him like aftershocks.

You didn’t say anything right away.

You just held him. One hand threaded through his hair, the other drawing slow, grounding circles on his bare back. The room was warm with sweat, with breath, with the weight of everything that had just broken between you.

“You’re okay,” you whispered—not as reassurance, but as truth. “You’re here. With me. With us.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

But his grip on your waist tightened just a little.

And then, after a long pause—quiet, rough, like the words had to crawl out of his throat—he said, “I don’t know how to stop needing this.”

Your hand stroked through his hair again. “Then don’t.”

Another silence. Deeper this time.

And then he lifted his head, just slightly. His eyes were red, lashes damp, cheeks flushed—but there was something clear behind them now. Something raw. Present.

“Can I…?” His voice was barely there.

You didn’t ask what he meant.

You just nodded.

He lowered his head to your chest again, and when his mouth closed over your nipple this time, it wasn’t frantic. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was trying to take in comfort one drop at a time.

You cradled his head, holding him against your skin as he drank quietly from you.

And for the first time in a long time, he started to calm.

His breath steadied.

His hands relaxed.

And when you looked down at him—your soldier, your husband, the father of your child—he looked peaceful.

Still inside you.

Still holding on.

And for now… that was enough.

Brooklyn, Late March 1947

It wasn’t a surprise—not really.

Not after the way Bucky touched you.

After that first night, it was like something inside him broke open, and all the need he’d held back came pouring out. Gentle. Desperate. Reverent. Like he was making up for every moment Hydra had stolen, every soft breath he hadn’t been allowed to take.

He took you almost every night. Sometimes with a quiet tenderness, other times with a hunger so sharp it left you breathless. Always with his hands on your skin like he couldn’t believe you were real.

So when you missed your period in March, it wasn’t shock you felt.

It was a heavy, low ache in your chest.

And exhaustion.

You stood in the bathroom that morning, palm flat on your belly, heart already beating with that frantic rhythm that came with too much, too fast.

Jamie was still a baby. Barely over a year and a half. His little hands still reached for you when he was sleepy, his cries still piercing when he was scared. You were still learning how to mother one child, still writing columns for the Brooklyn Standard, still keeping the household moving while Bucky tried to find his footing.

And Bucky…

Bucky was working again.

He’d taken up his father’s old job at the auto garage, the one on 32nd and Vine. It helped. The clank of tools, the grit under his nails, the old-school rhythms of fixing something broken—it made sense to him in ways people didn’t yet.

The other workers had gotten used to the way he worked in silence. The way he flinched at loud bangs. How his left arm lifted entire engines with ease, metal flexing like it was born to carry weight. He could lift a Buick’s rear axle with one hand and loosen bolts with the other.

Sometimes, you watched from the office window when you came to drop off lunch.

He looked powerful. Capable.

Grounded.

When you told him, his reaction was quiet.

He didn’t speak right away—just blinked, mouth parted slightly, eyes darting to your belly and back.

Then he said softly, “Really?”

You nodded, eyes stinging.

And Bucky—he smiled. Small at first. Then a little wider, with a kind of quiet, aching joy that made your stomach turn. “We can do this,” he said. “I can do this. This time… I’ll be here.”

His arms wrapped around you gently, hands spreading across your lower back. You felt the warmth of him, the certainty in his body, how right it all felt.

And yet—

You didn’t return the smile.

Not fully.

────────────────────────

Later that night, when Jamie was asleep and Bucky was already dozing off with an arm thrown over his eyes, you sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall.

“You know I always wanted more than marriage and housewives and babies, right?”

You’d told him that once—your arms around his neck, your chin lifted high. And he’d smiled and said, “That’s not what I’m askin’ for. I want you, just how you are. Loud and brash and brilliant. I just want to be yours — proper.”

Now?

Now you were here.

Pregnant. Again.

Barely thirty, but your life felt like it had already been folded and sorted into tidy categories—mother, wife, columnist, survivor.

And Bucky… he was trying, God, he was trying—but the tremors still came sometimes. The nights when he wouldn’t let you touch his left side. The way he kept a knife hidden in the drawer under the sink, even though the war was over.

You placed a hand against your stomach and whispered, “I don’t know if we’re ready.”

And in the stillness, it felt like a confession.

The afternoon light was soft, slanting in through the living room window, catching dust motes in its gold-tinted glow. The radio murmured in the background—something jazzy, low and warm—but neither of you were listening.

You were at the far end of the couch, folding laundry with practiced motions—Jamie's overalls, one of Bucky's undershirts, a baby sock so small it barely looked real. The rhythm of it felt grounding, mechanical. Something to keep your hands busy while your mind wandered.

On the floor, Jamie was giggling—sharp, delighted peals of laughter—because Bucky had taken to the rug on his back, letting Jamie clamber over him like a mountaintop. His thick hair was mussed from small fingers, and his sweater was twisted at the hem where Jamie had pulled it.

“Careful with your old man,” Bucky chuckled, grabbing gently at Jamie’s belly to make him squeal. “He’s got mileage.”

Jamie bounced and babbled nonsense, eyes bright.

You smiled.

But it didn’t reach your eyes.

Bucky noticed.

He watched you between Jamie’s squeals—your soft half-smile, the faint downturn at the corners of your mouth, the quiet way your eyes kept drifting from the pile of clothes to the floor, like gravity was pulling your thoughts somewhere heavier than the room allowed.

You folded the same shirt twice.

And Bucky knew.

So when Jamie had crawled off into a tired, milk-heavy nap, and you were still folding slowly—deliberately—he shifted on the floor and leaned back against the couch, his legs stretched out, fingers tapping lightly against the wood grain.

He didn’t look at you when he said it.

“Is it the baby?”

You blinked.

The shirt in your hand went still.

You turned to look at him, startled. “What?”

He turned his head, met your eyes now—those soft gray-blues always full of something aching when it came to you.

“You’ve been quieter since you told me. Distant.”

“I’m just tired, James.”

He tilted his head. “No. It’s more than that.”

You let out a breath. “I’m not distant. I’m not… I’m fine.”

He didn’t move, but his jaw worked once. Twice. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.”

You stopped.

There was a long silence.

Then:

“It’s just soon,” you said finally. Your voice was low. Not ashamed—just cautious. “Jamie’s still so little. And I’m still working. And you’re still healing, Buck. You barely sleep some nights. You flinch when the wrench clanks too hard at the garage. And now… another baby?”

His throat moved, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I told you, back when you asked me to marry you—I wanted more than this. Not *ust marriage and diapers and—”

“I know.”

“I know you're not the same the man I married, Bucky.” You bit your lip, then softened. “But I still love you. I just… don’t know if I’m the woman you married anymore, either.”

He was quiet.

Then he reached up—rested his flesh hand on your knee, fingers warm and a little rough from the garage.

“You don’t have to be thrilled. You just have to be honest with me.”

You looked down at him.

There was no judgment in his face. Just the same soft, aching gaze. And the faintest tremble at the corner of his mouth, like he was worried this was the part where you'd pull away for good.

There was a long silence between you. The kind that filled the whole room, soft but heavy, like the lull after a storm that hadn’t quite passed.

Your fingers tightened around the fabric in your lap. Jamie’s little onesie, blue with tiny ducks on the trim.

You smoothed it once. Twice.

Then said, very quietly, “I did it all alone last time.”

His brows furrowed.

You didn’t look at him.

Your voice stayed steady—but only just.

“Not because I wanted to. Not because I thought I could. Because I had to.”

The words didn’t tremble, but your shoulders did. Just slightly. Enough for him to notice.

“I worked until I couldn’t stand. I wrote columns and took the train to the office, waddling up and down those damn subway steps like a marching cow. I gave birth with a stranger’s hand in mine. I came home with stitches and a screaming baby and no clue what the hell I was doing.”

You swallowed.

“I got up at two a.m. every night to feed Jamie. I wrote pieces between feedings, between diaper changes, between crying. And when he got sick that first time and I thought he wasn’t gonna make it through the night?” You blinked hard. “I sat in the bathroom with the door closed so he wouldn’t hear me cry.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched against your knee.

“I know it’s not your fault,” you said quickly, looking at him now—finally. “I know it’s not. You didn’t choose what happened. You didn’t leave because you wanted to. But you were gone. And I had to do it all. Every goddamn piece of it. Alone.”

There was no accusation in your voice. Just tired honesty.

“And I don’t know if I have it in me to do it again. Not right now. Not when Jamie’s still in diapers. Not when I’m just starting to find me again. The me who writes. Who sleeps. Who laughs without holding my breath.”

You exhaled slowly. Carefully.

“I want this baby,” you said. “I do. But I’m so scared I’ll disappear again. That I’ll become someone I don’t recognize.”

Bucky didn’t speak right away.

He just reached for your hand—slow and careful, like he was afraid you'd pull away.

You didn’t.

His fingers closed around yours. His metal hand stayed on the floor, steady and still.

Then he looked up at you, eyes glassy and dark.

“I hate that I wasn’t here.”

You opened your mouth—but he shook his head gently.

“Don’t—don’t tell me it wasn’t my fault. I know that. I know it in my head. But in here—” He tapped his chest once, hard. “I still hate it. That you had to carry all that. That I wasn’t there to see our son take his first breath. Or his first steps. Or help you when you were too damn tired to even remember your name.”

He blinked, slow and careful. “But I’m here now. For this. For you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Your throat tightened.

“I want to be the man who gets up at two a.m. this time,” he said. “Who wraps you up when you cry and holds the baby when you’re too tired to move. Let me carry it now. Let me help.”

You looked at him—really looked—and for the first time since the test came back positive, something inside you cracked open.

Not with fear.

But with a strange, aching kind of relief.

You didn’t have to do this alone.

Not this time.

And it didn’t fix everything. But it was enough for right now.

Brooklyn, July 11, 1947 – five months later

The air was thick with summer.

Not the good kind either. Not the romantic kind with lemonade and linen dresses and soft breezes off the Hudson. No, this was the suffocating kind—sun like hot glass pressing down on your skin, sweat prickling your neck, your five-months-pregnant belly making everything clingy and itchy and ugh.

And the backyard? A minefield of frosting-smudged toddlers, collapsing balloon animals, overturned paper plates, and parents with that glazed “we’ve been here too long” expression.

You should have said no.

But Winnifred Barnes had insisted.

“It’s a milestone, darling. He’s two. That’s important.”

You wanted to ask her if she planned to throw a sweet sixteen for every time her grandson figured out how to say truck.

Instead, you’d gritted your teeth and said, “Of course, Mrs. Barnes.”

Now she was here—in full force.

Hair set. Pearls on. Wearing pale blue like she’d come straight from a tea party in 1923. She moved through her backyard with the confidence of a general inspecting the troops.

“Oh no, dear,” she said now, reaching over and rearranging the napkins you had just set out. “Diagonal folds. Much more polished.”

You stared at her.

Then at the napkins.

Then at your swollen feet.

She smiled sweetly, patted your arm like you were simple, and moved on.

From across the yard, Bucky was crouched next to Jamie by the kiddie table, showing him how to twist the birthday candle so it looked like a little spiral. He looked up once, squinting against the sun. When he saw you? His brows furrowed. He could read you in an instant now.

Which wasn’t hard.

Because your eye was twitching.

Winnifred reappeared beside you. “Are you sure you want to keep the ice cream cake outside? It’ll melt in minutes. Maybe I should call the bakery and ask if they’ve got a freezer—”

You exhaled. Slowly.

If you didn’t sit down soon, someone was going to lose a limb.

And it wasn’t going to be one of the toddlers.

────────────────────────

The heat inside the kitchen was worse than outside.

Maybe it was the open oven door. Maybe it was the sunlight pouring through the lace curtains. Or maybe it was just her.

Winnifred stood like a statue beside the counter, frowning down at the stack of mismatched plates you’d just set out. She didn’t say anything for a moment. Just pursed her lips and gave a slow, pointed sigh.

You braced yourself.

“That pattern doesn’t match the napkins,” she said finally, voice light as chiffon. “You’re going for a circus theme, aren’t you? The polka dots on those plates make it feel a bit more… luncheonette.”

You turned slowly from the sink, drying your hands on a dish towel.

“Winnifred, they’re plates. For toddlers. Who are currently trying to eat glitter glue.”

“Well, you never know who’s going to notice. Presentation matters.” She offered you that clipped smile again—the kind that was more threat than warmth. “I do want Jamie’s party to be something people remember.”

You stared at her. “You want?”

She blinked, her expression slipping for just a second.

You took a step closer. “I never wanted this party. I never asked for it. You did.”

Winnifred folded her arms. “Yes. Because someone had to. Someone had to step in.”

You scoffed. “Because I’m just failing left and right, aren’t I?”

“I didn’t say that,” she replied, lifting her chin. “But you do look… overwhelmed. The pregnancy. The boy. The job. It’s understandable. You’ve never really—well, you weren’t raised for this sort of life.”

You set the towel down hard on the counter. “You mean I wasn’t raised to be a housewife. Yeah. You’re right. I wasn’t.”

“I know,” she said, almost too softly. “That’s why I made sure this was here. At our home. Jamie deserves something. Since he didn’t even have a party last year—”

You froze.

Then turned to her fully, eyes sharp. “Sorry. I was in mourning. And up all night nursing a colicky infant while dealing with postpartum. And bleeding. And living off dry toast. Sorry I didn’t manage balloons and a clown.”

Winnifred tsked. “You young women and this postpartum nonsense. When I was your age I had James and Rebecca to deal with and I never complained. Women today just can’t handle—”

“Ma.”

Bucky’s voice sliced through the kitchen like a whip.

You hadn’t heard him come in.

He stood just inside the doorway, holding Jamie on one hip. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were cold.

Jamie blinked between you both, chewing on a toy horse.

Bucky’s voice was low, controlled—but sharp. “Don’t ever talk to my wife like that again.”

Winnifred looked up, startled. “James—”

“No.” He shifted Jamie slightly and pointed at her with his free hand. “She’s raising our son. Carrying our baby. Holding this whole damn family together. And you? You’re throwing plates and guilt at her like she owes you something.”

You swallowed hard, blinking quickly.

“She’s not overwhelmed,” Bucky continued. “She’s tired. Because she works her ass off. Because she didn’t just throw this party—she survived a war without me. She did the hardest parts alone.”

Winnifred opened her mouth. Closed it.

“Go lie down, sweetheart,” Bucky said to you, voice softening as he turned. “I’ve got this.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, turning back to the sink.

“No, you’re not,” he said gently. “And you don’t have to be.”

He crossed the room, pressed a kiss to your temple, and murmured, “I’ll deal with her. Go.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking to his mother—who looked like she’d bitten into a lemon.

But your legs were aching. Your back was sore. And your throat… your throat was thick with the words you hadn’t dared say.

So you nodded.

And left the kitchen.

As the door swung behind you, you heard Bucky’s voice again—low, cold, and full of steel.

“She’s not just my wife. She’s everything. And I won’t let you make her feel less than that ever again.”

────────────────────────

Bucky had never been so overwhelmed in his life.

Not during basic training. Not during covert ops. Not even that one time Steve broke a rib in the alley and he had to drag him home without making it look like Steve was half-dead.

This?

This was war.

“Where’s the juice—” someone called.

“He just took a bite out of the balloon!”

“James! James, the ice cream’s melting faster than we’re serving it!”

Bucky pivoted, a frown etched deep into his brow, trying to focus on five problems at once. He was sweating in his button-down, his hair was starting to curl at the temples, and the paper plate tower had just been knocked over by a baby wielding a party hat like a sword.

He rushed to pick them up.

Then someone tugged on his pants leg. “Excuse me? I think this one just put a crayon in their ear—”

He stood up too fast and knocked his head on the edge of the table canopy. “Jesus Christ.”

He hadn’t even noticed Jamie had gone quiet until he turned and found his son squinting into the sun, lips turned down in that telltale I’m about to lose it pout.

“Nope,” Bucky muttered, crouching fast. “No sir, you are not about to melt down on me—c’mere.”

He scooped Jamie up and stood, feeling the boy’s sweaty forehead press against his neck.

Jamie groaned softly, wriggled. “No nap. Wanna bounce.”

“I know, buddy. But you’re already gettin’ floppy on me.” He looked around, breath short. “I can’t—I gotta do like three things in the next—”

“I got it.”

Rebecca appeared at his side, hands already smoothing the tablecloth, her lipstick slightly smudged from chasing kids around with juice boxes.

“I’ll handle it,” she said. “Go get him down before he turns into a gremlin.”

“You sure?”

“Buck.” She gave him a look. “You’re sweating like a bootlegger and look two seconds from crying. Go.”

He sighed in relief, shifted Jamie on his hip. “Thanks, Becs.”

She smiled faintly, and he kissed her temple.

Then, muttering a trail of reassurances to Jamie, he ducked into the house and up the stairs, heading for the quietest place he could find.

Bucky paced with Jamie in his arms, whispering every half-baked lullaby he could remember from his own childhood.

“Down in the valley, the valley so low…”

Jamie squirmed. Whined.

Bucky tried bouncing. Rocking. Whispering nonsense.

“You got a real stubborn streak, huh? That from me or your ma?”

Jamie didn’t answer. Just blinked slowly, one chubby hand gripping the collar of Bucky’s shirt like a tiny grappling hook.

“Y’know,” Bucky muttered, blowing out a breath as he leaned against the banister, “this party was a dumb idea.”

A grunt. A hiccup. The threat of a wail.

“Okay, okay, alright—deal, soldier. Truce.”

Eventually, after what felt like the longest twenty minutes of Bucky’s entire war-decorated life, Jamie’s little body began to soften in his arms, the fight draining out of him in sleepy spurts.

“Yeah, that’s it…” Bucky murmured, brushing a hand down the boy’s damp hair. “Just needed some quiet, huh? Me too, pal. Me too.”

He moved toward the guest room—his old room, the one he’d once shared with Steve for a summer, the one that still had baseball posters peeling off the walls and a crooked shelf that leaned like it missed him.

He opened the door quietly.

You were there.

Fast asleep.

One arm curled under your head, the other resting lightly across the belly he hadn’t even realized he’d been watching rise and fall. Your hair was mussed from the pillow. Your mouth parted slightly in the softest breath. You looked like a painting.

Jamie lifted his head.

Saw you.

And without warning, he squirmed down from Bucky’s arms with surprising toddler stealth, thumping to the bed, crawling up over the mattress on his own steam.

“Mama,” he murmured, so soft it barely qualified as a word.

He tucked himself right into your side like a puzzle piece, nose to your chest, fingers curling in the hem of your sleeve.

And that was it.

Out like a light.

Bucky didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move for a long moment.

He just watched.

And something in his chest ached with it—that sharp, tender ache that came from seeing something too good and wondering if he ever deserved it.

He stepped in quietly, grabbed the thin blanket at the foot of the bed, and pulled it gently up over both of you. You didn’t stir, just shifted slightly as Jamie’s little body pressed closer.

Bucky knelt down beside the bed for a moment, resting his arm on the edge, his metal fingers brushing your wrist where it peeked out from the blanket.

His voice was barely a whisper. “Thanks for doing this. All of this. Even when you’re tired. Even when I don’t make it easy.”

He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. Then Jamie’s soft curls.

Then, with one last glance, he sat on the floor beside the bed, back to the wall, and let the quiet take him too.

Brooklyn, December 15, 1947

The snow came early that winter.

Fine powder drifted down in quiet flurries, brushing rooftops in white, coating the windows with thin frost. Brooklyn’s streetlights glowed dim and golden through the haze, casting long reflections in the puddles turned to ice.

And inside Metro General Hospital, on a night that bit straight through bone, a girl was born.

It wasn’t easy.

Nothing about your life had been easy—and bringing Maggie into it followed suit. It was long, and painful, and loud in a way that seemed to crack something open in the walls themselves.

You clutched Bucky’s hand through most of it, dug your nails in when it got bad, and when it felt like you might break apart entirely, he just held you harder.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. You’ve got this.”

“Breathe. That’s it, baby—breathe through it.”

“I’m here. Right here.”

You didn’t let go.

Not even once.

And then—just as the wind screamed outside and the city howled with midnight cold—she arrived.

Ten fingers. Ten toes. Red, slick, screaming like she had something to prove.

She filled the room with sound, punched her little lungs full of breath like the world owed her from the second she landed in it.

And Bucky—God.

He swore he forgot how to breathe.

The nurse placed her on your chest and you both stared, blinking in disbelief. You were crying—tired, open-mouthed, whole-body crying. But he wasn’t sure he was making a sound.

Because Maggie.

Maggie wasn’t Jamie.

Jamie had been all soft cheeks and blue-gray eyes. A mirror of Bucky, from the moment he first opened his eyes.

But Maggie?

Maggie looked like you.

Right down to the slope of her nose, the dark lashes fluttering weakly against her flushed cheeks, the deep color of her eyes (even if it was still that muddy newborn gray). Her skin, dusky with warmth. Her little mouth shaped just like yours.

You were whispering to her—he couldn’t even make out the words. Your lips trembled, your fingers stroked her back, your whole body curled around her instinctively. Protectively.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered. “Hi, babygirl.”

And Bucky?

He sat there beside the bed, one hand on your thigh, the other trembling on the rail.

His whole chest ached. Like something holy had just cracked open inside it.

The doctor said something about congratulations. The nurse asked for a name.

And without even looking at each other, you both answered.

“Magnolia.”

“Winnifred.”

There wasn’t hesitation. Just agreement. Your mothers' names. The names fell like prayers. Like promises. Names that made each of you feel safe.

Magnolia Winnifred Barnes.

Maggie, for short.

You looked up at Bucky with swollen eyes and a tired smile and said, “She’s got my ma’s nose.”

And Bucky laughed.

Choked on it, really.

“She’s you,” he said, his voice thick. “God—she’s all you.”

She stayed curled against you that night, pink and snuffling and impossibly tiny. And when Bucky finally reached out, tentative, she curled her hand around his metal finger like it wasn’t any different from the rest of him.

He stared down at that small grip for a long, long time.

And then he kissed your forehead, kissed his daughter’s hair, and whispered into the warm silence between the three of you—

“I’m never letting go.”

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, December 1947 – A Week Later

The city was asleep.

At least, most of it.

Beyond the frosted windows, streetlamps cast faint pools of light on the empty sidewalks, and the radiator hissed softly, its steam like a lullaby. The apartment was warm, but still felt too small. Two bedrooms, four heartbeats, and a thousand things left unsaid in the quiet.

The monitor on the nightstand crackled.

And then it came—the sound. Thin, sharp, fragile.

A newborn’s cry.

You stirred instinctively, muscle memory from Jamie kicking in. Your body was sore, still healing, still not quite your own. But you moved anyway, your breath catching slightly as you started to sit—

A hand pressed gently to your stomach.

“Mm-mm,” Bucky’s voice rumbled low, not fully awake but firm. “I got it.”

Your brow furrowed, half-protesting.

“James, I—”

“Sleep,” he murmured. His hand didn’t lift. “You’ve done enough.”

You blinked up at him in the dark.

The room smelled like him. Like soap and starch and a trace of milk still drying into the sheets. His eyes barely opened as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll take care of her.”

And just like that—your body relaxed.

Because you trusted him. Not just with Maggie. With everything.

The bed dipped as he rose, bare feet padding across the old floorboards. The baby monitor hissed again. Another cry. A hiccup. Then the creak of the nursery door opening.

You rolled to your side, one hand resting across the empty part of the bed, and exhaled.

He had her.

And you let yourself fall asleep to the distant, muffled sound of your husband whispering in the dark.

────────────────────────

The nursery was dim, cast in the pale blue glow of the nightlight shaped like a rabbit, soft shadows spilling across the wallpaper with tiny painted stars. The air smelled faintly of powder and warm cotton, quiet except for the rhythmic hum of the radiator and the high-pitched fussing of a newborn.

Bucky opened the door slowly, careful not to let it creak. He padded inside barefoot, his gray tee clinging slightly to the sweat along his spine, his hair mussed from sleep.

Jamie was already awake.

The toddler stood beside Maggie’s crib, clutching the rails in his small hands, curls tousled and pajama legs rumpled. His sleepy eyes blinked up at his father, wide and sincere.

“Baby crying,” he said solemnly, pointing with one chubby finger toward his sister.

Bucky’s heart did that thing—it squeezed a little too tightly in his chest, pulled by something so small and overwhelming he could barely breathe around it.

“Yeah,” he said softly, crouching beside him. “She is.”

Jamie’s lower lip stuck out slightly, not in a pout, but in quiet concern. His voice was soft, like he didn’t want to make it worse. “She sad?”

“Maybe a little,” Bucky said. “Or maybe she just wants someone to hold her.”

He rose slowly and leaned over the crib, scooping Maggie up with practiced ease. She was small but squirmy, red-faced and warm, her cries more frustration than panic. Bucky held her close to his chest, one hand supporting her head, the other wrapping securely around her tiny body.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I got you.”

Jamie watched intently, his head tilted as he followed every movement. Bucky gently rocked her, pacing a slow circle in the nursery. Maggie’s cries stuttered, caught, then ebbed into hiccups as her body relaxed against his shoulder.

“Sorry she woke you up, buddy,” Bucky said over his shoulder, voice low.

Jamie stepped forward and touched his father’s leg, patting it twice like he was giving reassurance instead of asking for it. “Is okay.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched into something like a smile.

Maggie was starting to settle, her whimpers softening into sleepy sighs. Bucky adjusted her in his arms and sat down carefully on the edge of the rocking chair, patting her back with slow, rhythmic taps. Her little hand curled into his shirt, breath still uneven but beginning to slow.

Just as he was about to start humming, the sound of soft footsteps padded across the wooden floor.

Jamie, with his curls fluffed from sleep and his tiny socks slightly crooked, toddled toward the chair. In his hand was one of his worn picture books, corners slightly chewed, the spine taped clumsily from how often it had been loved.

He held it up wordlessly to Bucky.

“For baby,” he said, voice sleepy but serious. “Story helps.”

Bucky blinked—something about the suggestion, so pure and earnest, swelled hot and tight in his chest.

“Yeah?” he said, voice rough with sleep and something deeper. “That’s a good plan, pal.”

He patted his thigh.

“C’mon up.”

Jamie clambered onto his lap with practiced ease, nestling himself into the right side of his father’s chest, legs tucked sideways and head resting against Bucky’s shoulder. He handed the book over solemnly, and Bucky took it with one hand, careful not to jostle Maggie.

She shifted slightly, her little head resting against his collarbone now, her breath beginning to even out.

“Alright,” Bucky said, opening the book slowly with his right hand, “let’s see what happens tonight in the land of Mr. Fox and his missing socks.”

Jamie giggled quietly.

Maggie let out one last soft sigh, the kind that let him know she was almost asleep.

And Bucky—holding one kid against his chest and the other in the crook of his arm—began to read.

Voice low.

Warm.

Steady.

Wrapped in the hush of the night, his words filled the small room like a lullaby.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling.

Brooklyn, June 1948 — 5 Months Later

“You’re going to kill us,” you said flatly, fingers gripping the edges of the blindfold. “I hope you know that.”

Bucky only chuckled from the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the open window. “You’ve got no faith in me.”

“I’ve seen your parking,” you snapped. “And you’ve had me blindfolded for fifteen minutes—what if I get carsick? Or die? Or both?”

“Then at least you’ll die surprised,” he said cheerfully.

You groaned and shifted in your seat. “Bucky—”

“Pup!” Jamie interrupted from the back, kicking his little legs in the car seat. “I see cow! Cow, Pup! Cow!”

“Yeah, buddy?” Bucky glanced into the rearview mirror, grin growing. “You see a cow?”

“COWWWWW!” Jamie howled again, full toddler volume. You winced.

“I swear, if this is a field trip to a barn—”

“Shh,” Bucky said, patting your knee. “We’re almost there.”

From the backseat, Maggie let out a delighted little babble—one of those sweet, vowel-heavy sounds that came with spit bubbles and gurgled giggles.

“She agrees with me,” you said, still suspicious. “This is a trap.”

Bucky only hummed, the car rumbling steadily underneath as he took another turn. You could smell summer through the open windows—fresh-cut grass, warm pavement, the faint scent of wildflowers on the wind.

Jamie began narrating the drive in the only way a toddler could—“TREE! ROAD! BIRD! TREE AGAIN!”—and Maggie added her own commentary in bubbly, contented noise.

And still… the blindfold stayed on.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you muttered, “you better not be kidnapping me.”

He reached over briefly, squeezing your thigh. “Almost there,” he said, softer this time.

Something about his voice made your heart skip.

Almost.

The car came to a gentle stop, engine purring into silence.

You were still muttering under your breath as Bucky got out, the door shutting with a soft click. “This better not be a weird roadside diner,” you grumbled. “I swear to God, if you blindfolded me for a tuna melt, I’m pushing you into traffic.”

“Noted,” he said, entirely too amused.

He unbuckled Jamie first, then Maggie, and their little sounds and fidgeting filled the car like background music to your ongoing skepticism. You heard Jamie chirp excitedly, “House, Pup?” but it didn’t register—not really.

Bucky came around to your side, opened your door, and carefully helped you out, guiding you like you were made of glass.

“Alright,” you muttered, still blindfolded, one hand gripping his bicep. “This is where you reveal you’ve secretly joined a cult.”

“Shut up and walk.”

You felt grass underfoot.

Then a sidewalk.

Then gravel crunching softly.

“James…” you warned. “I swear if you got me a goat—”

The blindfold lifted.

You blinked hard against the sudden light, eyes adjusting to warm sun and white paint and red brick. A small, two-story house stood in front of you—charming in the way that made your throat tighten. A porch with peeling steps. Big windows. A yard that needed mowing but not fixing.

It looked… real.

Lived-in.

Possible.

You turned to him slowly, confused. “What is this?”

Bucky’s face was quiet, soft.

“The job at the auto shop pays good,” he said. “Especially with the hours I take. Been putting away every bit of it.”

You looked back at the house. At the porch. At the way the sun caught the little windows upstairs.

“There’s three bedrooms,” he added. “One for us. One for Jamie and Maggie. A backyard for them to run in. Room to grow.”

You swallowed.

Hard.

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded paper—something official. He didn’t show you. Just held it like it made it more real.

“And one day,” he said, eyes meeting yours, “when I come home for good, I’m gonna carry you over the threshold of a real house. Big porch. Little garden. No leaky faucets.”

The words hit like a heartbeat echoing in your ribs.

You remembered them. That promise. More than five years ago. Whispered back when the world was black-and-white and full of war and waiting. You’d both been so young, terrified, full of hope you didn’t dare say out loud.

And now?

Now he stood in front of you, older, stronger, a little cracked—but whole. Holding this life in his hands like it had weight.

Like he meant it.

Your eyes prickled.

You looked at the house again.

Then at him.

And for the first time in a long, long time… you felt the tight coil in your chest loosen.

Because Bucky Barnes hadn’t just come home.

He’d built one. For you.

[bamboobooshark]

MOON BOYS X READER

₊˚.⋆🕯️⋆⁺. FIRST NIGHT TOGETHER : 4.2K WRDS

A/N : Originally, my goal with these preferences was to try write more than 1k words. I ended up writing a lot more as you can tell by the word count! I’m really proud of myself for that to be honest. Anyway, here’s some preferences for staying at the Moon Boys’ flat for the first night after spending some time with them. Warning for a pinch of angst with Steven’s, anxiety with Marc’s, and badly written Spanish in Jake’s (sorry </3)

STEVEN GRANT .

You and Steven have been friends for a while now. Both of you moved into the same apartment building around the same week. With the agreement to make the most of it, the two of you decided you would meet up every evening after Steven’s shift to talk.

Sometimes you guys would simply talk and you’d give him a ride home since he didn’t have a license. Other times, you’d greet each other with the goofiest grins with the knowledge that you planned an outing or movie night together.

Earlier today, he came beaming to you at your guys’ usual hang-out spot about how a coworker of his asked him out. The stars were fresh in the sky, the sun only had set a little bit ago. The wind was getting his thick curls messier than they already had been from his long work day. He squinted while looking for you and immediately smiled when he found you. The last thing you would’ve expected was for him to tell you about going on a date with his coworker, let alone someone he barely knew.

He was doing his usual when he was excited; talking with his hands, exaggerating his facial expressions, changing his tone with each little word.

As much as you were admiring him at that moment, it did wring your heart dry. Hearing him ramble about how excited, happy, and confident he was about this date felt like a stab in the chest. You didn’t know why.

You had never felt the need to stop him from doing something. Hell, you always encouraged Steven to follow his heart and do what he desired. At that moment, you were regretting it heavily. All the encouragement. All the praising. All the pep talks. All of it led up to him accepting a date with one of his damn coworkers.

“You alright? Got something bothering you, mate? Hello,” he had asked with concern. He stopped with the exaggeration for a second to check up on you. You couldn’t convince yourself that man didn’t have feelings for you. Yet, you shook your head no and shrugged your shoulders. You hated having to lie to him or try to shove your feelings to the side. “It’s nothing. Just happy for you! I can’t believe someone finally asked you out,” you explained to him with your hand on his bicep. It lingered there for a moment before slowly sliding down to his forearm, and wrist, and settling on his hand. His pulse was a little fast as you had felt it throb under your thumb. Both of you gave each other an unnecessarily long but welcomed gaze. His pulse quickened.

Steven got a bit flushed and instinctively pulled his hand out from under your palm. The bench beneath your hand was cold and wet from the rain earlier today. You were already missing the warmth of his flesh, but he was right fucking in front of you.

“Why does this hurt so bad,” you ask yourself now as you sit on your bed. You’ve been asking yourself this since you got back to your flat. You’re beating yourself up for thinking about him so much. “That bitch doesn’t even know him! I don’t know why she thinks she deserves a second of his time. She’s not nearly enough for him. She’s not good enough for him,” you growl to yourself in anger. Out of your rage, you start to do something that you never do unless Steven’s over. You grab some popcorn, slam it in the microwave, and impatiently get your couch ready for a movie marathon.

“I bet he only gave her a chance because she’s so far out of his league that he would’ve felt bad about rejecting her. Maybe Donna treats her better than she treats Steven so she’s using him to get some praise and maybe a promotion,” you mutter through gritted teeth while walking around your flat, tossing pillows and throwing blankets onto your couch.

Then comes a knock. You and Steven’s knock. The one that lets you two know you’re the one who’s knocking. Your rage pauses as you stand there in silence. “Hiya… The date didn’t go too well, just letting you know. I’ll be in my flat if you need me,” he explains to you before you hear him walk off. Your heart that was previously wrung of all concern for him as he explained the situation to you earlier soaked up his words like a sponge.

You internally debated what the best thing to do would be. However, your brain interrupts itself when the microwave begins beeping. A groan leaves your lips as you shuffle over to grab the popcorn. You hold the bag in your hands before realizing that this is the solution. This was what would help Steven feel better. A movie marathon together. You and him alone, cuddled up on the couch, snacking on popcorn, making the dumbest comments as you both watch.

You take no time throwing on your pajamas, grabbing your phone, and getting anything else you need while the popcorn cools on the counter. It almost falls on the floor when you try to grab it the first time, but you thankfully catch it. You run out your door, walk a few feet, and knock on Steven’s. “Steven, can we have a movie night together? Please,” you plead. You know he can be a bit selfless sometimes, but you need him to know you’re concerned about him right now. No excuses, no lies. “I just wanna do something to cheer you up. You sounded so sad when you were at my door earlier. I’m sorry for not answering. I’m here for you now,” you anxiously ramble before his figure greets you. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt. Don’t have work tomorrow either,” he comments as the slightest smile begins to creep onto his face.

The two of you let out a deep sigh once you’re settled on his bed. He explained he didn’t want to sit on the couch because he wanted to be comfortable. Feeling pity for him, you quickly accepted his request for you guys to get cozy under his covers.

“There we go! Much better, yeah,” he asks while looking at you. Despite Steven’s flat being dark aside from his laptop screen, his eyes seem to be softer. His gaze reminds you of the moment you shared earlier. His flesh getting warmer. His pulse throbbed quicker under your touch.

“Now, let me just get my computer going,” he murmurs, pulling you out of your memories. You smile back at him and nod softly. A soft giggle leaves your lips as he awkwardly pushes it to you. As much as a nerd he is, he’s never been tech-savvy. You quickly start up the movie while Steven moves back and forth on his thighs. Once it loads, you push the computer in front of you two and pull the covers over your lap.

In due time, you and Steven finally cuddle against each other. Your knees are tucked up under your stomach with your shins pressed against his thighs. Your arms loosely circle his hips while one of his hands is settled on your waist. Your head rests against his bicep. The only sounds that fill his flat are the movie’s audio, sheets ruffling, wind whistling against the window and the sound of deep breathing.

“I wanna let you know I’m sorry for ignoring my feelings,” Steven starts. You don’t look up at him but still display a confused expression on your face. “I love you. I have loved you. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner,” he says. You can feel his skin begin to heat. Before he can start to verbally apologize and insist he didn’t mean it, you let him know what you’ve wanted to say for a while. “I love you too, Steven,” you assure him. You lean forward, pressing yourself against his thigh and torso to give his lips a soft and gentle kiss. He kisses you back with the same loving energy. It’s a back-and-forth of soft pecks and lingering kisses before both of you grow too tired to continue. You fall asleep with your limbs tangled with one another’s, finally at peace with your feelings for each other.

MARC SPECTOR .

Anxious. If there was one word to describe Marc Spector when he’s around you, it would be anxious. Sweaty palms, clammy hands, flickering gaze, and an inability to be still. He started acting this way when both of you had a conversation about your mutual feelings.

It’s been almost a month since that conversation. Now the two of you sat at the warm, homey restaurant that wasn’t too far from his flat. Marc’s gaze was pitiful. He looked at you with his big, brown eyes that were all glossy from the reflection of the light.

“You look amazing tonight, love,” he told you tenderly. Your cheeks warm before you attempt to return the compliment. “And I could say the same. You always look so good no matter what you wear,” you beamed.

He reached his hand on top of the table, beckoning your own to join his. You chuckle softly and put your palm against his. His fingers make their way under your hand until they meet his thumb to carefully wrap around yours. He slowly runs his thumb against the soft flesh between two of your fingers. You sigh at the gentle gesture. Even before the shared confession, Marc was always prone to being gentle with you, whether it was his words or his actions.

Both of your eyes shared the same sight. A warm meal in front of you, the light from the inside of the restaurant shining perfectly onto your lover’s face, and the most welcoming hand lovingly wrapped around your own. None of this felt real. This must’ve been what Marc felt like all the time; terrified that this was just a dream or a hallucination. Luckily both of those anxieties were false. Neither of you had anything to worry about. Both of you were real and both of you were here to stay with each other.

After a few minutes of admiration and silence, you slip your hand away from his so you can both begin to eat. Hums and quiet groans of satisfaction leave your lips. Despite the restaurant not being a main chain, it had some of the best damn food you’ve ever eaten. It doesn’t even take you two hours to finish your meals. You and Marc have decided that you’ll each pay half if the two of you plan a date together, rather than on your own. He holds your hand while you walk over to the side of the street, hailing a taxi for you two.

Now the two of you are at his apartment complex. You immediately notice his anxious mannerisms getting more apparent. “Is something wrong, Marc,” you ask sweetly, not wanting to assume anything. “Yeah. I’m fine, darling,” he assured you, nervously biting his bottom lip. You squeeze his hand a bit to remind him that you love him. He squeezes back with a bit more force.

The elevator takes you up to his floor. He fumbles with his keys as you guys make your way to his flat. “Give me a second,” he mutters while fumbling with his key ring. He gets the key in and takes a deep breath before turning it to open the door. His expression tells you that his mind is racing with unwelcome thoughts. “Come on in,” he says hesitantly while motioning you to go in as he takes the key from the lock.

You’re somewhat confused. Marc had never let you come over to his flat. You assumed that his mental illness caused his place to be a bit of a wreck, maybe he found the state of it embarrassing, or he simply liked being at your place more. Your brows furrow as you take in the area. It isn’t nearly as bad as you expected it to be. Sure the whole flat has papers and books scattered across it, but not in a way that makes it look like a mess. However, Marc quickly objects to your internal dialogue as if he could read your mind.

“Shit,” he muttered. “I know it’s a mess. I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to clean up before we just spontaneously planned our date tonight,” he groaned wearily, running a hand through his hair. “Marc, don’t say that. Your flat is just about as messy as mine. Plus, I don’t expect you to have a picture-perfect place! You live here. It’ll get a little messy from day-to-day life,” you told him with a soft smile. You set down the bag you’d brought to stay the night before walking over to him. Your arms encircled his waist and rested at the small of his back. His muscles tensed in response to your touch. You leaned your head to press your face against his chest. “I promise it’s fine. I already feel at home,” you hummed while adding a bit of pressure to your embrace. He sighed deeply before giving in to your reassurance. He nodded his head in agreement and returned the gentle gesture. His arms reached from his sides to your neck, one hand tracing circles on your shoulder blade while the other rubbed the back of your head. He tilted your head up from his chest and smiled. “There’s that stunning face I love so much,” he cooed softly before kissing your forehead. “Do you ever stop,” you tease while cocking your head to the side. “What? Loving you? Never,” he replied before giving you a quick squeeze.

The next few minutes are the most soothing and peaceful you’ve had in a long time. The way Marc holds you feels so protective and safe. Your shared body warmth helps both of you melt into each other. His heart beats heavily in his chest while you press your bodies together. A soft, slow sway is shared between you. Heavy breathing, quiet mumbles of only the most tender words, hands fiddling with the fabric of the other’s clothes.

“You ready for bed yet, baby,” he asks softly, leaning forward to whisper to you. He gently kisses your neck while awaiting your answer. Your hand reaches up to play with his dark curls and you begin to hum with satisfaction from the kisses. “Mm. I guess,” you drag out in a sigh. “Let’s get you to bed then,” he mumbles. Before leading you to his bed, Marc smiles against your neck, giving the soft skin a small nip.

You manage to maneuver over to his bed as he continues to stay glued to you. He turns you around and flops back on his bed, pulling you on top of him securely. You let out a bit of a yell when he does that. He pulls his arms tighter around your waist and kisses the nape of your neck. “Fuck. That feels so good,” he groans. This man loves having you close, having you lay on him, smelling you, sweet things like that. However, they all came from a deep-rooted fear of losing you or that you’re simply a hallucination. So any time he convinces, or forces, you to lay on top of him, he is in utter bliss.

You start to get a little antsy in his grasp. His arms hold you tightly, but you still tilt side to side. “Marc! You can let me go now,” you exclaim playfully. He grunts in disagreement. “I’m not letting you go.” You sigh softly before moving all of your weight to one side. As expected his arms stay around your waist. He was insistent on not letting you go.

“You win,” you groan softly. He moves his body so he can rest his head on the crook of your neck. “I know, darling. Now we can go to sleep since we have that settled,” he hums against your skin. Both of you fall asleep entangled with each other. His arms stay around your waist like a harness as your hands lay on top of his.

JAKE LOCKLEY .

You and Jake had a date arranged. It was more of him planning a surprise for you and you agreeing to it. Nonetheless, you were intensely excited.

As he requested, you packed a bag to stay the night at his place and had your pajamas on. It was a bit suspicious. You had high hopes that he wasn’t going to attempt to take you somewhere in the state you're in right now. You’ve continually had a habit of doing one or two little things just to make sure you felt attractive. As you thought about how Jake loved to fuck around with you, he never did it in a publicly humiliating way. The idea was swift to flee your mind as briefly as it came.

You hear a hard and heavy knock on your door that made you gasp. That was definitely him. The way he’d knock so harshly never failed to get a reaction out of you. You shake your head in disapproval while moving to grab your bag. “I’ll be there in a second, Jake,” you shout to him. “Hurry up, precioso! I want to see that face I’ve missed so much,” he weeps almost childishly. You roll your eyes at his pouting while hauling your bag to your door. You open it and snicker to yourself. He was wearing his pajama just like you were. He definitely had a good plan for the two of you.

“There’s my favorite cabbie,” you beam, your hands quickly reaching to his face. His stubble prickles your hand and presses harder against it when he smiles lovingly at you, his teeth displayed just for his lover. You cant help but smile back at him with the same amount of love on your lips. Your thumbs rub along his cheekbone before you lean forward to kiss him. He hums against your lips before both of you pull back. You move your hands from his stubble inhabited face, down to his chest. His own hand move to rest on your hips, treating them like handles for his hands to hold on to. “I guess you beat me to our little kiss this time. I bet you a back rub that I’ll get you first next time, cariño,” he promised you playfully. You knew he would because he stayed true to his word when it came to you. That didn’t mean you wouldn’t challenge his words. “Sure you will,” you replied.

He led you to his taxi, smiling and rambling about his little surprise the whole way there. You loved the way the would talk to you when you didn’t give him any feedback. You could swear on your life that if you never spoke again, he would still find some way to keep talking to you. Once the two of you reached his taxi, he dramatically cleared his throat. “Don’t even try, ángel,” he quips with the assumption that you would try to open the door for yourself like you did last time, which ended in a horribly long lecture about how you deserve to be treated like royalty. You feign disappointment as he politely walks you to the passenger side of the car. Before your hand can even reach the handle in attempts to mess with him, he grabs your hand and clicks his tongue at you. “Dios mío,” he mutters before opening the door for you. “Now you can get in,” he says while motioning for you to enter the car. Just to make Jake sure that you won’t keep playing with him, you gently hold his free hand so you can safely step into the vehicle without tripping. “Safety first,” he hums before grabbing the seatbelt and buckling you in. He leans down to kiss your cheek before shutting the door. He enters the driver’s side rather quickly as if he’s in a rush. “Let’s get going,” he says happily as he begins driving his taxi.

During the drive to wherever Jake is taking you, he keeps asking you question after question. “How was your day?” “Did work go well for you?” “You remember that I love you, right, mi vida?” You groan, chuckle, sigh, give any reaction you can to his questions. “Jake! Enough with the questions,” you tease as you softly nudge his arm. “I’ve told you anything you could ask about me. I swear you’ve got enough information to write a biography on me,” you continue with a playful smile. “Okay, okay, my apologies, precioso,” he chuckles in response to your teasing before he parks in front of a tall building. “But there’s one more question I have to ask you. I promise it’s the last one for now,” he swears while holding your hand for a genuine effect. “Wanna have a sleepover,” he asks with that same goofy grin on his face from earlier. He smiles so hard and hopefully that his mustache pushes up against his nose. “Please,” he asks sweetly while squeezing your hand. You return the happy expression and nod in agreement. That was his plan this whole time. Get you dressed up nice and cozy in your pajamas, drive you to his apartment at night on a route you haven’t been through before, and invite you to have a damn sleepover. God, you couldn’t get enough of this man and his stupidly tender ideas. “Yeah, we can have a sleepover,” you chuckle softly.

Once you two reach his flat he opens the door, like a gentleman of course, for you. You thank him with a kiss on the cheek that earns you a soft smile and a thanks of his own. “Where should I set my stuff,” you ask him awkwardly. “Give it here, hermoso,” he says, practically beaming at the idea of helping you once more. Without hesitation you hand the bag over to him. He takes it and sets it under his desk before sitting on his bed and waving you over with his arms. “Come on, doll. I’m not going to bite you,” he pouts before he begins to grasp the air like you’re just out of reach. You sigh at his whining and walk over to his bed with a smile.

He doesn’t even let you sit down before he clings to you. He pulls you between his legs by the waist as you stand in front of him, letting out a soft gasp when he does so. He slightly lifts your shirt up, just enough so your stomach is exposed. He sighs softly before leaning forward to press his face against it. “Muy bueno,” he purrs as he feels the warmth of your stomach heat his face. He hums with his cheek pressed to your stomach as his hands slide up and down the back of your thighs. You can’t do anything except bite the inside of your cheek and blush as he continues. “Tan bueno para mí,” he praises, emphasizing that it’s for him. “Jake,” you whine softly. He lets out a soft grunt in response. “I’d prefer if you let me lay down before I faint from how affectionate you’re being,” you plead to him. Out of respect for you, he sighs and releases you from his grasp. You ruffle his hair a bit before crawling under the covers and awaiting for him to do the same. He follows soon after, now looking at you with those gorgeous brown eyes of his. He pulls you flush against him with his arms crossed behind your back. “You never said anything about not giving you affection while you lay down,” he says playfully while smiling. You’re already flushed again just by the idea. He shifts a bit further up along the bed so he can begin to shower you with love.

He starts at your forehead, pecking every inch of skin he can get. His hands crawl up from your shoulder blades to the back of your head so he can caress you loving and hold you in place. He moves to your cheeks and nose, hands coming to cup your face. He kisses from your left cheek, kisses your nose once before pausing for a moment to make some savory eye contact, then moves on to your right cheek. He pulls back for a second and you give each other a knowing look. “Please,” you whisper to him in a gentle tone. “Anything for you, mi corazón,” he mutters back. His hands come to cup your jaw on either side, thumbs brushing your cheeks as his other fingers lightly grasp the area behind your ears. He kisses your lips softly before pulling back. You give him a pitiful look before kissing him back. You keep going at it with each other, eventually letting the kisses linger for a few seconds, then adding your tongues into the mix. It’s a little messy, but it’s so tender. “I love you more than anything, mi vida. Anything,” he says to you before kissing you one last time, lips pressed to yours as if they’re a lifeline for him. You hum softly in satisfaction as he shifts your body for you, pressing your head to his chest and resting his chin on top of your head. He traces shapes with his fingers and scratches your back gently until you’re asleep in his secure embrace.

[quiltofstars]

The Pleiades, M45 // Carlos Uriarte

The name Pleiades likely comes from the Ancient Greek word plein, meaning "to sail". This marks its use for determining the sailing season in the Mediterranean Sea. Later, the name came to be associated with the seven sea nymphs, the Pleiades.

In fact, several of the stars here share names with those sea nymphs: Alcyone, Electra, Maia, Merope, Taygeta, Celaeno, and Sterope, along with their parents, Atlas and Pleione. Can you identify them all?

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

In reference to your perfectly normal regeneration side effects, what would a regeneration look like if someone goes through traumatic deaths far too often? (Ex: the doctor? Are their regenerations normal for someone who often doesn't take a moment to sleep or rest afterwards?)

What happens when a Time Lord regenerates traumatically too often?

Ah yes. The Doctor Problem™.

🧠 Post-Regenerative Trauma

Think of it like this: if you catch the flu and refuse to rest or take any Lemsip, you'll eventually get better, but you'll suffer far more than you needed to.

Regeneration is similar. The biological shock is immense. Every cell is reconfigured, artron and lindos flood the system, and your brain chemistry gets completely rewritten. Skipping that moment of rest, recalibration, and chicken soup will worsen things exponentially.

The Doctor's usual regime is heroic, yes. But it's also the biological equivalent of ripping the cast off your broken leg to run a marathon.

💥 Trauma Makes Regeneration Messier

Regeneration is already a physically brutal act. But when triggered by severe violence or trauma, it can get very unpredictable. Not in the gaining three heads and a tail sense (though possible), but in ways that affect the body's ability to recover.

In short: traumatic deaths = traumatic rebirths. Basically, if you die screaming in fire and regenerate into a panic attack, no amount of tea is going to make that go perfectly smoothly.

🧬 Oldbloods vs Newbloods

In case you're new here, on Gallifrey, there are Oldbloods and Newbloods.

Oldbloods like the Doctor are notoriously bad at managing regeneration. Their regenerative templates are ancient and inflexible, and they can't fully guide the process. On the other hand, Newbloods—like the Master—can choose their appearance, manage the transition more gracefully, and usually experience far less trauma. Some even skip PRT entirely.

🏫 So…

The regenerative process needs rest, recovery, recalibration, and lots of other things starting with R. Skipping that step doesn't stop the regeneration from working, but it does make everything worse. Consider that next time you're screaming 'DOCTOR!' into your comatose Gallifreyan's ear.

Related:

💬|✨💥What would happen if a Gallifreyan regenerated in quick succession?: Potential impact on the physical and mental health of a Time Lord undergoing rapid regenerations.

💬|✨💥What is Post-Regenerative Trauma (PRT)?: Explaining the symptoms, causes, and treatments for PRT.

🤔|🏡🩸What's the difference between an Oldblood and a Newblood Gallifreyan?

Hope that helped! 😃

Any orange text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →📢Announcements |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts → Features: ⭐Guest Posts | 🍜Chomp Chomp with Myishu →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴

[brotherwtf]

clegan… overstimulation… dare i say more 😏

I dare!!! a drabble!!!

----

Gale knows he is going to come soon by the way John is fucking into him, hard and fast and so desperate that it's almost sloppy.

Their moans are getting more and more uneven, John breathing against Gale's lips in an attempt at a kiss, hips stuttering on Gale's. Gale groans with his head tilted back, hands grasping every inch of John's skin he can reach, leaving small scrapes from his fingernails.

John's arm shakes as he tries to hold himself up, but he gives up and falls onto Gale's chest, long thrusts turning into short grinds as he groans against Gale's skin. Gale whimpers at the feeling of John's stomach moving against his sensitive cock, arms wrapping around John's shoulders and bringing him even closer into his body.

His moans start to pitch upwards as John's thrusts get even messier, John's groans getting deeper and breathier as he tries to pull himself onto his arms, huffing breathily as he thrusts into Gale messily. He wraps a shaking hand around Gale's cock and pulls gently, groaning in tandem with Gale's pathetic moans.

It doesn't take long for Gale to spill all over his stomach, keening on something pathetic as his hips thrust up into John's hands. His thighs shake violently, twitching around John's waist as he pants, trying to come down from his high.

But John keeps going, keeps thrusting into him, even when Gale feels the warm, stickiness of John's come filling him up. John moans something strangled, but his hips don't stop, thrusting something erratic as he moans and chokes above him. Gale keens high in his throat, choked out screams getting punched from his throat, eyes rolling into the back of his head as his grip on John tightens.

John groans into Gale's neck, gritting his teeth as his thrusts slow down. His moans are quieter but breathier, huffing into Gale's ear like he ran a marathon. He looks down at Gale with a sheen of sweat slicking his forehead, huffing and smiling lazily as he presses their mouths together.

It tastes like sweat and tears and something so purely human that Gale can't help the moan that leaves his lips as John kisses him. Every part of his body aches, but John moving his mouth against Gale's helps soothe the burn ever so slightly. His hands move up to John's hair and he tugs slightly, swallowing up the fucked out sound John makes in the back of his throat.

"Fuck, doll, that was so fucking good," John pants and Gale smiles dopily up at him.

He's hot and so satisfied that he melts into the sheets below him, lets John kiss him slow and lazy while they come down from the high they were just on.

It doesn't take long for Gales eyes to droop, John moving his lips in such a way that makes him want to doze off, so he shoves John off of his chest and nestles into his. John chuckles deep in his throat and brings Gale in closer, kissing the top of his hair and dozing off with Gale in his arms.

THIS ONE WAS SO HOT IM IN LOVE

[nomnomnomvore]

Scream (And huff)

So I've finally given in and wrote crimes against nature (and Miguel's ass). All thanks to those Ghostface pics.

I would like to apologize to the ATSV fandom and wish y'all a happy Halloween. Stay safe and I hope you enjoy this mess.

(WARNING: Fart stuff ahead. If you're into it, feel free to keep reading. If not, stay away.)

You let out a small groan as you started to return back to yourself, trying to recall the events that happened before you lost consciousness. You were getting ready for a Halloween movie marathon before you got a call from a stranger asking you odd things: Your name, if you were alone, if you had a boyfriend. Again, weird, but as the call continued, you swore you heard the sound of a small, bubbly explosion before a toxic, putrid smell filled your nose.

And that’s when you passed out, only to find yourself here laying on the couch, with your view becoming clearer as the seconds passed slowly. However, that didn’t explain why you suddenly felt something heavy on your chest.

“I see you’re finally awake.”

You could hear Miguel’s serious yet oddly teasing voice flowing into your ears as your eyes widened at the sudden sight of his ass close to your face. Sure, it was mostly covered in dark clothing due to the black cloak he was wearing, but even that wasn’t doing a good job at hiding how large his behind truly was.

And neither how bad it stank due to his musk. You were sure that, if your view was clearer, you could’ve seen the stench fuming out of his asscrack.

“I was a bit worried that tiny sample of my gas I gave you earlier would’ve been too much for that weak nose of yours, but then again, I wouldn’t be here to begin with if that was the case.” Miguel snarked, making you gulp loudly at his words. The smell of his ass seemed to become more sickening now that you knew it wasn’t pure musk. The sudden groans and gurgles coming from the man’s stomach only made your terror rise up. It sounded like a demon growling from the depths of Hell.

GGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNN!!

And through all the noise, and your mind still stuck in a foggy daze, you could see a mischievous red glint in Miguel’s eyes as he wiggled his fat butt a bit.

“Even with all the signs I’ve left around this place like the rooms smelling awful, and your bathroom being a bit…Well, messier than usual, you must still be confused, right?” He chuckled softly. “Whether the case is, I think you already figured out what’s going to happen.”

bbbbbbbbbBBBBBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTMMMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPPPPPOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTttttfffFFfFffRrRrRRrRRRRRRRUUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPTTTTTTTTTTTT!!

You could feel your hair being blown back as if you were using the world’s hottest, loudest and stinkiest hair dryer as Miguel released a strong, bassy and rumbling fart towards you. In less than a second, you felt your eyes and nose being fried thanks to the stench of rotten meat and unfiltered sewer as you gagged in disgust and fear, trying to break yourself free and escape. Once that fart came to an end after a few seconds, Miguel sighed softly as he fanned the smell of his gas towards you.

“Mm, hope you enjoyed that one. Oh what’s that? You’re trying to escape?” He said calmly as he watched you squirm like a worm before you took notice that your wrists were tied against each other with the phone cord you had in your hands a while ago before your nose was suddenly assaulted by Miguel’s foul gas filling your room, causing you to fall unconscious. You panted heavily as you looked up at his bright, crimson eyes. “Yeah, good luck trying to break yourself free. I made sure to tie that phone cord around your hands tight enough so that you won’t try anything funny. But hey, on the bright side, that means you’ll get to huff up more of what I have in store for you~”

bbbbBBbbBbbBbbbrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!

VVVVVVVVVVVVRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPRRRRRLLLLLLRRRRPPPPPPPPSSSTTTRRRRRPPPPpppppp…ppppppfffFFFRTRTTRTRRRRT!!

This time, Miguel let out two farts that, while were somewhat shorter, did not shy away from the smell at all. In fact, they seemed to stink even worse, having a foul stench of rotten eggs that made your eyes water as you coughed without control. Even with the toxic green fog filling your view, you could see Miguel’s cloak lifting up with each explosive stinker he let out, giving you a pleasant view of his plumpy behind. To be frank, the weight of his ass alone was probably enough to leave you immobilized under him.

“Ahhh…Ay dios, do you have any idea how tough it is to hold all of these farts in? Almost makes me feel like a balloon about to pop.” He sighed deeply while patting his tummy, inching his ass closer to your face to the point your nose was wedged perfectly between his buttcheeks. You whimpered as your eyes rolled back, still in denial at how bad the smell was now that it was up close and personal. The spot between his cheeks felt so gross and swampy. “Good thing I called you tonight. I would’ve filled the whole neighborhood with my farts if I didn’t found you, so you better sniff it all up~”

PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPRRRRRRRRVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!

Now that Miguel was literally using your face as a makeshift cushion, and your hands were completely tied up, you were entirely helpless as he kept torturing you with his noxious gas. It didn’t matter the sound or length of it, none of his farts were pleasant as they overwhelmed each one of your senses. You could taste the nasty flavor of rotten spicy food in your tongue, your eyes were steaming thanks to the intense heat and your nose felt runny as it was in pure agony with each rumbly toot Miguel let out. His ass even seemed to vibrate each time he let loose.

fffffFFFFFBBRRrrrbbBBPPLLBBPPPTTTT!

BBLLRRRRRRRRRfffrrrbbbBBBBBBFFFFPPTTTT!

PPPPPPPPPPPPPPpppppllllLLLLLLRRRRRRRNNNBBBBBBBBPPPPPPPPPTTTTTTTTTTT!!

“Nnn…Ugh, fuchi. You need to do a better job back there, it stinks~” Miguel taunted as he rubbed his ass all over your face, making sure his stench would never leave you and your nose. A frown appeared on his face as he saw you try to pull yourself away before he used a hand to push you deeper into his crack despite your whines that were drowned by the sounds of his noisy belly.

PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBRRRRRRSSSSSSSSTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!

vvvvvvvvbbbbbbrrrrrrrrfffrrrrrrrrlllllllllrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!

…And his swampy, juicy farts.

“Mmmnn, oof, that one felt a bit wet at the end…Really hope I didn’t stain anything.” He moaned as he playfully stuck out his tongue, teasingly fanning a hand in front of his face even if the stench of his disgusting gas was barely affecting him. “Hm, I think I heard you asking for more, didn’t you?”

Your eyes suddenly widened as you tried to shake your head. Your protests only muffled since your face was still wedged between the man’s killer asscheeks. Chuckling softly, Miguel simply lifted the back of his coat and placed your head under it before pushing you back into his crack, and with a loud grunt…

BBBBRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMBBBBPPFFFFBBBBBFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFLLLLRRRRRRRRRRRRRRBBBRRRRRBBLLRBBBBRRRLRLLLLRRRBBBBPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPBBBBBBBBBBBBBBPPPPPPPPPTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!

He unleashed the nastiest fart of the evening. The stench completely shutting you down as you were reduced from panicked pleas to low whines and tired moans. You could feel Miguel’s asscheeks clapping against your face, like you were being hit repeatedly by a pair of stinky pillows that were stuffed to the brim with skunk fur. The smell of this fart was akin to a whole dumpster filled to the brim with used diapers and roadkill being set on fire, and then the charred remains were thrown away into a filthy sewer full of rancid waste. Even then, however, it was a miracle how that fart wasn’t enough to kill you. Sure, your nose was experiencing what was probably the closest thing Hell would smell like, but at least you didn’t go deaf by the sounds or became a goopy puddle due to the stench and intense heat.

Regardless if you were still kicking or not, by the time the 15 seconds of Miguel’s fart bomb  finally came to an end, you were completely numb and motionless. Your eyes were red and on the brink of shutting down, your hair was a total mess, and your face was covered in sweat; having an odd mix of color between green and red. Green because you were absolutely nauseous by the ungodly stench of Miguel’s nasty musk and yucky farts, and red because…

Because…You prefer to not think about it. Less so in your current situation.

Much to your relief, however, Miguel lifted up his cloak; finally freeing you from the hellish dutch oven he created.

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!

Although, that didn’t stop him from releasing another eggy stench bomb all over you. Your eyes rolled back into your head before Miguel finally got off from your body. Despite the fact you were an inch from falling unconscious, you couldn’t take your sight away from his large, jiggly ass. His black robes were still doing a bit of a poor job in hiding his cheeks as he took a whiff of the putrid stench filling the air, only for him to cough as he waved a hand in front of his nose.

“Dios, que hedor. I think something I ate definitely didn’t sit well with me, because I'm sure I broke a record with that.” Miguel chuckled. “But sadly, that’s all I had in me. Too bad, really. I was starting to have fun…Oh well, guess that means your nose will be spared for tonight, but you can’t fool me. I can tell you loved this~”

You were too exhausted to respond to Miguel's cheeky comment as you watched him stretch a bit, getting ready to finally leave you be. He even untied your wrists, figuring that since you were in such a weak state, you wouldn’t even attempt to fight him. Regardless, you couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief at the fact this seemed to come to an end.

guuuuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLlllllrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr….!!

“Gh!!”

But then, your eyes widened in pure horror as you watched Miguel clutching his stomach, which was gurgling and rumbling ominously like an active volcano ready to explode. 

“On second thought, it seems I still have one more left in here. Make sure to enjoy it. I know I will~” Miguel said with a smirk before bending over slightly to show off more of his plumpy ass. The sounds of his belly blurbing were deafening as he grunted while clenching his fists. “HhHNGH!”

FFFFFFFFFFBBBBBLloOooOoooooOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRUUUuuUuUuUuUuuummMMMMMbbbbbbbbBBBBBBBBBMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUBBBBBBBBBbpLpRRrRbbBlLLlrrrPBBpLbPPPpPPpprrrrrRRRRRLbBpBOOOORRRRRMRMBRRPLIOOOOOORBRRPLRRRRRPPPPPTTTT…BBBRRRRRMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPTTTTTTTTTT!!!!

You didn’t even have time to let out a sound before you were blasted by that massive nuke of a fart that shook the entire foundations of the house and even knocked down a few stuff from the furniture. The paint from the walls even started to peel off due to the ungodly stench that your brain couldn’t comprehend, because no words in the human vocabulary would be enough to describe the hellish miasma Miguel was releasing, making one last dent to your already feeble sense of smell while he stuck out his tongue in a teasing way; clearly enjoying the sensation of relief that fart was giving him.

After only 30 seconds, which for you felt like hours, the gas finally stopped flowing out from his backside as you started to lose consciousness while lying limp on the couch. The whole room was filled to the brim with a noxious, brown, rancid fog that wouldn’t look too out of place in a horror movie, and as you watched Miguel put on his white, screaming mask and leave the scene (alongside his nasty, fat butt), you could hear him say some last words before you passed out.

“Feliz Halloween~ See you next year~”

FFFFFFRRRRRRRRTTT!

“Ahhh~”

[delilahsturniolo]

— ♡ love language . . . m.s

in which . . . matt never lets you win when you both play flight

warnings . . . kissing, play fighting, fluff, suggestive but no smut.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

POSITIONS WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #11

it starts with a stupid argument over who gets the last slice of pizza. you’re both sprawled across the couch, limbs tangled from a lazy night in, a movie playing in the background that neither of you are really watching. your legs are over his lap, his hand resting on your ankle. comfortable. easy.

until he reaches for the box. “don’t even think about it,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “what?” he grins, hand halfway to the slice. “i’ve been eyeing it for the last twenty minutes.”

“so have i,” you shoot back. “but i’ve been patient.”

“you also ate three already.”

“so did you.”

he lunges for the pizza. you tackle him. the two of you fall sideways onto the couch in a tangle of laughter and limbs, wrestling like kids, shoving and twisting until you’re straddling his waist, both of you breathless and grinning. “cheater,” you mutter, trying to pin his arms. “i’m literally letting you win,” he laughs, eyes shining, cheeks flushed.

“oh yeah?”

you press your palms to his chest, trying to keep him down. but in one smooth, unbothered move, he flips you. suddenly, you’re on your back, he’s over you, his hands on your wrists, pinning them above your head, his face way too close.

you freeze. so does he. the air shifts.

his hair falls a little over his forehead, and his gaze drops from your eyes to your mouth like it’s not even a choice. like it’s instinct. “say it,” he murmurs, voice low. “say i win.” you chuckle, shaking your head as he pressed kisses to the side of your neck, holding you down.

you’re barely breathing from how hard you were laughing. “make me.” and just like that, he kisses you. hard. his mouth crashes into yours with none of the usual softness, none of the hesitation. just heat. all tongue and teeth and the kind of hunger you’ve both been pretending didn’t exist for way too long. his grip on your wrists tightens as he deepens it, holding you still like he doesn’t trust himself not to lose control.

his hand slides down to your waist, gripping your hip like he needs the contact, like he’s been waiting forever to touch you like this. your legs fall open without thinking, and he settles between them, pinning you completely.

you tangle your fingers in his shirt, pulling him down again, and he kisses you like he’s trying to speak without words, like every press of his mouth is saying this is what i’ve wanted. this is what i’ve needed. you. his tongue slides over yours, slow and slick, and you moan into the kiss, thighs tightening around his waist. “you gonna stop running your mouth now?” he pants, forehead pressed to yours.

“not a chance.”

he smirks. “good. i like it better when you’re loud anyway.”

you kiss him again, messier this time. deeper. and his hands roam, up your waist, under your shirt, over your bra, like he’s mapping you out, learning every inch by touch. you don’t remember the movie night. you don’t care about the pizza. all that matters now is the way he’s finally looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

© delilahsturniolo

💌: more chratt tomorrow :)

[tired-biscuit]

i feel like kib would beg for anal and months after he brings it up maybe for his birthday or something you say yes and he gets too nervous LOL

18+ fem!reader // cw: anal

you tell him you’re willing to try it when you kiss him goodbye at the door in the morning. as a result, he goes to work completely flustered and so scatter-brained that he forgets to say goodbye and has to run back up the stairs in order to kiss you back and mumble a quick ‘love you’ — even if he risks being late because of it.

he spends the entire day thinking about it, almost hyper and giddy; trying to calm down the persistent boner that immediately presses against the zipper of his pants every single time he dwells on it for a minute too long. you make it even worse by sending him texts about it, telling him how you’re kind of antsy but mostly excited to try something new with him.

i think the fear of not being able to last long would be the reason to make him feel kind of nervous. he finds the whole idea so hot, after all; anal is the type of porn that he watches the most. the mere thought of being able to fuck you in the ass, his girl, sounds like a dream come true to him and instantly makes him feel warm all over. especially if you haven’t done it with anyone else before.

wondering how you’re going to sound when he finally pushes in, how the face that you’ll make at the fullness that he’ll make you endure is going to look like, how sensitive you’ll be, how tight you’ll feel around him and so on is almost enough to make him cum untouched.

he doesn’t cum untouched though. no, he cums exactly like he feared he would: the second he slowly presses inside you later that evening, with both of you laying sideways on your bed, sweating and panting like you’ve just ran a marathon despite only starting the actual sex part of the night. he cums way too quick, way too fast — the little whine you let out when he pushes past that tight, virgin ring of muscle for the first time ever is too hot to bear.

there’s so much cum from the way he’s unintentionally edged himself all day long; you can’t really blame him. his cock was already rock hard when you pulled him into the bedroom and wrapped your arms around his neck in order to kiss him. was already leaking sticky pre-cum by the time the clothes came off and he started prepping you with his fingers and afterwards a toy. the fact that you reached behind you to stroke him every once in a while only made things worse — especially when he picked up the lube again and you offered to help smear it over his length.

he gets in his head about it but after some kisses and sweet reassurances, he does feel a bit better; good enough to try again the moment he’s able to. so you take a breather, wait for him to get hard once more and try for a second time.

and it’s nice. you’re both a bit clumsy as you try to get the hang of it and everything is done so, so, so slowly because you really need to focus and take your time with it. he’s yearning to pound you so bad — seeing you be so vulnerable and sensitive because of him makes him fall in love with you all over again — but he’s well aware despite that thick skull of his that he needs to be gentle since it’s your first time doing this and he definitely doesn’t want to scare you off and risk not being able to do it again.

so he fills you inch by inch, messily rubs your clit and keeps on whispering crude praises into your ear in-between even messier kisses. all “attagirl” and “that’s it… you’re doin’ so good.” you’re whining and whimpering and mewling as you take more and more of him; unknowingly urging him on with all the noise you keep making, bringing him close to his second orgasm.

the thrusts are so laggard but they’re equally as deep. you don’t take him fully, just a little more than half, but it’s enough for the first time. it’s not painful, you’ve insisted on enough foreplay even if he could barely endure it from being so excited, however it is a different kind of pleasure and even more importantly, a different kind of fullness.

the moment you finally cum from having his dick up your ass — quite literally — is the moment he cums as well. his thick fingers are in your pussy, his fat cock is in your ass, and the way you squeeze him all of a sudden and moan his name out is too much, it’s too good. he tries to hold on but he simply isn’t able to. you’re both overstimulated even if he already came once before.

the cuddles afterwards are godly despite all the sweat and the stickiness from the lube and cum between you. it’s lovely and sweet, almost kind of dorky. he refuses to let you go, he just keeps on kissing you and petting you and loving you even when you start to complain about having to go clean yourself up.

he wants to marry you.

[world-beauty]

Messier Marathon

Credits: Babak Tafreshi, TWAN

[crescent-the-lazy-wolfbones]

Fandom Sona-Design Sharing time! BATIM/BATDR Up first!

Sharing some older works, this one in particular is Still my main sona however it's his BATIM form! yes this is technically a reference. no please dont trace it and claim it as your own. im still proud of it. Fanart is welcome as long as you credit me and tag me with it, I'll be happy to reblog fanart of my boi.

Basically the big bad wolf but ink edition! his miniature story within the bendy universe goes as follows;

Crescent "The Big Bad Ink Wolf" Was drawn by Henry Stein as a Halloween Special antagonist for the Halloween marathon that Joey Drew Studios ran from October to the last day of November! in the various halloween based episodes, Starting with the premier of 'Big Bad Wolf'.

[Flat colors/without messier detail underneath]

In these Episodes The Big Bad Ink Wolf would basically 'terrorize' the little devil, scaring him at every turn with cheap jumpscares and pranking cruel pranks on him or his friends that would result in cartoonish pain. however, throughout the episodes, this would soon become a back and forth thing and thus creating a lighthearted 'frenemy' bond with the devil. the final episode was meant to be them making up and promising to actually spend the next halloween being new friends than frenemies, but angry parents made various calls to the studio during the airing of various episodes because this is when the sound design team used legitament sounds of wolves which.. definitely horrified the younger kids of the audience thus leading to the angry parents. they also claimed the cruelty-to-friends idea was a bad ideology to teach to young kids and thus the Halloween special was discontinued halfway through.

Crescent would thrive in a deeper part of the studio that he's made his own territory and would thus be similar in essence to the Ink Demon, retaining his 'Big bad wolf' image in the form of being a soulless ink-wolf with demonic ideologies.

there is much much much much much more to it but then that'd stray more into the personal au I made for this with my beloved boyfriend and this is just really to share some older art I have from my personal art gallery.

This next one is basically Still Crescent, however- in Bendy and the dark revival! Wilson turns the big bad ink wolf into a Frankenstein-like being that is weakened by the colored electric collar that uses the same electricity to condense the Ink demon into his Toon form.

Again I have alot more on Crescent's place in the Batim/Batdr universe but it really touches into personal aus and idk if you guys would be interested in anything like that soooo yeah. fun show and tell lol. again, please dont repost, trace, or steal my art- that goes for basically any of my original drawings of course.