#winter bass fishing
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played the fishing tourney and caught 10+ sea bass?? no longer a problem👍🏻
#bon appetit#acnh#animal crossing#animal crossing new horizons#new horizons#acnh island#acnh fishing tourney#acnh winter#acnh fishing#acnh exterior#acnh nordsea in winter#acnh nordsea#nordsea#acnh community#acnh sea bass
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—the seasons of love
or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic
charles leclerc x female reader
summ. winter, the first time. the start of the year, the start of it all. minors dni, nsfw warnings under the cut. 7k words
part two part three part four part five
18+ because: brat taming, fingering, oral (f receiving), name calling, spit, unprotected sex, overstimulation, booty call!, masturbation (f receiving), voyeurism, mad sass, fucking porn without plot basically.
There’s nothing special about the club scene in Monte Carlo. If you’ve been to a club in any major city, anywhere in the world, you’ve been to a club in Monaco. It’s all neon lights and kaleidoscope colors and poorly lit dance floors and mid-tier DJs who think they’re the next coming of Jesus.
Tonight is no exception. The air is thick and heavy with the scent of floral perfume and alcohol, the entire room shaking with the pulsating beat of the bass, reverberating off every single corner and shaking the liquor in your glass. Bodies move—yours included—half in sync with the music, half in step with their drunken stupor. Perched in the safety of Charles’s section, away from the swaying forms of laughter and shouting and screaming, your entire body thumps alone to the beat from the DJ booth a couple meters away.
Across the section, Charles sits stoic on a couch, taking up a seat and a half and frozen like some magnetic force. His eyes are stuck on you in a way that pulls goosebumps from your skin, makes you irrational angry at him. You’re feeling particularly bratty today, egged on by the tequila and his visible annoyance.
You’re on your way to interject into his pity party when your sister catches your arm, pulls you by your bicep to dance with her. Her palms are sweaty and cold and you hope that it’s the condensation from her cold glass that’s got her all clammy. The two of you have always been quite a sight after a few drinks. You get your tolerance from your mother, are both disastrous lightweights, feel the need to give any and everyone around you a show.
The two of you twirl to the music with little effort, laughing like you’re seven and the hazard littered floor under your feet is the old brown carpet from the family room you grew up hosting dance parties in. It’s all hair and giggles and hands in the air like you just don’t care. Everytime your glance catches his, he’s staring back, nursing his drink and half participating in a conversation with your brother-in-law and Jo.
“What’s his fucking problem?” you ask, leaning over to shout into your sister’s ear.
“He can’t dance,” she slurs. You snort. He can dance.
You whistle, loud and commanding and cat-call-ish even though he’s already watching you. “Charles! Get out here and dance, you fucking buzzkill!”
Your sister joins in on the fun, playfully swaying her hips to the music, tossing out an imaginary fishing line to her husband and reeling him over, calling along teasingly to Charles. “Yeah, show us what you’ve got, Il Predestinato!”
Charles rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. “I don’t dance,” he calls back with a soft chuckle. He tries to play it cool, like always, but everyone in the room knows you’re pushing his buttons. You always are. The reason he keeps you around is the same reason you stay around; your families’ relationship predates any animosity between the two of you. That, and the friend group was founded before you loathed each other and it would be too much work to try and split it up now. You’d probably never see Joris again.
You dance closer to him, putting on a dramatic show and a poor fight against the urge to continue challenging him. “Come on,” you tug on his arm, just out your bottom lip into a pretty little pout. “Live a little.”
He’s never been able to turn down one of your challenges, however thinly veiled they might be. It’s his own personal sore spot, the one that you poke and prod as often as you can. Competition has always been the foundation of your mutual annoyance, it’s not going to suddenly change after some eighteen years of consistency. Finally, he relents, lets you think you’re pulling him to his feet, dragging him to dance with you and your sister.
His moves are stiff and awkward, almost hard to watch. You laugh, because he’s wound up so fucking tight in two weeks you’d have a diamond. “See!?” your sister laughs, the contagion of it spreading to even the brunt of the joke. “I told you!” she continues, slinking her arm around her husband’s neck sloppily. His arm grips her side to hold her steady. It makes you feel sick.
A smirk tugs on his lips, and for a brief moment, there’s a hint of something more in his eyes. Not annoyance or frustration. Something seven, something innocent and childish. It’s fleeting, and you take a deep breath because the music feels quieter now. You down what’s left of your cocktail to clear your head, to calm the sudden flutter of nerves.
The more he drinks and the longer he’s forced to dance, the lighter and more magnetic he becomes. “You know, Charles, I never thought I’d see the day,” you tease. He’s been in a near constant state of pity-party for weeks now, ever since his dumb ass got dumped by another girl wildly out of his league.
He rolls his eyes, but his tone is as amused as it is drunk. “Don’t get too excited. It’s the liquor,” he retorts, a piss poor attempt at downplaying how much fun he’s having. He wouldn’t dare to give you the satisfaction. You lean in closer, brush your body against his, fueled by the noise and the alcohol.
“The liquor doing the touching, too?” you ask.
He’s always been a touchy drunk. Since before you and your friends were allowed to drink, he’s been hands-on. And maybe it’s because this is the first time he’s grabbing your hips, the first time his broad hand is flat over your stomach, but you’d never noticed him as this touchy with his girlfriends or his girls that appear when he’s around. Whatever it is, the more he drinks, the more comfortable he is with his hands on you, and the less you find the nerve to care.
It doesn’t matter how many times he does it, though. Every touch burns your skin. It’s a sick little game you two play. Sick and twisted and so, so unlike the two of you.
Watch yourself—he warns, hand on the small of your back. You play with fire. Well established and well documented, though; you never back down either. No, the thrill of annoying him is enough to dive head-first, to push his buttons until they stick. “Am I?” you ask, as innocently as the tequila can muster, taking hold of his wrist and moving it so his arm is wrapped around your midsection, fighting to settle in the space between your waistband and shirt hem.
You respond to every one of his careful touches, ever lingering finger on your arm and your waist and your back. When you close your eyes, you imagine the nonsense patterns he draws on your skin like it’s on canvas in a museum, hung front and center just for you. Your inhibitions are slipping too, and you let yourself trail wandering fingertips over his body, too.
This isn’t the Charles you’re used to, the one you go head-to-head with every fifteen minutes. This is something entirely new, so far into uncharted territory you’re not even sure which way is north. There’s something particularly intriguing about the nerves bouncing around your gut.
Everything fades away into the dark and crowded club. You don’t know if your sister and brother-in-law are still standing there, if any of your friends are. All you know if the electric charge of this, of every teasing remark and touch that draws you closer, forces you to test the waters of the newfound layer of tension.
Everything is building, it feels like, to some grand crescendo of emotion and desire. Before there’s room to explore it, though, to dive deeper into the unspoken shift, the moment is interrupted by the return of the friends you didn’t notice leaving.
The night drags on, the lines between annoyance and attraction blurring into some chaotic muddle of intoxication. Nothing is clear, nothing except the sobering and unignorable pull. It lingers in the air above you, in the space between like a secret just begging to be unraveled.
You’ve got another drink now, because you can only think of one decision that would be worse than more tequila. In due time, you’re worried you’re a lost cause when it comes to that choice as well. His eyes stay on you, even from a distance, and you revel in the glory of his attention. Embolden by it all, you continue fucking with him. “Having fun yet, Charles?” you ask, knowing smile, voice dripping in subtle suggestion.
He raises a brow, the corners of his lips quirking up. You don’t think you’ve ever spent much time looking at them, the soft shade of pink and the softer skin. “I suppose I can tolerate it,” he replies with teasing eyes. He’s irritated by your laugh, by your proximity, by your lips brushing against his ear when you whisper; you’re not the only one here trying to have fun. His jaw tightens but he doesn’t take your bait. Instead, he pulls you closer, sways in rhythm with you and replies, “I’m here to enjoy myself, not entertain you.”
He sends your brattiness running full-tilt. Forces you to carefully consider every movement, every ounce of playfulness that you allow to seep into your demeanor and the proactive sway of your hips. You grin at him every chance you get, sly and calculated, daring him to resist.
You lean in close, brush against his ear and can blame it on practicality, on the bass and the music and the DJ if anyone were to question your actions. You rest a hand on his chest. “I know you love my attention.”
His breath hitches at your audacity, heart racing so quick you can feel it in your palm. He pulls you closer, dangerously close to your lips and says, “you talk too much. Maybe it’s time someone shuts you up.”
You scoff, low and teasing. “I’d like to see you try.”
[18 minutes later]
You step into the well-lit lobby less than a pace behind him. Your hands are interlocked, have been for every block of the darkened streets—since he grabbed yours and pulled you out of the club. “Admit it,” you giggle. “You love having me push your buttons.”
He remains stoic, jaw set as he pushes the button on the elevator. The tension is at a boiling point. You’re either about to kill each other, to be on the news for some grand double murder, or something so, so much worse is going to unfold.
He leads you to the apartment without a word, but as soon as the door closes behind him, all is lost. Your head is bumping into the drywall before you even realize what’s happening, his lips harsh against yours, the pent up frustration and desire snapping like a dried twig.
It’s fierce and passionate and while you never, not for a single moment in your life, imagined what he would taste like, you somehow knew it would be like this, cool and fresh and drunk. He licks into your mouth, messy and intense, teeth clacking and both of you fighting for some nonexistent upper hand.
Fireworks are going off outside. They shake the windows with explosive gravitas as you’re blindly led by his backwards steps down the hallway. You realize that in an entire lifetime of knowing each other, this is the first time you’ve been in his place. It’s not what you expected, from what you can gather—all clutter and red cars and a boy who never had to drop his dream. “They’re going to look for us,” you say between sloppy, open mouthed kisses.
He mumbles against your skin, strong hands on either side of your jaw. “Let them look.”
You walk through a doorway, into a bedroom clad with clutter and blue sheets. He would have blue sheets. There’s another firework, loud and booming, it makes you jump. You check your watch over his shoulder, pretend your hand doesn’t shake. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Okay.” Your knees bump into his and he sits on the edge of the bed.
You laugh, climb onto his lap, your arms strewn around his shoulders, broad and strong and you laugh again–this time into his mouth. What the fuck is going on. Seriously, what the fuck is this? “Happy New Year.”
He sighs, pulls his mouth from yours long enough to roll his eyes, to speak annoyedly into the hot air between your lips. “Yeah, whatever. Happy New Year.”
“Charles,” you mutter, hand on his chest. You think he’s going to regret this more than you will. People have always told you he’s the best kind of person. You’re not held in the same regard, and you know it. Some people are made to regret and others are made to be the regret.
“Jesus Christ,” he laughs, but it’s curt and passive. Annoyed, as always, even when he palms at your ass, traces his hands along the bottom of your hiked up dress and pulls you down against him with a bruising grip. “Shut the fuck up.” You tug at the hem of his shirt, pull it off over his head in a swift movement.
“You’re doing a piss-poor job at making me.”
He moves you like you’re a fucking doll, like it’s lightwork, tossing you down against the mattress and swapping your positions in a swift movement. The strength and agility of it makes your head spin. He’s not supposed to make your head spin, he’s supposed to make it ache.
But no, no. You do ache for him. All of you aches for him, for his calloused hands and the roughness of his jeans against your thighs and the soft contrast of his lips against everything else. It’s embarrassing. You can’t believe he’s got you like this, hands pinned above your head while he buries his tongue in your mouth, grinds his hips against yours. The coarse denim is almost painful on your sensitive skin, but the growing bulge pulling the fabric tight is more intoxicating than any cocktail.
“You’re such a fucking brat,” he says, bites a bruise against the skin just above your clavicle. “Spoiled little shit.”
He sinks to his knees, big blue or green or whatever fucking color his eyes are today watching you intently, boring into you with blown, hungry pupils. His fingers trail along your underwear, pulling the thin, lacey fabric to the side, and then removes them all together. He gloats when he runs his thumb through your folds. “So fucking wet.”
“It’s not for you,” you goad.
“Oh?” He nods slowly, spreading your slick with the steady digit, watching you carefully for reaction. “For who then?”
Your eyes flutter shut when the pad of his thumb presses against your clit, circles it slowly, teases you. He’s unfocused, his mind lapsing and giving you a much needed in, a clear shot to piss him off. “Your teammate.”
“Fuck off.” You first.
“You’re right, Charles,” you speak slowly, careful to control your breathing, to hide every tell you might have. “Someone should shut me up. Do you know anyone?” Without warning, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curls them like someone had given him a diagram of your body. You gasp at the suddenness of it all. Yeah, he mutters, utterly delighted with himself. Yeah, I think I know someone.
You roll your eyes, push his head down, down, mouth onto your core. There, in the midst of licking a long stripe through your cunt, he fucking laughs, shakes his head with a subtlety you’d never perceive if it wasn’t for the tip of his nose bumping your clit when he does it. At least he can follow basic fucking instructions.
His dick must hurt pretty damn bad, all hard and swollen in his pants, because he’s unbuttoning his jeans and freeing himself from the constraints of the fabric while lapping at you, the other hand still fucking into you with steady pace and hazy curl. You can’t see it, view obstructed by the mattress and limbs and hair, but you can tell by the way his shoulders move that he’s trying to get himself off at the same time he works on you.
You’re not going to make his job that easy. You require all of his attention, pure and undivided and hopefully just as infuriated as you are. You reach down to the apex of your legs, pull his head up by his chin. “Just fuck me, already, you prick.”
He rises to his feet, shakes his head, “you’re a needy little thing,” he remarks. Needy? You haven’t fucking seen needy.
He guides the head of his cock through your folds, spreading slick and spit and smacking himself against your cunt.
Your lips purse into a sharp line. “Don’t tease me.”
“Why not?” He taunts, “you’ve been teasing for hours.”
“It’s different,” you grumble.
“How?” You could strangle him, him and all his questions. What’s a person have to do to get fucked properly around here? You already sacrified your morals by pulling tight against the navy blue sheets. A woman can only make so many sacrifices.
You groan, heavy and exasperated. He’s such a pest. “It just–oh, fuck you–” without warning, he plunges into you, buries himself in your cunt until he bottoms out, skin on skin and the sore sting of him stretching you. Your fingers bruise into his arms, nails scraping over his shoulder blades with a gasp. He gives you no time to adjust to him, rutting into you with deep, measured thrusts. What was that, he prodes. Somehow, you find the poise to stabilize yourself, to reply smugly. “it just is.”
His objective isn’t your pleasure, no. That would be his prerogative, a side privilege, a requirement in his quest to get you to close your mouth and stop pestering for once. Making you come is just another box to check.
You don’t fuck someone if you’re not going to finish, though. Sleeping with Charles might be a lapse in judgment, but being someone’s play toy, letting him reap without sowing, that’s a complete disregard of your dignity
Your fingers find your clit, circle it in just the right sequence, combining with the curve of his cock to push you closer, closer, closer to the edge of the fucking world. Your entire body burns, everywhere, all over, all at once you sweat. Tell me–he insists, voice short and breathy. Tell me when you’re going to come. “I thought you were trying to shut me up?”
“Just, fuck, just tell me.” He palms over your breasts, still covered by your bra and the fabric of your dress, however thin. “So many fucking clothes,” he grumbled, stalling inside you, hands slipping under your back, between you at the mattress to pull you off the bed. You hastily pull the dress over your head, toss it somewhere onto the clothing cluttered floor. Better? You ask. “Better,” he nods, bites your bottom lip roughly, licking against your teeth. One of the hands that explore the skin of your back make quick work of the clasp on your bra, dropping the straps from your shoulders and your back is against the sheets again, his hands groping at you, pinching your nipple between his middle and ring finger, working over it until you’re humming profanities and huffing into his mouth.
Hate and desire is such a fine, blurry line. Anyone who tells you differently is a liar.
“M’gonna,” you choke on your words. “I’m–shit–I’m coming.”
“Yeah,” He picks up his pace, maintains a steady, toe-curling rhythm. “Come for me,” his voice heavy and growled. “Come on my dick.”
You do. You come for him, hard and long, wrapping a leg around his hip in a failed attempt to still him, to just be full of him and nothing more. He’s stronger, though, and fucks you through the whole thing, faster, harder, big hands braced on your hips for leverage. You explore the idea that a person really could be fucked in half, forced right open.
“Good try,” you sputter, shaky and broken words leaving your lips before you’ve found a gravity that isn’t him. You lean up to kiss him, wrap your hand around the back of his neck and pull him to meet you halfway. Your fingers tickle the short hair at the nape of his neck, raise goosebumps to his skin. “Maybe next time,” you hum into his open mouth.
He spits a long string of saliva into your mouth when you move to close the gap. You laugh around it, down it in a single gulp and lick your lips, sticking out your tongue to showcase your empty mouth, big innocent doe-eyes watching his reaction, his eye roll and devilish smirk.
“Like I said–” you start, but he’s flipping you over, tossing you around like a ragdoll. You giggle, high on the teasing and the taunting and then he’s fucking your face into the mattress. He’s got your hair gathered up into a ratty ponytail, uses it like a handle, forcing your back into an arch, your ass to perk up into the air.
God, he’s so fucking deep, turning you into a mess of bruises and sweat stricken skin. Your hips bounce back against him, angle in any imaginable way in an attempt to feel him deeper, to feel him in your stomach and your chest and your head. To feel him everywhere that counts.
“Putain, taking me so good, baby” he groans, lets the praise and the pet name slipping past his lips in a moment that goes unnoticed by neither of you. He smacks your ass with a firm hand, trying to mask his words after they’ve already been spoken. Your eyes roll back into your head and you come again, without warning. You decide before you get to think about it that it was the stinging imprint of his hand that pushed you tumbling over the edge. Whatever the real reason, you’re up two-nothing, or, depending how you look at it, he’s the one winning.
That’s all any of this is, one big game. A power struggle. You’re always fighting to win, and this is not different. If there’s a way to lose at a game where everyone is supposed to win, one of you is going to fucking find it and force it on the other.
You’re the one doing the flipping, now. The pushing and the shoving so he’s on his back. You straddle him and he gives you this look like he’s fully pussy-drunk, sick and euphoric and floating somewhere far from here. You’re so winning at this. “Jesus Christ,” you poke, “wipe your fucking drool.”
His entire face contorts when you sink down onto him. Everytime you think you’ve reached a limit, he finds a way to hit a spot impossibly deeper than the last. His hips lift up off the bed to meet you halfway, rutting into pleasure spots you didn’t even know you had, hand moving to your cunt, thumbing lazily at your clit, leaving you fuzzy and drunk in a mess of mumbled moans above him.
When you come for the third time, messy and sweaty, nothing that leaves your lips is distinguishable, a mess of French and English and curses and nonsensical mewls. “Fuck you,” he moans, breath shaky when he pulls himself out of you. Your body clenches around air, aches for him to return.
He does, after he moves you back into the position it all started in. “So close,” he tells you, sinking slowly into you, his sigh hot and alcoholic on your shoulder. His pace is slow, then fast, then slow again. He’s as rapid as his breath is irregular. You better pull out–you groan, every muscle in your body strung out and exhausted and you’re coming again. It’s blinding white behind your closed lids, ears ringing and muscles flexing involuntarily. He’s wrecked you, finally, left you a mumbling mess.
He pulls out almost in sync with your orgasm, jerks himself no more than twice between your legs before he’s coating your stomach in hot stripes of cum, loud, guttural moans leaving his lips in a way that looks and sounds practically pained. “Christ,” he heaves, watches on as your fingers dance through his orgasm, spreading it over your skin and coating your fingers. You don’t break eye contact when you stick two of them into your mouth, swirl your tongue around them tauntingly, sucking them clean and pulling them from your mouth with a pop. You hold the clean hand up for him to see, palm facing him. When you turn it, you pull down all but your middle finger, flip him off cockily.
He swats you hand away, “Never fucking again,” he tells you.
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” you scoff. “I never want to see the inside of this apartment again.”
“Why are you here, then?” He remarks, turning the corner into what you assume is the bathroom, tossing a towel to you from across the room. You clean yourself up before anything dries, before coming up with a quick rebuttal.
You don’t come up with one, mind as tired as the rest of you. This game has been exhausting. “We’re never talking about this,” you say, pulling your dress over your head, stuffing your bra into your handbag because you aren’t sure you have the strength to clasp it closed. “Ever.”
“No shit,” he says, tosses your underwear in the general direction of you.
You bend over to pick them up, step into them with the snap of the elastic. “Promise me.” You have no idea where your shoes are, but he’s already ushering you out of the room, herding you down the long hall with wide, swooping waves of his arms.
“I promise.”
“Pinky,” you say, spot your shoes haphazardly stepped out of in the entryway. You don’t have any memory of them ever being on.
“Absolutely not.”
“Charles,” you lean against the wall to slip your heels on, hook up at him with a sober glare. He closes his eyes like you won’t be able to see them roll behind his lids, pinches the bridge of his nose and squints before dropping a heavy breath, holding out a pinky to you. You interlock it with yours. “Thank you.”
He pulls his hand from yours, turns the lock on his front door and swings it open, fingers wrapped around the edge, other hand gesturing out into the hallway. “Get the fuck out of my house.”
“With pleasure,” you say, stepping past him and into the well-lit hallway of sprawling marble floors. You stop in front of the elevator, press the button and wait for his inevitable comment.
“The whole brat-schtick you’ve got going on isn’t as believable when your leg shakes underneath you,” he calls down the hall. You don’t turn your head to face him, just extend your arm in his direction and flip him off. You hear his chuckle as he latches the door shut behind you.
Everything about today has been dreary–from the near constant mist that falls over the city, to the chilly temperatures, to the poor excuses for men that grace the screen of your dating app. This is not how Fridays in your twenties are meant to be spent, sulking in the dark of your bedroom after a miserable day at work.
You’re supposed to be out, partying with friends and making drunken decisions that have you waking up in a stranger’s bed after a good night you hardly remember.
God, you need to get fucked. It’s been months. Two months and ten days–not that you’re counting. Because you’re not. Counting. You aren’t.
You’re just restless, basking in the loneliness of the night, unable to shake the weight of your thoughts, of two months and ten days ago. Of Charles and how infuriatingly good he’d made you feel. The complexities of your relationship, the shift in the very DNA of what you know, it makes your heart race–a messy muddle of annoyance and desire that yearns to be untangled.
You give up on the dating apps, know that even if you do match with someone, there’s nothing that can be done to solve your problem tonight. You opt instead to scroll through social media aimlessly, searching for any distraction from the ache in your gut. Your hand unconsciously slips under the hem of your shirt, cups your breast while you scroll and scroll and scroll. It does little to quell your struggles. In fact, the game is over the moment you become conscious of your hand’s placement, the moment you start to massage your breast, to run your fingers over your nipple until it’s hard and perky.
You switch to the other breast, fingers gently tracing over the skin, sending chills up your arms, pinpointing the ache in your core. Your hand slides down your stomach, dips below the waistband of your shorts, into your underwear. You’re so worked up–pent up, reaching a boiling point.
Your middle finger glides through your folds, grazes over your clit, teases the slick at your entrance before dipping in, collecting enough to spread it around. Your clit is swollen, needy like the rest of you, and the pad of your fingers do little to relieve the pressure. Your fingers move clockwise, then counter. Vertical and horizontal and every combination of every direction and even though you can’t remember the last time you were this horny, this desperate to come, you can’t.
You slip in a finger, and then another, try to find the right curl and the right spot–to no avail. Now, you’re thinking about his fingers, about how much bigger his hands are, how his nimble fingers pumped in and out of you with sheet-gripping, whimper-inducing pace.
Your phone taunts you, his contact behind the locked screen just waiting to be messaged.
You try to resist. You hate him. He hates you. God, he knows how to fuck you, though; veiny hands and thick cock leaving you a writhing mess. Fuck. Fuck, why can’t your fingers move the way his did?
You cave, reaching over to grab your phone and text him. Hey. What are you up to tonight? It’s a mistake, you know that it is. He’s so damn annoying, there’s nothing about him that doesn’t drive you up a wall. Frustration makes the heart go fonder, you suppose, or maybe the cunt ache harder.
Within moments, your phone is buzzing against your palm with his reply. Chilling at home. You coming over?
You roll your eyes. No.
Ok.
You bite your bottom lip so hard you think you might accidentally draw blood. It’s phantom, almost, the way you can so perfectly imagine the sting of him stretching you out, the soreness of his bruising kisses, the swollen, wet head of his dick slapping against your clit. Come over.
You couldn’t pay me.
Door’s unlocked.
Give me 20.
You’re in the bedroom when he knocks. Three times, you wonder why he isn’t just walking in. You ignore the banging, let the universe decide for you if he’s meant to turn back and walk his happy ass out of your building. The universe decides he won’t be doing that, though, because he knocks again. Louder this time.
You pull yourself out of bed, feet creaking on the hardwood floors as you move to pull the door open. “I told you it was unlocked,” you grumble.
“Eh,” he shrugs, dumb fucking grin on his face. “Wasn’t up for your games.”
You internally debate just how bad you need him here, if it’s worth all the trouble that is him. It’s not, almost certainly it isn’t. You invite him in anyway.
“So, what’s the deal? Can’t get yourself off, so you call me?” He teases. Your frustrated blush gives you away before a witty comeback can slap the smirk off his face. “Oh my god,” he chuckles. “I was fucking around, but really?”
There’s no point in trying to lie now, not when your face has already betrayed your trust and revealed the truth. “Calm down,” you groused. “The last thing this world needs if your head to get any fucking bigger.”
He continues laughing like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him. You want to smack the smile off his face, dimples and all. “The last thing this world needs is for this–” he gestures between the two of you, “–to become a thing.”
You mock his movements, the dumb look on his face. “This is not a thing. It’s just two friends–”
“–We aren’t friends.”
You sigh through gritted teeth. “Two not friends helping each other out.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, chews on the inside of his cheek while his eyes trace your finger, head to toe and back to head again. “You do know how ridiculous you sound, right?”
You breathe out in resignation, heading down the hall towards your room. “Can we just get on with it?”
“No.”
You stop in your tracks, turn on your heels. What the fuck is he here for, then? “No?” You close the gap between the two of you, plant your hands firmly on either side of his jaw and kiss him, all tongue and spit and rough lips. You knock him off balance, falling out of step when he kisses you back with a matching intensity, hands hovering over your hips. He doesn’t rest them there, you can feel the warmth in the space between your skin and his, the force that pulls you together.
When he does settle his hands, it’s not to deepen the kiss, to swallow any more frustration. It’s to put distance between your mouths. “I want you to–”
You nibble on his earlobe, cut him off with your hushed words. “I don’t give a fuck what you want, I want–”
“Show me how you touch yourself,” he commands, voice failing to waiver to your hushed level, an air of snugness to him.
“Charles,” your voice cracks with his name, a hint of your under the surface insecurity peeking through, putting themselves on display for him. Here! Here! Look at me!
“Show me, or I’m leaving,” he says, and it’s all throaty and husky.
(Eleven minutes later)
Legs spread for him, two fingers moving busily against your core, circling your clit, teasing your hole.
He stares at you like he can see your fucking soul, watches from his spot across the room, leant against the old wooden dresser, arms folded and ankles crossed. You stare back–harder, maybe–like if you win the little contest your cheeks won’t burn so bright, you won’t feel so exposed, so vulnerable, so embarrassed.
Those feelings fade, they do, with each flick of your wrist. With every glance of his hungry eyes to your fingers, to your cunt, tracing their way up and down your body, you feel calmer and calmer. And when he runs his hand over his mouth, along the stubble of his jaw and off his chin, you’re closer and closer.
It pulls whimpers, soft and slow and sweet, from your lips. There’s a sick thrill to it, to him seeing her like this, all needy and open and sensitive. It’s empowering, almost.
He breaks no more than twice, watches every brow quirk, lid flutter, and lip twitch with raw, intimate eyes. He’s less interested in what you do to yourself, the curve of your fingers or the noises they create, than he is in the way you react to the movements.
“You’re not even fucking watching,” you say, the letter sounds falling to your breath, hitching as your fingers angle just right.
“Watching what matters.”
“Oh? And, uh–” you huff. “What’s that?”
He laughs, dimples digging deep into his cheeks. You’ve always thought they made his smile so childish, like you can’t take anything seriously when it comes from someone with primary-school dimples and giddy eyes. You don’t struggle to take it seriously, now. “You’re thinking about me.”
Your eyes flutter shut, a soft sigh parting your lips. “Says who?”
He pushes himself off the dresser, saunters over with heavy feet, stopping at the foot of the bed. “What are you thinking about?” He humors.
Your eyes roll. You’re thinking about a lot of things. Half a dozen, atleast. About your fingers, the way they move against your swollen cunt, sticky with creamy slick, and how his fingers are that much longer than yours. About how loud he walks, how his heavy feet stand at the end of your bed, crossed arms that pull his t-shirt tight across his chest. About the fact that you’re not sure you locked the door behind him because you were so distracted by the way his sweatpants hung from his waist. About how he doesn’t bother to adjust or hide the protruding bulge under the fabric right now. About the curve of his cock, about how pathetic and full it makes you, utterly unable to spend time thinking about anything but how well he stretches you out. About his hair, flat and straight and wholly unstyled, how your hands would mess it up so nicely, tug and twist until he has something smart to say. Beyond frustratingly, he’s right. As you quickly approach a high, breath quickened and movements desperate, all you’re thinking about is him. “Things.”
“Mmhmm,” he hums, ever the rake, unsatisfied with your response.
You add a third finger, steady pace and a held stare. The muscles in your leg twitch. You’re so fucking close. “What are you thinking about?”
He sways, rocks his weight from his left foot to the right, runs his tongue over his teeth. “Things.”
A coy smile upturns the corner of your lips. “Mmhmm,” you mock.
He moves around the bed, trails his fingers over your skin; from your ankle, along the bone of your shin, a bruise on your knee. They stall on your thigh, trace small, soft circles on the inside of your leg. “You really want to know?”
He’s such a tease, keeps moving up, up, up, over your stomach and through the valley of your breast. “I–ah– I,” you stutter through your words, fingers working tirelessly to push you over the edge. Restless, further irritated by his delicate touch, his fingers up to your jaw now, slotting themselves there, you nod. “Yes.”
He leans over you, your lips inches apart, open and hot breathed. “Too bad,” he whispers into the space between, closing the gap and kissing you with an insatiable kind of fervor. Your fingers still, your other hand reaching to grip the back of his neck, to pull him deeper into the kiss. It’s a kiss that’s half as good as the sex, the breaking of the unbearable tension that’s filled the room while he’s watched, the promise of what’s to come. A lustful implication. His hand leaves your jaw when you pull apart for air, moving over your stilled hand. “Let me?” He asks, and it doesn’t feel like much of a question, the way he’s already slipping his fingers under yours before you can even squeak out an answer.
There’s something entirely different about his fingers, like the way that you can’t tickle yourself. You can’t predict his moves, every movement of every ridge of his fingerprints is something entirely surprising. “Yeah, fuck, you make, ah, make yourself…” You give up on the sentence, your body failing your mind in its ability to spit out a comeback. Yeah, you wish you could tell him. Yeah, make yourself fucking useful.
He laughs, slides his long middle finger inside you, pumps it twice and slips in another. You gasp at his sudden movement. “You’re embarrassing yourself, baby.”
Your back arches off the sheets. “Don’t call me that,” you seethe.
“But,” he curls his fingers against the spot you’ve been trying to reach all night. A moan tumbles from your mouth and he smirks. “It makes my job so easy.”
“Fuck you.”
“I was going to let you come first, but,” he chuckles. He’s so proud of himself it makes you ill. “If you insist.”
His hand stills, threatens to pull out of you entirely, but you’re covering it with your own, holding him there when you look up, hips instinctively grinding against him. “I’ll kill you. I will.”
You’re pushing him out of your apartment by the end of night, locking the door behind him. Your leg shakes when you slide down the door onto the floor. This is the last time, it has to be. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence. Thrice. Thrice would be a pattern. You won’t let it become a pattern.
You wake up at seven-thirty and your hair is still in knots, your body still aching from him. You find a new bruise every time you look in the mirror. You can’t shake the image of his messy hair, of the feeling of the brown locks between your fingers and the sound he’d make when you’d tug on them.
It won’t be happening again.
#oi#this is getting me sent to hell.#charles leclerc smut#charles leclerc fic#charles leclerc series#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc#cl16#charles leclerc imagine#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 smut#f1 x reader#f1 x you#ferrari
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hi ash could u give us a list of your favorite poems
ellen bass the thing is
kait rokowski a good day
dorianne laux antilamentation
pat schneider the patience of ordinary things
ada limón the endlessness
claire schwartz lecture on the history of the house
hester knibbe light years
amy beeder because our waiters are hopeless romantics
barbara has you cant have it all
maya c popa dear life
ada limón miracle fish
dorothea grossman the two times i loved you the most in a car
lucia cherciu butter, olive oil, flour
mary oliver when death comes
tony hoagland note to reality
louise glück averno
francine sterle nude in winter: “self-portrait as an allegory of painting”
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what are the main prey animals that Shadowclan eat in better bones? because in my rewrite, i can only find like 5 british marshland birds, the frogs like canon, and a common lizard, while the other clans have dozens of prey species. I don't think 7 prey species can feed 50 cats for the generations i need them to, yknow?
This is hard to find out because of the unfortunate reality that wetlands are an "unpopular" natural biome. It's hell out there. No one appreciates their local swamps and marshes </3
But I'M here, NUMBER 1 GOO FAN. Quickie on some of the most common species ShadowClan will be hunting, in an English wetland. 5 for your convenience.
Small intro/recap to BB!ShadowClan's food culture; For a mixture of several reasons, including early collaboration and trade with WindClan, living in an area heavily affected by seasonal changes, and cultural pride in being able to eat anything, ShadowClan has one of the most varied diets of any Clan. Mammals, fish, birds, if they can get their mouth on it, they will eat it.
(Yes. This means predators as well. Other Clans will avoid eating predators for culture and taste reasons. ShadowClan finds it offensive to just let good meat rot.)
The most important reason in that list must be stressed; winter is CRUEL to ShadowClan. The RiverClan river is a moving source of water which rarely completely ices over, most animals in ThunderClan don't hibernate, WindClan's rabbits are active in the snow. For most Clans, they will not feel the "bite" of winter until towards the end, when the prey populations crash. ShadowClan feels it immediately.
That's a problem because Prey Item Number 1 Will Surprise you. The most popular prey in ShadowClan is...
1: Ducks.
And with the most common species, mallards, at about 2 pounds on average (with males being slightly larger) you're looking at 5,442 calories each. Enough to feed 15 warriors for a day.
(Note: This estimate is low; actual value would probably be higher. This measurement is taken from this chart which measured whole carcasses and caloric value rounded from 5.9 to 6, and this particular duck was "dressed"-- so its organs, the most valuable part of the animal, were already removed.)
Ducks are SO valuable as prey it's hard to oversell them. They're huge, they're highly nutritious (thiamin, vitamin a, vitamin b, iron), and they're PACKED with fats. They also lay eggs, TONS of them, which ShadowClan will happily snatch from inattentive hens.
The problem with ducks is, they don't stick around in the winter. Mallards might stay if the weather is mild, but if the water starts freezing, they're a-leaving.
That means that right when ShadowClan needs them the most, they'll vanish. If the marsh freezes, which is VERY likely because it's stillwater, they can't access ANYTHING under the ice. So Prey Animal Number 2 ALSO becomes an issue;
2: Carp
Their size and weight varies immensely, but the european carp is a species that AVERAGES 6 - 15 pounds. Using our rough estimation numbers and only a 6 pound fish, that's 10,884 calories. That's a whole Clan fed, if it's rationed perfectly.
Many carp are larger and heavier than cats. Here is a picture of a human fisher with two 5-pound bass so you can get a feel for just how big fish are
The biggest problem with carp, aside from the fact that icy winter conditions will block access to catching them, is that their gallbladders are poisonous. Carp bile is the only dangerous type of bile Clan cats encounter (that I know about so far). When being eaten, Clan cats must take care to gut them gently and remove the organ without spilling toxic green slime everywhere.
(ShadowClan actually collects and uses this bile for other purposes. Dried and diluted, it can be used as a medicine for treating parasites, and wet and mixed into a poultice it can be used to dress wounds. If gargled, it can also dissolve and loosen stuck bones in the throat, VERY important for unknowing kittens who tried to eat cooked bird bones.)
These two are the most common animals in the highly varied ShadowClan diet. Hunt in the shallow marsh, and you're bound to bump into either a duck or a carp at some point.
But when winter rolls in, they start to rely on mammalian prey.
3: Rats
While some rats can breach 2 pounds (SHOUT OUT TO ALL MY NEW YORKERS) most of them only clock in at about half a pound-- 250 grams. That's 1,250 calories. About 3 cats fed.
(NOTE: These estimations of how MANY cats they feed assumes that these bites are being distributed evenly, such as if the animal was being put into a soup or meticulously portioned. It's more likely that a single rat is eaten alone or only shared between two warriors who then bulk up. The sensation of "fullness" is determined by weight rather than caloric value.)
Rats are highly adaptable omnivores, but most of their diet is actually plants! Humans associate them with garbage and filth, and yes, the rats from carrionplace would certainly taste awful. But most of the rats ShadowClan catches would be living in natural conditions, eating nuts, fruits, and smaller animals. So it doesn't make sense that canon sees ALL rats as dirty-- they should actually be a HUGE part of a warrior's diet!
Especially in ShadowClan, where the invasive brown rat has all but eliminated the native black rat population. Brown rats are huge, thick-tailed, excellent swimmers who stick around in the winter and find themselves right at home in a marsh or swamp.
In fact, ShadowClan thinks hunting them is a two-way blessing. A cat stays fed through the winter, and more resources are freed up for the rarer, but more delicious water vole. ThunderClan isn't the only Clan that understands population management.
And speaking of...
4: Squirrels
Significantly smaller than carp and ducks, gray squirrels are usually about 500 grams. I've heard it said that they triple in mass over the winter, but since I'm not sure if that means they triple in weight, I'll simply rule that a wintertime gray squirrel is 1000 grams. Which means about 5,000 calories, enough to feed 14 cats.
...but also. don't underestimate how big a squirrel is. You are a 200-pound bipedal ape, these are 10 pound cats. They are also eating all the organs you, a human, would usually toss.
The general term, wetland, refers to all land that is... take a guess... wet. The difference between a marsh and a swamp is that a swamp is wooded land, which means squirrels can live there!
ShadowClan often finds itself in conflict with ThunderClan over squirrels. The native, endangered red squirrel is a cultural icon to ThunderClan and they believe it's important to protect it at all costs by killing gray squirrels whenever possible. ShadowClan, meanwhile, agrees red squirrels are beautiful, but isn't willing to be aggressive with gray squirrel populations to protect them.
5: Cheating
In true ShadowClan fashion I do what I want and use number 5 to babble about several animals they turn into grub
And SPEAKING of grubs, they love to forage for larval treats. They regularly make snacks out of chafer grubs, stag beetle larvae, cutworms, and if they can manage it, baby honeybees. Chafer grubs are their absolute favorite, which is another reason why WindClan is so passionate about maintaining their moorland; when it turns into grassland, ShadowClan is energized to fight for grub foraging space.
The "problem" with the meat of predators is that it's said to be tough and taste strong and unpalatable. ShadowClan doesn't entirely mind it, but if they end up with a predator in spring and summer, they like to use the seasonal stream (called a syke) that cuts across ThunderClan to soak the meat in running water for a few days.
Not to mention that they really will just grab at any animal, in addition to those lizards and frogs they're notorious for. Hedgehogs, crayfish, waterbirds, snails. There's all sorts of spices they'll use to try to season a strange meat, between mushrooms, pellitory, juniper, rosemary, so on.
It's harder to find something they WON'T eat.
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Cryptidclaw's WC Prefixes List!
Yall said you were interested in seeing it so here it is!
This is a collection of mostly Flora, Fauna, Rocks, and other such things that can be found in Britain since that’s where the books take place!
I also have other Prefixes that have to do with pelt colors and patterns as well!
Here’s a link to the doc if you dont want to expand a 650 word list on your Tumblr feed lol! the doc is also in my drive linked in my pined post!
below is the actual list! If there are any names you think I should add plz tell me!
EDIT: I will update the doc with new names as I come up with them or have them suggested to me, but I wont update the list on this post! Plz visit my doc for a more updated version!
Animals
Mammal
Badger
Bat
Bear
Beaver
Bison
Boar
Buck
Calf
Cow
Deer
Elk
Fawn
Ferret
Fox
Goat
Hare
Horse
Lamb
Lynx
Marten
Mole
Mouse
Otter
Rabbit
Rat
Seal
Sheep
Shrew
Squirrel
Stoat
Vole
Weasel
Wolf
Wolverine
Amphibians
Frog
Newt
Toad
Reptiles
Scale
Adder
Lizard
Snake
Turtle
Shell
Birds
Bird
Down
Feather
Albatross
Bittern
Buzzard
Chaffinch
Chick
Chicken
Coot
Cormorant
Corvid
Crane
Crow
Curlew
Dove
Duck
Dunlin
Eagle
Egret
Falcon
Finch
Gannet
Goose
Grouse
Gull
Hawk
Hen
Heron
Ibis
Jackdaw
Jay
Kestrel
Kite
Lark
Magpie
Mallard
Merlin
Mockingbird
Murrelet
Nightingale
Osprey
Owl
Partridge
Pelican
Peregrine
Petrel
Pheasant
Pigeon
Plover
Puffin
Quail
Raven
Robin
Rook
Rooster
Ruff
Shrike
Snipe
Sparrow
Starling
Stork
Swallow
Swan
Swift
Tern
Thrasher
Thrush
Vulture
Warbler
Whimbrel
Wren
Freshwater Fish
Fish
Bass
Bream
Carp
Dace
Eel
Lamprey
Loach
Minnow
Perch
Pike
Rudd
Salmon
Sterlet
Tench
Trout
Roach
Saltwater fish and other Sea creatures (would cats be able to find some of these? Probably not, I don't care tho)
Alge
Barnacle
Bass (Saltwater version)
Bream (Saltwater version)
Brill
Clam
Cod
Crab
Dolphin
Eel (Saltwater version)
Flounder
Garfish
Halibut
Kelp
Lobster
Mackerel
Mollusk
Orca
Prawn
Ray
Seal
Shark
Shrimp
Starfish
Sting
Urchin
Whale
Insects and Arachnids
Honey
Insect
Web
Ant
Bee
Beetle
Bug
Butterfly
Caterpillar
Cricket
Damselfly
Dragonfly
Fly
Grasshopper
Grub
Hornet
Maggot
Moth
Spider
Wasp
Worm
Trees
Acorn
Bark
Branch
Forest
Hollow
Log
Root
Stump
Timber
Tree
Twig
Wood
Alder
Apple
Ash
Aspen
Beech
Birch
Cedar
Cherry
Chestnut
Cypress
Elm
Fir
Hawthorn
Hazel
Hemlock
Linden
Maple
Oak
Pear
Poplar
Rowan
Redwood
Spruce
Willow
Yew
Flowers, Shrubs and Other plants
Berry
Blossom
Briar
Field
Flower
Leaf
Meadow
Needle
Petal
Shrub
Stem
Thicket
Thorn
Vine
Anemone
Apricot
Barley
Bellflower
Bluebell
Borage
Bracken
Bramble
Briar
Burnet
Buttercup
Campion
Chamomile
Chanterelle
Chicory
Clover
Cornflower
Daffodil
Daisy
Dandelion
Dogwood
Fallow
Fennel
Fern
Flax
Foxglove
Furze
Garlic
Ginger
Gorse
Grass
Hay
Heather
Holly
Honeysuckle
Hop
Hyacinth
Iris
Ivy
Juniper
Lavender
Lichen
Lilac
Lilly
Mallow
Marigold
Mint
Mistletoe
Moss
Moss
Mushroom
Nettle
Nightshade
Oat
Olive
Orchid
Parsley
Periwinkle
Pine
Poppy
Primrose
Privet
Raspberry
Reed
Reedmace
Rose
Rush
Rye
Saffron
Sage
Sedge
Seed
Snowdrop
Spindle
Strawberry
Tangerine
Tansy
Teasel
Thistle
Thrift
Thyme
Violet
Weed
Wheat
Woodruff
Yarrow
Rocks and earth
Agate
Amber
Amethyst
Arch
Basalt
Bounder
Cave
Chalk
Coal
Copper
Dirt
Dust
Flint
Garnet
Gold
Granite
Hill
Iron
Jagged
Jet
Mountain
Mud
Peak
Pebble
Pinnacle
Pit
Quartz
Ridge
Rock
Rubble
Ruby
Rust(y)
Sand
Sapphire
Sediment
Silt
Silver
Slate
Soil
Spire
Stone
Trench
Zircon
Water Formations
Bay
Cove
Creek
Delta
Lake
Marsh
Ocean
Pool
Puddle
River
Sea
Water
Weather and such
Autumn
Avalanche
Balmy
Blaze
Blizzard
Breeze
Burnt
Chill
Cinder
Cloud
Cold
Dew
Drift
Drizzle
Drought
Dry
Ember
Fall
Fire
Flame
Flood
Fog
Freeze
Frost
Frozen
Gale
Gust
Hail
Ice
Icicle
Lightening
Mist
Muggy
Rain
Scorch
Singe
Sky
Sleet
Sloe
Smoke
Snow
Snowflake
Soot
Sorrel
Spark
Spring
Steam
Storm
Summer
Sun
Thunder
Water
Wave
Wet
Wind
Winter
Celestial??
Comet
Dawn
Dusk
Evening
Midnight
Moon
Morning
Night
Noon
Twilight
Cat Features, Traits, and Misc.
Azure
Beige
Big
Black
Blonde
Blotch(ed)
Blue
Bounce
Bright
Brindle
Broken
Bronze
Brown
Bumble
Burgundy
Call
Carmine
Claw
Cobalt
Cream
Crimson
Cry
Curl(y)
Dapple
Dark
Dot(ted)
Dusky
Ebony
Echo
Fallen
Fleck(ed)
Fluffy
Freckle
Ginger
Golden
Gray
Green
Heavy
Kink
Knot(ted)
Light
Little
Lost
Loud
Marbled
Mew
Milk
Mottle
Mumble
Ochre
Odd
One
Orange
Pale
Patch(ed)
Pounce
Prickle
Ragged
Red
Ripple
Rough
Rugged
Russet
Scarlet
Shade
Shaggy
Sharp
Shimmer
Shining
Small
Smudge
Soft
Song
Speckle
Spike
Splash
Spot(ted)
Streak
Stripe(d)
Strong
Stump(y)
Sweet
Tall
Talon
Tangle
Tatter(ed)
Tawny
Tiny
Tough
Tumble
Twist
Violet
Whisker
Whisper
White
Wild
Wooly
Yellow
#cryptidclaw's warriors au#?#Im tempted to use these in the au#some characters deserve some more fun names hehe#rise of change#warrior cats#warrior cats design#warriors#warriors names#warriors naming#warriors prefixes
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Winter Coat Hymnal
Eddie Munson has never been good at goodbyes.
Then again, what is he supposed to do when looking his uncle who is none the wiser in the face on the front steps of the rickety porch of a not-so-brand new trailer just on the outskirts of Hawkins with a threadbare bag of minimal necessities slung over his shoulder?
Does he try to explain himself?
Does he simply trust Wayne to understand and let him go easily?
Does he cry?
Does he… hold it in?
Part of Eddie wants to make it hurt - give it enough pain so that Wayne tears himself from the overbearing habits that have been formed since he got out of the hospital. Checking in multiple times a day, calling from work even more at night, staying up on his days off sat on the porch with a carton of cigarettes and a case of beer lest he fall asleep – lest something happen during his accidental fifteen minute naps.
Wayne's eyes are tired, he’s tired.
But he can still tell, can still observe the bag over Eddie’s shoulder and take a hint when they move behind him and linger on the shiny BMW parked on the gravel driveway just by the mailbox, back packed sparsely with old reused boxes from the diner labeled ‘frozen meat’ and scribbled over in illegible handwriting that belongs to the other man standing beside the car.
Steve leans against it.
Arms crossed, eyes on the ground, lips downturned into a heavy frown like he’s been dreading this day for weeks.
And it had been…weeks.
Weeks since they’d made this promise to each other, weeks since Steve begged him to at least say goodbye even if it’s the day of – but he didn’t know it would be taken so literally.
To be fair, neither did Eddie.
“You got something to say, boy, you better say it.”
There’s no heat behind it, only the shaking voice of someone who’s probably seen this coming. Guilt fills Eddie’s shaking hands, steadied only by the hardened grip on the strap of his bag.
Wayne's shoulders square like he’s preparing to take a hit to the gut – he’s always taught his nephew to be truthful. To be comfortable saying anything, come to him with everything.
It’s easier said than done. Hell, how was this harder than being in eighth grade with a snotty nose rubbed face down along the cushions of the couch because he didn’t want to be..
A queer.
An outcast?
Fearing the worst with a bag packed almost the same as this resting by the door but receiving only acceptance.
“I’m leaving.” He says, and it comes out strangled despite his best efforts – it wasn’t supposed to be this way. Eddie was supposed to just go, run away from the face of family like a coward after he’d faced a hoard of interdimensional demon bats because his pusillanimity knows no bounds.
This isn’t a monster or a hoard of angry hicks.
This is Wayne.
This is the man that taught him how to ride a bike even after his knees had been skinned over and over again until they left scars he still has today, how to unhook a fish and fear not it’s sharp gills cutting along his fingers after the first time he’d yanked them away in shock — big brown eyes fearful in the middle of that boat in lovers lake at seven years old.
More fond memories replaced with impossible horror.
Smallmouth bass are no easy feat.
But this hurts a lot worse than a bloody hand - sinks his heart into the pit of his stomach like he’s swimming down into a slimy portal to hell after the very cause of that snotty nose all over again.
If he’s thinking anything specific, Eddie can’t tell, with his eyes never leaving Steve even filled with as much pain as they are. Glazed over with what he thinks is tears.
He’s only ever seen Wayne cry once.
“Where to?” He asks, gripping the door handle with as much force as Eddie does his own bag.
“Colorado.” Eddie says.
One thousand fifty three miles.
“Near winter park. The Rockies.”
Wayne finally pulls his eyes from Steve who’s still scuffing his shoes along dirt and rock as he waits and returns them to Eddie. His boy.
With a sharp inhale he tries his damndest at a curt nod, at quick acceptance.
There’s a cabin up in the mountains there, Eddie tells him, tucked into the woodiest parts just at nine thousand feet above sea level. Cheap. Needs fixing but has all the potential in the world, just far enough away from people that they wouldn’t have to worry about anything at all.
The we is what snags Wayne’s attention the most – and Eddie knows that he knows from the look in his eyes, the tilt of his head.
His eyes are still misty, though he blinks them back with another nod and steps out onto the porch, closing the door behind him.
“You gonna come say hello, son?”
Steve’s head shoots up from where he stands, his own face full of exhaustion, dark circles dipping into sorrowful eyes. He does approach, hands shoved into his pockets as he ascends the stairs and stops beside Eddie.
They’ve met before in the hospital a multitude of times – Eddie knows this, so when Steve refers to Wayne as sir this time he can’t help but break his own tearful expression for the sake of a sad snicker behind his fist. Like a nervous new boyfriend meeting the folks, he sticks one hand out to shake but it lingers untouched for so long that he almost puts it down, opens his mouth for some kind of preemptive defense before Wayne pushes his palm into it and tugs him forward into a tight hug.
Steve doesn’t hesitate because they’ve hugged before.
Eddie’s seen that too, from his blurry just awakening eyes, the shadow of Steve comforting his uncle just outside of the hospital room.
He still doesn’t know how long it had been between his arrival and his awakening – didn’t want to.
But knew they both of them had been there the whole time.
Wayne pulls away but keeps Steve in a tight grip at arms length, face stone serious.
“You gonna watch after this one? Keep him outta mischief?”
“Planning on it.” He replies, forcing a small smile onto his lips.
“Jus’ make sure he gets a good winter coat..gets cold up in them mountains and I never could get him to wear one, even as a kid.”
Eddie snorts against his fist, flattening his palm against his mouth and drags it downward with a shake of his head.
Wayne isn’t angry.
The only thing he’s worried about is repeating the same thing he’s always said every single time he’s left the house since he was fifteen.
‘Just wear a coat.’
‘Drive safe.’
‘Call me when you get to a stoppin’ point’
The last one is new. It stings just a little.
‘Don’t go forgettin about me.’
Eddie promises not to, offers him a spare room sometime in the future with a hopeful look on his face but Wayne shakes his head.
He’s gettin too old, prefers stayin put.
They’ll visit for holidays and birthdays and bring back gifts. Send postcards from their slice of heaven in the mountains.
Eddie never sees a singular tear escape his uncle's eyes until they’re walking back to the car, hidden behind a sleeved wipe of his nose any would mistake as just a product of the cold air around them.
He just can’t take it, swigs his bag into the backseat beside his baby and plops into the passenger seat alongside Steve, waves one ringed hand out of the window at him while the other one splays out across the center console to intertwined tightly with Steve’s – gentle squeezes making for just enough reassurance. Comfort.
“He loves you, you know.” It sounds like he wants to say something else completely, couched out and strangled between words.
Even he had teared up a little. But Eddie thinks that may be one of the only things left in the world that he knows for a fact, dwindles on the others for a long while until they’re only three hours into their long drive, palms still clasped even though they’ve become uncomfortably sweaty in front of the vents that produce scalding heat to combat the winter air.
“I love you.” He says, because it’s the only other thing.
And Steve smiles, big and genuine for the first time since they’d shared a shy and fearful kiss.
“Does that mean you’ll wear a coat?”
#steddie#eddie munson#steve harrington#stranger things#steddie fanfic#steddie fanfiction#wayne munson#steddie ficlet#eddie munson ficlet#light angst#one shot#drabble#Extocancer shorts
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Dsmp characters as fish because a special interest of mine is northeastern game fish 👍
c!Ranboo - Brook trout (Salvelinus fontinalis)
Basically the loser of the fish community lmao. They are really sensitive to their surroundings. They need the water to be a certain pH and temperature in order to survive. They are migratory in order to fulfill those needs. They are also bullied by other fish (specifically brown trout) to the point where populations are dropping. They are one of the more timid and docile species of trout. They stick in small groups. They will become aggressive when feeding or defending their spawning nests. Brook trout also have some of the most unique and colorful patterns. Brook trout hybrids are common occurrences
c!Tommy - Largemouth Bass (Micropterus salmoides)
Largemouth are the fish that is in everybody’s business. They are very much in your face all of the time. Simultaneously both very smart and very dumb. They commit to one spot to make their nest and will defend it fiercely. They are picky where they put their nest and spend a lot of time maintaining it to keep it in good condition. They typically will live in the same body of water and not migrate out, but will change depths depending on the seasons and where food is located.
c!Tubbo - Smallmouth Bass (Micropterus dolomieu)
Basically the Largemouth’s little brother. They are very similar but the smallmouth are typically smaller and bit more docile. They are also arguably a bit smarter than the largemouth as well. They are also very territorial and will defend their nests. Their nests are also well kept. When defending or hunting, they fight like a tank. Although smaller than the largemouth they pack a bigger punch. Smallmouth are also more cold tolerant than other fish.
c!Phil - Walleye (Sander vitreus)
Walleye remind me of crows. They have terrific eyesight, which is why they have big eyes. Their unique eyes allow them to hunt at night. They have one of the greater lifespans and can live to be a couple decades old. Walleye spend time in schools with members similar to them. They like to lurk in deeper cooler water. They are more active at night and more docile during the day. They become aggressive when seasons change and they have to stock up for the winter
c!Techno - Bullhead catfish (Ameiurus melas)
Bullhead are similar to walleye and live in similar conditions. They like cooler murky environments to reside in. They are docile if left alone. They will become predatory and territorial if provoked or feeding. They have venomous spines on their fins which hurt like a bitch if you get stung (not fatal). They scavenge more than hunt and scrounge around the bottom looking for food. They fight hard and hit hard. And once they have something they are very determined to not let it go
c!Wilbur - Brown Trout (Salmo trutta)
Brown trout are actually invasive and are not native to North America, they originate in parts of Europe and Asia. But they have now established themselves as part of the ecosystem. They compete with the native species and often pose a challenge. They are typically bigger than other trout species and their competitors get shoved around a bit. Browns are smart and cunning, and are very successful hunters. They are arguably the most territorial species of trout
c!Quackity - Musky (Esox masquinongy)
Easily one of, if not the smartest gamefish. They are nicknamed “the fish of ten thousand casts” because they are very picky and know how to differentiate lures from real bait fish. They are hard to catch. Muskies are ambush predators and will eat anything that fits into their mouth. This includes waterfowl, rodents, and frogs. They are elusive and like to stick to themselves. Musky are very dedicated to their territory and will fight any intruders out
Yay fish!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
#disclaimer I am no professional biologist and I have heavily personified the fish lmao#this was fun I might do it with other characters#I ♥️ fish#yknow what fuck it I’ll main tag this one#c!ranboo#c!tommy#c!tubbo#c!philza#c!technoblade#c!wilbur#c!quackity#dsmp#text
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well @nyxneon, this fucking website ate your original ask, but I FINALLY filled the prompt you sent me weeks ago. sorry it took me so long, I accidentally took "anything involving intoxicated Hob + sexytimes, be it dream sex, a fantasy, real, whatever" and... turned it into like nine pages of tender emotional sexy feelings? and dancing to old jazz music? whoops?? | rated E for sexytimes | 2900 words
- - -
Kind of Blue, a kind of fire
- - -
Some people might think that after six hundred-odd years of immersing himself in human pleasures, Hob Gadling would have calmed down about some things.
Those people would be wrong.
Food? Get out of town. The quality of food, the sheer variety that’s available within walking distance of his flat — it boggles the mind. Hob still dreams about the first time he’d had really good sushi. The part of himself that will always be a medieval peasant almost weeps every time he buys strawberries and pineapple in the middle of winter. He loves it all — gourmet four star restaurants and the cheapest fish-and-chip shop in the neighborhood. And one definite perk of being immortal is that he never has to think too hard about his cholesterol.
Alcohol? Obviously. There’s nothing like that particular soft fuzzy feeling that comes with a few glasses of wine or a good whiskey. Hob’s favorite day of the month is when the staff of the New Inn gets together for a taste test to choose the next round of beer and wine specials (things occasionally get raucous). He’s tried everything, from mead to absinthe to bathtub gin to the finest wines, and he’ll try them all again. And again… immortality benefits include not worrying overmuch about his liver or his blood pressure.
Sex? Well… perhaps the less said there, the better. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, after all; and whatever else he is, Hob would like to think he’s still a gentleman. Suffice to say he has had plenty of experience and very few complaints.
Of course, it just happens to be during one of those New Inn taste test evenings that Dream walks through the door. Hob immediately waves him over to the table where the staff are gathered.
“You are busy,” says Dream, sounding almost uncertain. “I will return another time.”
“No, no! Join us, by all means,” says Hob eagerly, kicking out a chair for Dream and carefully ignoring the significant looks several of the waitstaff are exchanging as he introduces everyone. By now they’ve seen his mysterious friend enough times that the rumors about Hob’s Man in Black are rife. “You might even come in useful. Do you know anything about wine?”
- - -
It’s some hours later, after many rounds of tasting, after his staff had been poured into taxis and Ubers, that Hob finds himself in his own living room, one last nightcap of very good whiskey in his hand, flipping through his record collection while his oldest friend, the Lord of Dreams, reclines on his comfy old couch.
“I think the last thing I put on for you was Duke Ellington, yeah? A couple of weeks ago, was it?”
Dream has shed his stiff coat and his arms are distractingly white and slender in the gentle lamplight of Hob’s living room. One ankle rests on the opposite knee and a glass tumbler of whiskey dangles from long fingers. Hob has never seen his friend look so… decadent. So relaxed. He tries not to stare.
“Ah! Here we go,” he says, emerging from his shelf of records with Kind of Blue in hand. “I haven’t played this for you yet. This was… 1959. It doesn’t get much better than this.”
He pulls the record from its sleeve, places it reverently on the turntable and gently drops the needle. A moment of static; then quiet, warm piano chords fill the room. Then the drums and the soft thrum of an upright bass. Then the first clear notes of Miles Davis’s trumpet pierce the air like arrows.
Hob feels marvelous, soft and loose-limbed. The wine and the whiskey buzz through his veins, softening the edges of the world and wrapping everything in velvet. He takes a sip from his glass and lets the music seep into his muscles like a warm bath as he starts to move to the rhythm. Hob lost any semblance of self-consciousness about four hundred years ago and he takes the idea of “dance like nobody’s watching” very seriously. Even if the nobody who is watching is the mystical being he’s been more or less in love with for centuries.
So he carefully doesn’t think about Dream watching him from the sofa. He deliberately doesn’t notice the two tiny spots of color blooming high on Dream’s devastating cheekbones.
Things between them have been different, somehow, since Dream’s return, but this feels… different. Almost dangerous, as though Hob is full of something flammable and Dream is an open flame.
Hob is just drunk enough to decide he doesn’t care. He tosses back the last sip of his whiskey like he’s throwing gasoline on a fire, sets aside his glass, and holds his hand out to Dream.
“Come on,” he says, a little breathless from the long swallow and the liquor and the music. “You can’t listen to Miles Davis and not dance.”
And Dream, in turn, drains his glass and puts it down, and takes Hob’s hand, and allows himself to be pulled to his feet, allows Hob’s hands at his hip and on his shoulder, and the spots of color on his cheeks bloom infinitesimally larger.
With the grace born of inebriation, Hob hooks one ankle around the leg of his coffee table and kicks it to the side, clearing a dance floor for himself and the man in his arms, pretending he is not staring, pretending he is not thinking about gathering Dream closer to himself, chest to chest and hip to hip and thigh to thigh.
For several long minutes they sway decorously together, inches apart, as the strains of “Blue in Green” float through the air around them. Hob tries very hard not to gaze into Dream’s eyes and is, again, just drunk enough to convince himself he’s doing a very good job.
“Well?” he says eventually, throwing an arm over Dream’s shoulder, emboldened by alcohol and jazz. “How do you feel about Miles Davis, then?”
There’s a pause.
“The music puzzles me, somewhat,” says Dream. “I suspect I will need more time with it.”
Another pause. Dream’s next words sound as if they are being dragged out from somewhere deep inside him.
“You puzzle me, Hob. I do not quite… understand how I feel when I am with you.”
“Do you need to understand? Is it not enough to just… feel? Or maybe you need more time with me, too,” he says teasingly.
“Hmm. I am not sure that time would bring clarity.”
They shuffle through a few more quasi-dance steps. Hob takes a breath and dares to draw Dream ever-so-slightly closer.
“Describe it for me.”
There is a long pause, during which Hob is not sure whether Dream is thinking or plotting his escape route. Finally, he speaks.
“I feel… warmth. Impatience. Contentment and dissatisfaction in equal measure. Calm, and yet…”
He trails off. They are very close now, feet stilled, but hips and chests swaying minutely yet to the music. Hob has stopped trying not to stare into Dream’s eyes.
“God, you’re beautiful.”
The words slip out before he can stop them, but he can’t make himself regret it, or try to take them back.
“You’re drunk,” says Dream fondly.
“Ah, but in the morning, I will be sober,” says Hob. “And you… will still be beautiful. Besides,” he adds. “You’re a little drunk too, don’t lie.”
“Perhaps,” murmurs Dream. Hob stares and stares. The spots of color on Dream’s cheekbones have spread across the stern bridge of his nose and down the slopes of his cheeks, a pink blush like sunset reflected on snow, and his pupils have almost swallowed the pale blue-grey of his irises.
“Dream…” says Hob. Their faces are close enough now that he can feel the other man’s breath on his cheek. “If I’m reading this wrong, stop me, but I think if I don’t kiss you right now I’ll—”
He doesn’t have to figure out the end of that sentence.
Dream leans forward, closes that last scant inch between them, and their lips meet and it’s (God, it’s perfect) it’s soft and gentle and — it’s not a chaste kiss, exactly, Hob thinks he has maybe never felt less chaste in his life — but their mouths aren’t even open, no hint of tongue, and Hob still feels as though he has suddenly developed a high fever.
And then Dream pulls back, and his mouth is very pink. Hob’s hand has drifted up from Dream’s hip to rest on his chest and a distant part of his brain wonders why it’s heaving under his fingers, why he’s even breathing when he doesn’t need the air. Everything in Hob wants to lean in, to chase after Dream’s mouth, capture it and keep it captive for as long as he’s allowed.
But before he can do that, Dream’s hand comes up to cup his face, long fingers stroking down the stubbled strong line of his chin; and this, too, is soft and gentle, until (until) the pad of Dream’s thumb catches on Hob’s bottom lip, and pulls it down, and something dangerous flashes in his eyes, that same flame Hob saw when he put down his drink and held out his hand to pull Dream off the couch.
And then Dream surges forward like a wildfire. And Hob is the one held captive, and this — oh, this — this kiss is hot and wet and promising, Dream’s tongue slipping into Hob’s mouth and Dream’s teeth catching on Hob’s lip where his thumb had pressed down, Dream’s arm snaking around Hob’s shoulders to crush them closer together and Hob’s hand trapped against Dream’s chest and flexing helplessly in the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer still.
Dream tastes like whiskey and a clear, high trumpet note.
Hob is dizzy in a way that has less to do with liquor and more to do with the way Dream is shoving a thigh between his legs and grinding their hips together as though he’s trying to fuck him through two layers of denim.
- - -
They do make it to the bedroom, eventually, although Hob is dimly aware that he will have to replace the glass in at least two picture frames that they knock off the wall during their progress down the hall. Half of their clothes have disappeared along the way: Dream’s boots to some ethereal netherworld and his t-shirt yanked unceremoniously over his head by Hob’s hungry hands; Hob’s button-down shirt hanging open — half the buttons gone now — his shoes kicked under the couch and his belt already loosened.
Dream tumbles to the bed first, one arm above his head, one knee canted up. He looks like a painting — although Hob’s distracted brain can’t quite place the artist — his pale skin covered in blue and orange from the combination of moonlight and sodium street lamps streaming in through the bedroom window. A thumb caught provocatively in the waistband of his black jeans.
Hob pauses, there, swaying slightly under the power of the whiskey in his veins and the man in his bed.
“Is this real?” he whispers. “Is this really happening?”
Dream frowns, a miniscule line between his brows.
“Have I underestimated your level of intoxication?” he asks.
“No… no, it’s not that. Not at all. It’s just…” Hob places a hesitant knee on the bed. Clears his throat. “It’s just that I’ve had this dream before, so many times. Of you; of, of this. And I know you’ve said that dreaming is just as real as waking, but… I just… have to know for sure. That we’re in my world.”
Hob is horrified to hear his own voice break, to feel the beginnings of tears gathering in his eyelashes. He is unprepared for the smile, warm and genuine and a little sad, that spreads across Dream’s face.
“Oh, Hob. My friend. Come here to me,” he says. “Let me show you.”
Hob crawls up the bed and into Dream’s open arms the way a drowning man might crawl onto a dry shore. Kisses him, open-mouthed and hungry, like gasping for air.
Dream draws his shirt carefully down the lines of his shoulders, casts it aside, tightens his arms around him, drops gentle kisses on his cheeks, the corners of his mouth, his teary eyes.
“How long?” asks Dream, voice tender and rough. “How long have you known? How long have you waited for me, my Hob, my dear heart?”
“I think I’ve been waiting for you my entire life,” Hob says, laughing damply into the crook of Dream’s neck, kneeling at the confessional of love and liquor. “I think… I think this is the reason I wanted to live forever. To be here, now, with you.”
“I’m sorry,” he sniffs. “This should be fun, and, and sexy, and I’m being all wet and emotional.”
“No. Do not apologize,” says Dream. Hob’s fuzzy brain finally makes the connection: the light through the window is blue and orange like a Van Gogh. His hands on Dream’s skin like sunflowers, like wheatfields. Dream strokes long fingers through the soft strands of Hob’s hair. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
- - -
In the living room, side A of Kind of Blue has come to an end. The record spins quietly and inevitably on Hob’s turntable; only the slightest catch of static on each rotation indicates that it is still moving at all.
- - -
In the bedroom, both men’s jeans have been tossed into the corner. Dream has two fingers inside Hob and is on the brink of adding a third; Hob twitches and gasps softly under his ministrations as Dream drags his mouth delicately along the hard length of his cock.
“Fuck. Fuck—” Hob pants. “Dream. I need… I need you. I need you. Please…”
“Patience.”
“Don’t you fucking — tell me — to be patient — ah! — you fucking ass.”
Dream withdraws his fingers, twisting them as he goes, adds the third as he thrusts back inside, crooking them in just the right way to have Hob whining at the stretch and pushing his hips desperately up, first into empty air and then onto Dream’s tongue as it circles lightly around the head of Hob’s weeping prick.
“Oh, but you are so good at waiting,” croons Dream into the soft skin of Hob’s thigh. “My patient, constant Hob, waiting for me. So good.”
And fuck, Hob should not find that as hot as he does, but oh, he does — the combination of praise in Dream’s voice and pleasure from Dream’s fingers making him bite hard on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from coming on the spot.
He reaches down blindly, filled with the need to feel, to touch, strokes through Dream’s hair and along the softness of his throat and the sharpness of his collarbone, grips his shoulder and draws him up. And Dream is kissing as he goes, kissing Hob’s hipbone and the comfortable divot of his waist, kissing his ribs, nosing through the soft hair on his chest, grazing a nipple with sharp teeth, and Hob would be embarrassed at the noise he makes if it weren’t for the fact that it was swallowed immediately by Dream’s mouth on his, warm and wet and wanting.
Dream’s fingers withdraw again, and he pulls back from Hob’s mouth and sits back on his heels where he is kneeling between Hob’s thighs spread wide. Hob drinks in the sight of him, thin and powerful and painted in ethereal light, and then Dream grabs the bottle of lube and slicks his hand and strokes himself, twice, three times, dark eyes pinning Hob to the pillows, and Hob’s brain shorts out, just a little bit, like a candle flame flickering.
When Dream slides inside him it is slow, careful, a scant tender inch at a time, a plush and slow series of piano chords. When they move together it is a little faster, like a jazz rhythm, slightly syncopated, halting here and pushing there, the percussion of breath and heartbeat driving the meter of their coupling. When they come it is a crash, a crest, a not-so-silent wail of an inner trumpet reaching its peak.
- - -
After — several minutes after — Hob (who, again, would still like to consider himself a gentleman) reluctantly detaches himself from the mattress and Dream’s clinging arms and fetches a large glass of water and a warm wet flannel, with which he gently cleans both Dream and himself before tossing it toward the laundry hamper.
He slides back between the sweatdamp sheets and Dream immediately shoves up against him, an arm across his chest and a leg twined around his and a lovely pale face pushed into the crook for his neck.
“Wouldn’t have picked you for such a cuddler,” Hob says drowsily, pulling the blanket over them as Dream tightens his hold.
“Hmm. I will endeavor to continue to surprise you,” Dream says, and his lips move against Hob’s pulse in a way that almost makes him want to do it all over again. Almost. The spirit is willing, et cetera, but the flesh is… sleepy.
“Do you sleep?” murmurs Hob, halfway gone now to Dream’s own realm. The blue and orange shadows in his bedroom have blurred together and faded into warm shadows. “Will you stay?”
The fire Dream sparked and fed inside Hob has been sated, banked, put to bed to glow in waiting for another day.
“I will stay.”
[Read on AO3.]
#the sandman#dreamling#my writing#dream of the endless#hob gadling#I don't have anything interesting to say in tags right now... I hope you like it! I'm going to bed! <3#ahahaha wait apparently this is my 666th post??#now I'm SUPER MAD I didn't time it so my Hob's Halloween 666th birthday fic was nr 666#curses!!!!!#hardly an answer
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A sandwich.
It contains ice cream, whipped cream, sponge cake, meat balls, broccoli, pineapple, strawberries, tomatoes, lettuce, rice, noodles, mac and cheese, bacon, beef jerky, dried fish, seaweed, one of every Pokemon berry, jam, olive oil, lotus, dragon fruit, ravioli, ramen, tempura, teriyaki chicken, macaroons, escargots, mint, pepper, salt, sugar, croquettes, pickles, apples, avocados, sausages, bell peppers, grapes, pizza, a donut, cheese, more cheese, even more cheese, mushrooms, mustard, olives, a fried egg, a scrambled egg, blueberries, a poached egg, chawanmushi, a red bean bun, mochi, bbq sauce, chicken nuggets, french fries, takoyaki, pancakes, mackerel, salmon, coffee beans, spinach, a tiny bit of corn cream soup, ramensanga, fettucine alfredo, a plain bagel, pretzels, chocolate chip cookies, sweet potato, yam, potato, scallions, scallops, squid, crab stick, fish balls, fish cakes, oyster sauce, silken tofu, barley, cereal, paprika, oysters, red snapper, sea bass, plums, bean sprouts, garlic, string cheese, camembert, swiss cheese, mozzarella, parmesan cheese, yogurt, brinjal, a macdonald’s happy meal (without the toy and the packaging of course), truffles, caviar, tapioca balls, fried chicken, century eggs, cake sprinkles, dark chocolate, milk chocolate, white chocolate, milk tea (just a tinge), coffee (also a tinge), pudding, pumpkin, honey, mutton, mashed potatoes, bananas, icelandic fermented shark that they bury in the ground for months, raisins, dried mangoes, a drop of water, jelly, nata de coco, prunes, roasted pork, rosemary, bee pollen, peas, deer meat, rabbit meat, fish maw, ham, turkey, m&ms, chub, fufu, watermelon, winter melon, rock melon, coffee jelly, cacao, carrots, blueberries, black tea, dumplings, carrot cake, beetroot, purple cabbage, corn, celery, edamame, red beans, black beans, green beans, kidney beans, cashews, peanuts, pecans, sunflower seeds, walnuts, chickpeas, almonds, daikon, MSG, tamales, anchovies, tabbouleh, lions mane mushroom, chicken of the woods, kelp, octopus, durian, kimchi, crème fraîche, popcorn, cotton candy, everything bagel seasoning, capers, pears, marinara sauce, bittercress, butter cream, every single iteration of galarian curry, sushi, sashimi, kale and a very very specific ramen bowl (without the actual bowl) from a very particular shop located in Iwatodai.
And the top and bottom buns are somehow made from 50 different kinds of bread in a checker box pattern.
It comes with a picture.
Ingredients: I am not typing all of that out again. What the fuck.
Smell: You’ve taken an entire food court’s worth of food and made it into a sandwich. This isn’t even possible. Why am I considering this. 3/5
Taste: How do you eat this. 2/5
Texture: You get like 5 different foods every bite. This is not balanced. There is no harmony. This sandwich is the embodiment of disorder and chaos. 1/5
Presentation: The fact that this even looks sandwich adjacent is a fucking miracle. You don’t get full points though. Because I don’t like you. 3/5
Would Chunk Eat It?: He would eat maybe 1/50th of it. So no. 1/5
Final Score: 2/5
Critic’s Notes: Why would you waste this much food. Just host a party. Donate it. Something fucking anything I am begging at this point.
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Does ice fishing give you the same vibe as fishing in the summer?
I've been fishing but nothing special and not in winter
If fishing for you is nothing special and lackluster I promise you that you'll hate ice fishing. Just the way the question is asked leads me to this.
Here is the secret to fishing (all tumblr world perks ears) it's about catching fish... But... It's not about catching fish.
Whether you sit in a lawn chair or on a boat it's about the nature.
It's the view and the wind, the trees and the sky, it's the ability to be in it.... Now...maybe some only fish in busy, highways of water... Then yes it's a job or chore.
I am blessed to have about 20 lakes and 3 rivers within an hour of me. I have places no phone reception, no car noise, no houses on the lake, you feel pulled out of time. THAT'S why I fish. Now.... When you have a Mepp 5 on and a bass slams it deep from below, the water explodes and this dude fights with all it's fury.... It's addictive as fuck, your heart pounds, it never gets old feeling a fish hook on.
To be clear unless the fish is wounded, I catch and release.
Fishing isn't putting rod in and instant fish. Ice fishing is slowed down by a billion... But.... It's about getting out, getting together, snacks, chatting and yes... Bringing up a fish and releasing.
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wip woo an hour left of wednesday
i was tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton @wrathfulrook @inafieldofdaisies and @direwombat to share for wip day! sending tags out to @henbased @unholymilf @florbelles @ishwaris @shallow-gravy @purplehairsecretlair @poetikat @harmonyowl @roofgeese @deputyash @schoute @confidentandgood @derelictheretic @afarcryfrommymain @trench-rot @voidika @sukoshimikan @josephslittledeputy @strafethesesinners @strangefable @corvosattano @v0idbuggy @jackiesarch @fourlittleseedlings and anyone else in the mood for sharing!
look. wildfire will get written. but right now it’s more hook, line, and sinker.
Skylar shook her head. “Jessie, you don’t even like Silver Lake,” she grumbled under her breath. “Ya always called it an ‘overcrowded, overrated tourist trap.’”
Jestiny felt a sharp stinging ripple behind her eyes, fury bubbling up in her throat — of course she liked Silver Lake. A person didn’t fish somewhere for nearly seven months straight and not even like it. She might even say she —
She slammed her fist against the table again, this time hard enough for ice cubes to clink against the glass of Sherri’s whiskey from the force. “In summer it’s an overcrowded, overrated tourist trap,” she ground out, sucking a breath in through her teeth. “In winter it’s the only fucking decent place to catch trout!”
“It’s a big lake.”
“Not big enough for the three of us!”
“I’m not gonna stop fishing at the lake I run my own damn business at,” Sherri said, the slightest hints of a scowl beginning to furrow onto her face.
“Oh, well!” Jessie cried, shooting up to her feet with a grating scrape of the legs of her chair against the hardwood. “I would fucking hate to crush your goddamn entrepreneurial spirit!”
The sarcastic exclamation was apparently loud enough to even draw the attention of the wasted asshole in the tacky duster, who finally fixed his unfocused gaze on her — but blessedly only increased the volume of his own manic rambling in response, eyes of the crowd turning their heads back towards him.
“— because he can’t even stick a landing, by the way. Always veers to the —”
“Hell, I might as well give you the fuckin’ shirt off my back, huh?” she laughed, tugging at the collar of the graphic t-shirt bearing the outline of a bass splashing out of water beneath the slogan ‘My Fishing Line Isn’t The Only Thing I Get Wet.’ “Since I bought it at Can of Worms, too! Guess it’s all yours, now that it’s over!”
She actually thought she bought it the first day they — never mind that — she yanked the hem from beneath the waistband of her shorts to begin pulling it over her head.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Jessie!” Skylar barked. “We did this in a public place because we were hoping it’d make you less likely to make a scene.”
“Oh, I —” she threw the shirt down onto the table, pressing fingertips against the worn polyester of the sports bra covering her chest in gesture to herself. “I’m making a scene?”
“Big fucking scene,” Sherri agreed. “You always make some kinda —”
“This is not a scene!” she interrupted, waving a hand over the table. “This —” She grunted, swinging her arm back to point towards the creep prattling on at the next table so loud she couldn’t hear herself think long enough to form a proper argument about why she should get exclusive use of Silver Lake. “That fucker is making a fucking scene!”
“— an absolute disgrace of a cockpit —”
“Hey, asshole!” she shouted over Skylar and Sherri’s heads. “I’m trying to have a calm fucking discussion with my girlfriends about fishing spots over here!”
“Ex-girl —”
“So could you shut the fuck up?” Jestiny demanded, stomping a foot down. “What’s your fucking problem?!”
Blue eyes locked onto her, this time properly, with something more than hazy, drunken focus — breathy, sputtering laughter following in their wake.
“Problem?” he half-slurred in a rising huff. “Oh, no problem here.”
He stumbled a few steps forward towards her, until she could smell the stench of expensive liquor and cheap weed clinging to him, and feel the hot puffs of his laughter falling against her face as he leaned in with a clumsily sway.
“In fact, I’m celebrating,” he hummed with the rise of his eyebrows — reaching forward into her space to grab her beer bottle off the table, raising it up in cheers. “I’m going to be a father,” he said as he brought the bottle to his lips to take a swig.
#wip#this is fun & goofy to write but exploring jessie’s brand of repressed emotional volatility outside john/the reaping has been interesting#and look. do i think the nixed rye baby rumor would have made perfect sense in canon? maybe not.#is it funny to make part of this au where i’ve fucked up my own canon and timeline anyways? absolutely.#v: hook‚ line‚ and sinker
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List of all SDV and SDV:E (Stardew Valley: Expanded) Giftable Items
Horseradish
Daffodil
Leek
Dandelion
Parsnip
Cave Carrot
Coconut
Cactus
Banana
Sap
Large Egg
Egg
Milk
Large Milk
Green Bean
Cauliflower
Potato
Garlic
Kale
Rhubarb
Melon
Tomato
Morsel
Blueberry
Fiddlehead Fern
Hot Pepper
Wheat
Radish
Red Cabbage
Starfruit
Corn
Rice
Eggplant
Artichoke
Pumpkin
Bokchoy
Yam
Chanterelle
Cranberry
Holly
Beets
Ostrich Egg
Salmonberry
Amouranth
Pale Ale
Hops
Void Egg
Mayonnaise
Duck Mayonnaise
Void Mayonnaise
Clay
Copper Bar
Silver Bar
Gold Bar
Iridium Bar
Refined Quartz
Honey
Pickles
Jam
Beer
Wine
Juice
Clam
Poppy
Copper Ore
Silver Ore
Coal
Gold Ore
Iridium Ore
Wood
Stone
Nautilus Shell
Coral
Summer Shell
Spice Berry
Sea Urchin
Grape
Spring Onion
Strawberry
Sweet Pea
Common Mushroom
Wild Plum
Hazelnut
Blackberry
Winter Root
Crystal Fruit
Snow Yam
Sweet Gem Berry
Crocus
Red Mushroom
Sunflower
Purple Mushroom
Cheese
Goat Cheese
Cloth
Truffle
Truffle Oil
Coffee Bean
Goat Milk
Large Goat Milk
Wool
Duck Egg
Duck Feather
Caviar
Lucky Rabbit’s Foot
Aged Roe
Ancient Fruit
Mead
Tulip
Summer Spangle
Fairy Rose
Blue Jazz
Apple
Green Tea
Apricot
Orange
Peach
Pomegranate
Cherry
Bug Meat
Hardwood
Maple Syrup
Oak Resin
Pine Tar
Slime
Bat Wing
Rusty Blade
Swirl Stone
Solar Essence
Void Essence
Void Pebble
Void Shard
Void Soul
Fiber
Battery
Dinosaur Mayonnaise
Roe
Squid Ink
Tea Leaves
Ginger
Taro Root
Pineapple
Mango
Cinder Shard
Magma Cap
Bone Fragment
Radioactive Ore
Radioactive Bar
Ancient Fiber
Bearberry
Conch
Dried Sand Dollar
Ferngill Primrose
Golden Ocean Flower
Goldenrod
Green Mushroom
Four-Leaf Clover
Monster Fruit
Monster Mushroom
Mushroom Colony
Poison Mushroom
Red Baneberry
Salal Berry
Slime Berry
Rafflesia
Sports Drink
Stamina Capsule
Thistle
Void Root
Winter Star Ross
Dewdrop Berry
Aged Blue Moon Wine
Blue Moon Wine
Aegis Elixir
Armor Elixir
Barbarian Elixir
Gravity Elixir
Haste Exilir
Hero Elixir
Lightning Elixir
Pufferfish
Anchovy
Tuna
Sardine
Bream
Largemouth Bass
Smallmouth Bass
Rainbow Trout
Salmon
Walleye
Perch
Carp
Catfish
Pike
Sunfish
Red Snapper
Herring
Eel
Octopus
Red Mullet
Squid
Seaweed
Green Algae
Seacucumber
Super Seacucumber
Ghost Carp
White Algae
Stone Fish
Crimsonfish
Angler
Icepip
Lava Eel
Legend
Sandfish
Scorpion Carp
Flounder
Midnight Carp
Mutant Carp
Sturgeon
Tiger Trout
Bullhead
Tilapia
Chub
Dorado
Albacore
Shad
Lingcod
Halibut
Lobster
Crayfish
Crab
Cockle
Mussel
Shrimp
Snail
Periwinkle
Oyster
Woodskip
Glacierfish
Void Salmon
Slimejack
Midnight Squid
Spookfish
Blobfish
Stingray
Lionfish
Blue Discus
Baby Lunaloo
Bonefish
Bull Trout
Butterfish
Clownfish
Daggerfish
Dulse Seaweed
Frog
Gemfish
Goldenfish
Grass Carp
King Salmon
Kittyfish
Lunaloo
Meteor Carp
Minnow
Puppyfish
Radioactive Bass
Razor Trout
Seahorse
Sea Sponge
Shiny Lunaloo
Snatcher Worm
Starfish
Torpedo Trout
Undeadfish
Void Eel
Water Grub
Dwarf Scroll 1
Dwarf Scroll 2
Dwarf Scroll 3
Dwarf Scroll 4
Chipped Amphora
Arrowhead
Ancient Doll
Elvish Jewelry
Chewing Stick
Ornamental Fan
Dinosaur Egg
Rare Disc
Ancient Sword
Rusty Spoon
Rusty Spur
Rusty Cog
Chicken Statue
Ancient Seed
Prehistoric Tool
Dried Starfish
Anchor
Glass Shards
Bone Flute
Prehistoric Handaxe
Dwarvish Helm
Dwarf Gadget
Ancient Drum
Golden Mask
Golden Relic
Strange Doll
Strange Doll
Prehistoric Scapula
Prehistoric Tibia
Prehistoric Skull
Skeletal Hand
Prehistoric Rib
Prehistoric Vertebrae
Skeletal Tail
Nautilus Shell
Amphibian Fossil
Palm Fossil
Trilobite
Emerald
Aquamarine
Ruby
Amethyst
Topaz
Jade
Diamond
Prismatic Shard
Quartz
Fire Quartz
Frozen Tear
Earth Crystal
Alamite
Bixite
Baryite
Aerinite
Calcite
Dolomite
Esperite
Fluorapatite
Geminite
Helvite
Jamborite
Jagoite
Kyanite
Lunarite
Malachite
Nepunite
Lemon Stone
Nekoite
Orpiment
Petrified Slime
Thunder Egg
Pyrite
Ocean Stone
Ghost Crystal
Tiger’s Eye
Jasper
Opal
Fire Opal
Celestine
Marble
Sandstone
Granite
Basalt
Limestone
Soapstone
Hematite
Mudstone
Obsidian
Slate
Fairy Stone
Star Shards
Fried Egg
Omelet
Salad
Cheese Cauliflower
Baked Fish
Parsnip Soup
Vegetable Medley
Complete Breakfast
Fried Calimari
Strange Bun
Lucky Lunch
Fried Mushrooms
Pizza
Bean Hotpot
Glazed Yams
Carp Surprise
Hashbrowns
Pancakes
Salmon Dinner
Fish Taco
Crispy Bass
Pepper Poppers
Bread
Tom Kha Soup
Trout Soup
Chocolate Cake
Pink Cake
Rhubarb Pie
Cookies
Spaghetti
Spicy Eel
Sashimi
Maki Roll
Tortilla
Red Plate
Eggplant Parmesan
Rice Pudding
Ice Cream
Bluberry Tart
Autumn’s Bounty
Pumpkin Soup
Super Meal
Cranberry Sauce
Stuffing
Farmer’s Lunch
Survival Burger
Dish’O’The Sea
Miner’s Treat
Roots Platter
Triple Shot Espresso
Seafoam Pudding
Algae Soup
Pale Broth
Plum Pudding
Artichoke Dip
Stir Fry
Roasted Hazelnuts
Pumpkin Pie
Radish Salad
Fruit Salad
Blackberry Cobbler
Cranberry Candy
Bruschetta
Coleslaw
Fiddlehead Risotto
Poppyseed Muffin
Chowder
Fish Stew
Escargot
Lobster Bisque
Maple Bar
Crab Cakes
Shrimp Cocktail
Ginger Ale
Banana Pudding
Mango Sticky Rice
Poi
Tropical Curry
Squid Ink Ravioli
Mushroom Berry Rice
Big Bark Burger
Flower Cookie
Frog Legs
Glazed Butterfish
Grampleton Orange Chicken
Mixed Berry Pie
Baked Berry Oatmeal
Void Delight
Void Salmon Sushi
#Mistakes have likely been made and I will not be fixing them so just reply to the post with any corrections#sdv#stardew#stardew valley#sdv:e#sdve#stardew expanded#stardew valley expanded#giftable items#sdv items#sdv gifts#sdv gifting#long post
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Pelipper mail!
A sandwich.
It contains ice cream, whipped cream, sponge cake, meat balls, broccoli, pineapple, strawberries, tomatoes, lettuce, rice, noodles, mac and cheese, bacon, beef jerky, dried fish, seaweed, one of every Pokemon berry, jam, olive oil, lotus, dragon fruit, ravioli, ramen, tempura, teriyaki chicken, macaroons, escargots, mint, pepper, salt, sugar, croquettes, pickles, apples, avocados, sausages, bell peppers, grapes, pizza, a donut, cheese, more cheese, even more cheese, mushrooms, mustard, olives, a fried egg, a scrambled egg, blueberries, a poached egg, chawanmushi, a red bean bun, mochi, bbq sauce, chicken nuggets, french fries, takoyaki, pancakes, mackerel, salmon, coffee beans, spinach, a tiny bit of corn cream soup, ramensanga, fettucine alfredo, a plain bagel, pretzels, chocolate chip cookies, sweet potato, yam, potato, scallions, scallops, squid, crab stick, fish balls, fish cakes, oyster sauce, silken tofu, barley, cereal, paprika, oysters, red snapper, sea bass, plums, bean sprouts, garlic, string cheese, camembert, swiss cheese, mozzarella, parmesan cheese, yogurt, brinjal, a macdonald’s happy meal (without the toy and the packaging of course), truffles, caviar, tapioca balls, fried chicken, century eggs, cake sprinkles, dark chocolate, milk chocolate, white chocolate, milk tea (just a tinge), coffee (also a tinge), pudding, pumpkin, honey, mutton, mashed potatoes, bananas, icelandic fermented shark that they bury in the ground for months, raisins, dried mangoes, a drop of water, jelly, nata de coco, prunes, roasted pork, rosemary, bee pollen, peas, deer meat, rabbit meat, fish maw, ham, turkey, m&ms, chub, fufu, watermelon, winter melon, rock melon, coffee jelly, cacao, carrots, blueberries, black tea, dumplings, carrot cake, beetroot, purple cabbage, corn, celery, edamame, red beans, black beans, green beans, kidney beans, cashews, peanuts, pecans, sunflower seeds, walnuts, chickpeas, almonds, daikon, MSG, tamales, anchovies, tabbouleh, lions mane mushroom, chicken of the woods, kelp, octopus, durian, kimchi, crème fraîche, popcorn, cotton candy, everything bagel seasoning, capers, pears, marinara sauce, bittercress, butter cream, every single iteration of galarian curry, sushi, sashimi, kale and a very very specific ramen bowl (without the actual bowl) from a very particular shop located in Iwatodai.
And the top and bottom buns are somehow made from 50 different kinds of bread in a checker box pattern.
What the actual fuck.
It has whipped cream on it. Disgusting.
THAT'S WHY ITS DISGUSTING????
No it's just the first thing I saw that grossed me out and you know I hate whipped cream
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"what do you do for fun?" it's a casual question, seeming almost a secondary thought, yet faolan's eyes are pinned to the space between bane's eyes. she does not mean to be nosy, or annoying, but she can't quite help the curiosity. head tilted, she purses her lips, before saying, "i like metalworking. and dancing. sometimes, my brothers take me to costa del sol to collect seashells, too."
Fun? That sounds like a stupid question, but only because he doesn't really have an answer. There are things that he enjoys doing when not caught in the throes of another's war, but he didn't ever really have the time to indulge in other such hobbies aside from adventuring. His brow creases as he gives it some thought, right as the other starts to share what she likes to do for fun. Was there ever a time where he could do such things? Or rather, when he did not do things for the sake of his survival. Gods, that must've been ages ago... but, there is something that comes to mind.
"I like to fish", and for once he did not grouse, and did not seem too bothered by having the xaela ask him something. They're easy to catch, far more than hunting small game, and just as easy to prepare. Doesn't take a master chef to fillet a good cut of bass, and prawns could be just as tasty if you knew where to find them.
"Just out in the Shroud, I've never been much for beaches, but I imagine that Costa Del Sol is just as bountiful as the rivers I go to...", he had a preference for freshwater fish, but that might be because of how often he's had them compared to saltwater fish. On top of that, he wasn't one to enjoy the more tropical climes after spending most of his days in more temperate surroundings. At times he could say he even missed Coerthas' winter. Only sometimes. Though, speaking of fish... he could really go for a grilled trout right about now.
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Pelipper mail! (To kotone)
A sandwich.
It contains ice cream, whipped cream, sponge cake, meat balls, broccoli, pineapple, strawberries, tomatoes, lettuce, rice, noodles, mac and cheese, bacon, beef jerky, dried fish, seaweed, one of every Pokemon berry, jam, olive oil, lotus, dragon fruit, ravioli, ramen, tempura, teriyaki chicken, macaroons, escargots, mint, pepper, salt, sugar, croquettes, pickles, apples, avocados, sausages, bell peppers, grapes, pizza, a donut, cheese, more cheese, even more cheese, mushrooms, mustard, olives, a fried egg, a scrambled egg, blueberries, a poached egg, chawanmushi, a red bean bun, mochi, bbq sauce, chicken nuggets, french fries, takoyaki, pancakes, mackerel, salmon, coffee beans, spinach, a tiny bit of corn cream soup, ramensanga, fettucine alfredo, a plain bagel, pretzels, chocolate chip cookies, sweet potato, yam, potato, scallions, scallops, squid, crab stick, fish balls, fish cakes, oyster sauce, silken tofu, barley, cereal, paprika, oysters, red snapper, sea bass, plums, bean sprouts, garlic, string cheese, camembert, swiss cheese, mozzarella, parmesan cheese, yogurt, brinjal, a macdonald’s happy meal (without the toy and the packaging of course), truffles, caviar, tapioca balls, fried chicken, century eggs, cake sprinkles, dark chocolate, milk chocolate, white chocolate, milk tea (just a tinge), coffee (also a tinge), pudding, pumpkin, honey, mutton, mashed potatoes, bananas, icelandic fermented shark that they bury in the ground for months, raisins, dried mangoes, a drop of water, jelly, nata de coco, prunes, roasted pork, rosemary, bee pollen, peas, deer meat, rabbit meat, fish maw, ham, turkey, m&ms, chub, fufu, watermelon, winter melon, rock melon, coffee jelly, cacao, carrots, blueberries, black tea, dumplings, carrot cake, beetroot, purple cabbage, corn, celery, edamame, red beans, black beans, green beans, kidney beans, cashews, peanuts, pecans, sunflower seeds, walnuts, chickpeas, almonds, daikon, MSG, tamales, anchovies, tabbouleh, lions mane mushroom, chicken of the woods, kelp, octopus, durian, kimchi, crème fraîche, popcorn, cotton candy, everything bagel seasoning, capers, pears, marinara sauce, bittercress, butter cream, every single iteration of galarian curry, sushi, sashimi, kale and a very very specific ramen bowl (without the actual bowl) from a very particular shop located in Iwatodai.
And the top and bottom buns are somehow made from 50 different kinds of bread in a checker box pattern.
I’m. I’m not even sure how you managed to fit all this. This is beautiful in its monstrosity…
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EYELASHES/🍓 ANON POPS UP RANDOMLY
Here is a little detox questions for you because you deserve it for the hard work 😔✨
1. OOOO your MBTI?
2. What's your favorite season? Like a season that makes you melt in bed 🏃🏃🏃 (only me?)
3. Favorite singer? And their favorite song?
4. ANY FUNNY SCENARIO HAPPENED THAT IS STILL IN YOUR MIND?
5. If you had the ability to posses one power, what will it be? 😗🧐
6. Do fishes have thirst for water 🧍
(yes that last one was random and had me thinking nonstop like wtf do fishes drink water orrr-)
ANYWAYS LOVE U AND TAKE CARE, YOU DESERVE THE WORLD
aw :( ty 🍓 !!! you're v sweet, these are some fun lil' questions :D ya should tell me yer own answers if ya get the chance, I'm curious !!!
1- I honestly have no idea 😭 I took the test a couple times before bc I kept forgetting cause all those letters are hard to remember and I still don't remember!!! heh im sorry 👉👈
2- melt in bed... that sounds so funny 💀 I'm a fan of winter!!!!!! I love the chrimuth decorations and the cold weather bc I like to get all warm and toasty, plus I like to wear the sweaters I crochet/knit throughout the year
3- favorite singer... That's a hard one indeed 🤔 I listen to all types of music that makes my brain go brrr especially music with lots and lots of bass, I think my favorite type has to be hard metal screamo rap music simply because headbangin' is somethin' I do to stim when I'm overwhelmed with hefty emotions. 🧍 my favorite song that I'm currently hyperfixatin' on though is 'I love you hoe' by odetari & 9lives, I don't care for the lyrics but I really enjoy the 'spacey' feelin' I get when I listen to it... Kinda like that one song where people had this belief that it made people do their homework faster I think it was somethin' like... 'i can run faster with no wind resistance' or something, but the beat was so wiggly I have to find that song again... I JUST LOOKED IT UP-- the song is literally called 'no wind resistance' holy shit 😭
4- sigh... for some reason, I can't keep myself from laughin' when I hear someone pourin' liquid??? I used to have a thermos (I need to buy a new one) that I would fill with hot black/green tea and then whenever id pour the tea into the lil' cup I would giggle hysterically like some crazy person 😭 I think it's hereditary however, cause this morning I was drinkin' coffee near my mom and I have a tendency to 'slurp' from my mug and she kept gigglin' when I would slurp from it 😭 she also laughs when things are poured. the autism is strong in the family ngl. I even laughed RN at the memory of pourin' a cup of tea ._.
5- oh ya already know I'm gonna have my mailtda powers manifested soon 🧍 I'm talkin' telepathy, spell castin', teleportation, levitation, all that shit, but I do not want the ability to mind read bc that does not sound fun. hmm... pyrokinesis could be fun too
6- you'll have to ask 🐠 anon for that one 💀 bUt!!! I did learn a terrible fact today about dolphins! did y'know that dolphins terrorize pufferfish so that they can get high off the chemical that the pufferfish release in defense of predators? they throw the pufferfish around with the use of their teeth and stuff, tossin' them up and around, even above water, and then they like know when they need to stop gettin' high before the chemicals become lethal. there's enough poison in one pufferfish to kill 30 human adults but dolphins just love gettin' fuckin' HIGH!
im sorry for the ramblin' but if there's one thing to be told about me... I talk way too fuckin' much despite bein' an ambivert with a heavy lean towards bein' an introvert 🧍
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