#Far East Recording

[fancypantsrecords]

Soichi Terada - Apes In The Net: Music From Ape Escape | Far East Recording | 2024 | Black

[grrlmusic]

Soichi Terada - Apes in the Net

[onryou-onryou]

monkey turn

[crocodiledeathspin]

KOYO

[waugh-bao]

London: Week 1

[sinceileftyoublog]

mui zyu Interview: Embracing the Chaos

mui zyu

JORDAN MAINZER

Pop experimenter mui zyu--the stage name for London-based artist Eva Liu--combines explorations of her heritage with wide-eyed, open-hearted dives into the modern world. Born in Northern Ireland to parents who were Hong Kong immigrants, Liu grew up studying more classical art before choosing to pursue film studies at university. Her first foray into recording music was as lead vocalist of alt rock trio Dama Scout; she released her debut EP as mui zyu in 2021. mui zyu's debut album, Rotten Bun for an Eggless Century reckoned with ideas of identity and lineage but also memory and perception, Liu continuing her tradition of using field and voice recordings from her family. But it was a mere year later where Liu took the biggest artistic leap.

On miu zyu's second album nothing or something to die for (Father/Daughter), Liu's themes and soundscapes expanded beyond bedroom pop, beyond her head. Fittingly, it was her first time not recording at home. With a grant from the PRS Foundation, Liu and her longtime collaborator Luciano Rossi were able to set up at Middle Farm Studios in Devon, sessions that challenged Liu to take her sound to the next level, increasing her use of vocal manipulation and pedal wizardry. Its genre aesthetics are wonderfully all over the place. Scraped, raw acoustic guitar-led love song "everything to die for" is sandwiched between whirring synth-and-drum machine jam "the mould" and the melancholic, Postal Service-esque "donna like parasites". "speak up sponge", meanwhile, is a string-laden, comparative dirge. Album closer “扮豬食老虎”, with piano, sampled vocals from Liu's family, echoing field recordings, and decaying synths, exists somewhere between Rotten Bun and William Basinski's The Disintegration Loops.

What's also special about nothing or something to die for is that Liu was able to work with like-minded artists. Miss Grit, whose work also uses fantastical, sci-fi themes to investigate identity, lends her vocals to "please be ok", a song about not being honest with yourself about your feelings in the presence of others. She and Liu harmonize, eventually over a drum machine beat, only to be subsumed by faster tempos and distortion, as if to remind themselves it's important to let it all out in the beginning, else you're drowned out. Father/Daughter labelmate Pickle Darling features on "in the dot", providing strikingly atonal vocals to go along side warbling synths on a song that reminds us that momentary happiness is preferable to the destructive pursuit of perfection. Perhaps most meaningful to Liu, though, was getting to work with lei, e, aka Emma Lee Moss (fka Emmy the Great). Liu looked up to Moss, another Hong Kong British artist in the indie music scene, for years before getting to work with her, eventually opening for her and singing Cantonese covers with her at the Hackney Chinese Community Centre in London. For their first proper original song collaboration, mui zyu and lei, e take us on a sonic odyssey, adding to the album's canvas of synths, drum machines, and guitar distortion with off-kilter piano, noise, and then a quiet hum.

In September, mui zyu released nothing or something to die for (Cantonese tasting menu), 5 songs from the album translated into Cantonese. It was an opportunity for Liu to work with not only Moss but her father, for hours over the phone, on translating the lyrics. The specific songs picked are a perfect encapsulation of mui zyu's current diverse sensibilities; if you wanted to get a sense for who she is as an artist, ironically, I'd tell you to start there. Most exciting is that mui zyu remains unpredictable, the type of artist who could go in one of many different directions and will probably pick the least expected route.

Last year, I spoke with Liu over Zoom about her songwriting process and picking collaborators on nothing or something to die for, as well as how film inspires her music. Read our conversation below, edited for length and clarity.

nothing or something to die for cover art

Since I Left You: Now that nothing or something to die for has been out for a while, has your relationship with the music changed because you've gotten outside reception?

Eva Liu: I don't think it's changed. I finished the album [in October 2023]. We got it to a place where I was really happy with it. I haven't said goodbye to it, [but] once it's out of your control, you let it do its thing.

SILY: With the addition of videos, the album has a whole visual identity. It almost seems like nothing or something to die for is more than an album, like a conceptual world.

EL: Because [my] first [record] had a concept that arrived naturally, I didn't want this album to has as much of a concept. But it has definitely formed its own little world naturally. In a way, it's looking outwards as opposed to inwards like the first album. There wasn't a narrative I was building--the songs just go well together. Putting it together was kind of chaotic, and the album is about embracing chaos, so it seems like that was meandering throughout it.

SILY: Did you study film?

EL: I studied Film Studies at university. It wasn't practical or about making a film, but it was about film theory, kind of like [what Art History is to art.] I actually didn't want to go to uni, but I didn't know what to do. I love film, so that's why I chose [to study Film Studies.]

SILY: You've certainly mentioned a lot of direct filmic inspirations on some of these songs. How do you connect the film world to the music world? How do those inspirations, like 2001: A Space Odyssey on "satan marriage" or Blue Velvet on "sparky", come about?

EL: I don't really write with film in mind. I do have a sort of vision with the songs, and having been so influenced by film in the past, I am inspired a lot by images and art and how [movies are made.] Sometimes, if I want to capture a certain feeling in a song or video, I'll reference certain pieces of work that I love. But I'm not wanting to write about film, if that makes sense. It's just something that helps me creatively.

SILY: The folks you collaborated with on this record are everyone from those you looked up to in the past to your peers and a Father/Daughter labelmate. How did you choose your list of collaborators, and what does it mean to you to have this group in particular on the record?

EL: lei, e was someone I looked up to in my journey with music and identified with, having not seen many artists who are from Hong Kong or Hong Kong British, especially in the indie scene. I loved her music, and she was definitely a role model for me. I had reached out [three] years ago on the off chance she wanted to collaborate, and we've done a few things together since. [pauses] Oh, that's funny, she just texted me. [laughs] We ended up doing shows together and events at the Hackney Chinese Community Centre here in London, on Cantonese translations for songs, and a whole bunch of other stuff. She's become a very dear friend of mine. I really wanted to work with her on [an original] song, which is why she was one of the people I wanted on this album. She's got such a nice voice as well.

Miss Grit is someone I met [two years ago.] I loved their guitar playing. We just got chatting, and it was great to collaborate. These artists, I didn't directly pursue them to work with, but when I was writing this album, there would be some songs I had in mind for collaboration, and certain artists made sense for what I felt the song needed. Pickle Darling, we're on the same label, and I love their whole sound and delivery.

SILY: Did the lyrics or the concepts come before the instrumentation?

EL: Usually, in my music, the instrumentation comes first and lyrics after. I sort of tend to write based on a feeling and how that feels on an instrument. I'm actually not very good with words in general. I find it easier to translate what I'm trying to create with music as opposed to words.

SILY: Throughout the record, there's such an interplay between what you're saying and what the song's about, and the way the songs are constructed. You play a lot with tempo, and I feel like it's somewhere between thrilling and disorienting. It's a very effective contrast to the songs. Was that intentional?

EL: There's definitely a relationship. The music is based on a certain feeling or message I'm trying to portray, and the words come together and arrive gradually. Sometimes, they come to me much quicker than others. It takes a bit more time with lyrics [for me.]

SILY: Is the title "telephone congee" named after the term that suggests it should take the length of a phone call to cook congee?

EL: It's actually to do with the length of time you're on the phone, if you're talking too long, you're boiling congee. My mom and aunt would be on the phone for ages, and my dad would be like, "You're talking so much, it's like telephone congee." It's quite colloquial, but it means you're on the phone too much.

SILY: Are the two "telephone congee" interludes plus the final track, "扮豬食老虎", all sampled vocals from your family?

EL: That's my mom speaking Cantonese. She was also on the first album as well. I need to stop getting my family to do stuff. [laughs]

SILY: They've been on everything, right?

EL: Yeah. Even the first EP. My niece and nephew were on [a record], and my dad was on the first record. It's been a nice way for me to do something with them. They're quite far away. My parents are in Hong Kong, and my sister and brother are spread out. Growing up, music wasn't that encouraged. [My parents] encouraged piano lessons and to learn classical music, but not as a career. They must have gotten around to the idea that music is more than a hobby. It's kind of like letting them in to my world, having them send me voice notes or sing on stuff.

SILY: Do they know the voice notes they send are going to be used on your music?

EL: They do, but sometimes, my mom will send me a voice note, and I'll ask, "Can I put this on a song?" and she won't really know what it's for.

SILY: Can you tell me about the album art?

EL: The album art was done by a friend who calls herself Waffle Burger. She's a great artist, a painter. She does these incredible apocalyptic paintings that have this kind of eerie but cute element to them. I felt like that's how my music feels like at times. I like things that are juxtaposing. I actually bought one of her small paintings. We were chatting more when we were working on this album, and I thought of her to do it, and she was receptive. We discussed what sort of vibe it would be, and I picked out things I liked in her work. Her understanding on the album was translated into this strange cave with these creatures. I didn't ask her to, but my cat's in it, in the little picture frame.

SILY: Are you the type of artist always writing songs, or do you have to set aside time to do it?

EL: I wish I could be someone who's just constantly creating, but I'm someone who has to set aside time to focus on it. I noodle on guitar quite a bit, but when it comes to writing, I have to set aside time.

SILY: Is there anything you've been listening to, watching, or reading lately that's caught your attention?

EL: Recently, I've been listening to a lot of Sun Ra and Xiu Xiu. I went to see MaXXXine at the cinema. I enjoyed that; that was fun. Me and my friends have been watching a lot of horror movies. I watched Scanners and loved it and re-watched The Wicker Man, one of my favorite films--the 1973 version, not the Nicolas Cage one. I watched some interesting horror films my friend was keen on seeing, like Paranormal Activity 2--my friends were having a [marathon], and I joined for the 2nd. It's not something I normally watch. I think they watched all 7? I didn't even know there were 7 Paranormal Activity [films.] I've been listening to The Blindboy Podcast.

Tour dates

2/24: El Cid, Los Angeles, CA

2/27: Public Records, Brooklyn, NY

3/1: Wavelength Winter Festival, Toronto, Canada

3/29, Far East Film Festival. Udine, Italy

[typhlonectes]

BREAKING: New Jaguar Just Dropped!

A Center for Biological Diversity analysis of a trail camera detection by wildlife enthusiast Jason Miller confirms we have a new jaguar in Arizona, making it the 8th jaguar documented in the U.S. Southwest in the past 3 decades. The rosette pattern on each jaguar is unique, like a human fingerprint, and it enables identification of specific animals. The pattern shows this jaguar is not Sombra or El Jefe, two jaguars who have roamed Arizona in recent years. Jaguars once lived throughout the American Southwest, with historical records on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, the mountains of Southern California and as far east as Louisiana. But they virtually disappeared from this part of their range over the past 150 years, primarily due to habitat loss and historic government predator control programs intended to protect the livestock industry.

Read more: https://biodiv.us/3RORtQp

[hero-israel]

This is pseudoscience where it isn’t actively anti-science.

The pines planted in Israel are Aleppo pines, which are indigenous and have been recorded by observers for literally millennia.  Far from “devastating” native oaks and carobs and whatever, Israel planted tons of those varieties too.  And there can be no discussion of the well-being of Israeli forests without noting that Palestinian militants are highly proficient at arson and have practically made mountainous tire-fires their trademark.

As for the idea that the Zionists were “trying to create European-style forests” - the implication that the local environment was “normal” before they “changed” it is entirely a social construct reeking of unexamined privilege.  The Roman Empire massively deforested Israel along with the rest of the Mediterranean.  Our popular concept of the Middle East as a land of desert and scrubland is  artificial, but comes naturally to people who think the world began in like 1700.  

The Palestinian mountain gazelle is indeed endangered in Israel, and some of their populations are jeopardized by habitat and genetic fragmentation caused by the West Bank barriers.  However, the largest and most stable population of the species is found in the Golan Heights, where they roam freely without such barriers and have enjoyed a significant rebound in numbers now that they are no longer subject to hunting from Syria.  More importantly, the Palestinian mountain gazelle has already been wiped out in Egypt, and also in Syria and Jordan - perhaps some invisible Mossad agents went on safari?  The species was on the brink of extinction in Turkey, until it was quite accidentally saved when the Turkish military set up a no-man’s-land on the border with Syria in response to its civil war.    

It’s also worth noting that the first post in that Twitter thread (not screencapped onto the Tumblr post, hmm...) was Heron calling for BDS.  When Israel really is the only country in that region where forest cover is growing and where the mountain gazelles have any chance at survival, uh, why should we overthrow the government, again?  That would help the environment how, precisely?  The Kai Herons of the world would call that “greenwashing,” because they don’t actually give a shit about the environment, they just misappropriate journal-jargon to mask how ridiculous and unprincipled their accusations are.   

Last and least, the concept that “Palestinian liberation is a climate issue” is just a perfect crystallization, French waiter palm-kiss, of how lefty activists try to run in every direction at once and get nowhere.  Climate protection has failed because it requires the entire world to unfuck foundational problems in our economic, technological, and political lives - but Palestinian liberation is still a matter of a signature and a handshake, two parties looking at made-up lines on a very small map.  For white European activists to insist that Palestinians may only make progress if we first make progress on climate change just shows how they only see Palestinians as tools and symbols and not as people.  

CODA:

This is a case of me being ABSOLUTELY fucking petty enough to reconstruct and restart a post after someone blocked me and prevented reblogs of the original.

For more on the pseudoscience and anti-environmentalism of Palestine activists see lots of links here. For more on the actual environmental history and diversity of the region, see the tags.

[tojisun]

lalalalala bf!logan fucking reader n letting his friend wade watch :D

kicking my feet n twirling my hair while reading this hhh // cw: v rambly (bcuz its in wade’s pov); voyeurism; smut; hinted age gap between logan n f!reader // divider by @/plutism

it starts off like this—

“s’not how y’pick up women, big mouth,” logan murmured, his voice coming out in stilted grunts. wade, still in his suit, sighed and dramatically turned to his friend, because the sacred not-so-corpse is his friend even if logan denies it, and pointed baby knife at him. the pretty girl took that chance to run away with a chirped, ‘bye mr. wolverine sir!’ like wade wasn’t right there, wooing her with his magic words.

“and how would you know?” he asked because last he checked logan was single and emotionally unavailable.

he watched as logan downed the rest of his whiskey, adams apple bobbing in a painfully sexy way, before replying, “cuz i have the sweetest darlin’ waitin’ for me at home.”

fucking what.

.

logan brings him ‘home’; home apparently happens to be a little flat sitting in the outskirts of the city. the building is newer than wade’s apartment complex, and it sure as hell smells better too. the walls are all white and high-ceiling, and the elevator even had quiet music playing in the background. it was such an awkward ride up to the tenth floor because he’s sure he and logan are not exactly the target tenants of this place, but logan had a fob to get in so clearly they’re not in the wrong building.

he checks himself out in the elevator mirror, noting the parts in his costume that he needs to deal with, before the quiet ding wakes him up from his thoughts. logan leads the two of them deeper into the complex, bypassing apartment doors until they get to the one on the far side of the east wing.

logan punches in the code, and wade hums throughout, teasingly asking if logan was the sugar baby because there’s no way he’s the one paying for this flat. logan ignores him, grumbling every now and then, but he’s more subdued and achingly patient. it’s fucking bizarre if wade is being honest but then they’re inside the flat—pretty greens and browns, and just utterly so homey—and logan’s yelling a name. socked feet pad against the floor, before a body rounds the hallway and into their vantage point.

for the record, wade knows that no one will ever be as beautiful as vanessa. like, he’s a hundred-percent confident in that. but this pretty bird that jumped into logan’s arms, all giggly and beaming, comes close.

“you’re home!” you cheer, your lips curled into the softest of smiles as you look at logan, blind and deaf to wade’s presence in the face of your lover.

wade watches as logan hums, nuzzling his face on yours. the two of you breathe each other in, like you are familiarizing yourselves with the other’s scent, and wade would have been fine with just being a spectator—logan had clearly already forgotten about him with the way his greedy hands began pawing at your ass—but then you’re fluttering your eyes open and accidentally locking them with wade’s.

a yell bubbles from your throat, spilling raggedly. you try to jump off logan’s arms, shyness encroaching in, but he isn’t budging. instead, thick arms pull you ever so closer, pressing your front flush to his own, until you feel his warmth seeping through your shirt.

“won’t you grant me somethin’, bub?” logan murmurs, his eyes glinting dangerously.

you flick your eyes back to wade, watching as the… vigilante? raises his hands and wiggles his fingers to you in greeting. a pinch on your ass cheek makes you squeak, and you look back to logan with a pout because—“wh’d’ya want?”

logan does this little crooning laugh before murmuring something to you. you freeze in his arms, lips parting in surprise, and wade so dearly wants to know what else did logan say for your shock to melt into something contemplative, before your lips purse in your mulling interest.

“okay,” you whisper, breathily.

logan chuckles and presses a kiss on your temple. “thank you, sweet girl.”

“uhm, what exactly is going on here?” wade finally asks, tired of being left out but neither the pretty bird nor his friend give him a reply. wade was ready to go complaining but then logan sends him a wolfish—heh—grin and tilts his head in invitation.

.

wade feels like his mind and his cock would explode anytime soon.

this is the third time you’ve cum and logan has yet to actually fuck you with his dick. he’s coaxed your orgasms out, all high-pitched and squeaky, with just his fingers and the whispered croons of something so achingly sweet it almost feels odd that they’re uttered while he’s spreading you with his fingers.

wade didn’t even know what the hell was happening—remaining clueless while he followed you and logan into the cutesy little room—until you were stripped off your shirt and pants, and left with nothing but your matching lingerie set. it’s pink and made of lace, and is pretty against your skin, and wade wonders if you actually walk around with that every chance or if you knew logan was going to visit.

either way, wade’s cock is straining in his boxers ever since logan made you lick his fingers—“lap a’them well, baby, oth’wise it’s gon’ hurt.”—before plunging them in your cunt. the first orgasm was a quiet thrill, the room swelling with unsaid words past your muffled moans because no one wanted to break the moment.

the second one was more intense, with logan’s fingers now drenched and your pussy leaking. the squelch was pornographic, and wade’s ears tingled at every wet shlop, but then logan began to be louder. bolder. meaner.

“y’don’t piss yerself like this when’s jus’ me,” he grunted, lifting a thick brow up in question. it pulled out an embarrassed whine from you, before you hid your face underneath your arm at the implication that being watched made you wetter.

being acknowledged mid-fingering had wade jumping, his blood thrumming downwards, and he had to stab his thigh with a dagger to stop himself from interrupting because logan had shot him a sneer—a demand that wade be patient—before turning to you again, his free hand pulling your arm away.

“look at me, bub. wan’ see you when you cum,” he rumbled, before nuzzling kisses over your trembling lips.

now bare and exposed again, wade saw the exact moment logan’s fingers hit somewhere delicious because your mouth fell for a soundless moan, your body rising from the bed, locking, legs shaking, before a spray gushed out of your cunt.

it was so utterly beautiful, it had wade whimpering, aching himself, but he’s ignored once again with logan leaning down to kiss you filthy. it’s all tongue and teeth, and maws snapping at each other in some weird sexual battle, until spit and breaths were vividly being exchanged.

logan pulled his fingers out, and wade had to twist the knife he’s buried on his thigh to ground himself into silence, but it was futile—he so wanted to lick logan’s fingers clean; to suckle every juice until those digits were glistening with just his spit and no longer your essence, not when wade was done with logan’s hand. but logan was selfish, and he swallowed his own fingers, lapping at every ridges like a man starved.

it honest to god looked awful and disgusting, but wade’s too far gone in his lust to even judge because he would’ve done the same too.

the third orgasm was more quiet and less life-changing, and wade understands why it was rushed and contained—it was the final foreplay, one that logan had just dragged on to punish wade, he’s sure. it was the last tease because now, you’re going to be rewarded.

logan shifts the two of you on the bed, changing angles and manhandling your body until you’re on your front, ass up and presenting to logan. wade watches, hands twitching from where they’re currently gripping the handles of his chair, as logan mounts you.

it looks like a mating act. it’s animalistic and ragged—logan humping his cock between your ass cheeks, grunting to himself, until he’s finally lining up his cock to your sweet hole. there was a moment when they both froze, hesitating, and wade must have made some sort of noise because two pairs of eyes snapped in his way instantly.

he didn’t even realize that logan’s arranged for you to be facing wade, and something about the conscious inclusion of wade within this intimate act makes him whimper-y and less… chirpy. hell, he’s yet to even pipe up and comment, too busy trying not to jizz inside his boxers because he’s certain that logan would kick him out after this and no one in their right mind wants to trek home with drying spunk in their boxers.

a shrill keen tears him away from his thoughts, and he snaps his head up, greedily devouring the vision you and logan make. and you two make a mean porno—you’ve got wade wistfully sighing at the way you go cross-eyed at the slow plunge of logan’s cock in your pussy. it’s not like wade can blame you; he’s seen the sheer girth of his friend, and you’re an honest to god champ for taking all that in.

no wonder logan’s fingered you to three orgasms because that cock is humongous. wade’s sure he can even pitch wolverine’s dick as the next international threat to the avengers because who the hell allowed logan to have that dong? it’s fucked how the sacred corpse also gets to have a sacred dick.

but wade continues to watch, enamoured, as logan uses your body as his personal fucktoy—his big hands grip your waist, dimpling your skin, before using the purchase as leverage for him to rut and hump and drill.

god, there’s so much drilling. you scream, unable to compartmentalize the gravity of your pleasure, leaving you to scramble for purchase amidst your sobs. you claw at the sheets, fisting them until they’re a rumpled mess, because your pleasure is so much bigger than you’ve expected, and it is so much better than you remembered.

it’s been a while since logan’s fucked you, and while he’s teased you for being so horny with deadpool watching, you can say the fucking same to logan. this is the first he’s fucked you like a man possessed—all beastly and overwhelming; ruining you like he’s never had his fill.

it’s so good and it’s too much, and wade’s now fucking his fist, watching raptly, and you want to put on a good show. you want to—

“y’really love bein’ watched, huh bub?” logan mockingly coos, his voice a pitch quiet so that he won’t be overheard by your visitor. you don’t even remember replying, with your mind struggling to match the pace and the intensity of the pleasure that logan pumped into you.

all you remembered was the: fuckfuckfuckfuck— i’m cumming! i’m cumming—

shit? shitshitshit.

wade tightens his fist around his cock, matching the pace logan’s set. it was fast and brutal, and the kevlar of his suit feels odd against the oversensitive head, but he continues to leak, his cock rubbed raw with twist of his fist, losing himself to the ringing moans because shit—wade wants to fuck you so bad.

y’think logan’s gonna allow him a taste?

this is so rambly and not fleshed out well but i had fun writing it!! thank u sm for the ask 😭🫶🏼

pt 02 of some sorts

[politijohn]

Some alarming climate news as of June 2023

Antarctica, which is in the dead of winter, has unexpectedly failed to reform its winter sea ice. This is an exceptional deviation from the norm that has left scientists dumbfounded.

The entire NE Atlantic Ocean is experiencing its most significant marine heatwave ever…by far. That area had never been a full 1°C above the 1951-1980 average. It has suddenly jumped to 1.7°C above that average.

A powerful heatwave has overtaken southern North America for weeks on end, with places like Texas and northern Mexico breaking daily record high temperatures.

In the Caribbean Sea and Gulf of Mexico, sea surface temperatures are extremely high. Water temperatures are in the *90s* by the Florida coast, Miami keeps breaking daily record heat index values, and a major coral bleaching event will soon be underway.

The Canadian 2023 Wildfire Season will not let up, with nearly all annual records falling before we even reach the midpoint of the season. No Canadian wildfire season had ever produced 12 terawatts (TW) of fire radiative power. 2023 has produced 18TW.

Dramatic flood events have begun striking various countries around the world simultaneously this week.

El Niño has rapidly developed in recent months as sea surface temperatures across the equatorial east Pacific skyrocket. As of yet, El Niño has not impacted global weather conditions. That will change in a few months.

All of these events have culminated in June 2023, easily being the hottest June in Earth’s recorded history. Likely the hottest June in 115k-120k years when Earth was last this hot.

[kisblle]

Vices & Virtues

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Word Count: 7,979 (My longest yet)

Summary: After a series of poor communications, you can't stand Arthur Morgan. Yet, with the help of forced proximity - Arthur does his best to break down your walls.

Tags: heavy angst, smut, pnv, porn with plot, high honor Arthur

18+ MDNI

Author's note: I feel like I really put my useless English degree to work here. This took MONTHS to write, and what I mean by that is it sat in my drafts since November until I finally had the will to finish it. HOWEVER, it is a lot different from I usually write. A lot of plot instead of porn (lol). I've always struggled switching between the narratives of two characters, I always tend to focus on just one - because that is how my brain works. But I really challenged myself with trying to write the thoughts and feelings of both characters - which I think worked, but trying to make a smooth transition between the two was a challenge. Also, after editing this I realized I Mr. Darcy'd the fuck out of Arthur - hence the name. Shout out Jane Austen.

A soft, balmy breeze whispers through camp, offering a brief respite from the heavy humidity of Clemens Point. Cheap whiskey flows generously around the stoic fire as young Sean Maguire tells a tasteless joke at the expense of the camp cook. In response, a thunderous eruption of deafening cackles echoes through the small peninsula. Yet, Dutch’s workhorse remains silent, a liberal blush of mauve creeping onto his cheeks without notice. Not from the heavy liquor coursing through his veins, but because of the woman staring back at him.

Across the blazing flames, you sit cross legged on a log between Karen and Javier. A bottle of French Cognac dances between your fingers and lips as you smirk, the warmth of the fire beating against your skin. You rest an elbow on your knee, gaze locked on Arthur. Taking one final sip of the bitterly sweet liquid, you let it linger, corking the bottle and settling it in your lap. Your cheeks flush with heat - not just from the fire - as you bite your lip in a slow, deliberate motion. Winking at the cowboy, you leave the crowded campfire, escaping to the nearby shoreline.

Arthur's heart pounds as his gaze follows you down to the bank, only the glow from the full moon reflecting upon your skin. Intrigued by your sudden departure, he finds himself slipping away from the commotion, following you down to the water’s edge, where - much to his delight - you’re already staring at him with a mischievous grin, the corked bottle of Cognac still swinging between your fingers.

Within moments, you dart down the lake’s bank, turning around - not once - but twice - with a hop in your step, motioning him to tag along.

With a fleeting moment of caution, Arthur glances back toward camp, scanning for any watchful eyes. To his relief, the others remain gathered around the fire, lost in their drunken revelry, oblivious to his sudden departure. His gaze finds you once more, now several yards ahead, barefoot against the cool sand and without further hesitation, he takes off after you.

Minutes later, Arthur realizes where you’ve led him - a secluded bay just east of camp, where the young Kieran Duffy had taken him fishing just days prior. The spot is a stretch of empty shoreline, close enough that the glow of the campfire still flickers in the distance, yet far enough away to ensure no one will stumble upon the two of you.

“What’re we doin’?” Arthur asks as you pop the cork of the Cognac bottle, taking a long sip before passing it to him.

“Thought we could go swimmin’,” you answer with a cheeky tone, your hands moving to the clasps of your cotton blouse, unfastening the buttons with record speed.

The Gunslinger’s eyes widen, caught completely off guard as you toss your shirt onto the grassy bank. A mischievous grin tugs at your lips as you untie your skirt, letting it slip down your legs, leaving you in nothing more than the thin fabric of your bloomers and chemise.

His lips part slightly in surprise, stunned by your sudden boldness.

You roll your eyes at the dumbfounded cowboy before turning around, your back to him as you slip out of your chemise, letting your bloomers fall - bare as the day you were born. With a slow, deliberate motion, your fingers find the singular pin holding your hair in place. As you release it, your long, silky locks cascade like a waterfall.

In one final act of seduction, you peer over your shoulder, quickly winking at the cowboy before running into the lake at full pace. When the cool water reaches hip depth, you dive down, only popping your head back up to turn toward shore. “You comin’ Mr. Morgan?” Words falling off your tongue in an impish tone.

Arthur could have sworn you were some mischievous siren, luring him to his doom. But if that meant being out there with you, he didn’t mind one bit. Tipping back the bottle of Cognac, he drains the last of it before tossing it aside, mind hazy as he fumbles with the laces of his boots. Once they’re off and safely out of reach of the waves, he unfastens his gunbelt, letting it drop.

As he undresses, a strange feeling creeps over him - like some awkward boy again. He can’t recall the last time he swam purely for the joy of it, let alone with a beautiful woman. A naked, beautiful woman at that. And he feels - giddy.

If the cowboy wasn't nearly a whole bottle of Tennessee whiskey deep, he might’ve felt embarrassed as he tore off his shirt. Littered with scars and sunspots, he knew he was no pretty boy like you deserved. Yet, his strong, bare chest gleamed under the moonlight as he took a final breath, dropping his work jeans to the ground with a light thud.

In any attempt to keep his nearly non-existent modesty, the gunslinger places his right hand over his already swollen member, swiftly entering the lake after you. He only drops his hand when he reaches hips depth, the water protecting what remained of his decency.

The outlaw spots you at chest depth, only your head breaking the lake’s surface. Your slicked back hair glistens with droplets, your lips curling into a playful smirk as you tease, “Took you long enough cowboy."

By the time he wades out to meet you, his nerves had kept him too distracted to notice the water’s cool embrace. But now, standing beside you in the gentle current, a sense of cool relief washes over him.

“Feels nice,” he replies, his voice carrying the faintest tremor. His gaze drifts downward toward you, taking you in. And with alcohol still heavily flowing through his veins, he confesses, “I ain't ever done somethin’ like this before.”

Like the hellcat you were, you bite your lip seductively, eyes locked onto him as you drift closer. You had long admired the cowboy from a distance, yearning for more, but in the sober light of day, you had always convinced yourself he was too closed off, too wrapped up in his own world to see you as anything more than a friend.

But here.

Now.

With the warmth of liquor coursing through your veins and the moon casting its glow over the rippling bay, you had convinced yourself to act on instinct.

Arthur stands nearly a foot taller than you as you push your chest to his, your hard nipples gently peaking above the waterline. “You know, Arthur,” you flirt, dragging your finger up his muscular arm. “Coming out here to cool off ain’t the only reason I dragged you out here.”

Arthur’s breath hitches, squatting deeper into the water, letting his eyeline match yours. “And why’s that?” he mutters, a small smirk falling on his lips as if he knew exactly where you were going.

“Cause,” you respond with a cheeky tone, lips curling as you move closer, pressing your mouth to his.

And there it was - the sweet, heavy scent of French Cognac lingering on your breath, a stark reminder that you weren’t entirely yourself. If Arthur weren’t inebriated himself, he wouldn’t have entertained the thought of stripping down and slipping into the water with you in the first place. Because in the sober light of day, you’d never shown him interest.

The cowboy wasn’t a stand up citizen, but he had his morals - and taking advantage of a drunken woman was where he drew the line.

“I -I can’t,” he manages, quickly pulling away as the passion of the moment already fades into regret. As much as he wanted this - wanted you - he forces himself to chalk it up to nothing more than liquor fueled impulse on your end.

And just like that, the haze of liquid courage dissipates. Awareness crashing over you like a wave. You are bare before him - completely nude. The realization jolting through you like a bolt of lightning. Your hands dart upward, desperate to shield yourself from his gaze. A sickening knot tightens in your stomach, embarrassment tearing through you like a burning fire poker. And yet, somehow, even in the relentless Lemoyne heat , you feel cold.

You wanted to disappear, to shrink into the water, to curl up and never face him again.

“I -I’m sorry,” you choke out before turning and darting to shore, tears puddling in your eyes as you wish you could forget this ever happened - forget him.

How could you be so wrong?

It was as if all your senses had given out, only basic instinct bringing you back to the grassy shore. You knew it wasn’t from the Cognac -the liquor had done nothing more than give you the confidence to do what you’d always wanted. Your sudden fit of illness came from nothing more than rejection, your ears ringing as your vision blurred with tears of regret.

You couldn’t tell if it had been seconds or minutes as you fumbled along the shoreline, hurriedly gathering the scattered pieces of your clothes and pulling them back on. You didn't care, you just wanted to be gone.

Without looking back out into Flat Iron Lake, you swiftly run back to the faint glow of the campfire without another word.

-

In the early hours of the following morning, Arthur scrunches his nose at the bitterness of his coffee, his gaze fixed on your tent.

Sure, he was a fool.

A god damn idiot at that.

But all he wanted to do was catch you early - before anyone else could hear. Before shame could build a wall between the two of you.

He needed to apoligize.

It wasn't until he heard your choked sob from ashore last night that he realized how poorly he communicated. With you running off like that, crying, he put two and two together and realized what you had thought - that he had rejected you after following you out there like an idiot. 

Which he did.

But not for the reason you believed.

Hell, on any sober night, he would have gladly pulled you into his arms, kissed you without hesitation. A silly dream he had imagined for longer than he'd like to admit. But last night wasn’t sober - for either of you. And that made all the difference.

With his head held low, just beyond the brim of his gambler's hat - he waited.

With hours slowly passing, the once quiet camp in the morning hours had turned lively by the afternoon - still no sign of you.

Like clockwork, Dutch eventually strolls up to Arthur, a familiar smirk on his face, offering a fishing trip with Hosea, for old times’ sake.

Arthur obliges, forcing a nod, but his eyes flicker toward your tent one last time, knowing that he had missed his chance. Now, with listening ears all around, his apology would have to wait.

-

The weather was far more forgiving than the day before, the air crisp and cool beneath an endless stretch of azure sky. As the three outlaws rowed back to Clemens Point - several fish in tow, the weight on Arthur’s shoulders felt a little lighter.

That morning, he had woken up uncertain. But after of adventure spent with the men he looked up to the most, his spirit had been lifted.

And yet, as the sun slowly dipped below the horizon, a knot twisted in his stomach. There was still unfinished business waiting for him back at camp.

Docking the stolen row boat, Arthur parts ways with the gang leaders. Quickly slipping by the camp cook, dropping off a rather hefty string of lake fish.

Free at last, the cowboy's eyes reluctantly prowess around camp, searching for the one woman his mind has been on all day. Only able to truly breath when he finally finds you; seated between Mary-Beth and Karen, legs crossed as you carefully sew at a torn sock. You’re as beautiful as ever , hair swept up into a loose bun, stray strands falling around your face in a way that makes his breath hitch.

And for a moment - just a moment - he forgets why he was searching for you in the first place.

But as reality kicks in, he exhales, walking up to the three of you with a kind smile. "Afternoon ladies," he greets, jutting his hip out and throwing his thumbs into the loops of his gun belt.

"Oh, Hi Arthur," Mary-Beth responds in a peachy tone.

"Arthur," Karen acknowledges.

The cowboy deliberately ignores the two women, his gaze nervously locked on you, waiting for some sign, any response. But you remain unmoved, acting as though you’re completely unaware of his presence.

"Go fishing with Dutch?" Mary-Beth asks kindly, unaware of the high strung tension lingering in the air.

His eyes never leave you as he answers the young writer, "Yeah, we bumped into Trelawney." His crystal blue eyes searching for even the slightest flicker of emotion from you, desperate to unravel what’s going on inside your head.

"Trelawney?" Karen giggles, her voice a light contrast to the heavyness that hangs in the air.

"Yeah, says he got some kind of investments in Rhodes," Arthur replies, anger silently building beneath his skin. His hands silently falling into fists in frustration, his nails digging into his palms as every second you refuse to acknowledge his presence passes by slowly.

"That Trelawney, he's a kind man-"

Arthur interrupts Mary-Beth mid-sentence, annoyance tightening in his chest as he steals one last glance at you. Your eyes still locked on to that damn sock as if you were in your own little world.

"Well, I best be going," he mutters quickly, his voice sharp and defeated. Without another word, he turns and rushes back to his tent, his face burning with the remenants of anger and irritation.

And suddenly, your once close and cherished relationship with Arthur Morgan had turned nonexistent.

...

Nearly a month later, violent rain lashes against the roads of Lemoyne. The storm fierce and unrelenting. Thunder booms across the flashing sky as Arthur's young mare shifts uneasily as the cowboy ties her to a hitching post outside the Rhodes post office. Rain reflecting off his gambler's hat as he hurries inside.

Alden Carruthers, the discouraged postal worker greets Arthur with a smile. "I forgot to give you a receipt last time, do you want me to write one up?" Alden mischevously smiles.

Arthurs huffs, snorting as he tosses a lifeless possum onto the table, causing the postal worker to nearly jump and the rather loud thud. "No, all I need today is for these to be sent to a Ms. L Hobbs out of Strawberry."

"Got it," Alden replies hastily, picking up the dead rodent up by it's tail and prepping the animal for shipment. "That storm out there is sure relentless," Alden adds as he writes the shipment tag. "Papers are saying it's gonna storm like this for two days."

The outlaw lets out a exhale, flicking droplets of water off of his gambler's hat. "I don't care how long it's supposed to be stormin', just that my shipment gets to Strawberry on time, and I get paid."

"Well," Alden says rather loudly, handing Arthur an actual recepit this time. "Us postal workers will do our best to have your package arrive as punctual as possible." Then lowering his voice, "and if you're feeling discouraged, I have a few good leads on wagons too."

Arthur steps back, shaking his head at Alden. "Not in this weather," he mutters, before turning to leave, only to freeze mid-step.

It’s you.

Oblivious to everything, you sit in the corner of the empty post office, eyes closed, your head resting against a foggy window sill. A peaceful image, almost too calm for the storm raging outside.

What are you doing here?

In town?

Alone?

The questions flood his mind, but they don’t matter as much as the pull in his chest that makes him move toward you. He doesn’t think twice - his feet carrying him in urgency.

The last time you two were alone like this was nearly a month ago, the night by the lake. That kiss, barely more than a brush of lips had raced through his mind everyday since. Yet, since then, the tension between the two of you could be cut with a dull knife as you had been avoiding him for weeks.

But now, here you are, sitting like you hadn't been occupying his thoughts every damn day. Arthur doesn't know what to make of it, but he knows one thing for sure: he's going to make the most of your forced proximity.

His brain races a mile a minute, trying to figure out the proper string of words to splice together, and as lightining strikes near the chapel outside, he is able to muster, "Better not be runnin' away on us."

Slowly, you open your eyes. Rubbing them as you shuffle in your chair. Blinking, your vision clears, and your heart sinks into your stomach as you look up at the rain soaked cowboy standing before you.

You let out a heavy sigh, your expression twisting into a deep scowl. “No,” you mumble indignantly.

Arthur exhales sharply, hooking his thumbs into his gunbelt. “You know Dutch don’t like you women comin’ into town without a chaperone. Too dangerous.”

Scoffing, you push yourself to your feet, grabbing your woven bag and slinging it over your shoulder. “You gonna take me back to camp then?” you reply, swiftly striding past the cowboy and toward the door.

Arthur had expected a cold reception - he knew better than to hope for anything else, but after weeks of you ignoring him, he’d thought he’d at least get something less hostile. His scowl deepens, frustration simmering as he reaches out, grabbing your shoulder and spinning you around.

“You see that weather out there woman?” Arthur snaps, rain hammering against the window. “Better to wait it out in the Parlour House than risk Boadicea bucking us both off.”

You glower at the cowboy, lip quivering as his hands tightly squeeze your shoulder. "Rather wait it out alone in here than wait it out anywhere with you," you spit, knowing that deep down you didn't mean a single word that left your mouth.

A flicker of something unspoken crosses Arthur’s face - hurt or dissapointment, but it vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. His jaw tightens, and he steps back, his usual gruff demeanor snapping back into place like a shield.

"Suit yourself," he mutters, his voice low and defeated. Your lips strongly pursed in a straight line.

He walks towards the door, taking a steady exhale, shaking his head back and fourth before pushing the doors open to a heavy rainfall.

Trying to hold back tears, you retreat to the bench, the bag of items you bought earlier still hanging over your shoulder.

You didn’t know why you were like this, and you hated it. Being stubborn is one thing, but what you had said to Arthur was just cruel. No matter how angry or embarrassed he made you feel, he didn’t deserve that. Tilting your head back against the window sill, you silently sob, listening to the steady pitter-patter of rain against the glass.

...

Arthur huffs as he pulls Boadicea toward the stables, rain soaking his cotton shirt. A thousand thoughts running through his mind as he reaches the wooden barn, paying the stable owner a dollar to board the mare for the night. Slinging his saddle bag across his shoulder, he tips his hat before starting his short walk to the parlour house.

But his feet don’t take him there.

Before he can stop himself, he finds himself once again trudging through the storm, back to the post office.

Back to you.

He wants to curse you to Hell and back, to call you every foul name under the sun, but deep down, he knew you were just hurt.

As his boots hit the wooden porch, he swings open the door, ignoring Alden entirely as he strides toward you.

His chest tightens as your red-rimmed eyes meet his. You’re angry, face still flushed, but he sees through all of it. Without a word, Arthur holds out his hand, offering you a chance to come with him willingly.

Yet, you remain unmoved.

But this time, Arthur doesn’t care. Coming with him was no longer a choice.

He reaches for your woven bag, slinging iit over his shoulder.

"Arthur," you pout, grabbing at it in an act of defiance. But your actions meant nothing and in one swift, deliberate motion, he lifts you over his shoulder as if you were a bounty he was hauling in.

Your stomach rests over his broad joint, his right hand holding you tightly, you're legs flailing against his chest.

"Arthur!" you yell again, slapping his back in defiance.

He strides toward the door, kicking it open and stepping back into the pouring rain, his grip firm and unwavering.

"You know you're one god-damn stubborn woman," he growls, rain soaking through your blouse and skirt as he marches up the road, through the mud. "I don’t know how you ended up alone in that post office, but whoever took you into town and left you there deserves a beatin'."

"I ain't comin' with you nowhere," You yell, thrashing your legs and arms against him. But his grip is tight, carrying you down the middle of the empty road, only seconds later dropping you to your feet infront of the parlour house.

"Now, you better behave. Dutch don't want anyone causing a scene," Arthur demands, pointing a finger in your face as you pout in retaliation.

You cross your arms and scowl, "And you picking me up like that wasn’t causing a scene-" you bark after him, only for your words to be cut off as he pulls you through the door.

No music plays, and barely any heads turn as Arthur pulls you throught the swinging doors behind him. A few patrons are scattered about, but much fewer than what the cowboy was used to - he could thank the raging storm for that.

He sits you at a small table in the corner of the room, leaving you slouched on chair with a scowl spread across your face. You cross your arms and huff as the cowboy walks up to the bar. Returning with two plates of fried catfish in hand, plopping one down in front of you along with a napkin.

"Eat," he orders, cutting himself a piece and shoveling a forkful into his mouth.

You glance down at your plate, the hot, crispy catfish making your mouth water at the mere sight. After being stuck at the post nearly the entire day you would be lying if you didn't say you were hungry - starving at that. But picking up that fork and placing a piece in your mouth meant more than just feeding yourself, it was a peace offering.

That night on Flat Iron Lake haunted you - the cool breeze against your bare skin, the moonlight dancing on the water, the way Arthur had followed behind you, chasing after you like he wanted you. Like he needed you.

Only to turn you away.

Even now, the memory made your stomach twist, your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You had stripped yourself bare - not just in body, but in heart - and he had let you. Let you believe, only to shut you down when you were already halfway there.

And that? That made you sick.

But more than that, you were furious. Furious at him for indulging your delusions, for pulling you in just to push you away. For making you feel wanted, like you were something more to him - only to leave you standing there, vulnerable and humiliated.

You had given him everything that night. And in return, he had left you with nothing but regret.

Yet, something deep down told you to take a bite.

Maybe it was your impending hunger, or maybe it was the desire for him that still burned in your bones. But he had come back for you - even after all those nasty words you had spewed at him, and that meant something.

So you take a bite.

The soft flaky forkful erupts onto your tastebuds as your stomach yearns for more. You look down at your plate, your mouth already watering for another bite as you nearly inhale the meal. Eating much faster than you ever have, yet, still finishing minutes after the cowboy.

Arthur realizes and chuckles to himself, shaking his head with an amused smile. His shirt is still clinging to his chest from trudging through the rainstorm. "Hungry?" he teases, raising a brow as he looks down at your empty plate.

You push away the cleared dish, ignoring his sly comment as he exhales, leaning back into his chair, wiping his hands on his button down.

"Thank you," you murmur, setting aside your bickering with him for the first time in what felt like forever.

Arthur rests his elbows on the table, watching you. "You gonna tell me why you were sittin' at that post office all alone? Lookin' like you were about to catch a train and run away?"

Your gaze drops to the empty dish in front of you. You sigh before speaking.

"I had some errands to run in town. Asked nearly every one of you men to take me before I finally had to ask Micah-."

"Didn't ask me," Arthur interjects, his tone cold.

Your eyes flash to his for a brief moment before dropping back to your plate. A million unsaid words lingering on his tongue.

"Micah - well he offered. Should've known better, but - but I was desperate. On the way back to camp, he told me I owed him something for taking me into town. And - and when I refused, he pushed me off Bayloch and ran off without me." Your voice wavering slightly. "I figured I'd wait at the post office, sooner or later I knew I'd run into one of you there."

Arthur jaw cocks, clutching his fork tighter than before, your words repeating in his mind over and over again, fantasizing about tearing Micah to pieces. "I don't want you ever gettin' on the back of Micah's horse again, if you need to go into town, you ask me from now on." Arthur's voice cold and demanding.

You bite you lip tenderly, his eyes flashing you an icy stare of a million unsaid words. And in that moment you knew he was serious - yet, all you could do was look back down at the empty dish in front of you, embarassed and defeated.

The cowboy's voice softens, "You know I jus' don' want you gettin' hurt."

But you already were, and it wasn't because of Micah.

You shift in your seat, eyes fixed on the worn wood grain of the table in front of you as the conversation with him plays over in your mind, only to be interrupted by the sound of the heavy front doors being pushed open.

Arthur straightens across from you, his posture sharpening just enough to tell you that he knows whoever just walked in.

"Deputy Callahan!"

A middle aged man with a rather gaudy mustache approaches, his grin wide and easy. "Good work with those moonshiners the other day. Sheriff Gray was mighty pleased to hear it had been taken care of."

Arthur's lips press into a firm line. He nods, stiff, giving away his distaste for whatever conversation this was about to turn into.

Then, the man’s eyes slide to you.

"This your lady wife?" he asks, removing his hat as he looks you up and down. His gaze lingers - too long - on the damp cloth still clinging to your skin, the remnants of the storm that rages just beyond the four walls of the parlour house.

Arthur notices.

He coughs, cutting through the growing tension, and flicks his eyes toward you with a silent warning. "Uh… yes," he croaks, the word sounding foreign on his tongue, as if the very idea were a ridiculous lie. "This is Deputy McGregor, honey."

You almost laugh. The way Arthur shifts uncomfortably, the slight scrunch of his nose - he was hating every second of this. But you? You hadn’t run a scheme in a while, but you hadn't forgotten the reason why Dutch recruited you in the first place.

You lean into the role, of Arthur's darling, little wife - flashing the deputy a warm, practiced smile. Oh how you missed the rush of a good con.

"Oh, you can call me Archibald," the man says, offering his hand to shake.

You place your hand in his, soft and delicate, allowing him to clasp it just a bit too long. "Oh, Archibald," you say, tilting your head just so, your tone dipped in the sweetest honey. "I've heard all about you from my husband."

A flush creeps up the deputy’s neck as he turns to Arthur, beaming with an almost boyish giddiness. "You sure got a pretty one, don't you?"

Arthur’s jaw tightens.

The heat of his glare could burn a hole through the man’s skull, but Archibald is oblivious, his eyes back on you, devouring every inch. "Don’t get women like your wife often here in Rhodes," he muses, that hungry stare making your skin crawl, though you keep your expression sweet.

Arthur shifts, his discomfort rolling off him in waves. Then, in a move so sudden it almost startles you, his rough hand slides across the table, closing over yours as if he was making his claim.

“Sure am a lucky bastard,” he says, voice lower now, gritted between his chipped teeth.

Archibald straightens, oblivious or choosing to ignore the sharp threatening edge in Arthur’s tone. "Well," he says, clapping his hands together. "Are you two up for a round-?"

"Sorry, we were just on our way out," Arthur cuts in, already standing up from across the table.

Archibald blinks. "You sure? The round’s on me."

Arthur grips your hand tighter, pulling you gentle but firmly to your feet, his arm sliding around your waist - just to remind Archibald that you weren't his.

"Real kind of you, Archibald," Arthur says voice tense but polite. "Maybe nextime."

Archibald shamelessly checks you out one more time before his eyes meet Arthurs, shaking his head, and returning to the bar.

Arthur shoves your chair in before pulling you toward the swinging doors. The wood creaks as they fly open, and in an instant, the warm glow of the parlour house is swallowed by the raging storm outside.

"Thought we were gonna wait the storm out - " you protest, half-shouting over the wind as he tugs you forward, rain pelting against your skin like tiny needles.

"We'll get a hotel room," Arthur grunts, barely slowing his pace. His grip on your wrist is firm but not rough, just insistent. "Storm’s supposed to last for days anyway, we can see how it is tomorrow."

You huff in protest, but deep down, you know Arthur is right. The storm is relentless, and lingering in the parlour house would have only led to more trouble. Thunder pounds overhead, shaking the very ground beneath your feet as a streak of lightning splits the sky, striking a field in the distance.

Arthur’s pace is brisk, his grip firm as he pulls you through the muddy streets. You stumble slightly, your boots sinking into the wet earth, but he doesn’t slow down. The rain lashes against your skin, soaking through your clothes as you struggle to keep up.

For a fleeting moment, you almost wish you had stayed back - kept playing the part of Arthur’s pretty wife, teasing the deputy just a little longer. You had missed the thrill of the con. But whatever rush had stirred inside of you, clearly hadn't had the same effect on Arthur.

As you near the hotel, the gunslinger finally lets go of your hand, shaking the rain from his hat before stepping inside. The lobby is dimly lit, dry compared to the wetness outside. Behind the desk sits an older woman, her gray, frizzy hair framing her sunken brown eyes. She greets you both with a thin, unfriendly smile.

"You two are lucky," she screeches, peering up at you over the rim of her wire glasses. "I was just about to close for the night."

Arthur reaches into his satchel, pulling out a fistful of bills. "Two rooms," he mutters dully.

The woman adjusts her glasses with a sigh. "Ain’t got but one left." Her gaze shifts between the two of you, judgment flickering in her tired eyes.

Arthur turns to you, his lips pressing into a thin line. He doesn't need to say anything - you already know what he's asking. With a small nod in his direction, you accept the reality of the situation.

"That’s fine," he mumbles, handing over the fistful of bills.

She plucks the last key from the wall behind her, placing it on the counter. "Upstairs. Last door on the left." Her eyes scan over your rain drenched clothes, lips pursing slightly. "For an extra five dollars, I can get you a dry chemise and a union suit for the night."

Without hesitation, Arthur hands her another handful of cash. "That’d be great. Thank you."

The woman disappears briefly, returning with neatly folded garments. As she extinguishes the oil lamp on the desk, you follow Arthur up the mahogany staircase, your fingers trailing along the ornate railing. Your gaze flickers to the paintings lining the walls. One, in particular, catches your eye - a familiar pond in New Hanover. Owanjila. A place you had spent countless summers with your family. A place that now feels like a lifetime ago.

At the end of the hall, Arthur slides the key into the lock, pushing open the heavy wooden door. The room is surprisingly spacious, dimly illuminated by the crackling fire in the hearth.

To your right, the fireplace dominates the space as it towers above a worn bear rug. A painted picture of a small cabin sits between unlit oil lanterns on the mantle and just beyond, a tall bookshelf, packed with dusty novels of all shapes and sizes leans against the wood wall. A rocking chair with a faded green cushion fashioned beside it.

On the opposite side of the room, a large bed sits against the window, overlooking the raging storm outside. The thick red quilt and mound of plush pillows looks inviting. Certainly better than the cots and hard ground you've been sleeping on for the past several years.

Arthur sets his saddlebag down near the bookcase before handing you the chemise. "This looks nice," he murmurs, more to himself than to you as his eyes steady on the bed, and then to the chair.

You nod, accepting the dry fabric. By now, you're soaked to the bone. Staying in these clothes any longer would surely invite sickness. And without a word, you turn your back to him, knowing he's doing the same.

As Arthur tugs off his boots, placing them near the fire, he speaks. "I can take the chair tonight."

It’s the gentlemanly thing to offer. And given the tension that still lingers between you, it’s probably the right thing to do. But as your eyes drift to the bed, you can’t help but think - it would feel too big just for you.

Yet, you say nothing.

With swift motions, you peel off your rain slicked shirt, the fabric clinging to your skin. Your skirt follows, pooling at your feet. It’s not the first time you’ve stripped in Arthur’s presence - but the circumstances are far different this time.

As you pull the soft chemise over your head, the fabric draping over your form, you turn slightly, just in time to catch Arthur struggling with the sleeves of the dark red union suit over his wet skin. His back muscles flex beneath the thin material, every large muscle visible in his frame.

You clear your throat, cutting through the silence like a blade.

Arthur hangs his gambler’s hat on the fireplace, watching you lay your damp clothes before the fire to dry. He does the same, moving absently, his eyes flickering toward you more than once.

Then, finally, he exhales, his hands falling to his sides as he realizes that right now is better than any to address everything that's happened.

"Y’know…" He swallows thickly, his gaze briefly dropping to where the thin fabric of your chemise barely hides the hardened peaks of your nipples. His voice lowering, "I been wantin’ to talk to you. About what happened all those nights ago."

You freeze. The air in the room shifts. Your eyes dart away, your throat tightening. "I -I don’t want to talk about it," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. Heat rises to your cheeks, shame burning through you like wildfire.

"I just wanna say -"

"Drop it, Arthur." The words snap from your lips, sharp and final. A lump forms in your throat, vomit rising in the back of your throat. "It was a mistake. And I’m sorry."

Arthur stiffens, his jaw clenching. "It weren’t no mistake to me." His voice is firm, louder this time.

Before you can react, he takes a step forward, closing the distance between you. His brow furrows, frustration etched into his features, but when his hands reach for yours, he caresses them softly.

Your lips part, confusion flickering across your face.

He sighs, shaking his head. "That night. That night by the water…" He exhales slowly. "I been wantin’ you a long time. And I want you to know that."

Your breath catches.

Did he have any idea how badly he had hurt you? How embarrassed you had felt?

He drags a hand through his damp hair. "But I didn’t want to tell you how I felt when we’d both been drinkin’ like that. Didn’t want you to regret what may have happened when it come morning."

A lump forms in your throat, and before you can stop it, tears spill down your cheeks. You had spent so long buried in anger, in bitterness -but now, all that’s left was the dull sting of sadness.

Arthur watches you carefully. "Didn’t realize how bad I messed up till you were gone," he murmurs. "Then you wouldn’t talk to me after that. And I just-" He shakes his head, his voice breaking ever so slightly. "I can’t stand this no more. You not talkin’ to me. Not trustin’ me." His eyes wide and regrettful, a strange demeanor for a ruffened outlaw like him as his thumbs roam over the backs of your palms. "Livin' in a world where you don't talk to me."

You silently gulp, realizing that in the midst of all this wind, rain, and chaos - his icy blue stare had turned into nothing but two warm pools of water.

"Arthur," your lips finally part, dragging your fingertips against the gritty trail of his freshly cut beard. "I've been real poor to you lately, you don't deserve that."

His eyes shut as he brushes his head against your hand like a cat, revelling in your touch. "I hate not talkin' to you, I hate it," he breathes. "It breaks my heart." The once hard and distant cowboy had turned soft and gentle at your touch, the polar opposite of his usual gruff demeanor and it had warmed your soul.

Now that you knew his rejection was nothing more than a miscommunication, your stomach settled for the first time in forever and the fiery heat that once burned in your chest for him was rekindled.

Your lips moved slowly towards him, closing the distance with a kiss. This time slow, meaningful, and sober. The sour bitterness of the past evaporating off your skin, replaced by nothing but pure need.

You felt seen.

Arthur’s hands comb through your damp hair, his fingers curling around your subtle waves as his lips move over yours, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. You taste sweet, like canned strawberries - as he inhales your scent: cherry blossom and clove.

He only pulls away when he realizes he has you pressed against the bed, pausing just long enough to toss you onto the clean, red quilt before settling beside you. His lips find yours again, doing nothing more than melding with them in slow, deliberate kisses. Through heavy breaths, he manages to murmur, "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

You grin against his mouth. "Sure, Deputy Callahan."

And there it was - that teasing banter that had drawn him to you all those years ago, making its way back into the moment. "Whatever you say, Mrs. Callahan," he playfully responds.

You gently swat his chest before he pulls you in again, this time kissing you with fire and urgency. Your lips dance against each other as your hand finds his, guiding it to your breast - a silent sign that it’s okay to touch you.

Without breaking the kiss, his fingers graze over you, his thumb flicking over your hardened nipple through the thin fabric of your chemise.

It isn't enough.

You drape your leg over his, and in one swift motion, you shift atop him, your chemise pooling at your thighs. Your long hair cascades over one shoulder as your lips stay locked with his, neither of you willing to part.

You feel him hard beneath your hips, his length poking at your core as you revel in his touch.

It was him - it had always been him.

You knew exactly what you wanted. With one swift motion, you pulled your chemise over your head, baring yourself to him once more -this time, sober, and with no doubts.

Arthur broke the kiss for a moment, just to take you in. You sat atop him, straddling his hips in nothing but your slick, damp hair. Lust and love flickering in your eyes, a sight that made his breath hitch.

"S'beautiful," he whispers before grabbing your head, pulling you into another kiss. Then, with a swift movement, he flips you onto your back, his tall, broad frame settling between your bare legs.

Your breaths come heavy, a smile playing at your lips as he practically tears off his union suit, tossing it carelessly to the floor. His gaze roaming over you - first your eyes, then your lips, then lower, taking in every inch of you. He lingers at the soft curves of your breasts, the way they spread slightly in opposite directions. Then lower still, to the thatch of hair resting just above the warmth of your heat.

His eyes feasted on you before he finally leans down, capturing your lips once more, tongue tangling with yours in desperate urgency.

It only takes seconds before you rock your hips up against his hardened length, a silent plea he couldn't ignore.

Arthur looks at you, his elbows resting above your head, his breath warm against your lips. He didn’t need words to understand what you want, but it had been so long since he’d fucked a woman who wasn’t after a few dollars from him that the feeling was almost foreign.

Slowly, he pushed into you, watching the way your lips parted, the way your brows pinched together as he filled you inch by inch.

Tight.

Just how he imagined.

Warm.

Just how he knew it would feel.

Loved.

Just how it should be.

He carved himself between your thighs, stilling for a moment as he buried himself fully inside you. He just watched you, savoring the moment, knowing that every mistake he had made in his past had led him to this - this perfect moment.

And in this moment, nothing in the world could touch the two of you.

"Arthur," you breath shakily, threading your fingers through his still dampened hair. The soft crackle of the fire filling the quiet space between your shared breaths.

"My woman," he murmurs before pulling back, only to sink into you once more.

Again and again, he moved - slow at first, savoring every sensation, then faster as his need overtook him. Your jaw slackens, your breasts moving in rhythm with each deep, deliberate thrust.

Bracing himself on one elbow, his free hand finds the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. He rubs slow, deliberate circles as he drives into you, each stroke deeper, heavier, until all you could do was hold onto him and let the pleasure consume you both.

"I'm gonna-" you gasp, your breath hitching as heat dances deep in your core, the ripening pleasure building under his touch. Arthur's fingers circle over your sensitive nub, pushing you closer, guiding you to the edge.

His blue eyes blur with haze, his mouth parting slightly as he watches you unravel beneath him - your legs trembling, lips quivering, your body utterly lost to the sensation. Only when he’s sure you’ve been properly worked over does he finally let go, spilling himself onto your stomach with a low, guttural moan.

Collapsing beside you, his chest rises and falls in heavy, ragged breaths, sweat glistening on his forehead as the song of flurrying rain and crackling fire play in his ears.

Arthur only pulls you into the crook of his shoulder to fall asleep after working you over three more times - once with the thrust of his hips, and twice with the flick of his tongue.

...

The next morning, you wake to a pleasant ache deep in your core, the soft patter of raindrops drumming against the roof.

You stretch, expecting to find the warmth of a certain outlaw beside you, his naked form tangled up in the sheets. But when you reach out, all you feel is cool, empty linen.

Your stomach twists. You sit up instantly.

No saddlebag. No boots. No clothes drying by the dying embers of last night’s fire. All remenates gone, as if he had faded into thin air.

Panic and sudden regret tighten in your chest - until the door swings open with a gust of cool air, and Arthur steps inside, fully clothed, a saddlebag slung over his shoulder and an apple between his teeth.

"Sorry," he mumbles through the crunch of the fruit, dropping the saddlebag onto the rocking chair. He pulls it from his mouth with a grin. "Tried to get back before you woke, but it took longer than expected for them to heat a bath."

Cheerfully, he sets a small, tied cloth in front of you. "Brought some breakfast."

You unfold the cloth, revealing fresh strawberries, a wedge of cheese, and salted beef. Reaching for a strawberry, you bite into it, its sweet juice dribbling down your chin as Arthur watches you in delight.

"Thank you," you murmur, watching as Arthur strips himself out of his clothes. You half expect him to stay in his union suit, but he shucks that off too, baring himself completely before crawling back into bed beside you, stealing a strawberry for himself.

"The storm doesn't look like it's clearing," he muses, resting his head in your lap. His eyes meeting yours, those familiar blues staring deeply into you soul.

"Went ahead and paid for another night," he adds, a slow, mischievous smile curving his lips. "And if rain means I get to lay naked in here with you all day, I hope the town floods."

[fishenjoyer1]

Fish of the Day

Today's fish of the day is the lake sturgeon!

The lake sturgeon, also called the rock sturgeon, and known by scientific name Acipenser fulvescens is one of the best known North American sturgeon species! Found in and around the great lakes, and then across the Mississippi river and Erie canal. Found in 5 differing Canadian provinces and across 24 states stretching from Alabama to Michigan, and as far East as New York. These fish are benthic, spending their time along the bottom of the lake bed, but during spawning these fish will migrate thousands of miles to go back to the stream they were born in.

Like all sturgeon, they are considered living fossils, as sturgeon first appeared in the fossil record upwards of 150 million years ago, with the fish now appearing nearly identical to these ancestors. These fish can get 7 feet or longer, with most being only 4 to 6 feet in length, making them some of the largest sturgeon in North America. Their diet is made up of various invertebrates such as: larvae, small crustaceans, and worms, which they can find along the benthic lake and river beds. The 4 barbels found on these fish have taste buds, which are used to determine what is under their mouth, before they use their prehensile lips to suck up food. When food becomes scarce, these fish are known for migrating for better feeding, which happens semi frequently around the year.

The life cycle of the lake sturgeon is similar to that of most other sturgeons. They begin life as eggs laid in the location their parents were born, in fast paced river streams with lots of flat rocks. The eggs themselves are a bright yellow color, although as the eggs matures this will turn an olive and eventually brown over the course of about 2 weeks. Then they live as larvae only 10mm long, living in and around the dark underside of rocks. After this, as juveniles they will swim to lake environments, where they will spend the majority of their life cycle. These fish can live 55 years long in males and around 150 years for females, with sexual maturity being achieved at an age of around 10 years in males and 30 years in females. Breeding and spawning only happens intermittently every handful of years, and go through around 10 spawning seasons throughout their lifecycle.

For a fun fact to end on for these fish because I'm particularly fond of them, when they reach the stream they will spawn in, these fish are known to porpoise, jumping several feet into the air to end their long journey. That's the lake sturgeon everybody! Have a wonderful day!

[fandomtrumpshate]

By the Numbers: halfway through the signup window edition!

That's right, signups for FTH 2025 have been open for a week, and what a week it has been! In 7 days we've had MORE signups than we did when we closed signups in 2024 … but not quite as many as we had after we re-opened for 4 hours to see whether or not we could crack that 1000 signup barrier.

We expected a big year, and you're definitely delivering!

So, what are the actual numbers?

756 creators have signed up to offer 1020 auctions in 117 listed fandoms and 214 write-in fandoms. And there's a WEEK to go!

A couple of quick breakdowns on the offers we have so far:

Types of written fanwork:

660 fan fiction (new) 170 fan fiction (remix of an existing fic) 36 meta/analysis 32 fan poetry 23 other written fanwork

Types of fan art:

33 banner 53 book cover 29 comic 125 drawing/painting/etc 5 gifset 26 icon(s) 8 moodboard 8 photo manip

And over in our supported orgs, creators *overwhelmingly* are leaving the decision to their bidders. That said, the umbrella category heads up the list when creators weighed in on which orgs to support. The rest of the list shakes out like this:

Young Center for Immigrant Children’s Rights Middle East Children’s Alliance Freedom to Read Foundation Disability Law United Crips for eSims for Gaza News Literacy Project Global Project Against Hate And Extremism Hope for Ukraine Environmental Integrity Project Never Again Action In Our Own Voice: National Black Women’s Reproductive Justice Agenda National Network to End Domestic Violence Fight for the Future Education Fund Bellingcat Congo Leadership Initiative

So that's where we are at 7 days in to our 2-week-long signup window. Where will we be on Feb 2? We suspect it will be over our 2024 total and into new record territory. It's a terribly exciting journey — and there's still plenty of time to join us!

Signups are OPEN!

[suzukiblu]

Day seventeen of “obligatory sugar baby Kon” behind the cut. prev: (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“You heckle your own guys?” Kon demands, still laughing. “The hell for?” 

“Because Chris Campbell is literally the worst professional quarterback on the East Coast and a total pill, that’s why,” Tim says witheringly, also mostly on reflex. Not that he really watches all that much in the way of sports, just his dad semi-regularly watches football and hockey and sometimes baseball, so sports are usually a safe topic to talk about without having to handle awkward questions like what'd you do last night or how’d you get that bruise? or anything equally inconvenient to answer. 

Though really anybody in Gotham who was not a literal shut-in with no internet access or cable would know how freakin’ bad Chris Campbell’s arm sucks, but he digresses. 

“Also Robin is an urban legend, because I want to go about my daily life completely unnoticed by anyone who might care about people thinking he wasn’t,” he amends belatedly, and Kon laughs harder. 

“Well, he’s an urban legend who can totally pull, for the record,” Kon says matter-of-factly before taking another bite of grilled cheese monstrosity. Tim almost walks into a lamppost. Or a mailbox. Or–something. There was something he almost walked into. 

“I cannot even be in the same state as this conversation,” he says maybe a little too feelingly. 

“Yeah Batman would definitely be a fucking dick about it,” Kon says agreeably, still snickering a little. Tim decides that is a great excuse and exactly what he’s gonna go with, and then gets distracted by Kon making a show of fluttering his eyelashes at him with a flirty smirk and adding, “And like, obviously you, daddy.” 

“I–why would I be a dick about that?” Tim asks, instinctively wary about if he let something slip about Robin and what Kon–

“Oh my god, I mean you’re on my ‘surrounded by hotties’ list, you nerd!” Kon cackles, smacking his back. “Obviously.”

Tim cannot even begin to imagine what Kon thought was “obvious” about that, but okay. If Kon has awful taste, that’s his prerogative. And if he thinks Robin is hot, theoretically he would also think Tim Drake was, except for how Robin and Tim Drake are two totally different people and also Kon resents Robin and is constantly being a total dick about both listening to him and letting him just run the damn team and has to get the last word in even in active combat situations and Tim Drake is just–Tim Drake is just a nerd, exactly like Kon just said. He’s a photography nerd and a nerd-nerd and he’s not all that interesting or attractive, and he has weird taste in video games and only likes the role-playing games that literally nobody actually plays, and he isn’t even that good at skateboarding! What about either of them could Kon possibly find actually, like–actually consider– 

“It’s cute you didn’t realize, though,” Kon adds, and leans over to kiss his cheek with greasy grilled cheese lips. Tim, unfortunately, feels like a squishy melted marshmallow about it. And also greasy and gross. But mostly it’s the marshmallow thing, yeah. “Hey, are you gonna finish those, babe?” 

“All yours,” Tim says, and hands over the remaining grilled cheese, deciding to just . . . not do the math on how many of those Kon actually just ate. And also to take him to a buffet next date, maybe. Like–several buffets. Multiple buffects. They could just rotate through a few, maybe Kon’ll be likelier to actually eat ‘til he’s full at an “all you can eat”-style setup if he’s still worried about him overspending on him, Tim figures, which he clearly has not been given how many grilled cheese sandwiches he has put away so far, even if he doesn’t finish the last–

Yeah, Kon definitely hasn’t been eating ‘til he was full, Tim notes as he watches Kon demolish every single remaining sandwich all down to the last bite and then lick his fingers clean. 

Alright then. Buffet tour date it is. And also way more snacks and candy in Kon’s future gift bags and maybe, like, he could also just open an Uber Eats account for him and fill it up with as much Uber Cash as they’ll let him and also sign up for the premium or whatever so Kon won’t have to pay delivery fees, assuming he can even get Uber Eats to deliver to Cadmus, but honestly he’s heard about people doing weirder in the gig economy, and also Robin is going to just–Robin is going to goddamn pack the Justice Cave with nonperishable snacks, Tim swears to god. Enough for Bart to need to take a few days to get through, even. And like–Suzie doesn’t need to eat, no, but that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t have the option, and frankly now he’s going to have to be checking everyone’s living situations out a little more thoroughly, so until then–well, he’s just gonna frontload his success, he guesses. Be prepared. 

Bruce absolutely cannot complain about him being prepared, he lies to himself, and offers Kon the napkins. Kon grins at him and then wipes his mouth and hands off and misses some crumbs éon his lip, which Tim is very unimpressed with himself for finding cute even more unimpressed with himself for wanting to brush them away for him like they’re in some dumb weird cliché romcom or something. Which they are not, definitely. 

“Did I get it all?” Kon asks him. 

Tim despairs, but also is only in possession of so much self-control, okay? Reeling back on the supervillain plan is already taking up about seventy percent of his processing power and not jumping Kon outright is at least another twenty-five, so he doesn’t have very much to work with here, okay? 

“One sec,” he says, and reaches up to brush away the last couple of crumbs on Kon’s lower lip with the pad of his thumb. Kon immediately turns bright pink, then grins at him way too smugly. Tim decides to just not analyze whatever his own facial expression feels like it’s being right now, for obvious reasons. 

Mostly “self-defense”. Mostly “self-defense” is the reason. 

Kon ducks in and kisses him again, the gesture all sweet and warm and still a little unfortunately but endearingly greasy. The kissing does not help with Tim’s self-control in any way whatsoever, but definitely does distract him from analyzing anything else that’s going on right now. 

“You really know how to skate?” Kon asks him after he leans back from the kiss, back to grinning at him. Tim suddenly understands literally everything Victor Fries has ever done in his life and frankly is surprised he hasn’t done worse. If anyone ever lays a hand on Kon again, he is gonna do so much worse than just go supervillain; he is gonna go Darkseid and he will not be sorry.

[what-even-is-thiss]

as an english major, i did not think king arthur from the story was a real guy but i assumed he was based off a real guy?? was he just... a completely made up guy????

Probably. Or he’s so far removed from whoever he was originally based on that he’s basically 99.99999999% fictional anyways. In the unlikely event he did exist he almost certainly wasn’t the king of what we now call England because England didn’t exist at that point. At the point he supposedly existed according to the earliest stories about him he would’ve been at war with the actual Roman Empire at the time and they don’t have any records of him. The Roman Empire was pretty good at keeping records so if he was at conflict with them in like Gaul (modern day France-ish) as some of the medieval histories claim they would have a lot of records of that. Military strategies, supply line management, intelligence from scouts, complaints from politicians back east. Something. But there’s no record of anyone from the isle of Britain causing that much trouble in that time period let alone someone named Arthur specifically.

[conspiring-limabean]

EDIT: This post was made about the first wave of basic barebone copy-and-paste scams.

I’m disabling reblogs because this information is now outdated when it comes to identifying vetted fundraisers, and I don’t want to scare people into not supporting real campaigns

If someone sends you an ask asking for help in Gaza, look for vetting done by a real person (do NOT trust ones that simply claim they are vetted if you don’t SEE the vetting), and check that their gofundme address isn’t clearly publicly listed in some other place. Then reblog their post. And block writing-prompt-s or anyone else that runs actual genocide survivors off the platform with poorly researched scam accusations

original post:

so apparently the tumblr donation scam farms are moving in on Palestine; this includes both slapping basic phrases like "Free Palestine" into their blog headers, but also some of them go so far as to claim they are Palestinian refugees who need donations.

Here is your routine reminder that whenever you receive an ask in your inbox requesting donations, check their ass. 19 times out of 20 it'll be a brand new blog who reblogged a few posts to seem older than they are, is sending out spam asks to random blogs, and will be deleted in a few days once they've already scammed people.

Check their blog's age by trying to scroll to the bottom and checking the post timestamps. Turn on post timestamps by going to Settings > General Settings > Dashboard Preferences. On any device, you can also see when a post was made by clicking on the 3 dots at the top right of it. Scam blogs reblog an amount of posts to try to seem like they aren't brand new and pretend to have older accounts, and it’s very successful against people who don’t scroll down enough.

Check the location and area code of a PayPal link where/if it says something like country.x=xx. The xx will be a country code. Most tumblr donation scams are for some reason in the Philippines and will have the code PH. No I am not saying to distrust anyone in the Philippines who needs donations, but if a brand new blog is claiming to be a refugee in the Middle East but their PayPal link is from halfway across the world, then well...

Reverse-image search any of the images they use and find if it was stolen somewhere. Remember that these images are often edited to prevent people from easily doing this, and this is not reliable but can be an easy sign if successful

Be careful with blogs that request people send donations through "Friends and Family" on PayPal because you cannot refund money sent in this manner. This isn’t a dealbreaker as many regular users also request this to avoid fines, but is an addendum to scam blogs when enough other red flags are raised. It isn’t unusual for them to insist on receiving money through FaF to the point that some will refund money not sent through that manner to prevent accountability

Follow scam busting blogs like Kyra45 that might pull up evidence you otherwise would not have access to. I guess I'm going to start bringing back my habit of recording the exact paypal addresses that scam blogs use which has sometimes been the only evidence of a new donation blog being a scam, and no one would know this if I hadn't been tracking them

It is disgusting that people would take advantage of an ongoing genocide for their own gain. Please remember to keep an eye out for yourself and the people you follow reblogging suspicious donation posts trying to steal aid from people undergoing a tragedy