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The other night husband and I were watching a documentary about the yeti where they were doing DNA analysis of samples of supposed yeti fur, and every one of them came back as bears.

Anyway, the next night we watched a thing about some pig man who is supposed to live in Vermont. People said it had claws and a pig nose but walked upright like a man. Now, I happen to know that sideshows used to shave bears and present them as pig men. So every piece of evidence they gave of this monster sounds to me like a bear with mange.

So now the running joke in our house is that everything is bears. Aliens? Bears. Loch Ness monster? Bear. Every cryptozoological mystery is just a very crafty bear.

Bears. They’re everywhere. Be wary. Anyone or anything could be a bear.

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I think I may never be sad ever again. There is a statue entitled "Farewell to Orpheus" on my college campus. It's been there since 1968, created by a Prof. Frederic Littman that use to work at the university. It sits in the middle of a fountain, and the fountain is often full of litter. I have taken it upon myself to clean the litter out when I see it (the skimmers only come by once a week at max). But because of my style of dress, this means that bystanders see a twenty-something on their hands and knees at the edge of the fountain, sleeves rolled up, trying not to splash dirty water on their slacks while their briefcase and suit coat sit nearby. This is fine, usually. But today was Saturday Market, which means the twenty or so people in the area suddenly became hundreds. So, obviously, somebody stopped to ask what I was doing. "This," I gestured at the statue, "is Eurydice. She was the wife of Orpheus, the greatest storyteller in Greece. And this litter is disrespectful." Then, on a whim, I squinted up at them. "Do you know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?" "No," they replied, shifting slightly to sit.

"Would you like to?"

"Sure!"

So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away. I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges. I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice. I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late. I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life: "Are you Orpheus?" I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home. This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.

Here is the aforementioned statue, by the way.

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Y'all im fighting for my life💀

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【Shiba-drangea】

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Possessive reader getting a body pillow cover of Simon made for when he’s on deployment for long periods of time and can’t communicate. Like a cat seeing a balloon of itself, man is pissy anytime he’s reminded it exists and gets reader’s undivided attention the moment he’s forced away from them.

You didn’t buy it as a joke. That’s the first thing people get wrong. You weren’t drunk or being ironic or trying to be funny about how much you missed him. You were just pissed off. He was gone again, longer this time, and he didn’t say how long exactly—just said he wouldn’t be able to call often, might not even text for a while.

And you just stood there, nodding like you were cool with it, like it didn’t already burn in your chest thinking about sleeping alone again.

So yeah. You searched “custom body pillow” that night with your jaw clenched and your arms crossed and your phone brightness on full blast, like that was gonna make it hurt less.

You found a site that let you upload any photo you wanted, and you picked that one—him shirtless, sweaty from a workout, giving you the kind of half-smile that made your stomach flip. He’d sent it to you months ago, and you’d never deleted it. Now it was going to be six feet of print pressed up against you under the blankets every night.

And you didn’t tell him. Of course not. You just tracked the shipping, yanked it out of the box the second it arrived, and dressed it in one of his old oversized tees—your favorite. The one he always pulled on when he got out of the shower, the one he always told you looked better on you than on him. It smelled like him. And now so did the pillow.

You laid it down on his side of the bed, adjusted the angle like a crazy person, and stared at it for way too long before you finally turned the light off. It wasn’t even that it made you feel better. You were just so mad you couldn’t have the real thing. If you had to sleep without him, then fine—you’d make damn sure there was no space in your bed left for anyone else. Not even empty air.

He got back weeks later. He didn’t even text that he was on his way—just showed up, opened the front door, and called your name like nothing had changed.

You were halfway through the hallway when you heard him go completely silent.

“Uh,” he finally said, and it was coming from the bedroom.

You turned the corner and saw him just standing there. Bag on the floor, keys still in one hand, mouth half open like someone had sucker punched him. The pillow was still there, obviously. Front and center. Still wearing his shirt. His face was printed life-sized on it.

“Oh,” you said, like you’d forgotten. Like it hadn’t been your emotional support sleep aid for two straight weeks. “That.”

“That?” he repeated, turning to look at you with full-blown betrayal in his eyes. “That’s what you’ve been sleepin’ with?”

“I didn’t exactly have options,” you said, walking past him to flop down on the bed. “You were gone. It was either this or cry myself to sleep.”

“You could’ve warned me,” he muttered, still staring at it.

You snorted. “Would you have stopped me?”

“…No.”

“Exactly.”

He finally tore his eyes off it and looked at you instead, arms crossed. “What, so I leave for five minutes and you replace me with a bloody pillow?”

“I wouldn’t need a replacement if you didn’t keep running off to fight bad guys every other month,” you said sweetly, patting the spot beside you. “Come on, it’s your turn. Might as well take your place back.”

He just stood there, unmoving. “You seriously slept next to that thing?”

“I did more than sleep,” you grinned.

He groaned. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“You jealous?”

“It’s a pillow,” he said, like the word offended him. “I’m not jealous of a fuckin’—”

“I rubbed my face on it every night. Talked to it too. Called it baby. You know, just regular relationship stuff.”

He stared at you, completely deadpan, then looked at the pillow again. “You’re sick in the head.”

You shrugged. “You love it.”

“I love you,” he snapped. “That’s the problem. You get away with this shit.”

You smiled like you’d won something. “You bet your ass I do. And if you ever get deployed without warning me again, I’m printing one of those full cardboard cutouts next. I’ll sit it at the kitchen table. Put it in the shower, even.”

He dragged a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath, and when he looked at you again his eyes were warmer. “You’re insane.”

“You love it,” you said, reaching for him.

He let you pull him toward the bed, finally dropping down beside you with a sigh. You tossed the pillow off to the side and straddled his lap like it was your rightful seat, hands on his chest, your grin smug.

He blinked, breath stuttering just slightly, and you watched the red creep up the tips of his ears as your fingers dragged down the front of his shirt. “You’re not allowed to be hotter than me and then disappear. That’s not fair.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ, woman.”

“You missed it,” you said, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You missed me.”

“I really did.”

“Good,” you whispered, nose brushing his. “So don’t leave again.”

He kissed you hard, all tongue and teeth. “Make me.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

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i just can't with these two

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @bunnyxiis

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it’s hard for simon to focus on anything other than the way water glides down the expanse of your softened hips, your curves swaying with each move you make.

the man is literally drooling when you bend over to place your bar of soap back where it belongs, breasts bouncing, glistening in the lights of the bathroom when you straighten. residual soap drifts down your arms, legs, the top of your chest, down the planes of your round tummy.

and it’s when you turn that simon realizes you’ll be the death of him.

he knew this from the beginning of course, honeyed eyes watching the curl of your lips when you first graced him with your smile, the sun peaking out from behind the darkest of clouds.

but it’s now, you standing here swollen with his child, that he feels those rain clouds disperse. the final puzzle piece sliding into place.

you turned, eyebrows raised in question as simon looks down at you, his eyes mimicking that of a man starved.

“si? is everything alright?”

he was sure he looked like an idiot, smirking down at you in such a boyish way while he placed his hands at the dip of your hips, one hand snaking down to squeeze the plump of your ass. he was met with a squeak and a playful smack to his arm as you leaned into him, breasts flattening against his chest.

he didn’t mean for his voice to sound so full of hunger, but it was hard when you looked up at him under those fluttering lashes of yours.

“s���nothin’, mama. just thinkin’ ‘bout what i want for dinner tonight.”

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Simon Riley, who discovers (and accepts) that he has a raging Mommy kink on a random Saturday, when he meets you in the supermarket around the corner of his flat, where you click your tongue at him in reprimand, ogling him shamelessly as he checks out the new flavours of Ramen noodle cups.

And his spine goes rigid, when you address him directly.

"Big lad like you needs a proper meal," you remark, pushing your grocery cart full of fresh meats, produce, and other healthy goodies past him. "In my humble opinion." You add, nearly cooing at him as he dares a side glance from behind his balaclava.

Within seconds, his eyes flicker to your left hand on the cart, checking for a wedding band, checking for anything that could help him figure out who you are, really.

His fingers dig into the plastic cup that looks comically tiny in his hands, fingers nearly denting the fabric as he tries to come up with a witty, dry remark to keep you from leaving, to start a bloody conversation for once, but then you hit him with a "Have a good day, love." and his breath catches in his throat like someone punched his solar plexus.

By the time you round the corner to the next aisle over, his cock is so painfully chubbed up in his jeans, Simon fears he might faint from the sudden rush of blood down south.

And he doesn't quite know what he's feeling in this moment, but he puts the Ramen back into the shelf, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor as he turns on his heels to give chase like an abandoned pup who might have just imprinted on his new mommy.

Oh, Simon's going to get that proper meal, one way or another—hoping you'll let him have your sweet cunt for dessert.

➥ READ MORE × | [ SUGAR PLUM PROMISES MASTERLIST ]

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you’re swaying slightly in the doorway when nanami opens it, your coat half off your shoulders and your cheeks flushed a little too brightly.

“there you are,” he says gently, stepping forward to catch you just as you start to wobble toward him. “i was about to come get you.”

you blink up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. then, suddenly, you grin.

“whoa,” you breathe, pressing your hand to his chest. “you’re… wow. you’re really handsome.”

nanami raises an eyebrow. “you’re drunk.”

“yeah,” you admit, nodding sagely. “drunk and lucky, apparently. do you—” you squint at him like you’re trying to see him better. “do you have a girlfriend?”

he lets out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh, and takes off your coat. “no. i have a wife.”

your eyes go comically wide. “you’re married?”

“yes,” he says, amused now, “to you.”

you stare up at him, stunned—and then your face just lights up.

“really? i married you? holy shit. i did so good.”

you throw your arms around his neck without warning, nearly knocking both of you off balance, but he catches you easily, holding you close as you giggle into his shoulder.

“you’re so warm,” you mumble. “and strong. and you smell nice.”

he hums, steadying you with one arm while slipping his shoes off with the other. “come on, sweetheart. let’s get you to bed.”

“bed with my husband,” you say dreamily as he scoops you up. “i have the best husband. i think i’m in love with you.”

he carries you down the hall, voice quiet and fond. “good. because i’m very in love with you.”

you’re already falling asleep when he tucks you in, but you still manage to whisper, “i’d marry you again. like. right now.”

and nanami just smiles, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“i’d say yes.” he whispers back.

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Kyle Garrick is competitive, a know it all, and a bloody sore loser.

When you join the team suddenly everything turns into a competition. Chugging a beer, clearing a building, lifting weights, sparring, Price’s attention— anything and everything under the sun.

The two of you drive each other up the wall, sneering into each other’s face with bared teeth and upturned noses. Until the day Simon pinches his temples watching the two of you argue over a game of dominoes.

“Won’t you two muppets fuck an’ get it over with already?”

You laugh, real deep from core, “Like he could make me cum.”

Cue Kyle dragging you to the nearest spare room to show you how many times he can make you finish with his fingers alone.

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reblog to give your headache to elon musk instead

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Botanical [ 8 colors ]

Nature doesn't hurry, yet everything is accomplished.

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John Price and his Sleepy Wife

AO3

You had always been a sleepy person. Dozing off on John’s lap in the car, nuzzling quietly into his side during films, and just enjoying sleeping on him in general.

But just imagine John telling some story about his glory days as he liked to to the rest of the squad, and he’s just rambling on as you sit next to him on the couch, but you’re half asleep. So he’ll talk a bit — adjust his sleepy wife who’s drooping off of his shoulder — and then continue like nothing happened.

But then it would happen again. And again. And again. You sliding down, boneless, eyelids fluttering weakly, snuggled into John like he was your own personal furnace. And none of the boys would say anything (apart from Soap’s quiet laughs), because it happened every time, and they knew the drill — keep a close eye on you to ensure you didn’t fall to the ground, but not close enough to make you feel uncomfortable or to annoy Price, because as much as he trusted them you were still his wife.

“Infiltration wasn’t—“ A pause for him to give up repositioning you and just pull you onto his lap, eliciting a quiet but content sigh from you as you buried your face into his chest “—that much of a challenge, but you forget that there were about a hundred men, yeah? So…”

Meanwhile, having already heard all his stories a hundred times over, you had progressed from half-asleep to out cold, and by the time it got late enough m for everyone to start heading to bed, Price had to carry you bridal-style to your shared bedroom. Not that he was complaining. The missus always got her every want and need provided for, always. Especially when it involved her using him as her pillow.

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You can only reblog this today.

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Wh-whats going on??????

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I wasn’t crazy about this piece so I wasn’t intending on publicly posting it again, but it keeps getting stolen every five minutes so I figured I’d put it here so people at least know who to attribute the original thing to lmao

[Digital illustration, Procreate App, 2020]

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Knight!Ghost who comes back from a year of battle to discover Knight!Johnny has taken his place as Princess!Reader's personal guard, and as her lover (He can tell by the way her eyes light up when he talks. By the way, her face flushes, and her fingers grip at her skirts when he sets his hand on the small of her back and leans down to whisper in her ear.)

He has no right to be upset. He did this to himself. He only left because the princess told her she loved him, and he panicked. Immediately, he went to the king that night and had asked him to put him in the war.

But god did it make his blood boil when he caught sight of Johnny's gloved finger linking with hers. It made him damn near irrational when he'd turned a corner going down the hall just in time to catch sight of Johnny pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.

But nothing, and I mean NOTHING, made him angrier than when he'd learned that she'd begun to sneak out with him too.

Dress down into the same less commoners dress and slip out the castle walls into the night. Go to the same tavern and dance to the same songs, then breathlessly pull each other into the same room before running back home, laughing the same way as they'd rush to beat the sunrise.