#(pretty sure I know the answer to that question)

[pork-pop]

DON’T MAKE ME BEG FOR YOU!

✧ the girl of his dreams is throwing him a bone…is he feigning nonchalance or acting a fool?!

contains: gojo, geto, nanami || cw: p in v sex (unprotected), oral (f. receiving), like a hint of hair pulling for suguru, mentions of masturbation || wc: 1.7k~

✧ a/n: i am half asleep right now if there’s a typo just come to my home and take me out before i wake up! cheers. srry nanami’s ended up kinda shorter than the others oopsie daisy.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI!!!

SATORU GOJO

acting a fool is an understatement

Satoru is terrible at the art of subtlety, and to most, making one’s intentions blatantly clear to the person they’re interested in might seem mortifying. But that’s been Satoru’s goal since the start. Those lingering touches, the flirtatious glances and suggestive comments were all done in stride, after all, he takes pride in the fact that he’s getting what he wants. You, however, have been the hardest shell to crack. So, naturally, he’s utterly whipped. 

He can hardly believe his luck when you choose to reciprocate after months of cat and mouse, and he has no choice but to lay out all of his chips and double down. 

For someone who was raised to be a gentleman, he sure does know how to get your clothes on the floor without any manners at all. As soon as you’re blessing him, deepening the kiss, his wandering hands are tugging at your blouse for permission to show you how much he’ll work for it. 

“Isn’t this a treat?” He pants humorously between thrusts, fucking into you like he’ll know he’ll find the answers to all of his intrusive questions regarding you if he just gets an inch or two deeper. Satoru hisses as you tighten around him, “You gonna keep talking or are you gonna fuck me harder?” you snicker. And you should know that there’s nothing Satoru loves more than a good challenge; getting you like this wasn’t the challenge he’d most anticipated, no, it was making you crave it just as much as he did. 

“Is that an invitation?” He asks, a big grin twisting at the corners of his lips while he inches a hand down to thumb teasingly at your clit, “You know, I’ve been thinking about you saying that for a while now, don’t you?” In spite of his stamina, Satoru’s breath is ragged and shaky, could it be that he was even a bit…nervous? You didn’t have the time to put much thought into it before his hips speed up, knocking every one of those pretty suspicions out of your head for the time being. Your eyes roll back and you swear you can hear a triumphant little huff of a laugh from him as he takes that as inspiration to roughen the circles he’s drawing against your clit. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you’d sound like when you cum, too,” he admits without a shred of shame, nosing into the tender column of your throat so you can hear him better, “Can I hear?” “Fuck!” Is all you can manage through a strangled cry, clawing at the shifting muscles of his back in a futile attempt to ground yourself. “C’mon, I can tell you’re getting close,” he rasps madly, “I wanna hear you.” He begs, suddenly licking a greedy stripe along the dampened skin of your neck. 

And who are you to deny him? You cry out a declaration of your sudden orgasm, features squeezed and mouth parted as you struggle to catch your breath. Satoru stares at you with widened eyes, and a stuttered breath, “Hah-...” He hadn’t even realized how close he’d been getting to spilling inside you, but welcomed the overwhelming feeling with open arms. He could go for five more rounds if you’d let him, anyways. 

God, this must be what it’s like to hit the jackpot. 

SUGURU GETO

nonchalant (acting a fool)

Suguru can’t lie to himself and pretend like he hadn’t imagined this scenario too many times to count before, usually as a desperate last resort when he’d found he can’t imagine getting off to anything other than the thought of you at a certain point. He’s sure that he’s a better man than this, and he’d certainly tried to be courteous and discrete about the way you make him feel, shying away from the line he’s been dreaming to cross. 

But now, sitting up on the mattress and unable to tear his eyes away from your tits, he realizes that he’d been overshooting the strength of his own resolve. Suguru surges forward, taking one in his mouth as he guides you up and down his length, doing anything he can to prove he’s still being normal about this. Fuck it. 

“Fuck,”  he moans against your chest, “wait a minute-...” You still your movements, tilting your head curiously at him as he swallows breathlessly, “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” He quickly reassures with a shake of his head, gently squeezing at your hips to punctuate the promise, “God, nothing’s wrong at all, I just need-...let me eat you out. Please?” You blink at him in surprise, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Huh?” 

“Seriously, I-...” He shakes his head, gazing up at you like you’re the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen, “it’s all I’ve been thinking about.” 

During those moments in the past in which he found himself fucking his fist to the thought of you, he only ever found himself relishing in the idea of burying himself between your legs and making careful sure that the only thing you’d be capable of saying was his name. The both of you had been too hasty in the wake of realizing your feelings were reciprocated, too desperate to give each other everything you’d been dreaming of. It feels like the heavens have opened up before him as you slip off of his lap, letting him situate you against the pillows. 

Suguru’s methodic in the way he trails warm kisses down your body, stopping to suck a mark into your hip, but he can’t tease for too long, not when he probably wants to get you off on his tongue more than you want it (which is saying a lot). 

He kisses your bare cunt gratefully, before dragging his tongue against your entrance, eyelids already going heavy as he slips into a euphoric trance. Suguru tries his very hardest to keen on every noise you make, every cry of his name, but it’s hard to do that when he’s getting so drunk off the flavor of you. He’s suddenly starved, devouring you completely, too far gone to be embarrassed of the way he shakes his head against your pussy or moans just as loud as you do. 

Geto’s suspicions had been utterly correct. While he’s been eager to have you like he did moments before, to feel you wrap around him and to fuck up into you with calculated thrusts, this definitely takes the cake. He grows dizzy off your scent, grinding against the mattress to prevent himself from further losing his mind over the prospect of what he’s doing right now. 

You lace your hands through his hair, pulling at it as he brings you closer to the edge. This is all he needs, he thinks, he can easily be fine spending the rest of his life like this. Suguru wants to prove that much over and over again to you, and he won’t hesitate if you’ll let him. “You’re perfect.” He mumbles against your cunt, and he’s partially glad you’re too far gone to hear some of the pathetic remarks he’s uttering, “Need this so bad.”

Yeah, good luck hopping back on his dick anytime soon now that he knows he was right about how addicting you’d be. 

KENTO NANAMI

nonchalant by a thread

It’s easy for Kento to have steel-grade self control when you’re fully clothed and the conversation is tame. But when clothes are taken out of the equation, well, that’s a different story. That being said, he won’t forget his manners. 

You’re in a tender mating press, smiling softly at the sweet kisses Nanami keeps peppering across your face, and occasionally one to your lips. He briefly wonders why he ever thought it was a good idea to hesitate in taking the initiative to have you laid out against his pillows like this, moaning his name almost as if you knew how much that chipped away at his own self-preservation. You’re dangerously close to getting him to embarrass himself. 

“Do you like this?” He breathes against the shell of your ear as his pace speeds up a bit, knocking the wind out of you. Regardless, you nod, hardly able to wrap your lips around anything other than the shape of his name. Kento bites his lip, fighting the urge to go even faster. This was your first time together, after all, he’d be mad not to cherish it like something fleeting and sacred. He wants more, he wants this all the time, and he’s so close to begging you for it. In some last attempt of self-preservation, he utters, “You feel amazing,” almost choking on his breath after the fact. 

“Fuck, keep doing that.” You cry out, throwing your head back to give him a clear view of your throat that he so desperately wishes to mark up. He almost asked what you meant, before he peers down, realizing he’d mindlessly begun rubbing circles into your clit. Kento feels like he’s getting ahead of himself, yet not doing enough at the same time; this feeling is so foreign and overwhelming, but he’s falling in love with it. 

Following your orders, he continues his steady pace on your clit, mouth going dry as you tell him how close you are. Yes, please, that’s all I want to hear. 

“Please,” he murmurs in a gravelly voice, not realizing he’d started voicing his own thoughts, “cum for me.” Nanami is certain he’s going to lose control any moment, and he’s sure that you cumming around his cock is not going to help him at all in his hope to still be a gentleman to you. It’s alright, though, he thinks. If he’s going to embarrass himself, lose all resolve and allow himself to drown in this simple pleasure, Kento doesn’t think he’d want to do it with anyone else but you.

[saintormentor]

tag teamed m. s & c. s

in which . . . matt suggests a threesome with his brother chris, which made you hesitant at first. key word: at first.

content warnings . . . threesome ( zero incest. that’s disgusting. ) dizziness, oral, p in v, roughness, basically hardcore smut

matt brings it up one night, voice barely above a whisper. it’s late—way past midnight—and the sheets are tangled around your legs, his arms warm and clumsy around your waist. you’re scrolling through your phone, half-listening to him mumble, until he says it.

“would you ever… like… i don’t know. like a threesome?”

you turn your head. “with who?”

“me,” he swallows, “and chris.”

you blink. “your brother?”

“i mean—only if you wanted to! you don’t have to, like, it was just a thought i—i don’t know, i shouldn’t’ve said anything, it’s stupid—”

it takes another full week for it to become real. because matt is sweet and soft-spoken, because he second-guesses himself even while kissing your throat. but chris? chris is the opposite. cocky. unapologetic. he hears about the idea and shrugs like it’s already happening.

“you sure you can handle that, pretty girl?” he asks when matt brings it up again in front of him. you can’t tell if the question’s for you or matt.

they don’t rush. you thought it would be fast, wild, messy—but it starts gentle. because matt needs it to be. because he looks at you like you’re made of something delicate, and chris lets him take the lead even if he clearly wants to wreck you first.

you’re on the bed in matt’s room, soft light casting gold shadows over everything. matt’s mouth is warm on yours, tentative, like he’s still scared to do this wrong. chris leans against the door, arms crossed, watching like it’s a private screening.

“you okay?” matt whispers into your lips. you nod. he swallows again. “i just want you to feel good.”

his fingers are slow. familiar. they ghost over your skin like he’s mapping every breath, and when you arch into his palm, his eyes flutter shut. he doesn’t even realize chris is moving closer until you both hear his low laugh.

“you gonna keep her all night, or am i allowed to touch too?”

matt doesn’t answer. but he nods.

chris kisses you different. like he wants to leave a mark, make a memory, brand your body so you know the difference. his hands are everywhere—faster, rougher—and he doesn’t ask permission before sliding your legs apart and mouthing at the inside of your thigh.

“so fucking sweet,” he says against your skin, voice thick. “clearly you’ve got matt wrapped around your finger.”

matt’s behind you, holding your hand while chris works you open. his face is flushed pink, but his eyes never leave yours. he kisses your temple and murmurs, “tell me if it’s too much, okay?” he means it. he would stop. he would ask.

chris doesn’t stop. not unless you tell him to. and you don’t.

you’re on your hands and knees now, the room hazy with heat and sweat and low moans. chris is behind you—in you—and every stroke is deliberate, hungry. his grip on your hips is bruising, but it only fuels the slick heat building in your core. he’s got one hand tangled in your hair, the other spread across your lower back, pinning you exactly where he wants you.

“fuck, you feel insane,” chris groans, hips snapping forward, cock dragging against every sensitive nerve inside you. “makes snese why matt’s always so fucking whipped for you.”

matt’s in front of you, lying back on the bed, flushed and shaky, his thighs spread. his cock is hard and twitching under your tongue, every lick making him whimper. he’s got both hands on your head but isn’t guiding—just holding, grounding himself, fingers trembling as you take him deeper.

“baby,” matt gasps, eyes locked on yours, “fuck—you’re so perfect like this—”

chris thrusts deeper at that exact second and your moan vibrates around matt’s cock. his hips jerk, and he almost pulls away, but you keep him there, hollowing your cheeks, eyes watering with the stretch. spit pools at the corner of your mouth, your throat fluttering around him.

behind you, chris gives a dark laugh. “look at her,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “messy little mouth, taking him so sweet, dripping all over my dick. you like this, huh? being used by both of us?”

you nod, choked moan muffled by matt’s cock. matt’s already close—you can feel it, the way his thighs are tense, how his fingers twitch in your hair. but he doesn’t want to finish yet. he pulls out with a gasp, breathing hard, cock flushed and wet.

“wait,” he pants. “i want—i want to be inside you too.”

you barely have time to process before chris pulls out with a filthy smack and grabs your chin, turning your face up. he kisses you hard—rough, greedy—and tastes the salt of matt’s skin on your tongue.

“switch,” he says, low.

matt kisses your cheek as he guides you down to lie on your back, whispering your name like an apology. his hand strokes between your thighs, tender where chris was rough. he lines himself up and slides into you slowly, watching every inch disappear inside. your walls clench around him, slick and overstimulated, and he groans into your neck.

“still so wet,” he breathes. “you feel even better than i remembered—”

chris kneels beside your head, cock hard and leaking. he rubs the tip across your lips, and you open for him like instinct. his voice is a low growl. “yeah… just like that.”

matt moves gently, hips rolling slow and deep, hitting that spot inside that makes your breath stutter. he keeps one hand on your breast, thumb brushing your nipple, the other gripping your thigh to keep you open. his eyes are locked on your face—watching, memorizing every twitch and gasp as chris begins to fuck your mouth.

they don’t touch each other. (‘cause that’s fucking disgusting.)

but they both fuck you.

your body is shaking. your throat full. your cunt pulsing tight around matt as his rhythm stutters. he whispers your name again, voice breaking.

“i can’t—fuck—i’m gonna come—”

you pull back from chris, gasping for air, spit stringing from your lips to the head of his cock. your nails dig into matt’s shoulders and your hips arch up, crying out as he pushes in deep one last time and spills inside you with a trembling moan.

he doesn’t pull out right away. just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“thank you,” he whispers. “i love you.”

chris chuckles low from beside you. “you done?” he asks matt, already fisting himself. “’cause i’m not.”

your eyes flutter open—exhausted, raw, but greedy—and chris catches your look and smirks.

“that’s what i thought.”

he flips you over like you weigh nothing, presses your face into the pillows, and fucks you so hard your voice breaks.

and still—matt stays close. holds your hand. kisses your shoulder. watches you fall apart again.

between them, you’re everything.

and you’ve never felt more wanted.

a / n . . . nothing to see here

[hitomisuzuya]

erm... so... uhm... facesitting... with fatui scara... please... :3

fatui!scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. cunnilingus. face sitting. some degradation cause this is fatui scara. delusion/electro play. fingering. squirting. god complex!scara

let's face what we already know. scara would be a god at oral. thank you everyone for the encouragement earlier.

you are understandably confused whenever another subordinate came to fetch you with a message from scaramouche, saying that he is hungry. you didn't think you ever heard him say that he is hungry.

scaramouche has been having a tougher day than usual. the way he chooses to vent his frustration is shutting himself in his office with you, lying back on his desk with his face buried in your pussy, ruthlessly tongue fucking you.

he can hear the shy hesitation in your moans, and he smirks into your cunt.

"sc-scara," you moan shakily, glancing at his office door. "are you s-sure we should be doing this?" you knees ache from being pressed against the hard surface of his spacious, fancy desk. honestly, you didn't know how you are holding yourself up, his tongue felt so fucking good swiping on your clit.

"are you questioning me, slut?" his fingers tighten on your thighs. he concentrates electro on his tongue, feeling your thighs quake on either side of his head as it jolts your clit. "such insolence."

"no! no sir, i am not!" you cry out. scaramouche groans into your cunt. he doesn't give a shit that anyone of his subordinates could just walk in, getting a full view of you naked and riding his tongue, your fingers pinching your nipples.

it's a show he is enjoying underneath you.

he honestly wouldn't blame them if they were listening outside the door, hands on their cocks, listening to you moan. and it is pretty much a guaranteed death sentence if anyone dared to come in and interrupt him.

scaramouche does what he wants, when he wants, tongue fucking you or otherwise.

swirling his tongue around and around your clit, he scoops the throbbing bud into his mouth to suck on. his tongue is brutal as he teases it with electro. you can more than feel the greed of his mouth on your pussy.

trembling, you grind shamelessly on his tongue, your fingers clutching as you pinch your sensitive nipples. whimpers bled into your moans. "a-archons!" you cry out, the dizzying pleasure of your orgasm is snapping so tight you can barely stand it. his teasing with electro bringing you close to the edge.

scaramouche rolls his eyes, his mouth slick with your juices. "your god is right here with his tongue on your cunt," he vibrates a moan into your pussy, smacking a hand across your ass when all you can do is whimper from the mind numbing pleasure. "answer me, i know you can use your words."

he dips his tongue inside you to feel you clench around it. your back arches as you seek more friction from his tongue. his demanding tone only made your pussy soak more on his mouth. "i'm gonna cum! oh archons, i'm gonna cum!" you are ashamed at how loud you are being.

"that's my good girl," he coos, soothing his tongue around your hole, electro licking at sensitive nerves. "let them all know how good your god is tongue fucking you," the tip of his tongue is unrelenting on your clit. he pushes two fingers inside you to see you squirm.

the combination of electro on your clit, and his fingers scissoring your gummy walls apart as he bullies your sweet spot is overwhelming you.

"make me cum, sir! make me cum, please!" you babble, tears gathering in your eyes as he abuses your clit.

he always breaks in his favorite subordinate in the filthiest ways.

your pussy gushes on his tongue without much warning. your shameless and shy moans only make his cock that much harder as he laps greedily at your release. "that's it, cum like the weak slut you are," he clutches your hips to hold your pussy on his mouth.

[itoshiabi]

Stain

Summary: You, a clumsy tourist, spill coffee on a stranger—only to learn he's Sae Itoshi. What starts as an accident, leaves behind more than a stain… something neither of you can wash off.

The café is quiet — just the way he likes it.

Sae Itoshi sits at a window booth, scrolling through match footage with one hand and sipping tea with the other. No one has bothered him yet.

That changes in less than ten seconds.

"Oh my god—!"

A crash. A splash of heat.

He flinches, just barely, as coffee spills across his chest, soaking the front of his crisp, white shirt. His brows knit together the moment it hits — not in pain, but in the immediate, simmering annoyance of someone whose day just got very complicated.

You're in front of him, horrified. Tourist. Definitely. The English is a dead giveaway.

"Shit, I didn't see you and I tripped!!!! I am so—oh god—lo siento, I mean—wait, ¿está mojado tu… camisa?"

You're fumbling napkins from the counter and trying to pat the stain off his chest before he can even speak.

He grabs your wrist — not harshly, but firmly enough to stop you.

"Don't," he says flatly, in English.

You freeze.

Your heart is hammering. His voice is sharp, smooth, and cold — and his eyes? Piercing. Pale teal and unreadable.

'I—I was just trying to clean it—"

"You're making it worse."

You pull your hand back like you touched something electric. "I'm so sorry. I didn't see you there. I was just walking, and I tripped, and—"

Sae looks you over for half a second. There's a splatter of your own drink on your sleeve. Passport poking out of your tote. Sweat at your brow. Your Spanish? Atrocious.

He already knows you have no idea who he is.

Good.

He lets out a quiet exhale and picks up a napkin himself, dabbing once at the soaked fabric.

"Is it ruined?" you ask hesitantly.

He doesn't answer right away.

You shift awkwardly, then blurt out, "How much was it?"

He finally looks at you again, mildly surprised by how direct the question was. He narrows his eyes slightly.

"You want to know how much the shirt costs?"

"I should pay you back, right?" you say, already fishing your credit card from your wallet. "So, just—name it."

A pause. Then-

"€580."

You go still.

Your jaw tugs open slightly. You blink. Then you press your lips together like you're trying very hard to stay composed.

"Right," you say. "Okay. That's… more than my flight here. But sure. Cool. Normal."

Your hand trembles slightly as you hold the card up.

He doesn't take it.

You glance at him. "What, you think I'm joking? I said I'd pay. I'm not a scammer."

He stares at you, that same distant expression on his face — but there's something else now, something subtle. Something intrigued.

"I don't need your money."

"You sure? Pretty sure I just committed fashion manslaughter."

"You think that shirt is fashion?"

You blink. "It was...... white? And expensive?"

Sae huffs once. Barely a laugh. More like air.

You sigh. "Listen, man, I really didn't mean to ruin your mood. Or your… shirt budget."

He doesn't respond. Instead, he shifts slightly in his seat and says, "Sit down."

You blink. "What?"

"You're still standing. It's annoying."

"You're serious?"

He just stares.

You hesitantly sit across from him, trying not to touch anything else. You expect the silence to be suffocating — but strangely, it isn't. He sips what's left of his tea like nothing happened.

Then your eyes catch something over his shoulder.

A man with a camera phone. Snapping a picture. And another.

Of him.

Of you with him.

You stiffen. "Hey… someone's taking pictures."

"I know," he says, not even turning.

You blink. "You know?"

"They usually do."

That gives you pause.

"Are you famous or something?"

Sae finally looks at you again, impassive. Then shrugs once. "Something like that."

You squint. "Wait. Are you in politics?"

He actually chokes on his tea a little.

You sit back, suspicious. "Or a Spanish pop star?"

"I'm not Spanish."

"Then what the hell are you?"

He stares at you, long and hard. You feel like you should shrink under that gaze — but strangely, you don't.

Finally, he says:

"I'm a footballer."

"Oh."

You blink again.

"So, like. For a club or something?"

He doesn't answer. His jaw twitches. You figure you've probably insulted his job.

You rub your forehead, flustered. "Okay, so you're mysterious and intimidating and apparently worth photographing. Great. I'm gonna be on someone's blog titled 'Foreigner girl ruins local athlete's entire fit.'"

"I'm not local either."

''…Are you just trying to be difficult now?"

He doesn't reply. You groan softly and lean back.

And yet… he still hasn't told you to leave.

Outside, Madrid wakes up slowly.

Inside, he watches you like a puzzle that he wasn't expecting to want to solve.

You, the first person in a long time who didn't flinch when he got cold.

Didn't pretend to like him just for his name.

Just a tourist.

Clumsy. Honest.

Annoying — but real.

He glances at his ruined shirt again, then back to you.

"You owe me a coffee," he says.

You blink.

"Wait. Seriously?"

"I didn't stutter.'

You huff. "Fine. One coffee. But I get to pick the table this time."

"Anywhere without you holding a drink is fine."

"Rude."

Sae doesn't smile.

But he also doesn't look away.

[seitmai]

Many thoughts

They instinctively turned to face one another when the other needed help attaching a certain piece to their suit or tightening their straps. They had grown un-deniably close over the past two years, and they knew each other’s movements step by step.

Dream team 🤝🏻

“I made love to her four times last night. This morning, I got pancakes. She woke up at six to make them for me before I left. God, I fuckin’ love my wife.” Javy boasted with prideful laughter. Jake only spurred him on, with a proud slap on his back and matched Javy’s amusement. However, at Javy’s confession, Natasha snorted quietly to herself.

I love how Nat can't hold it back lol

“What’s so funny, Nat? You tellin’ me you could beat Javy’s record?” Jake questioned her with a smug grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Ohhh I just know he is is for a treat 🤭

By this time, Mickey, Rueben, and Bradley had all filtered into the room as well. They didn’t want to interrupt the ego-boosting feud that was currently unfolding in front of them. They geared up in silence but still listened with eager ears, their eyes flicking back and forth between Jake and Natasha.

They would never admit, but they love the tea and drama 🤭😅

She took a sharp breath between her teeth and broke Jake’s questioning gaze. She purposefully didn’t look back at the guys but calmly stated, “Well, I made love to my wife six times, and yeah, I also got breakfast.”

Period 😌👏🏻 and those orgasms for sure weren't fake, I just know

The silence from them both was telling. She continued fixing her gear and calmly played off her triumphant feat. It was as though it was the most normal thing in the world for her (which wasn’t far off).

I wanna be her wife so bad 😭🤤🥰

If only they knew how good you were for him last night. If only they knew how pretty you looked on your knees and spread out on the soft linen, all for himself. If only they knew how pretty you sounded, as you whimpered and whined his name all—

Not him reminiscing, completely zoning out 🤭

“Bob!” Jake’s biting tone snapped his attention straight towards the blonde-haired man. “You’re lookin’ smug for a guy, who, as far as we know, hasn’t been laid in… two years?” He questioned with faux interest. Natasha immediately belted out an amused, “Ha!”

Once again she can't hold back and I love her for that 🤭👏🏻

Natasha also knew that no one else knew.

She knew Bob better than anyone here. She had met you, Bob’s long-time wife. Natasha and her wife had been to dinner with Bob and you. She had been to BBQs in your backyard and tried your delicious home-cooked macaroni and cheese. You were even invited to her bachelorette party when she got married.

Besties 💖

Hehe

“Well? You got a wife?” Jake asked the question carelessly and casually, making Bob squirm. He severely despised people thinking about his wife like that, as if you weren’t the moon to his sun. A beat, and Bob responded. “Yeah.” Javy’s mouth fell open in disbelief. Mickey and Ruben had turned around to watch the whole thing by then. They nudged one another in the ribs and whispered, “I told you so!”

The various reactions are killing me 😂

Bradley didn’t flinch. He knew. He saw Bob and you on the beach one evening. Bob gave him a curt nod, and when he arrived at the Navy base the next morning, Bradley swore he wouldn’t tell anyone. He understood, more than anyone, why people kept their private lives away from here.

Solid 🫡 maybe he has a secret wife too? Or a husband?🤔👀

“Because…” Bob’s gaze narrowed fiercely towards Jake. “My wife was asking me not to stop.” There was a deafening silence, and then a chorus of bellowing laughter and jeers echoed throughout the room.

This is a perfect answer and that it's the truth makes it even better 👏🏻

“Don’t assume stuff like that, Hangman. Wait until you find out that he has a kid.”

Bob cocked his head at Jake, with an assured smile now etched fully onto his lips. He asked if Natasha was ready, and then they both headed out onto the tarmac, leaving Jake behind, practically frozen in shock.

Iconic👏🏻

My favorite Bob headcanon 🤭

Oh to be Bob or Nat's wife (or both), truly my dream🥰

Do you know that audio on TikTok that’s like I made love to my wife 4 times and this morning she made pancakes and whatnot? Could you do a story where it’s the daggers and this is how they find out about bobs wife?

don’t stop.

robert ‘bob’ floyd x reader.

￫ summary: jake attempts to catch bob out, but bob has something to reveal.

￫ word count: 1K.

￫ warnings: mentions of sex, smut and food.

￫ authors notes: i hope i based this off the right sound, my dear anon! 🥹 i’m sorry this took so long too 🥺 my main masterlist can be found here! 💌

Bob stood beside Natasha in comfortable silence as they dressed in the appropriate gear, ready for a test flight.

They instinctively turned to face one another when the other needed help attaching a certain piece to their suit or tightening their straps. They had grown un-deniably close over the past two years, and they knew each other’s movements step by step.

Natasha’s eyebrows raised, and she let out a small groan. “Here they come.”

Bob’s breath hitched as he heard the booming voices coming through the door.

Javy sauntered in, with Jake on his heels, both snickering about something like schoolboys.

“Oh, Jake, you wouldn’t believe it.” They both swung open their lockers in sync. At a glance, you wouldn’t think that they flew separately. They were so similar as they mirrored the movements of getting their gear on.

“I made love to her four times last night. This morning, I got pancakes. She woke up at six to make them for me before I left. God, I fuckin’ love my wife.”Javy boasted with prideful laughter.

Jake only spurred him on, with a proud slap on his back and matched Javy’s amusement.

However, at Javy’s confession, Natasha snorted quietly to herself.

Jake’s head cocked to the right of him and his eyebrows raised with a questioning glance her way. He leaned back against the lockers containing their gear and attached some to himself.

“What’s so funny, Nat? You tellin’ me you could beat Javy’s record?” Jake questioned her with a smug grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

By this time, Mickey, Rueben, and Bradley had all filtered into the room as well. They didn’t want to interrupt the ego-boosting feud that was currently unfolding in front of them. They geared up in silence but still listened with eager ears, their eyes flicking back and forth between Jake and Natasha.

She took a sharp breath between her teeth and broke Jake’s questioning gaze. She purposefully didn’t look back at the guys but calmly stated, “Well, I made love to my wife six times, and yeah, I also got breakfast.”

The silence from them both was telling. She continued fixing her gear and calmly played off her triumphant feat. It was as though it was the most normal thing in the world for her (which wasn’t far off).

She heard Bradley’s hushed whistle of “Oof,” and she smiled proudly to herself as she looked down to see where she was fiddling with a buckle on her suit.

Bob, on the other hand, had watched the entire exchange before him, with bated breath. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and the corner of his lips twitched into a grin as he saw Jake and Javy’s bewildered faces.

If only they knew how good you were for him last night. If only they knew how pretty you looked on your knees and spread out on the soft linen, all for himself. If only they knew how pretty you sounded, as you whimpered and whined his name all—

“Bob!” Jake’s biting tone snapped his attention straight towards the blonde-haired man. “You’re lookin’ smug for a guy, who, as far as we know, hasn’t been laid in… two years?” He questioned with faux interest.

Natasha immediately belted out an amused, “Ha!”

She knew Bob better than anyone here. She had met you, Bob’s long-time wife. Natasha and her wife had been to dinner with Bob and you. She had been to BBQs in your backyard and tried your delicious home-cooked macaroni and cheese. You were even invited to her bachelorette party when she got married.

Natasha also knew that no one else knew.

Bob was private about his life away from the naval base. He had his reasons, but more than anything, he appreciated the peace he shared with his one love. You.

Jake’s jeering and deeply imposing question made his eye twitch a little from behind his glasses. He pushed his frames up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, before looping his hands into the gear on his chest. He puffed out his chest slightly and stood confidently across from Jake.

“Well? You got a wife?” Jake asked the question carelessly and casually, making Bob squirm. He severely despised people thinking about his wife like that, as if you weren’t the moon to his sun.

A beat, and Bob responded. “Yeah.”

Javy’s mouth fell open in disbelief. Mickey and Ruben had turned around to watch the whole thing by then. They nudged one another in the ribs and whispered, “I told you so!”

Bradley didn’t flinch. He knew. He saw Bob and you on the beach one evening. Bob gave him a curt nod, and when he arrived at the Navy base the next morning, Bradley swore he wouldn’t tell anyone. He understood, more than anyone, why people kept their private lives away from here.

Jake snorted, although he blinked furiously as Bob’s statement took him aback. “Okay then, Baby, how many times did you make love to them last night?”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest in an attempt to shield himself from perhaps being scolded by Bob Floyd.

“Once.”

“Once?! Oh, Bob.” Jake mocked with faux sympathy. “And did they make you anything this morning?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Bob’s gaze narrowed fiercely towards Jake. “My wife was asking me not to stop.”

There was a deafening silence, and then a chorus of bellowing laughter and jeers echoed throughout the room.

Even Javy let out a loud chuckle, gripping Jake’s shoulders and playfully shaking him. “He got you there!”

Bob cocked his head at Jake, with an assured smile now etched fully onto his lips. He asked if Natasha was ready, and then they both headed out onto the tarmac, leaving Jake behind, practically frozen in shock.

Once the rest of the guys had had enough playful jabs towards him, they all made their way out to join the others. But Jake felt a firm hand on his shoulder as the tall brunette towered over him.

“Don’t assume stuff like that, Hangman. Wait until you find out that he has a kid.”

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[ahnaiee]

⋆｡°✩ Constellation Discovered ⋆｡°✩

PRETEND BOYFRIEND !

⋆｡°✩ ;; Xavier, Rafayel ⋆｡°✩ ;; You ask them to pretend to be your boyfriend. Just for a day.  ⋆｡°✩;; Part 2: Zayne, Sylus, Caleb here!! ⋆｡°✩ ;; Modern AU! No such thing as evols and such.

XAVIER

It started two days ago. You had chatted Xavier late in the afternoon, while he was doom scrolling on his phone.

two days ago.

you: hey, xav, this is random but you: can i ask for a favor?

Xavier: ? sure. What is it?

you: can you be my boyfriend?

Xavier drops his phone on his face.

you: Pretend!!!  you: Pretend Boyfriend!!

Xavier stares at your next message. okay. Ouch. Just a bit. Getting a message like that, while having a crush on your apartment neighbor, friend, movie night buddy? But he replies.

Xavier: … what do U mean?

you: okay, hold on I’ll explain it on call. 

Present.

An invitation to a wedding to a cousin that you can’t exactly make excuses for since according to them “You missed so many family gatherings” (on purpose), that you haaavve to make up for it by coming to their wedding. 

And you NEEDED a plus one. Code word for boyfriend so they could stop badgering you over your love life.

And so, you asked Xavier, your friend, your apartment neighbor, and also the only person you could think of to ask that as a favor. 

Over facetime, you were basically begging for him to agree, anyways. 

(“PLEASE, Xav. I’ll do anything!! Just pretend to be my boyfriend for a day, just for the wedding, and then we’re good!” He gives you a skeptical look. You smile sheepishly.)

He agreed. Xavier couldn’t help it– not when you threw him the puppy-eyed look. He folded SO quick, so easily. If Jeremiah was here, he would laugh at his face. 

So now, here you are, sitting in his car, dressed up so pretty and so beautiful that when he saw you, Xavier froze on the spot and had to fight back the blush that colored his face. 

“Xav? Hello?” You wave a hand over his face, and he snaps back into reality, turning to you. “Yeah? Sorry, spaced out.” 

You give him a look, but shrug. “Okay… Anyways, I have the venue location.” You show him the address, “Do you know where? I can set up Maps…” 

“Nah, It’s good. I got it.” and he starts the car. If you found him hot at that moment, that is something you will unpack after the wedding. 

The way there is you giving him a rundown of everyone in the family– who to avoid, who to tolerate, and who has your approval of “chill and will call back if ever”. He takes it like a champ, nodding and asking questions and mentally taking notes. 

“And if they ask about us?” He glances at you, and you smile. Xavier wants to kiss you right then and there. He holds back. Pretend boyfriend, he reminds himself.

“Just say we became friends and then boom, romance.” You shrug. “We don’t have to go overboard in the story. We’ve been friends for a while so you can answer whatever other questions they can have. Can you wing it, if ever?” You turn to him and Xavier nods. 

“Yeah. I’ll… I'll try.”

“Okay. I’ll try to not leave you alone. I don’t want you meeting the…” You shudder. “Terror side of the family.”

It was not fine. The moment the reception began, Xavier was bombarded with pushy aunts, curious cousins, and teasing uncles. And you.. Were nowhere to be found. 

Xavier chuckles. “We’ll be fine.”

To be fair, he can see you on the other end of the venue, but you were also surrounded by family (that you like), and Xavier really doesn’t want to disturb that wide smile of yours just to deal with the family you don’t like. So– just to see  you smile, he manages. 

But then he sees someone, a guy,  you haven’t mentioned take his place next to you. He squints, a frown on his lips. Who is that? 

His question is quickly answered by one of the aunts chattering to her husband. “Isn’t that Ryle?” 

“Hm?” The uncle to look over in your direction. Xavier tries to keep his attention to them. “Ah. Yes. The guy who liked [Name] before she moved away?”

“....” Xavier’s frown deepens. 

“Wasn’t he her ex? Why is he here?” Xavier freezes, and he eyes the guy closely, watching his every move from across the room. Ryle is standing too close to you, smiling and laughing along with your group and his jaw tightens.

“Ah, he’s friends with the groom.” The aunt shrugs, and the conversation shifts over to the bride and the groom but Xavier tunes that part out, his eyes zeroing on you. 

You, so pretty in that dress and that guy named Ryle moves closer to you and rests an arm over your shoulder. You make a face, one that tells him of how uncomfortable you are and— 

He doesn’t know how he got to the other side of the room so quickly, but he smiles politely to your cousins who excitedly greet him. You meet his gaze, wide eyed and confused, but you smile and he can feel his chest tighten at your smile. 

“Xavi.” His smile turns genuine, and he can see Ryle (said in disgust) give him a look when he maneuvers you away from him so he can hold you to him. His hand is on his waist and he pulls you to him, and you let him, Ryles arms dropping away from your shoulders in the process. “What brings you here?” 

Xavier smiles, “I missed you.” 

That got a barrage of squeals from your cousins. One comments, “Oh my god, [Name], maybe you’ll be next in the wedding calendar!” and another goes “Awsh, I wish my boyfriend was that sweet.”

You flush at Xaviers words, and at the comments, lightly punching him. “I was gone for ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes too long.” He’s not even pretending at this point, even though you think that he’s a good actor, and you huff out a laugh. You miss the way Xavier gives Ryle a suspicious side eye, pulling you farther from him. 

“[Name]?” Ryle forces out a laugh, eyes flickering from Xavier’s hand on your waist to you.“ Who’s this?”

You smile, polite and strained, and Xavier subtly glares at him. “My boyfriend, Xavier. Xavi, this is Ryle, an old friend.” 

“Ah, ‘s that so? It’s nice to see you, Ryle.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Ryle gives Xavier a dirty look, and he returns it, proceeding to give you a kiss to your cheek as if to prove his point. 

That does it, and Ryle looks away from you two, quickly excusing himself from the group.

Xavier grins in victory, and glances at you. 

You’re red, eyes wide as you look at him, but you couldn’t break the facade now, could you? So you play it off with a smile and a laugh, opting to instead deal with the squeals of your cousins at his action instead of questioning his actions right then and there. Xavier watches you smile with them, and he internally decides that maybe this pretend boyfriend isn’t it. 

Because he’s too jealous for his own good, you are too pretty for him.

Yeah. Xavier thinks as he stares at you, unaware of the soft look on his face. I don’t think pretending is good for me anymore. 

At that moment, he decides to confess on the way home. 

Pretend boyfriend? Yeah- no. 

He’d much rather be your actual boyfriend. 

RAFAYEL

The moment you asked him in the middle of him working on an art piece, he turned to you and grinned. Wide. 

“You want me to be your boyfriend?”

You roll your eyes. “Pretend. Pretend boyfriend.”

“For how long?”

“A day.” You pause. “Maybe. I don’t know if my parents are going to make me stay longer than I should, so let's say two? Or three.” You turn to Rafayel, eyes pleading. “Raf, please say yes I’m going insane. If I go to that family gathering without a boyfriend again, I’m going to be subjected to 10 aunts, 10 uncles and at least 15 prissy cousins asking me why I’m so single. And I would go home with a stack of cards with their “suggested” boyfriends I can get. Like?? Can they get out of my business?”

That makes him laugh a bit too loud, and he gets a punch to the arm for that. 

“Ow- Ow!! Okay, okay! Yeah sure. I’ll be your pretend boyfriend for how long you need me to.” 

You beam. “Really? Oh my God, thank you SO much, Raf. I promise I’ll make it up to you when this is over.” In your excitement, you pull him in for a tight hug, smile so wide it hurts the muscles in your face. 

You miss the reddening of his ears, and the fond smile that graces his lips.

“Yeah. You better.”

It’s a family gathering, one where you had to give Rafayel of your aunts and uncles, cousins. He made a list. A LIST. You gave him an A+ for effort. There was even a quiz night where you gave questions about them and he answered them. Got them all flawlessly. 

You glare at him and Rafayel just laughs.

Dedicated pretend boyfriend here! The gathering was held at a family member's house, and you told him to dress semi-formal. “They tend to go all out in gatherings like these, so you have to be in semi-formal, or something.”

Rafayel nods, “Alright. What color are you wearing then?”

“Eh?” You blink at him. 

He blinks. “I mean, we can go matching? Won’t that help the act?”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” You ignore the fluttering in your chest. “Uhmm, just a blue dress, I guess? With a ribbon.”

“Gotcha.” 

You give him a look, “You don’t have something to match that, right? You really don’t have to go through lengths just to match my outfit.”

Rafayel just grins at you, boyish grin, eyes crinkling, and you want to punch yourself in the face for thinking he looked cute. “Nah. I want to match with you.”

Oh fuck all, you want to kiss him.

“I don't want to be here.” You grumble to Rafayel. He’s dressed in a dark blue formal top and white pants, matching your light blue and white dress with a cute white bow pulling your hair up. He chuckles, eyes crinkling at you. “[Name], we haven’t even entered yet.”

You’re kind of regretting asking him to be your pretend boyfriend, because you're pretty sure falling for him in the process was not the plan.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to meet those people! I mean really, Sarah? She’s going to be on my ass for the rest of the night. She hates me for some reason and I lost all the care to even think about why.”

Your pretend boyfriend just laughs, winking at you “Don’t worry, cutie. I’ll do my best to get her off your ass.”

You blush at the nickname but you give him an appreciative smile. “Thanks, Raf.” 

“Babe.”

“What.” You blink. He grins at you, wide and innocent. 

“I’m your boyfriend, right?” He pokes your side. “You’re supposed to call me babe.”

“Right.” You huff. “Okay, babe.” He grins at that, and extends his arm. “Shall we go in?”

You make a face, but nod. “Yeah. Let's go in.”

It’s been okay for the first hour. Introductions were made, and Rafayel was flawless in answering all the questions, you nearly fold and silently wish he really is your boyfriend. The problem arises an hour later, and you were whisked away from Rafayel’s side to talk to your close family. The ones you actually like, and he stays back at the couch, wanting to give you some privacy to catch up with them.

Unfortunately, he senses someone head over to him, and he feels the couch dip. He glances at them to check if the person is here to talk to him and– 

“You must be [Name]’s boyfriend!” Damn. Okay. It's a cousin. Dark hair, high pitched voice, fake smile– ah. Sarah. Rafayel nods, and smiles wide and sweet. “Yep! That’s me.” 

Sarah gives him a rundown gaze, and his smile tightens but he nevertheless appears friendly. She gives him a smirk, tilting her head at him. “Really? What do you see in her?” 

His smile drops and he furrows his brows at her. Irritation and annoyance begins to stir in his chest. “What?”

She continues, tone innocent, but motives certainly obvious. “I mean, like, her? Really? You could do SO much better.” She eyes him, smiling sweetly. “Did she pay you to be here, or what? I wouldn’t put it past her to do that.” 

That does it, and Rafayel’s face hardens.

“How dare you say that about her.” His voice is harsh. “You may be her cousin or whatever, but you do not have the right to say that about my wonderful girlfriend.” His gaze is serious, and it's obvious that he’s ticked. 

Sarah blinks, and nervously chuckles. “Whaat? C’mon I was just stating facts–”

“No. [Name] is a beautiful woman, self-made and confident and I am lucky that she even looked in my direction.” Rafayel doesn’t pause, nor slow down, completely annoyed with the rude insinuations that she made. “She is an amazing woman and an amazing girlfriend. It’s no surprise that you’re jealous of her.”

She gasps, brows furrowing as she tries to retort, but Rafayel continues. “And if you think I’m going to sit here and listen to you rudely insult my girlfriend, then you are very wrong, Karen.” 

Sarah turns red, and she stands up from the couch, furious. “My name is Sarah!” And she turns and stomps away. 

He just watches her with furrowed brows and a frown, before signing back into the couch.

“Wow.”

The shocked tone of your voice makes him jolt up and he turns to see you standing right behind the couch, eyes wide with drinks on both hands. “I’m… wow, Raf. Thats….” 

He covers up the surprise with a grin, “Hey cutie. When’d you get here?” He pats the spot on the couch next to you

“Since Sarah asked if I paid you to be here.” You blink, and take a seat next to him while handing him the drink. 

“Oh yeah. She’s a bitch.”

You laugh. “Yeah. I don’t like her…” You trail off, eyeing Rafayel closely, and he hums, smiling as he tilts his head. 

“What’s wrong, cutie?”

“.. Did you mean that?” You quietly ask, fingers curling on the handle of the cup nervously. “I mean, like, you were very passionate about defending me and…”

“Hey.” Rafayel taps your knee, getting you to lift your gaze. Your breath catches at the serious look in his eyes and he brushes a hand to your cheek. “I was serious. You’re an amazing woman, [Name]. I really was lucky that you even looked in my direction before, hell, you decided to be friends with me.”

You flush, but he continues, “And anyone will be lucky to have you as a girlfriend.” 

A shy smile curls on your lips, and you point out his words, “Look at you? Raf, why would you even think that? I mean, you were a hotshot back in college and…”

His thumb caresses your cheek, and you feel your heartbeat beat a bit faster… then he pulls away and grins at you. You blink, he winks, “I’ll tell you later. We still have an act to play, cutie. Though maybe after we talk later, it won’t be an act, yeah?”

You gape at him, mind racing as you process the meaning of his words, then you flush a bright red. 

Rafayel laughs, you hit his shoulder lightly.

©ahnaiee [do not repost, copy, translate, or modify]

[twola]

Firewater - Chapter 11

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader. explicit.

You’d rehearsed it. A dozen times. A hundred. You’d tried gentler ways to start. Tried to imagine how a reasonable person might say it. But nothing ever sounded right in your head. Nothing made it easier.

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SILENT STEAD, NEW AUSTIN, OCTOBER 1897

-

It was official.

Two months late, and no amount of desert heat, denial, or whiskey could explain it away anymore.

The truth sat heavy in your gut as you rode beside Arthur across the ridge, the wind catching the edge of your shirt, your heart beating louder than the horse’s hooves. You didn’t say a word for miles.

You’d rehearsed it. A dozen times. A hundred. You’d tried gentler ways to start. Tried to imagine how a reasonable person might say it. But nothing ever sounded right in your head. Nothing made it easier.

And Arthur Morgan wasn’t exactly a man you could ease into things with.

So, eventually, you just... said it.

Blunt and bitter. Like ripping a bullet out of a fresh wound.

“You got me pregnant, dumbass.”

Arthur reined in his horse so hard the poor thing jolted, snorted, and kicked up dust.

He turned his head slowly toward you, jaw slack. “What?”

You stared him down, arms crossed over your saddle horn. “You heard me.”

He blinked, looked you up and down, mouth working like he’d forgotten how to form a sentence. Then finally—

“Well... shit.”

You arched a brow. “That’s all you got to say?”

He scratched his beard like the answer might be hiding in there somewhere. “I mean, you sure?”

“Two months late. Tired all the damn time. Getting sick after breakfast, even when Javier cooked the other day. I’d say yeah, I’m pretty damn sure.”

Arthur let out a long, stunned breath and glanced out at the empty desert, like maybe the cactus and coyotes might have advice for him. “Well... damn.”

He looked back at you, lips twitching. “You sure I’m the only fella you been rollin’ in the dirt with lately?”

You shot him a glare that could kill. “Try that again and I’ll shove your hat so far up your ass, it’ll come out with a kiss on it.”

He held up both hands, palms out, laughing despite himself. 

But the silence that followed wasn’t easy. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes searching your face, trying to read what came next.

“You mad at me?” he asked.

You sighed, looking down at your reins. “No. Just... overwhelmed. Terrified. Queasy. My life flashing before my eyes. You know, normal womanly stuff.”

Arthur nodded slowly, lips pressed together like he was chewing on something real big. Then he said, “Well... guess I really did put my back into it, huh?”

You let out a snort, despite yourself. “Congratulations. You’ve won the worst timing and worst pullout in history.”

He grinned, sheepish. “You ain't wrong.”

Another pause. A longer one.

He looked serious now. “You thinkin’ of... keeping it?”

Your eyes met his. You hadn’t let yourself really answer that question. Not out loud. You hadn’t gotten that far in all of your fretting.

“I don’t know,” you said softly. “I think I could. If I wasn’t doing it alone.”

Arthur’s eyes flickered with something—surprise, then resolve. He reached over and laid his big, gloved hand over yours on the reins.

“You ain’t gonna be alone,” he said, voice low. “Not if you don’t wanna be.”

Your throat tightened.

He cleared his throat, like his own emotions were rising faster than he could get ahold of. “Hell, I don’t know nothin’ about babies. But—I’ll do you right.”

-

Tumbleweed shimmered in the heat like a mirage by the time you reached it—just dust and dry wind and the lazy creak of the gallows swaying on their ropes next to the Sheriff’s office.

Arthur dismounted first, eyes sweeping the street like he didn’t trust the place one bit. He offered you a hand to help down, and you took it, even though you didn’t need it. He held on a second longer than he had to.

“You sure you wanna go in alone?” he asked, voice low.

You looked up at him, heart beating somewhere too high in your chest. “You planning to come in and hold my hair if I puke on the floor?”

He chuckled, scratching at the back of his neck. “Fair point.”

Still, he walked you to the doctor’s door.

The little clapboard building creaked under its own weight. The bell on the door rang when you stepped inside, loud and shrill in the stale desert air.

The doctor was older, sun-worn, with thick glasses and tobacco-stained fingers. He looked you up and down and didn’t ask unnecessary questions. Just motioned you to the back room, told Arthur he could wait on the porch or by the hitching post.

Arthur nodded, but you saw the tension in his jaw as he let the door close behind you.

The exam was short. Blunt. Nothing tender about it—but not cruel, either. Just factual. You’d met men like that before. Practical, used to pulling bullets from thighs and stitching up bar fights. He didn't blink when you told him your symptoms. Just nodded once and checked a few things.

“Well,” he said, looking you over, “ain’t no doubt. You’re pregnant. I’d wager about eight, maybe ten weeks along. Could be a little more.”

You stared at the wall, at a water stain vaguely shaped like a cloud. That was definitely around the night in the hotel in Phoenix.

“Healthy?” you asked.

“So far as I can tell,” he said. “You’re young, strong. You keep eating and stay clear of heavy riding or gettin’ shot, you oughta do just fine.”

You didn’t smile.

Didn’t say thank you.

You just nodded, throat thick, and got dressed again with slow, shaking fingers.

-

Arthur was leaning against the porch post when you came out, arms crossed tight across his chest, hat tilted low.

He straightened when he saw your face.

“Well?”

You nodded. “It’s real.”

He let out a long breath, looked up at the sky like maybe he was hoping for lightning. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Alright.”

You stood beside him for a moment, both of you staring out at the horses tied off in the heat.

“Doc said I’m eight or ten weeks,” you murmured. “Could be more. But that lines up with that night in Phoenix.”

Arthur nodded, then shifted his weight like he wasn’t sure whether to hug you or just go buy a bottle of whiskey and ride into the hills. God, if he did that you don’t know what you would do.

Instead, he reached for your hand again. Rough fingers, warm and solid.

You let him hold it.

Neither of you spoke for a minute.

Then Arthur cleared his throat. “You hungry?”

You blinked, obviously not prepared for a response like that. “What?”

He nodded toward the little saloon down the street. “Ain’t much, but they got beans and biscuits. Might be somethin’ passable on the stove.”

You gave him a strange look. “You asking me to dinner?”

He glanced at you, one brow raised. “You did ask me to take you out.”

A laugh cracked out of your chest, sudden and bright. It caught even you off guard.

Arthur’s grin spread, boyish and crooked, like he was proud of himself for dragging that sound out of you.

“Fine,” you said, brushing the dust off your shirt and shaking your head. “But if I throw up on your plate, I ain’t apologizing.”

The saloon in Tumbleweed smelled like smoke, spilled whiskey, and a hundred old regrets. The tables were scratched. The floor creaked under every step. The bartender didn’t say a word when you walked in—just nodded and went back to wiping out dusty glasses with a dirtier rag.

You and Arthur sat in a booth near the back, near a broken window where a breeze stirred the fabric masquerading as curtains every so often. The wind kicked in grit, and the lamp above the table flickered, half-starved for oil.

But somehow, it felt… easier here. Quieter. Certainly quieter than inside your own head.

He ordered for both of you—beans, dry cornbread, and a side of something that might’ve once been pork. You didn’t eat much, stomach still knotted with nerves and morning sickness that wasn’t limited to mornings, but you picked at the bread. Arthur didn’t say anything when you pushed your plate away halfway through. Just slid the rest of it over and finished it himself.

You caught him glancing at you a few times. Not staring—just checking. Like he was waiting to see if you’d break apart.

But you didn’t.

When he leaned back in the creaky booth and took a slow pull of his drink, his voice came quiet. “We can ride back tonight, if you want. Camp’s only a few hours out.”

You hesitated, watching him over the rim of your water glass. Then you said it, soft and small.

“We could stay.”

His brow lifted. “You sure?”

You nodded, fingers twisting the edge of your napkin. “Just for the night. Might be nice to not wake up to Pearson yelling about eggs.”

Arthur huffed a quiet laugh, but his gaze stayed on you. He set his glass down slowly.

“Alright.”

-

The room upstairs wasn’t much. One bed, one cracked mirror, a half-empty oil lamp that sputtered when Arthur lit it. The wallpaper peeled in every corner. The mattress creaked like it might collapse if either of you breathed too hard.

But it had a door that locked. And it was yours for the night.

You stood near the bed, arms wrapped around yourself, suddenly aware of how quiet it was. Arthur busied himself with taking off his gunbelt, setting it on the little table near the washbasin. His movements were slow. Careful.

Like he didn’t want to spook you. Like you were a damn horse.

You sat on the edge of the bed and finally said it—voice barely above a whisper.

“Just because I’m pregnant... doesn’t mean whatever this is has to stop.”

Arthur turned to face you.

There was a beat of silence, and then he crossed the room in two strides and crouched in front of you, eyes searching yours.

“Good,” he said, voice low, rough. “Because I still wanna do all kinds of terrible things with you.”

That pulled a smile from your lips before you could stop it. You shook your head, laughing quietly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re trouble,” he murmured, rising to his feet, leaning in slow.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

His mouth met yours, gentle at first—like he was asking. Like he was waiting for you to pull back.

But you didn’t.

You kissed him like you meant it, fingers tangling in his shirt, legs parting just enough to pull him closer between your knees.

His hands were on your thighs, sliding upward, strong and familiar. Yours were already tugging at his suspenders, hungry in the way you always were for him, even now—with the world turned sideways and new life quietly growing inside you.

It was slower this time. Not rushed. Not hidden behind a rock or stolen behind the wagons.

It was need.

It was reassurance.

It was yes, over and over again in the way only your bodies knew how to speak. 

Maybe someday the two of you would learn to use your words.

-

The sun had just barely risen outside, its orange beams painting the floor of the ratty old hotel room.

You sat upright, your stomach’s queasiness somewhat quelled by the change in position. It's already hot, the sheet that had covered the two of you kicked away in the night. Your hand landed over your stomach almost unconsciously, knowing strangely that something was happening underneath it. That you would swell and grow and your breasts would get heavy. 

You looked over at your bedmate, sleeping on his stomach, softly snoring. His skin littered with scars - bullet wounds and slash marks and a hard life lived. But asleep, somehow the lines in his face disappear, the weight of the world lifted, if only for a moment.

Your heart ached as you looked at him. Rough around the edges, sunburned and dusty and not at all the man you ever imagined raising a child with.

But... maybe that was the point.

[sammyquarius]

The JukeJoint

Note: This is part 2 of Beneath the Mississippi. Enjoy

Part 1:

Clarksdale, Mississippi – That Night

The juke joint pulsed with life.

It was loud, packed, and hazy with the sweat of laughter, fried food, and cheap perfume. The sound of blues guitar slid through the air like smoke low, slow, aching. Folks crowded into the small wooden building, their bodies swaying to the music like the whole place was holding its breath and remembering how to breathe all at once.

In the back kitchen, Annie moved like she never left.

Her hands seasoned meat like a memory. Cornmeal battered catfish cracked in hot oil. Steam rose from pots and pans like the past boiling over, and every now and then, she’d glance through the small order window and see Smoke moving through the crowd like a shadow with too much weight on his shoulders.

He hadn’t said much since she agreed to cook. Just gave her that same quiet look, like he didn’t quite believe she was real.

But Annie was real—and so was the attention she drew.

Out in the joint, a tall, caramel-skinned man in suspenders leaned on the bar beside her serving window, watching her with a little too much interest and an easy smile.

“Girl, if I’d known heaven was back in town, I would’ve set up a welcome parade,” he said loud enough for Smoke to hear.

Annie rolled her eyes but didn’t bother hiding the smirk. “Get outta here, Leon,” she called, her tone dry.

“I’m just sayin’, if you cook like that and look like that, Smoke better watch his step.”

Smoke stiffened across the room, glass halfway to his lips. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack the glass if he wasn't careful. Stack saw it right away.

“Oh hell,” Stack muttered, grinning behind his cigarette. “Here come the thunder.”

Smoke didn’t answer. He just kept watching, eyes locked on Annie and the man grinning at her like he had a shot in hell.

Stack nudged his girl Mary beside him. “Better go keep my fool brother from blowing a gasket. You know how he gets.”

Mary arched one perfectly plucked brow, her pink lips twitching with amusement. “He better not say a damn word unless he wants her to walk out again.”

Stack smirked. “I’m just here for the drama. And the hushpuppies.”

Mary smacked his chest and moved toward Annie.

Back in the kitchen, Annie felt the shift before she saw him. Smoke stepped through the swinging door like a storm rolling in off the delta.

“You enjoying the attention?” he asked low, trying like hell to sound casual and failing miserably.

Annie didn’t turn around. “I’m cooking, Smoke. Not auditioning for a man.”

“You didn’t shut it down either.”

That got her to spin around, eyes flashing. “Excuse me?”

Smoke took a step closer. “He was flirting.”

“And?”

“I don’t like it.”

Annie laughed. It wasn’t kind. “You don’t get to like or not like anything, Smoke. You gave that up when you walked away.”

He winced like she’d hit him. Maybe she had.

Before things could go further, Mary stepped in, cool and collected, like she’d been watching from the shadows. “Okay, y’all need to cool it before somebody gets burned,” she said, slipping off her gloves and tying on an apron. “I came to help. Lord knows Stack ain’t doing nothin’ but talking loud and looking pretty.”

Annie’s lips twitched. “You sure you want to be back here with us broken folk?”

Mary shrugged, eyes soft but tired. “Stack and I fight more than we don’t some days. He says he’s tryin’ to protect me, but half the time it just feels like he’s pushin’ me away. Like lovin’ me out loud is something he’s afraid of.” She glanced at Annie, her voice steady. “But I stay. Even when it’s hard. Even when he makes me question if I should.”

Annie blinked, surprised by the rawness in her words.

“We all got our fights,” Mary said gently. “Yours just came back wearing boots and regrets.”

She glanced at Smoke, then gave Annie a quiet nod of sisterhood. “Don’t let the past boss your present. You want to cuss him out, do it. You want to feed him? Do that too. But make sure it’s what you want.”

Smoke stood there, silent, watching the two women find something he couldn’t touch. Something he didn’t have anymore. Not yet.

Stack poked his head in, grinning. “Y’all done? Or should I send for the church elders?”

“Boy, get outta here,” Mary snapped.

“Just making sure nobody’s bleeding.”

Smoke turned to leave, the scent of fried catfish and hard truths thick in the air.

Annie watched him go, heart thudding like a drum in her chest. She didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. Hell, she didn’t know what would happen in the next five minutes. But she had her apron on, her hands full, and Mary beside her.

And for now, that was enough.

Gonna start working on part 3!

Note: For more content follow me on https://www.tumblr.com/sammyquarius

[exocynraku]

OK! the largest changes that occur in the clans are that they're generally kinder towards outsiders, and to answer your second question, they don't believe in starclan. which does change a lot! however, something i'm also doing for this au (mostly in the modern era) just to make it more interesting/less canon compliant is thinking about certain events/characters and figuring out how i can make them Different. different in a way that isn't inherently related to the cultural differences in the clans. for example, (!!!!!!!!!and this may all change in the future!!!!!!!!!!!!!), rusty is half rushing-waterclan (the tribe), and the first cat who he meets is tigerclaw, who is a laid back/dad type character. ravenpaw is the oldest of the apprentices, and is egotistical, rather than anxious. bluestar a young, inexperienced type character, and gets with rosetail. scourge is younger than rusty, and has a plot with brokentail (something something abused kid vs abused kid). i'm juggling who i want to be the "villain" during rusty's time as tigerclaw is a good guy, with my ideas being raggedstar, thistleclaw and/or the sharptooth (cougar from tnp). none of these changes (minus a couple) really are related to the clans changes, i just wanted them to be different for fun! so the modern era is super different, but not just because of dotc. on the topic of starclan/religion, they clans, generally, don't believe in any sort of afterlife. they do have plenty of beliefs/superstitions otherwise, but they don't revolve around starclan. they do have beliefs related to the shining crystal (moonstone), but not because of any sort of spiritual connection. rather its "supernatural" (vague) and does provide the clans with a similar connection (suppling nine lives, sending visions). because the clans are generally more open to outsiders, there are plenty of cats who follow different beliefs (ex: rushing-waterclan, the sisters, the cats of the park). those beliefs do sometimes get passed down throughout generations, or become more widespread throughout the clans. because the clans aren't connected to any sort of afterlife, they don't meet with the dead settlers :p the outsiders pretty much do everything themselves! i... actually kind of forgot about sun shadow and quiet rain. i'll have to think more about what happens with them and get back to you! though they would arrive after all the settlers are dead. every settler dies, minus thunder, because he's only half settler and was born after the greencough plague i mentioned scourge/tiny in my big paragraph! i'm not 100% sure if i want bloodclan to form, but if they'd do they'd definitely be less of a "evil for the sake of being evil" group. they do mostly relearn everything about herbs. star flower and cow (barncat) know stuff about herbs and there are some cats in slash's group who know very basic healing, so they aren't completely lost. dawn mist is the first caregiver (medicine cat)!

im working on a warrior cats au where the tribe settlers all get greencough and fucking die so a bunch of loners/rogues/kittypets make the clans instead

[mai505]

Now playing|| Friday I’m in love by The Cure

Favourite Fruit

or: Simon finding comfort through a sweet nurse

The dying cigarette hung from his nimble fingers. Breath cold as he puffed out the acid smoke his lung stinging from the after burn. His eyes flickered as the glass door cracked open with a screech yet he did not bother easing his head at the intruder of his peaceful silence.

“Oh pardon”

The soft voice displayed genuine apologies. This made him turn blocking in her direction he took in the character of his new companion.

Rosy cheeks even rosier lips a black jacket covering the out of place scrubs adoring her body. “ No worries” he coughed out. “ I don’t own this place do I”

His eyes connected once again with trees before him the grey concrete hospital behind it detouring the purity of the nature. Rustling from his left side turned him out as he lifted his head to her. She held a paper cup in her hands he assumed coffee. Caffeine the apparent solution for two hours of sleep between 12 hour shifts.

“Are you a patient” she asked breaking the oh so distant silence he craved right now. Her gaze suspiciously eyed the cigarette hanging between his lips. “ No” he uttered. “Oh you’re visiting?” She questioned cocking her head to the side. He puffed out the smoke filling his lungs as he took his time answering. “Friend got hurt I’m just here to check on him” he explained hoping this would ease her desire for interrogation. “Oh are they fine?” Her eyes seemed to widen ever so slightly. He furrowed his brows only chuckling darkly” he’s a big boy he can handle himself” the childish nickname laced in sarcasm.

She licked her lips only taking a daring sip of the brewing brought before once again placing it next to her, her tongue officially burned now. “ You’d be surprised how many “big boys” make a fuss over a simple injection.”

Her light laugh was enough for him to turn his attention to her. Her laugh was enthralling almost mesmerising. She was pretty. He knew that just like how any red blooded man would objectively judged her appearance. “ Well you must handle them quite well” he grunted out. Interested in the conversation yet not exactly making an effort to show said interest. “ Oh yeah” she huffed” tall strong men just like you coming in yet as soon as they see one syringe they start begging for a different option.” He grinned slightly “ hate to break it to you love but one small needle is not enough to scare me”

She gave him a look. Yet he wasn’t too sure ,if the slight sultry tint in her dark eyes was only his wishing imagination for attention from a beautiful woman or actually just her eyes. “That’s what they all say” she said barely under breath. “So what happend to your friend” she asked. Back to the questions he thought. He liked her more when she was insulting the male ego. “ got shot” he replied bluntly. While he was fully aware she was a civilian yet judging by the pale blue scrubs she clearly was a nurse so dealing with every day horrors were a Tuesday afternoon for her. Just like he suspected she barely showed any reaction” So just men being stupid men” she phrased sarcastically. “ Do you find pleasure in making men seem idiotic” he said this time the one asking the dubious questions. “You do it yourself I just hold up the mirror” she shrugged taking a sip out of the paper cup.

“ He got shot in the line of duty” he added. Finally she reacted yet not the way he hoped. “ what are you police or something” her eyes flickered to his. “ You sure have a lot of questions” he budged. “I’m a curious person what can I say and who knows maybe I’m just trying to socialise” He scoffed at the irony nothing this woman had said in the nimble minded conversation was serious. He knew she wouldn’t let him go the question still playing like fire in her eyes. “Military” he told her. “That’s interesting” she said clearly unaware of the topic of military.

Sure she had seen them on TV some stupid parades yet she wasn’t actually familiar with the military. If you asked her on the spot about it she would probably rant about the Second World War ,eventually dwelling into conspiracy theories of secret CIA missions she had found on one of her late night obsession shows searches.

Her absence of an answer irked him. He barely knew her five minutes yet in the talk entirely she had always answers in more than necessary detail. The silence ate her up as she let her mind wander to how the handsome stranger looked in uniform. “So when do you need to go back to ..” she cleared her throat silently racking her brain for answers” the place?” . That let him let out a small laugh” I don’t need to get back to base until Mactavish is better” Deciding against commenting on the name reveal she nodded understandingly. “ so are you like a general or something” she was painfully unaware. “I’m a lieutenant love” he smiled slightly at her curious gaze. “ is that good?” She asked “ good enough” he answered. Silence one again engulfed them.

“ What’s your favourite fruit” she asked. His brows furrowed at the question pondering whether she was serious or not. “ I don’t know” he muttered “Apple?” “ Oh so you’re painfully boring” she declared. “What that supposed to mean” his eye snapped to hers “ Well isn’t Apple a bit… basic” she questioned. “ Didn’t know a fruit could be considered basic” he took another drag of the cigarette. “ oh no but there’s a psychology behind it” she set the cup aside. “Do tell dear” he smiled irony dripping from his tongue.

“ Apple is something everyone had tried had or at least tasted. We will exclude allergies for this hypothesis.” She explains” but if someone tells you their favourite fruit is something you can’t imagine something you never heard of and have never tried or even something you have never had the pleasure of trying that could only mean they are absolutely exiting as a person right ?” She gazes hopefully at him. With every word he had gotten increasingly concerned not only for her but also his sanity. Had his life really fallen that deep that he now sat here listening to a nurse talk about the psychology of favourite fruits. Well sure his toster was broken and yes he hadn’t visited his apartment in the last six months as his will for life was slowly fading along with the growing winters in Moscow where his latest mission had been. But surely he was still so sane. After realising that the woman was still looking at him as if he would grade her “hypothesis” he shook himself out do the thoughts of his dead toaster.

“ Are you sure you studied nursing?” He broke the tension. Her smile fell.” You’re incredibly rude for someone whose favourite fruit is apple” he stuck out the cigarette next to him slipping the butt into the grass. “ Alright missy then what your favourite fruit?” He got incredibly closer. “Mango” she answers not missing a beat. “And I assume that isn’t considered “basic” he cocked a brow. “Oh no try getting mangos during November I wanna see how far you get without the black market” she countered. “ So unavailability makes it superior” he asked. “ well unavailability always makes something better” his eyes swam” I don’t think I follow”

She once again picked up the cup it seeming more of a disliked toy than actual drink” so you know the saying “you always want what you can’t have”

He nodded is head slightly. “ Well I feel like this is one of those saying where you just always say they are rules of life. “ So people always crave what they can’t have ?” He asked automatically. “Well yes I mean no one is actually always completely happy or not ?” She blinked at him” one always craves more it’s the reason for overconsumption and overspending but I mean that a completely different thing” she chuckled lightly. “And what does the unavailability of mango have to do to with being an exiting person” he asked. His brain screaming at him to stop invoking himself into this conversation. It was an absolute lost case maybe this said a lot about his sanity. Yet he knew right then she was probably someone who spent their time reading philosophy books only to end up overthink their every life existence. She shrugged “ easy, an exiting person someone who searches for let’s say adventure. They look for new experiences something that is theoretically not available or even possible in their current situation so they crave the unavailable.”

At the end she smiled innocently as if she hadn’t turned his afternoon into a complicated talk and a drowning headache. Her phone buzzed loudly interrupting her previous grinning time.” Well that my cue” she reached to turn it off “ it was nice meeting you..?” “Simon” he hesitated”My names Simon” “ Mai, nice meeting you” she got up dusting off her clothes slightly before smiling one again him noticing the dimple in her cheek for the first time” wish your friend good health” she said before she turned on her heel leaving Simon with a though filed head and an empty cardboard cup her slight lipstick stain aesthetically echoing against the white lid. He blocked slightly grabbing his packet from beside him leaving aswell.

[suku-enthusiasts]

chapter four || blow ups - c. kamo

❛ ❜ Choso Kamo x f!reader (on going)

❝ Kamo “Choso,” a guarded boxer, meets a soft-spoken baker when he starts daily visits after training. Their connection grows slowly—social media follow, sweet diner dates, shared springtime moments—but love comes through quiet acts: tending wounds, pearl necklaces, building a home together. Challenges follow—a big match, media attention, and legal fights,—yet their bond deepens through intimacy, honest conversations under starry nights, and passionate reunions after weeks apart. As they balance family, business, and future plans, Choso sheds his tough exterior and the baker learns to trust in love worth fighting for.❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety.

Uploads every Tuesday

main masterlist | series masterlist | previous

Dinner was easy in a way that surprised him. It shouldn’t have been. Choso wasn’t used to easy. He was used to long silences that felt sharp instead of comfortable, to conversations where people waited for him to say the wrong thing, to the quiet judgment that came with the scars on his knuckles and the bruises that never really healed. But here — in your small, warm apartment with the smell of garlic and tomatoes lingering in the air, with the soft light of the old lamp casting a glow over your hair — it felt different.

He ate slowly, more for the company than the food, watching the way you talked with your hands, the way your laugh curled at the edges when you told stories about bakery disasters — dough that didn’t rise, burnt croissants, the one time you locked yourself in the walk-in freezer for an hour before your brother found you. Choso didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. You filled the space without crowding it, and every so often, when you laughed a little too hard or smiled a little too big, he caught himself smiling too.

After dinner, you carried the plates to the sink, and Choso followed you, leaning his hip against the counter as you rinsed them, the water running quietly between you. "You know," you said, glancing up at him with a small smile, "you're allowed to relax." He snorted softly. "Don't know how." You bumped his arm with your shoulder, teasing but gentle. "You're learning." He watched you for a moment longer, heart heavy in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with the way you looked at him — like you saw him. Like you weren't trying to fix him or change him or run from the sharp edges. You just saw him, and somehow, you still stayed.

He opened his mouth to say something — he wasn’t even sure what — when his phone buzzed on the counter. Choso frowned, leaning over to check the screen. His manager’s name flashed across the display: Kenji. He let it buzz once. Twice. You glanced at him, a question in your eyes, but didn’t push. With a grunt, Choso picked it up and answered, pressing it to his ear.

“Yeah.”

Your back was to him now as you wiped down the counter, pretending not to listen, but he could feel the way the air shifted around you — quieter, more alert. Choso’s face hardened as he listened, jaw tightening. “No,” he said sharply. “I already told you — not interested.” There was a pause — Kenji’s voice, fast and insistent, bleeding through the small apartment. Choso’s fingers drummed against the counter, the tight, agitated rhythm giving away more than his voice did.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he muttered, turning away from you, pacing a few steps toward the window like he could outwalk the conversation. Kenji kept talking — louder, more aggressive — and Choso’s shoulders tensed, the muscles under his hoodie bunching tight. “What the fuck does Gucci need me for?” he snapped, his voice rising, sharp in the quiet of the apartment. “I’m not a model. I’m not some pretty face they can slap on a billboard.” You stopped wiping the counter, watching him now, still and careful. Another pause. Another insistent argument through the phone.

Choso raked a hand through his hair, the tie snapping loose, strands falling around his face in a messy halo.

“They don’t give a shit about me,” he said, voice rough. “They don’t care who I am. They just want a look. A story.”

He paced, breathing harder now, phone still pressed tight to his ear. “I said no. What part of no—”

He broke off, jaw tight, listening to whatever Kenji was saying on the other end. His hand dropped to his side, clenching into a fist, the other scrubbing hard over his face. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, but no less bitter. “It’s in the contract,” he muttered. “Of course it is.”

He hung up then, without a word, the phone hitting the counter with a dull, angry thud. He stood there, breathing hard, back tense, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. His fists were clenched at his sides, and for a long moment, he didn’t move. You could feel the anger radiating off him — not the reckless, dangerous kind. The kind that came from helplessness. From being trapped, and even though your chest tightened, even though every instinct told you to tread carefully, you didn’t flinch.

You crossed the room quietly, your socks silent on the wood floor, and stopped just behind him. You didn’t speak. You didn’t ask. You just wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek lightly to his back, and held him.

Choso stood there, breathing slow and ragged, your arms wrapped tight around his waist, your body pressed gently to his back. The fight had drained out of him — not all at once, not dramatically — but in pieces. The sharp edges dulled, the anger softened, the weight of everything he carried shifting just enough that he could feel the warmth of you behind him. He didn’t move for a long time, his hands resting heavy over yours, his fingers brushing absently across your knuckles like he didn’t know what else to do with them, like he was afraid to break the moment by holding on too tight.

The apartment was quiet except for the sound of his breathing, yours quieter still, the slow thud of your hearts filling up the small space. Outside, the city moved on — cars in the distance, the occasional echo of voices on the street — but up here, it was just you and him, suspended in something that felt fragile but real. You didn’t speak, didn’t press him to turn around, to look at you. You just stayed, steady and sure, your arms tightening slightly around him every time his breathing hitched, every time his muscles tensed like he might pull away. You wanted him to know he didn’t have to. That he could stay. That it was safe here.

It took a while — longer than you thought it might — but slowly, slowly, Choso shifted. He lifted one of your hands from his stomach, his fingers lacing through yours with a care so unfamiliar, so clumsy and deliberate, it made your chest ache. He turned, slow and heavy, and you let your arms fall back, giving him space. When he faced you, he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin, smell the clean soap clinging to his hoodie, the faint coppery scent of the gym still lingering underneath. His hair was messy, falling loose around his face, strands brushing his cheekbones. His dark eyes — so often hooded and guarded — were open now, raw and vulnerable in a way that made your breath catch.

Choso didn’t speak. He just stood there, staring at you like he wasn’t sure if you were real. His gaze dropped, slowly, dragging over your face — the curve of your mouth, the soft flush still high on your cheeks, the loose, messy fall of your hair. His jaw worked, a muscle ticking, like there were words caught somewhere between his ribs that he didn’t know how to free. You didn’t rush him.

You stood there, open and waiting, your hands loosely folded in front of you, giving him the choice to reach, to stay, to leave — whatever he needed, and maybe it was that — the not asking, the not pushing — that finally broke through.

Choso stepped closer, slow and heavy, the toes of his boots brushing yours. His hand lifted, hesitant, pausing halfway like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you. You met him halfway, tilting your chin up, letting your gaze hold his, steady and soft. He touched your cheek, finally, the backs of his fingers rough against your skin. Not a caress — just a touch, like he needed to make sure you were real, that you weren’t going to dissolve if he pressed too hard. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, feather-light, and you leaned into it, just slightly, a soft breath escaping you.

“You’re not scared of me,” he said, voice low and rough, the words heavy with disbelief and something that sounded almost like awe. You shook your head slowly, the movement brushing your cheek against his hand. “No.” His thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow, in awe. “I should scare you,” he said, even softer, like he hated admitting it.

“You don’t,” you whispered, and you saw the way his throat worked, the way his hand trembled just slightly against your skin. Choso lowered his head, the tip of his nose brushing yours, and you felt the breath he exhaled — shaky, uneven — fan across your lips. He didn’t kiss you right away. He just breathed you in, his forehead pressing lightly to yours, his hand moving to cup your jaw fully now, rough palm cradling you like you were something breakable. His other hand hovered at your waist, fingers twitching like he wanted to pull you closer but didn’t dare. You could have closed the distance. Could have leaned up on your toes and pressed your mouth to his, simple and easy.

But you waited.

You let him choose.

And he did.

Slow, careful, like he was afraid he’d ruin it if he moved too fast, Choso closed the last inch between you, his mouth brushing yours in a kiss that was more breath than contact at first. A hesitation. A question. You answered by tilting your chin up, pressing just a little closer, your fingers finding the hem of his hoodie, clutching lightly. The kiss deepened slowly — not frantic, not demanding — but steady, building in quiet layers. His lips were soft, warm, a little chapped, moving against yours like he was learning you in pieces, savoring the way you fit against him. When he finally pulled back, it was only by a breath, his forehead still resting against yours. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured, the words so raw they almost didn’t sound like him. You smiled, small and sure, fingers curling tighter into the fabric of his hoodie. “You’re wrong,” you whispered. He exhaled shakily, his thumb stroking slow circles against your jaw. For a moment, neither of you moved, and even though there was still a heaviness in his shoulders, still a sadness in the way he held you — it wasn’t hopeless.

It was something quieter. Something that felt a lot like hope. You stood there together in the quiet, in the soft lamplight, in the stillness of a world you’d made just for each other — a world that, for once, he didn’t feel the need to fight against. For the first time in a long, long time, Choso thought maybe he didn’t have to be afraid of being seen.

Not when it was you doing the looking.

The night of the fight, your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. You stood in the line winding around the side of the old arena, the low buzz of voices, the smell of cheap food and sweat filling the air. The crowd was restless — buzzing with anticipation, thick with the kind of energy that made your skin crawl. Men in leather jackets and steel-toed boots, women with loud laughs and sharper smiles. It wasn’t your world. Not even close.

But you were here anyway. For him.

Inside, the arena was even worse — too loud, too bright, the sharp metallic tang of blood and old adrenaline saturating the air. You found your seat toward the front — not too close, but close enough that you could see the cage, the gleaming metal bars catching the harsh overhead lights. You sat, hands tight in your lap, heart hammering against your ribs. Choso was already in the ring. He stood in one corner, shoulders loose, head down, hoodie half-zipped, hands taped tight. His team fussed around him — shouting last-minute instructions, slapping his back — but he barely reacted. He stood still, heavy and coiled like a spring, his dark hair tied back, face blank. Not the Choso you knew.

No — this was someone else. Someone harder. Sharper.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the speakers, the crowd roaring in response, but it all blurred together for you.

When Choso stepped forward, shrugging out of his hoodie, the tattoos on his arms gleamed under the lights, black and brutal. His body was a map of old scars and new bruises, and even from where you sat, you could see how tight his jaw was, how hard his eyes had gone. You barely breathed as the fight started.

It was fast — brutal — a blur of fists and elbows, bodies colliding against the cage. Choso was a machine, all sharp edges and ruthless precision. He moved like he was built for this — like violence lived under his skin, coiled tight and waiting. You flinched every time his fist connected — sharp, wet impacts that echoed across the arena. His opponent was fast, good, but Choso was better — relentless, grinding him down with every blow, every ruthless advance. There was no mercy in it. No hesitation. Just Choso, cold and brutal, doing what he had to do.

It didn’t take long. The final blow was vicious — a sharp left hook that sent the other man crumpling to the mat, blood splattering across the canvas. The crowd roared. You stayed frozen, breath caught somewhere between your chest and throat. Choso stood over his opponent for a beat longer, chest heaving, face still blank. Then he stepped back, lifting his bruised fists mechanically when the ref grabbed his arm and declared him the winner. The announcer shouted, the crowd screamed, but Choso barely reacted. No smile. No raised fists. No celebration. Just that same blank stare.

You saw it then — clearer than you ever had before. He hated this. Even with the win, even with the cheers, Choso stood there like he couldn’t feel a thing. Like he was just a body in a cage, doing what he had to do to survive. Obligation. Not passion.

You sat frozen as he left the ring, his team swarming him — pats on the back, towels thrown over his shoulders. He moved through them like a ghost, not really seeing any of it. When his dark eyes found yours in the crowd, the smallest crack broke across his face — something soft and fleeting — and then it was gone.

You didn’t say much when you met him outside the arena. He was quiet, hoodie pulled low over his face, duffel slung over one shoulder. His hands were taped still, knuckles split and raw, dried blood crusted at the edges. He didn’t speak, and neither did you — just slid into the passenger seat of your car, slumping low. You drove back to the apartment in silence. When you got home, you unlocked the door, flipping on the lamp, letting the soft, warm light spill across the space. Choso stood in the doorway for a second, heavy and still, then toed off his boots and stepped inside.

“Go shower,” you said, voice soft but certain. He hesitated, jaw ticking — like he didn’t know how to accept something so small — and then nodded, disappearing down the hall to the bathroom. You moved around the apartment quietly while he was gone — fetching the small first aid kit from under the sink, filling a glass of water, pulling a clean towel from the closet. When Choso came back, hair damp and curling at the ends, fresh hoodie pulled over his broad shoulders, he looked... smaller, somehow. Calmer. But still distant, still too quiet. You sat on the couch, patting the spot next to you.

“Come here.” He hesitated again, then crossed the room slowly, sitting down with a grunt. His legs spread wide, shoulders hunched slightly, like he was trying to make himself smaller and failing. You reached for his hands, gently pulling one into your lap. His knuckles were bruised and raw, the skin split in places, crusted blood staining the tape. He watched you quietly as you peeled it away, careful not to pull too hard. You worked slowly, dabbing antiseptic against the cuts, smoothing bandages over the worst of them. Choso didn’t flinch. Didn’t even breathe hard. Just sat there, letting you take care of him like he didn’t know what to do with it. When you finished, you set the first aid kit aside and curled your fingers lightly around his wrist, thumb brushing over the thick pulse there.

He was still watching you — quiet, unreadable.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, and spoke — soft, but sure. “I hated watching that,” you admitted, voice low. “Not because you’re bad at it. You’re good — too good.” Choso’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing. “I hated it because I could see it in your face. You don’t love it.” You swallowed, thumb stroking slow, soothing circles against his skin. “You do it because you have to.” His jaw tightened, throat working around words he couldn’t seem to say.

“You fight because you feel like you don’t have a choice,” you said, softer now. “Because it’s the only thing the world’s ever let you be good at.” You shifted closer, your knee brushing his. “But that’s not all you are, Choso.”

His hand flexed under yours, rough fingers twitching like he wanted to grab you but wasn’t sure how. “You’re more than fists and fights and bruises. You’re more than what they want to make you into.” You let the words settle between you, your heart hammering in your chest. When he still didn’t speak, you moved carefully, sliding your hand up from his wrist, along the rough line of his forearm, until you reached his jaw. His eyes fluttered closed at the touch, a soft breath leaving him. “I have feelings for you,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper now. “I don’t care about the fights. I don’t care about the noise. I just... I care about you.”

His eyes opened, dark and shining, the weight of them settling heavy on you. Slowly, carefully, he turned his face into your palm, pressing a rough kiss to the center of it. You felt it like a brand — warm, aching, real. When he looked at you again, the hardness in his face had cracked wide open, and what you saw there made your chest ache — a softness he tried so hard to hide, a hunger for something he didn’t know how to ask for.

Choso didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. He leaned forward, slow and deliberate, pressing his forehead to yours, his hand curling around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and you stayed like that — quiet, steady, together — as the world outside spun on without you.

The park was warm with the promise of spring. The grass was a deep, lush green, thick and soft underfoot, dotted with little patches of wildflowers that swayed in the gentle breeze. The air smelled clean — fresh-cut grass, distant lilacs, the faintest trace of earth still damp from the morning dew. The sun hung high in a clear blue sky, casting long, lazy shadows that danced over the paths and picnic blankets scattered across the open lawns.

You tugged the edges of your light, flowing maxi dress as you walked beside Choso, the hem brushing against your ankles, catching on the occasional blade of grass. It was the kind of dress that felt like spring itself — soft fabric in muted florals, fitted at the waist and loose around your hips, swishing with every step. Your hair was loose around your shoulders, catching the light, and your cheeks were already pink from the sun.

Choso walked next to you, quiet as usual, but different now. Softer. Calmer. He wore a plain white t-shirt that clung slightly to the strong lines of his chest and arms, the sleeves tight around his biceps, a pair of worn black jeans that sat low on his hips. His boots were scuffed, and his hair was loose today, falling in soft, messy strands around his face, brushing his jaw whenever the breeze picked up. You found a spot under a pecan tree — a little quieter, a little more private — and Choso dropped down onto the grass without hesitation, leaning back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him. You sank down beside him, tucking your legs under you, smoothing your dress as you sat.

For a while, you didn’t talk. You didn’t need to. You just sat there, letting the warmth of the afternoon settle into your bones, letting the soft sounds of the park — the distant laughter of kids, the occasional bark of a dog, the low hum of conversation — fill the space between you. Choso shifted slightly, one arm brushing against yours, and you turned to look at him. He was already watching you — not in the heavy, guarded way he had when you first met, but in that slow, steady way he did now, like he was memorizing the way the light played on your hair, the way your cheeks flushed pink, the way your dress pooled around you like you belonged there.

“Got something for you,” he said, voice low. You blinked, surprised, as he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small box — not flashy, not fancy, just simple black velvet. He turned it over in his palm once, like he was second-guessing himself, then held it out to you. You took it carefully, heart already racing. Inside, nestled against the dark velvet, was a delicate necklace — a single, small pearl on a fine gold chain, simple and elegant.

You stared at it, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. “It’s not much,” Choso said, voice rougher now, like he was fighting the urge to pull back, to take it away before you could say anything. “But... made me think of you.”

You swallowed, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe. “It’s beautiful,” you said softly, fingers brushing lightly over the pearl. Choso shifted, sitting up straighter, his knees brushing yours. He looked nervous — that quiet kind of nervous he always got when he was about to say something real. He reached out, took the necklace from the box, the chain glinting in the sunlight as he let it drape across his knuckles. “Turn around,” he said, voice quieter now.

You obeyed, lifting your hair away from your neck as he moved behind you. His fingers were warm and careful as he clasped the chain, letting the pearl rest just at the hollow of your throat. When you turned back to face him, his hand lingered for a moment, fingers brushing lightly against your skin. He sat back, hands resting on his thighs, and stared at you.

“Looks good on you,” he murmured. You smiled — wide and real, cheeks burning — and tucked the pearl lightly between your fingers, feeling the weight of it, small and perfect. Choso shifted again, like he was gathering himself, and then — finally — he spoke. “I been thinkin’ about this for a while,” he said, voice low but steady now. “About you. About us.” You blinked, heart pounding, but stayed quiet. “I don’t do this kinda thing,” he continued, frowning slightly, like he hated how clumsy the words felt in his mouth. “Never really saw the point before.” He looked at you then, and there was something in his eyes — something soft, something steady — that made your chest ache.

“But I don’t wanna keep actin’ like you’re just... someone I see sometimes. You’re more than that.” Your breath caught.

He shifted closer, his hand brushing lightly against your knee. “I want you to be my girlfriend,” he said, voice low but firm. “If you’ll have me.” You stared at him, heart thudding so hard you thought he might hear it. For a moment, you couldn’t speak — couldn’t even breathe, and then you smiled — big and blushing, eyes bright — and nodded. “Yes,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’d love to.”

Something in Choso’s face cracked wide open at your words — a slow, soft smile breaking across his mouth, small but real, the kind of smile you’d only ever seen on him when he was truly at peace. You pulled your phone out, grinning as you leaned into him, lifting it up for a selfie. Choso shifted closer without hesitation, one arm slinging loosely around your waist, his hand resting lightly on your hip. You snapped the photo — you with your wide, bright smile, cheeks flushed pink, hair tumbling over your shoulders, the delicate pearl at your throat catching the light — and Choso beside you, leaning in close, a soft, rare smile on his face, his dark eyes warm.

You stared at the photo for a moment after, heart full. It wasn’t perfect — the light was a little too harsh, the breeze caught a few strands of your hair across your face — but it didn’t matter. It was real. You turned to him, sliding your phone into your lap, and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, just at the corner of his mouth. Choso turned his head slightly, catching your eyes, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You didn’t have to. The world kept spinning, the sun kept shining, but for you — for him — it was enough just to be. Here. Together.

After a while, the buzz of the park faded into the background — the laughter of children chasing soccer balls, the distant bark of a dog, the quiet hum of conversations drifting on the breeze. You shifted, tugging gently on Choso’s hand, and he followed you down without protest, both of you sprawling back onto the grass. The sun was warm overhead, filtering through the leaves above, casting dappled shadows across your skin and the light fabric of your dress. Choso lied beside you, one hand tucked under his head, the other tangled loosely with yours, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against your palm. His white t-shirt stretched taut across his chest, the cotton thin enough that you could see the faint outlines of old scars and muscle underneath. He looked more at ease here than he ever did anywhere else — the tension gone from his shoulders, the sharp lines of his face softened by the way he watched the sky. You turned your head to look at him, chin tilted slightly.

“What are you thinking about?” you asked, voice low, carrying easily in the quiet. Choso huffed a breath — not a laugh, but close — and turned his head to meet your gaze. “You,” he said simply. You smiled, shy but sure, the kind of smile you didn’t have to hide with him anymore. He stared at you for a moment longer, dark eyes steady, and then his thumb brushed higher, skimming the delicate chain of the necklace he’d given you, the pearl catching the sunlight.

“You’re good for me,” he said, voice rough, almost like it hurt him to admit it. You squeezed his hand, your thumb brushing over the back of his knuckles where the bruises were already beginning to darken. “You’re good for me too,” you murmured. You lied there a while longer, hands tangled, the quiet wrapping around you like something sacred, something real.

It was perfect.

Until your phone buzzed.

You startled slightly, blinking as you fished it out of the folds of your dress. Choso watched you, curious but unconcerned, as you squinted at the screen.

Dad.

Your heart skipped — not in fear, but that strange, familiar flutter of oh no, what does he know?. You bit your lip, glancing at Choso, and sat up, brushing grass from your dress as you answered. “Hey, Dad.” Choso stayed lying back in the grass, one hand behind his head, but his eyes flicked to you, sharp and attentive now. “Hey, sweetheart,” your father’s voice came through, warm but firm. “What are you up to?” You smiled, glancing down at Choso. “I’m at the park.” There was a pause — not long, but long enough to make your stomach tighten.

“Your brothers came by the house yesterday,” your dad said, voice casual in a way that wasn’t really casual at all. “Told your mother and me a little about this guy you’ve been spending time with.” You winced, heart dropping slightly.

“They’re just worried,” you said quickly, picking at the hem of your dress. “But it’s not what they think. He’s... he’s really good to me.” There was another pause. You could picture your dad sitting at the kitchen table, arms crossed, frowning thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, slower now. “If you’re serious about him, I think it’s about time your mother and I meet him.” You swallowed, glancing nervously at Choso. He was still watching you — not tense, not worried, just waiting.

“I think that’s fair,” you said carefully. “I can talk to him.”

“Good,” your dad said, voice softening a little. “We just want to know the man our daughter’s spending so much time with. You know how we are.” You smiled, feeling the tightness in your chest ease a little. “Yeah. I know.”

“Alright. You set it up. Let me know when.”

“I will.”

“Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

You hung up, setting the phone carefully in your lap, exhaling slowly. Choso sat up then, brushing grass from his jeans, brows lifted in silent question. You smiled, soft but a little nervous. “So,” you said, voice light. “That was my dad.” Choso smirked faintly, nudging your knee with his. “Yeah? What’s he want?” You bit your lip, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “He wants to meet you.” Choso blinked, the smirk dropping from his face. You rushed to fill the space, reaching out to brush your fingers lightly over his hand.

“You don’t have to say yes right now. I can talk to them, set something up later. They’re just... protective.” Choso stared at you for a moment, expression unreadable, and you felt your stomach twist, afraid maybe it was too much too soon. But then he sighed, slow and deep, and turned his hand over, linking his fingers with yours again. “They should know who’s takin’ care of their daughter,” he said, voice low but sure. You smiled, heart tight and full all at once. Choso squeezed your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Set it up,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

And just like that — in the warm spring afternoon, with the grass cool beneath you and the sky wide and endless overhead — you realized you weren’t scared anymore. Not of the future. Not with him. Not together.

[strawbairicake]

hallo Lia, before i say anything else i think i should apologize for taking so long to submit a request for your event—i kept either forgetting or endlessly second-guessing any draft of an ask i came up with because i didn’t want to end up annoying you, i hope you can forgive me :((

since it’s so late i completely understand if you don’t want to write this (especially if you aren’t interested in the idea), but would it be ok for me to request aventurine and a merman/merfolk au? i think it would be interesting to see him attempt (keyword: attempt) to court a human reader, but feel free to change the concept however you like ! thank you in advance, have a great day ♡

part of your world -aventurine x reader (mermaid/merfolk au!)

synopsis: the cute guy that mysteriously came ashore the beach is really intriguing, isn’t he?

warnings: none, it’s pure fluff! might be ooc though, apologies for that!

word count: 498

author’s note: yes the title was from the song from the little mermaid. no, i don’t have any regrets or better title names. anyway, thank you for requesting, Ruu! please don’t hesitate to come say hello or drop a request in my inbox! no beta, we die like my hopes n’ dreams /lh! would love to hear more from you! hopefully this idea fits (and maybe exceeds) your expectations; hope you enjoy! <3

book n’ dash event

tagging: @cmiru

acquiring human legs after having a mermaid tail all your life is quite the flex. that’s what Aventurine thought anyway. he had just washed up to shore when you came running over to him, in quite the panic.

“oh my gosh, are you okay? where did you come from?” you asked as you approached him. and Aventurine felt like he had come down with an ailment: he couldn’t speak, think, move (not that he tried any of these things). he was just frozen. god you were so pretty, did you know that?

“washed… up,” Aventurine replies, somewhat stunned at his lack of being able to form words. you nod, seemingly understanding what he said (you didn’t understand) and trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. you don’t want to overwhelm him, either.

“where are you from?” you asked after a few minutes of silence.

“the ocean. why?”

“okay… how did you get here, friend?” you asked.

friend… such a safe and comforting word. he knows you didn’t slip the word out intentionally. it was a speaking before thinking moment but you didn’t seem to regret or take back the word. 

“i… don’t know. i’m just… here.” he replies. you nod again. 

“i’m (name), nice to meet you. come with me, I’ll help you get on your feet. two more questions, can you understand what i’m saying? and what's your name?” 

“I’m Aventurine, and i can understand you well.”

satisfied with his answer, you help him off the sandy beach, giving him a towel you were carrying earlier. you help him wrap it around his waist and start walking to your apartment, not far from the beach luckily. you both make the short trek back to your home and you let him settle in before overwhelming him with more questions and activities for you to do.

“once you’re comfortable and dressed, we’re going to go to the mall and get you some clothes, okay?” 

“sure, thank you.” 

And so you were off. you headed to the mall, and got to the clothing store for your new friend. you let him pick out whatever he wanted. but before you both left the store, a small pearl bracelet caught his eye. 

“(Name), look,” Aventurine points to the bracelet.

“what’s wrong?” you ask as you see where his finger’s pointing, “oh, the bracelet? we can get it!” and as the nice clerk gets it out of the display and grabs it for you. you check out and head back to your apartment.

“what’s with the interest in the bracelet?” you asked him after he sat down on your couch.

“it’s a sign of loyalty and love in the mermaid language. you’ve also been kind to me.”

your breath hitched, and you gulp a bit nervously, “and?” 

“and even though we’ve just met, i want you to have it.” he says as he pushes the box to you. you think this cute mermaid-turned human is sticking around for a while longer.

©2025 strawbairicake. do not repost, copy, translate, modify, or use for AI.

[specialagentartemis]

from a discussion in the comments of this post:

Learning about things is always valuable; learning how to assess what things are reliable is always valuable; not everything needs academic rigor to be valuable! That's part of what's getting lost here.

It's always good to read critically and ask questions, to think about the logical arguments being made and assess whether they are actually answering the question they set out to answer, or if they provide strong enough evidence for their claim. You certainly don't have to be an expert to do that. And it's a great way to learn.

The idea of academic rigor primarily comes into play if you want to 1) do original research, 2) challenge a scientist or expert and say they're wrong, or 3) give advice in a formal capacity or practice the topic in a formal capacity.

Learning a lot of facts about, say, Ancient Rome, is great for writing a fictional story set in Ancient Rome; academic rigor is necessary if you want to write a nonfiction history of Ancient Rome. Collecting lots of information about local ecosystems is awesome for starting your own native pollinator garden or giving plant cuttings to your neighbors; academic rigor is necessary if you want to start a consulting business giving recommendations to local institutions about rewilding their properties.

I, personally, really love learning about dinosaurs and I consider myself pretty knowledgeable about them, but I'm nowhere near an expert, and that's fine: it mostly means I won't be writing any science books or leading any paleontology research projects or being a Jurassic World science consultant. I can still enjoy it, and get a lot of value in learning about it and understanding it, and know enough to go "hmmm there's probably more to the story" when news articles report that some biotech firm has de-enxtinct-ified some prehistoric animal. Those are all valuable things, even if they don't make me an expert!

And then there are topics like woodworking or sewing or rock climbing where "academic rigor" is not a useful framework for expertise at all, because it operates in a completely different space in which expertise comes in a very different way.

Anti-vaxxers are very enthusiastic about "doing their own research" and still very wrong. This is a huge problem because they are also saying the medical experts are liars and making decisions about other people's health because of it. Graham Hancock is very enthusiastic about archaeology, and very wrong. This leads to him getting a Netflix deal to make a popular tv show where he tells you that the academic archaeologists are lying to you to cover up the fact that Atlantis is real.

Conversely, here's a story about an amateur archaeologist who spent a lot of time studying Ice Age cave paintings... and then brought his observations and theories to academic archaeologists, who worked together with him to test those theories!

Getting an academic degree is not the only path to truth and knowledge. But one of the big values of academia is that it teaches you how to research, how to design experiments, how to read critically and assess information, and how to robustly test your ideas. It also has peer review by other experts who are there to assess your work from an outside perspective and give critiques of it, and it teaches you how to accept critique with an open mind. Those are absolutely skills you CAN learn outside academia! For sure! But you have to honestly assess: are you? before you can make a claim to the same standards of original research, challenging other experts, or giving advice from a place of expertise.

If that's not what you're interested in doing with your knowledge, then learning facts is awesome. Learning about the world to broaden your worldview and understand more about the world around you is always good. And I don't know an academic who will ever claim otherwise.

[lem0nt1ddy]

How does Mr. Ring A Ding/Lux handle jealousy?

Mr. Ring A Ding bleeds confidence—self-assured to a fault, almost radiant in the way he carries himself. He doesn’t question his worth, and he certainly doesn’t question yours. Reminder: you both have a close relationship and he trusts you to maintain faithfulness (along with his own).

If someone dares to throw flirtatious glances his way, he brushes it off without a second thought. It's not ego-boosting, it leads to a quick decline with no hesitation. If it's not from you, he doesn't care. The only person he sees as his is you.

Is someone hitting on you or showing interest in front of him? How he reacts is based on how you respond. Mr. Ring A Ding keeps his eyes on you-- your facial expressions, body language, your vocal cues.

Are you visibly uncomfortable and they can't take no for an answer? Are you leaning away? Struggling to escape the conversation? Looking for him? Yeah, no, he'll shut that shit down and will defend you straightaway with no apologies. Feelings are not what he's thinking about-- it's your safety. Because, in his eyes, you're not just his partner. You're his entire world.

"Listen, pal,” he says, low but thick with warning. "You're obviously not getting it. They're already taken, so go ahead and buzz off already."

But if they try to flirt with you and you flirt back?

He's offended honestly-- it's like he got slapped in the face. You? Flirting with someone else? Like, wow! Look at you, batting those pretty eyelashes at someone who isn't him.

Behind the smooth, charismatic Mr. Ring A Ding facade, there is something more volatile simmering-- Lux. He's red-hot and dangerously reactive. His pride takes a hit, but more than that, it burns. This isn't just jealousy anymore. It's an insult.

Forget playing nice. It's a sign to play dirty all he wants.

His tone may still be charming, sure—sweet like saccharine, even—but now it carries a noxious undertone.

“Oh? That little performance back there—was that for me, darling, or are we passing out affections like party favors now?”

His eyes practically glow with something wild.

“Cute. Real cute,” he’ll purr, but his voice has a sharp bite. “But I don’t share. So unless you’re looking to be vaporized by my mood, I’d suggest finding a new conversation partner.”

And when you’re alone again?

____________________________________________________

"What was that?"

His voice cracked through the silence like thunder.

"What was what--" You blinked, caught off guard before he interrupted you.

“I said,” he interrupted, stepping forward, "What. was. that?" The final word dripped like venom... he's not kidding this time.

Before you can say anything, he comes closer. There are flames burning from behind his eyes, smoke curling around them. You could practically see the heat shimmering in his pupils... and he's pissed.

"You knew exactly what you were doing." He spat, his lips curling into not a smile-- but something bitter. "Flashing that little smile. Laughing at their jokes. Touching their arm."

He took a step forward towards you, looming over your small frame-- every inch of his height casting a shadow that enveloped your own.

“Lux—” you tried, but it came out too soft.

"Do you think this is a game?!" He cut you off, voice rising into something unhinged.

"Oh, I'll make it a game alright," His smile spread now—slow, wild, dangerous. “In fact, I’ll give you a ten-second head start.”

Your heart dropped. "Lux, you can't be serious--"

"Don't make me laugh."

"You clearly don't know who you belong to." He leaned in so close you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, the barely-restrained chaos lurking beneath his breath.

“Looks like I’ll have to remind you,” he whispered.

“Like I said… ten seconds." And if you know what's good for you... You'd better run.

____________________________________________________

Just to make it clear, he wouldn't actually injure or trap you. (unless he's a yandere, then he'd confine you where no one can see you ever again.)

He'd "teach you a lesson", though, through either fucking you senselessly, spanking you, making sure you only remember his name... or he'll give you the silent treatment and will feel incredibly hurt by what you did.

His trust isn't something to be toyed with. If it gets to the point where he suspects you of infidelity, or you actively do this behind his back, your relationship will crash and burn... and maybe you will too. As revenge, he'll toss you away or trap you in film and watch you go up in flames.

[hooked-on-elvis]

Priscilla didn't like Elvis' hairstyle

1969

Oh, gosh. This is the first time in this blog I'm feeling like a gossip columnist. LOL. I don't mean to say Priscilla didn't think her husband was attractive or anything. I just thought it is intriguing to imagine anyone not liking Elvis' looks - specially his then-wife. However, she had a particular reason not to — one that any housewife would see as reasonable.

I'm sure you might remember one press conference in the 70s (I believe 1972), when Elvis is questioned on the reason why he left the greasy hairstyle behind. He laughs and replies casually something to the effect of "I stopped using that stuff just like everybody else did, man." But it was not like he left it in the 50s. It was not until 1969 when we really see a change on that aspect, and the one person responsible for it? Not his wife, but a film director.

Q: You changed a few things about Elvis - like bis hairstyle. A: At the time, Elvis had the hairdo that he was famous for. He had a kind of a pompadour in front and his hair was full of grease. And, because this was a movie about a doctor working in the ghetto, it just didn't seem to be quite the right hairstyle. So 1 talked to him and l said, "Elvis, how would you feel about changing your hair a little bit?" Well, he said he would be open to the idea, and so then we talked about who would do it. And I said, "Well, do you like the way my hair is done?" I had a Japanese lady in Beverly Hills who was cutting my hair at the time, and he said, "Yes." So we went to see Jan and she washed all the grease out of his hair and modified the styling, and it was quite a landmark achievement. It was pretty unusual to get that done. And Elvis actually liked it very much. Priscilla liked it even more. Priscilla got down on her knees and said, "Billy Graham, thank you, thank you, thank you." She said, "You don't know what it's like living with all this grease all over everything."

William clarifies:

"They lived in a house up in Trousdale (Beverly Hills, CA) and everything was white. The rugs were white, the furniture was white, everything was white. So Elvis would lean back against a chair or a couch and it would leave a great big grease-spot. You know, the pillows in the bedroom. So Priscilla was extremely pleased to see this change."

Q: Were you a little nervous when you asked Elvis to change his hair somewhat? A: "Oh, yeah. You know, I mean Elvis was an icon and you don't mess with icons, so I felt pretty good about that."

Interview excerpt from the FTD book "Change Of Habit"

You might be questioning: "Did he put grease on his hair while at home?" And the answer is: Yes.

Elvis was always Elvis, the icon. He didn't have a break. Home or not, he was aware he was a star... fans and reporters were always watching him, and candid pictures would leak anytime he stepped out of the door - one time or another. That's also the reason why he liked to always dress up and didn't like to keep journals... always thinking ahead. So, Priscilla's reason to be relieved after seeing Elvis finally left the heavy greasy hairstyle behind is indeed plausible.

[lilyw0lf]

I think I'm missing some context, but I've been seeing a bit of controversy about the LU and LoZ fandom this past couple of days and I'm pretty sure that this issue comes from way back.

And I just want to say that most of the people that I've met in this fandom are so sweet and welcoming. Maybe I was just fortunate to interact with the right people, but I know for sure that those little interactions have been what makes me love this fandom so much. I think a healthy community is even more important than the source material when it comes to shape one's vision of a fandom, at least for me.

I must confess that I've been a lurker for most of the time that I've been here, mostly because my own fear of giving my opinion or asking questions that could seem dumb and not wanting to go out of my confort zone. That said, I couldn't have been more wrong.

If you are new to a fandom, and not just LU or LoZ, any fandom, or even if you've been here for a while and you are just a fellow lurker I want to tell you:

Don't be afraid of interacting with other people

Don't be afraid of giving your opinion

Don't be afraid to create

Don't be afraid to share

And don't be afraid of asking questions

I can't promise you that you won't encounter a jerk sometimes, but mostly you will find great people willing to share their own opinions and knowledge with you. Who knows, you might meet some of your greatest friends that way.

The interactions between people are what define the hearth of a comunity. And that's why I want you to always try to be polite and treat everyone with kindness first.

Don't impose your own headcanons to anyone, hell don't even impose canon, people love to create and go wild with their own imagination and if that makes them happy let them be happy.

You can always share your knowledge about the games, LU or whatever you want, but please do it politely. The other person might not realise that their take on a character or story is not canon or they might know and just want to ignore it. And that's alright too, at the end of the day we are here to have fun. You can share your own headcanons if you want.

If you don't like something or a person is just being straight rude, then you can always block them, you have all the right to do it. But please try to make sure you don't become the one that's rude with others without reason.

Also about the games, you don't have to have played to every game to interact with the fandom, you don't have to have played to any of them if you want. You can just have read the comic and that's totally fine, like I said earlier if you want to know about something just ask politely, really don't be afraid to ask. And to the people that answers please don't be rude about it. Most people don't have the money or the time to play every game, but that doesn't mean that they can't learn about them if they are interested.

Don't assume anything about anyone, for all you know you could be talking with a literal child that just found something that seems cool and is so excited to learn more about it or to share their own stuff with others. And how would they feel if the first reaction they got to their question or opinion was a negative one? And not just children, anyone who wanted to interact with a fandom and just got rude reactions would probably just want to go away and not even want to keep learning about the thing that had them so excited. So please, please always try to be mindful with others, you don't know their circunstances, kindness shoud always be tried first.

And mostly to new users but this goes to everyone, about taging no LU stuff as LU, please if you are not sure try to check the original tags before reblogging. It takes just a few seconds and is the best way to avoid confussion and innecesary arguments. On the other side, if you see someone misstaging let them know, but please do it politely, they might be new and not understand how the tagging works.

What I want to say with all of this is please always try to be kind, everyone has their own circunstances. Don't let issues like these that can be easily avoided rot the core of a beautiful comunity. You'll find some people that are just jerks, is unavoidable on any group of people, but don't let them make you become one of them, just block and keep living your life. Most people are sweet and great and it's a pity if you miss out on everything good just because a few idiots.