#base oil group

[chicago-geniza]

Holy shit it's her. Żydówka z pomarańczami (1881)

[eelslippers]

The hardest part about being a dm that I never see anyone talk about is when you have an ongoing campaign, yet you have ideas for a different campaign setting entirely different from the current one and you can't simply just start a new one either. I have so many ideas but I can't use them yet

[bmpmp3]

I WANNA get back into painting so heres a little gouache picture

[najia-cooks]

[ID: A decorative orange ceramic plate with a pyramid of green herbs and sesame seeds, topped with deep red sumac and more sesame seeds. End ID]

زعتر فلسطيني / Za'tar falastinia (Palestinian spice blend)

Za'tar (زَعْتَر; also transliterated "za'atar," "zaatar" and "zatar") is the name of a family of culinary herbs; it is also the name of a group of spice blends made by mixing these herbs with varying amounts of olive oil, sumac, salt, roasted sesame seeds, and other spices. Palestinian versions of za'tar often include caraway, aniseed, and roasted wheat alongside generous portions of sumac and sesame seeds. The resulting blend is bold, zesty, and aromatic, with a hint of floral sourness from the sumac, and notes of licorice and anise.

Za'tar is considered by Palestinians to have particular national, political, and personal importance, and exists as a symbol of both Israeli oppression and Palestinian home-making and resistance. Its major components, olive oil and wild thyme, are targeted by the settler state in large part due to their importance to ecology, identity, and trade in Palestine���settlers burn and raze Palestinian farmers' olive trees by the thousands each year. A 1977 Israeli law forbade the harvesting of wild herbs within its claimed borders, with violators of the law risking fines and confiscation, injury, and even death from shootings or land mines; in 2006, za'tar was further restricted, such that even its possession in the West Bank was met with confiscation and fines.

Despite the blanket ban on harvesting wild herbs (none of which are endangered), Arabs are the only ones to be charged and fined for the crime. Samir Naamnih calls the ban an attempt to "starve us out," given that foraging is a major source of food for many Palestinians, and that picking and selling herbs is often the sole form of income for impoverished families. Meanwhile, Israeli farmers have domesticated and farmed za'tar on expropriated Palestinian land, selling it (both the herb and the spice mixture) back to Palestinians, and later marketing it abroad as an "Israeli" blend; they thus profit from the ban on wild harvesting of the herb. This farming model, as well as the double standard regarding harvesting, refer back to an idea that Arabs are a primitive people unfit to own the land, because they did not cultivate or develop it as the settlers did (i.e., did not attempt to recreate a European landscape or European models of agriculture); colonizing and settling the land are cast as justified, and even righteous.

The importance of the ban on foraging goes beyond the economic. Raya Ziada, founder of an acroecology nonprofit based in Ramallah, noted in 2019 that "taking away access to [wild herbs] doesn't just debilitate our economy and compromise what we eat. It's symbolic." Za'tar serves variously as a symbol of Palestinians' connection to the land and to nature; of Israeli colonial dispossession and theft; of the Palestinian home ("It’s a sign of a Palestinian home that has za’tar in it"); and of resistance to the colonial regime, as many Palestinians have continued to forage herbs such as za'tar and akkoub in the decades since the 1977 ban. Resistance to oppression will continue as long as there is oppression.

Palestine Action has called for bail fund donations to aid in their storming, occupying, shutting down, and dismantling of factories and offices owned by Israeli arms manufacturer Elbit Systems. Also contact your representatives in the USA, UK, and Canada.

Ingredients:

Za'tar (Origanum syriacum), 250g once dried (about 4 cups packed)

250g (1 2/3 cup) sesame seeds

170g (3/4 cup) Levantine sumac berries, or ground sumac (Rhus coriaria)

100g (1/2 cup) wheat berries (optional)

2 Tbsp olive oil

1 Tbsp aniseed (optional)

1/2 Tbsp caraway seeds (optional)

Levantine wild thyme (also known as Bible hyssop, Syrian oregano, and Lebanese oregano) may be purchased dried online. You may also be able to find some dried at a halal grocery store, where it will be labelled "زعتر" (za'tar) and "thym," "thyme," or "oregano." Check to make sure that what you're buying is just the herb and not the prepared mixture, which is also called "زعتر." Also ensure that what you're buying is not a product of Israel.

If you don't have access to Levantine thyme, Greek or Turkish oregano are good substitutes.

Wheat berries are the wheat kernel that is ground to produce flour. They may be available sold as "wheat berries" at a speciality health foods store. They may be omitted, or replaced with pre-ground whole wheat flour.

Instructions:

1. Harvest wild thyme and remove the stems from the leaves. Wash the leaves in a large bowl of water and pat dry; leave in a single layer in the sun for four days or so, until brittle. Skip this step if using pre-dried herbs.

2. Crumble leaves by rubbing them between the palms of your hands until they are very fine. Pass through a sieve or flour sifter into a large bowl, re-crumbling any leaves that are too coarse to get through.

Crumbling between the hands is an older method. You may also use a blender or food processor to grind the leaves.

3. Mix the sifted thyme with a drizzle of olive oil and work it between your hands until incorporated.

4. Briefly toast sumac berries, caraway seeds, and aniseed in a dry skillet over medium heat, then grind them to a fine powder in a mortar and pestle or a spice mill.

5. Toast sesame seeds in a dry skillet over medium heat, stirring constantly, until deeply golden brown.

6. (Optional) In a dry skillet on medium-low, toast wheat berries, stirring constantly, until they are deeply golden brown. Grind to a fine powder in a spice mill. If using ground flour, toast on low, stirring constantly, until browned.

Some people in the Levant bring their wheat to a local mill to be ground after toasting, as it produces a finer and more consistent texture.

7. Mix all ingredients together and work between your hands to incorporate.

Store za'tar in an airtight jar at room temperature. Mix with olive oil and use as a dipping sauce with bread.

[obxsummer]

chaotic // ghost of you

pairing: jj maybank x routledge!reader

summary: a quick glimpse down memory lane before the group heads to charleston where you and john b are placed on cemetery duty. good thing a sibling intervention was needed and john b's hit with the heavy realization that you'd been left with more than superficial scars from the camerons.

warnings: ptsd, non-consensual drug use, angst, rafe cameron, typical obx violence, ward cameron being a dickhead, almost kidnapping?

a/n: good luck, godspeed, & listen to chaotic by tate mcrae

navigation -- series masterlist

ask me anything

--

“Would you do this to your sister?”

Rafe stared at you, horrified, as you hummed on the bed from the effects of the heavy indica based oil he’d put in your drink. You were practically on a cloud, and he was surprised you even had the energy to speak. You’d never asked him anything, just begged him to stop and let go, but never this.

“What?”

You forced yourself up to a sitting position, practically fluttering at the pain relief he’d given you. Rafe spent more time in this room with you, just talking and yelling and taking his anger out on you because you were there. You usually didn’t bother to comment back, just taking whatever he’d give because you’d given up on the idea of life getting any better. 

“Would you put Sarah through this?” You repeated, eyes blinking quickly at him. 

Rafe bent down to snort the line of white powder he’d organized on your calf; any other surface in the room and his dad would notice (or that’s what he told himself). “The fuck are you talking about?”

“I mean, John B would never do this to your sister, so why the hell are you doing it to his?”

The question caught Rafe off guard more than he expected. His dad had practically ruined his relationships with everyone he’d come to know. Except you, Ward had broken you into the perfect little companion for Rafe. There was no running away, nobody to come save you. So, in his own little twisted way, he really liked having you around. You were his.

“I don’t have to answer you,” Rafe replied weakly, knowing damn well he would’ve never allowed anything like that to happen to Sarah. Not…no? Maybe. He didn’t know anymore and his brain wasn’t working correctly now with the drugs in his system.

You sighed, “Okay.” Flopping back on the bedding, you stared at the ceiling. Your heartbeat was in your ears and it felt like time was passing so slowly.

“Would you ever forgive John B if he did that?”

You shook your head and gave him a thumbs down. “John B would never do that. And if he did, I’d never speak to him again.”

The statement hurt. As much as Rafe tried to convince himself that you were wrong, it hurt. He wanted to be good, to be worthy of someone’s love and attention. He’d tried his whole life to but he kept fucking up. That’s why he was leaning on you. You were fixing that hole in his chest whether you knew it or not.

“Would you ever talk to me again?” Rafe stared at the bland walls as he spoke.

A moment of silence filled the room before he turned to see if you were still awake. Your eyes remained unblinking, the rise and fall of your chest in a steady motion the only sign that you were still alive. 

“You’re really scaring me,” You answered honestly. Your mind was silent, the only thing running through it was Rafe’s question, so you had no reason to lie to him. “You’re hurting me. You’re really hurting me and I don’t understand why.”

Rafe turned away when you started crying, your form shivering in an adrenaline drop as you rolled onto your side away from him. He sat silently until your breathing evened out, eyes closing as you fell into an induced slumber before he turned the lights off and left the room, locking the door as he did.

--

John B was worried.

Let’s be clear, as the eldest of the group, John B worried often, but when it came to you, he always was. 

Everything was off since you and Kie had returned from the shop and it was practically a red flag waving in front of his face. Neither of you said anything but it was obvious from the timing of everything paired with tear tracks on your faces that something happened. He just had to wait it out for more details.

Revealing everything to Kie had brought up a lot of buried feelings and although you wanted nothing more than to hide away, you didn’t want to risk staying home by yourself. You were quiet the entire ferry ride, claiming you were tired and needed a nap so nobody would question your lack of energy. That didn’t mean you missed out on the conversations around you, eavesdropping your way into John B’s awkward insinuation of moving into the next step with Sarah.

The topic pulled tears to your eyes as you thought about the idea with JJ. Would you guys stay in Kildare? Would you move somewhere, or stay here and carry out a different kind of life that neither of you had experienced?

“So based on the captain’s log, Blackbeard’s in his ship, the Adventure, somewhere out there, and they’re being pursued by the British Royal Navy, right? So, he comes to shore, takes a bunch of hostages. They called it the, um, the-“

“Oh, the uh, the Blockade of Charleston. That was eighth-grade history.” John B interrupted Pope’s story with such confidence it almost brought you out of your shitty mood.

You walked slowly behind them, head covered by one of John B’s old Kildare High hoodies, the sweater paws keeping you warm. Kie was a few steps ahead of you, walking next to Sarah. Every now and then she would spare a glance back to make sure you were still there. Cleo walked ahead of everyone else, knife twirling between her fingers with murder on her mind. She would get her revenge on Terrance’s behalf.

Your attention drifted from John B and Pope’s conversation to your phone where your messages to JJ had gone unanswered. You knew he could hold his own, but you hated the thought of leaving him in search of his dad, not that he would’ve let you go anyway.

“Come on, Birdie.” John B had slowed his pace to walk along your side, his hand grabbing yours so you’d drop your head on his shoulder. “Wanna talk?”

You shook your head slightly but squeezed his hand in appreciation that he was here. Pope was busy solving the riddle left by the amulet that had brought you here.

“Wait, I have a question. So, if we’re talking about caskets, that doesn’t mean we’re going to another cemetery, right?”

You laughed softly at John B’s question, leaning further into his side as the six of you continued walking down the cobblestone street. The walk continued much longer than you would’ve liked, your mind and body ready to lay down for a little and reset.

“You know what’s been bothering me?” Pope asked after the sun had set and you’d walked a good 5 miles. “Blackbeard has a treasure he desperately wants to keep. He’s being pursued by the British Royal Navy. They’re blockading the entire city. Yet he finds time to make coffins to bury his cook and navigator?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, time out. Time out, time out. Dude, he definitely put something in those coffins.”

“Are you dumb.” You let go of John B’s hand to stop in front of him, giving him a blank look. He looked offended as you walked away from him, shaking your head as you did. It was quite obvious that you were looking for treasure hidden in the coffins.

“Half Moon, Half Moon Battery, where the living and the dead collide, which I figure is a cemetery, which means all we have to do is figure out where-“

“The North Star is?” Sarah finished Pope’s thought as she raised her hand to point to a stained-glass window of the church on the corner. You shrugged at her find, figuring it made sense to at least give it a shot.

John B wrapped an arm around his girlfriend. “Sarah Cameron, have I told you I love you lately?”

Pope stared at the colored object for a few more seconds before turning to address all of you. “Here’s the plan, alright? I’m gonna need you and you for diversions. You’re coming with me, I need to check something in the church. And you two are on cemetery duty.”

That put Sarah and Cleo on distractions, Kiara going with Pope, and you were left with John B for cemetery duty.

“Wait, what?” You asked as you looked around the darkness surrounding you and your brother seemed to be on the same page. “Don’t leave us out here!”

“Look for the gatekeeper in the cemetery,” Pope explained as the remainder of the group started walking toward the entrance. “Be so safe!”

You rolled your eyes at the ongoing joke, turning to face John B. “We just got benched.”

“Yep, where the living and dead collide, the Routledges will provide. Awesome,” He grumbled and walked around the gate to enter the graveyard area. “It’s not real, they’re dead. It’s gonna be fine, we’ll be fine.”

You sighed and let him rant away to himself as you found a spot on the stairs to claim for the upcoming time. Pulling John B’s hoodie sleeves further over your hands, you shivered with the cool night breeze.

“So, are you gonna tell me what the hell is going on or am I going to have to drag it out of someone else?” John B took a seat next to you and cracked his knuckles like it would make him any tougher. 

As much as you loved Kie, you knew she wasn’t good at keeping secrets, and you wanted to talk to John B before she went running. Your teeth pulled at the chapped skin of your lips before you answered, “I heard you on the ferry, talking to Sarah about starting a family.”

He seemed confused for a moment before his cheeks burned red. “Oh, that’s awkward. Um, that… that should’ve been a more private conversation and-”

“Would you hate Sarah if she didn’t have kids?”

The question wasn’t one John B anticipated. Out of all the things you guys had talked about before, raising a family wasn’t one discussed. With your own family relationship being rocky, John B never knew where you stood on the idea and if you’d ever want that for yourself (and JJ, but he tried not to think about that).

“No, n-no. I would be sad, of course, but I wouldn’t hate her. She totally dodged the idea, though so you don’t have to worry about-”

“Would you leave her?”

John B frowned and blinked at you, but you still weren’t looking at him. He wasn’t used to you asking about his relationship in this kind of way. “Why are you asking this?”

You pushed a shaky breath from your lips and let your head drop to your knees. God, you wished JJ was here. He deserved to hear this from you first, but he wasn’t, and you didn’t know when he would be.

“John B, I can’t have kids.” You turned to watch his expression as he processed your words. Your eyes were warm with tears while a million emotions crossed his face.

“What?” John B didn’t know what else to say. You guys were barely adults, and this topic shouldn’t even be a thought in your mind with the current living conditions and lack of funding you all had. But you were his little sister, and his heart was breaking as you spoke. “Can’t or won’t?”

Tugging on the sleeves of the hoodie again, you looked down. “Can’t. Physically unable. Never going to happen.”

John B paused at the coldness in your voice. You were obviously upset but he still wasn’t sure where all of this was coming from. Plus, let’s be real. John B was a teenage boy at the end of the day; female anatomy was not his strong suit in any way. “Oh, okay. Um, is there like a problem or-”

“Rafe caused it.”

--

The Cameron house was cold. Sunlight filled the room, casting some warmth across the hardwood floor but you made no effort to enjoy it. Rose had just dropped a salad off at the door and told you that DCS would be visiting today, to get your shit together and not to mess anything up or Ward would go after your friends. You didn’t know whether to believe him or not, but you had nothing left to go off of. You hadn’t seen your friends in weeks, and you didn’t know if they even bothered to look for you.

DCS had yet to make any checkups on you and your brother since your dad disappeared, minus the one that John B narrowly avoided by jumping from the car when you thankfully weren’t home. You figured Ward had paid them off for so long, but now that John B was lost to sea, they were likely to get suspicious. 

Which meant they were coming to talk to you. Alone.

Perfect.

Forcing your tired and bruised body to your feet, you made your way into the attached bathroom to soak under the hot water and formulate a plan. If DCS did opt to talk to you, there had to be a way to get a silent SOS across. You didn’t know how, but you would come up with something, even if Rafe and Ward followed your every move. 

After soaking up most of the hot water, you finished getting ready for the day, pulling on a pair of shorts and one of John B’s t-shirts that had gotten mixed in your laundry. It would only be a matter of time before they’d come knocking at the door to collect you for show and tell.

Your eyes moved over everything in the room with hope something would pop up with an answer for all of your problems. And then you remembered the remaining food tray in the room. Ward or whoever dropped food to you typically left plastic wear to prevent you from using the typicaly cutlery as a resource, but that wasn’t the case today. Your eyes caught the metal knife that was intended to cut the meal, but you hadn’t touched it.

You grabbed the piece in your hand and moved slowly to to the door, running over JJ’s instructions in your head on how to possibly pop the lock using the tool. Pushing it between the door and the wall, you felt around for the horizontal lock, struggling to move it over. And then there was a pop, and your heart started racing.

Pressing your ear against the door, you listened for footsteps and voices, anything that would give you a warning of someone being nearby. When you didn’t hear anything, your fingers gently twisted the doorknob as far as it would go. A soft click told you it was yours to open as you pleased, so you did so, slowly.

The hallway was dim minus the sunlight leaking in from other rooms and your eyes caught sight of the large grandfather clock to your side. The ticking of the hands echoed down the silent hallway and you stood frozen for a moment before taking your first steps out. 

And nothing.

No yelling, no alarms, no impromptu body tackles to the floor. You could make this. You could make a run for it and they would be none the wiser until DCS was here.

Walking slowly down the hallway, you came to the foyer area where you could hear whispers from the kitchen filtering through. Moving into Sarah’s room, you glanced around for something, anything, that would help you get out of here without any suspicion. 

“Go get her. They’ll be here soon and I need to make sure she’s not going to run her mouth.”

“Dad, she’s going to-”

“Now, Rafe.”

You held your breath as Rafe mumbled an agreement and the sound of his footsteps echoed through the open room as he ascended the stairs. You needed to move, and move fast. Rafe cursed down the hall, likely figuring out that the door was unlocked and you clutched the butter knife tighter in your hand like it would offer any protection.

Ducking into Sarah’s walk-in closet, you scrambled to find an old phone or even her laptop if she’d left it behind but came up empty. “Shit,” You whispered to yourself and bent down to pull on a pair of her gym shoes since yours had been destroyed from years of wear. If nothing else, you needed to prepare to run. 

Grabbing a black hoodie from her shelves, you slipped it on over your t-shirt and pulled the hood up to keep your face hidden as much as possible. You would only have one shot at this, and you needed to make it count. 

Moving slowly toward Sarah’s bedroom door, you waited to see if you could hear Rafe’s presence down the hall but silence followed. The doorbell rang, Ward yelling out for his son in hopes that he would bring you down but Rafe didn’t answer.

“Hi, I’m Rebecca Sinclair with DCS. I’m presuming you’re Mr. Cameron.” 

Risking the step into the open, you walked out of Sarah’s room and kept your body pressed against the wall so you would be out of view for Ward and the DCS rep but could see their conversation.

“That would be me. Come in, can I get you something to drink?”

Rebecca shook her head. “This should be fairly quick. Where is Miss Routledge? I have to do an individual check in with her and then one with you as the legal guardian.”

“Let me go see where she’s at. She’s been having a really hard time with the loss of her brother and my daughter. They were such good friends, and-”

“Miss Routledge, please, Mr. Cameron.”

The DCS rep clearly wasn’t putting up with Ward. You took the chance to step forward into view, your mouth opening to yell out before someone’s hand clamped over your face and an arm yanked you back from view. You screamed against the action, the sound echoing throughout the hall.

“Apologies, she’s been crying all day. I’ll go grab her.”

Body thrashing, you attempted to pull out of Rafe’s grasp but he doubled down on his grip, even when you attempted to bite his hand. 

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll kill you!” He hissed in your ear as he dragged you down the hallway back into the room you’d seen for days upon days. Rafe tried to close the door as quietly as possible while still corralling you in his arms.

He slammed you against the bed covers, knee driving into your stomach as he kept his hand over your mouth. You cried out at the force, tears springing to your eyes at the pain that followed. You tried to push against his chest so he would get off, his other hand tightening around your throat causing the air to stop its way into your lungs.

You choked, eyes going wide as you stared back at him in hopes that he would find some sort of empathy and forgiveness, but cold eyes met yours. 

“I told you to shut the fuck up, you useless Pogue. I should kill you for-”

“Rafe.” Ward’s voice was demanding enough that his son stopped speaking but continued to glare at you. “Move your hand.”

Rafe complied, taking his hand from your throat but keeping the one on your mouth. You continued to push at him until he dropped more of his weight into the knee on your stomach and you cried again.

Ward’s face came into view, his sickly fake smile on his face as he held a small syringe into your view. “You could’ve just listened, you know? And we wouldn’t have to go to these lengths.”

He wasn’t gentle as he pushed the needle into your skin, subjecting you to whatever sedative he’d claimed good enough to handle your outburst. 

Your body went quiet within seconds, muscles relaxing and a numbness spreading from limb to limb. Your imaginary fight with Rafe ended and tears fell from your eyes at the helpless feeling. After a moment, Rafe moved his hand and shifted off of you as Ward tossed a spare blanket over your form.

“Go to your room, I’ll handle this.” 

You could tell Rafe wanted to disagree with Ward’s directions, but with a final glare your way, he removed himself from the room. Ward watched as your expression drooped, eyes blinking slower as the medicine kicked in. 

“I told you, you’ll never see them again.”

Heavy tears blinked from your eyes as you tried to fight through, tried to stay awake to warn the woman downstairs of your horrendous conditions, of how damaged they’d left you. But you couldn’t, despite all your efforts, you couldn’t. 

And as your vision faded to black, all you could think of was your brother and how you wanted to be with him again, more than anything in the world. 

--

And now, John B was going to be sick to his stomach so he stood up to pace while fighting the bile in his throat. Rafe Cameron. Rafe Cameron took away something you’d never even had a chance to consider.

“Did he…” The open ended question made John B dizzy at the thought of everything that you’d gone through, and when you shook your head no, he choked out a cough instead of the lunch he was threatening to leave in the bush.

You watched him from your spot on the stairs, heart racing as you recounted everything you’d told Kie earlier that day. “There was so much, um, scar tissue from the kicking…and the drugs. A-and they said it caused permanent damage that even if I wanted to get pregnant, I wouldn’t make it long.”

“When did you find out? The hospital? Or-or-” John B stopped pacing, his hand tugging at his hair to keep him from absolutely raging in the cemetery.

“It was when you got arrested,” You continued to explain around your tears before he lost his chill. “There was so much bleeding and… I didn’t know what to do…so I told Pope, and his dad took me to the hospital and-”

“Pope knows?” John B had never sounded so upset at the idea of one of his best friends finding out this information before he did. You were his sister, his other half no matter what happened. He wanted you to trust him, to lean on him for everything and anything you wanted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You shrugged lightly, your voice cracking as you spoke, “Because I’m embarrassed? And ashamed and JJ’s going to leave when he finds out and-”

John B picked you up from the stairs and held you so tightly, he could’ve sworn you disappeared. His chest shook with your sobs as you sunk into the embrace. You weren’t even 19 yet and the possibility of growing a family with your boyfriend, John B’s best friend, was practically non-existent. 

Adoption was always an option, but John B knew what you were grieving, because he had almost grieved it when he lost Sarah on that table in Nassau. Plus, let’s not lie, the chances of you all getting your shit together and getting approved for that kind of thing were slipping away by the day. There was still so much time in your lives (you hoped), that you shouldn’t be hearing this news at such a young age, but like you said, life had been so cruel. 

John B stood there, with you in his arms, for as long as you’d let him. You cried for most of it, but a part of you was relieved he knew. You had tried to keep the conversation away as long as possible, like if you didn’t speak of it, you’d never have to accept that it was real. But it was, and you had to come to the realization that John B wouldn’t be an uncle to kids that you’d created on your own, that JJ wouldn’t ever get to redeem himself as a Dad to kids of his own, that you’d never get that experience.

 “I’m so sorry, I… I should’ve been there, I should’ve never left without you,” John B apologized and placed his hand on the back of your head to hold you closer. “God, I shouldn’t have-I didn’t mean for this to happen. I never meant for any of this to happen.” 

 “‘S not your fault,” You mumbled, every word being so honest. It had taken a lot of thought, but you couldn’t and you wouldn’t blame John B for what he’d done. He was a terrified kid, and you were too in your own ways. He was running for his life and you were watching from the sidelines. Older and younger. Brother and sister. Trapped in this horrible spiral life had given you.

“What are we looking for?”

An unsuspecting voice had you and John B diving for a hiding spot, your brother tugging you behind a gravestone that would keep both of you from prying eyes. John B held a finger to his lips, teary eyes making contact with yours as you were wrenched out of your heartbreaking conversation and back into reality. 

Keeping his hand on your shoulder to hold you out of view, John B peeked around the gravestone to see two figures wandering the cemetery with a lantern, obviously looking for something other than a deceased loved one. 

“We’re looking for an angel. A gatekeeper. One that looks a bit like her. Hello, Stede Bonnet,” A woman answered the question. “Isn’t that a beauty? Excellent, come on.”

You shivered, whether from the cool stone against your back or fear, you didn’t know and risked glancing over to see the two figures investigating another grave a few feet away from you. They were pulling out heavy tools in an attempt to open whatever was lying inside. 

“Shit,” John B whispered as you watched the woman place the amulet you’d found in the shipwreck into the stone, the headstone scraping open as she did. You quickly recognized the man as the one who had caught you and JJ while diving and again in the hospital, so that left this woman to be his boss.

After a moment of silence and more scraping noises, they disappeared under the stone, down into the tomb that lay beneath. Thunder cracked overhead and you jumped, grabbing onto John B’s arm in surprise. 

He moved away slowly and your grip tightened to stop him. “John B!”

“Shh, just stay behind me. We’re so not done with that conversation, by the way.”

You shuffled out slowly in fear of someone getting the jump on the two of you. John B paused in front of the headstone that the two people from earlier read; the angel statue had an outstretched hand, which you followed to the tomb they disappeared in.

“The gatekeeper will guide the way,” John B repeated as he followed your gaze. “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit,” You gasped out in shock, realizing they very much had figured out the words on the amulet faster than you’d planned. “Do you think…”

“They’ll be fine,” John B reassured, although you couldn’t tell if he was speaking more to himself or you. “They’re smart. Right?”

You tilted your head in consideration. “Better than us being down there.”

“Yeah, yeah. Way better than us.”

“Pope’s super smart.”

“Right and Cleo’s got her knife.”

“Sarah’s not dumb, she’ll be fine.”

“Kie can have her moments, but-”

Your reasoning was cut off as the headstone shifted and the two individuals from earlier climbed out. John B pushed you behind him further into the shadows of the building as you watched on with curious gazes. Lightning lit up the sky before thunder boomed around you, the storm clearly moving in closer despite your wishes. 

You needed to find your friends. And fast.

--

navigation -- series masterlist

ask me anything

[powdermelonkeg]

Trying to figure out TP Link's diet based on his environment.

Livestock-wise, we've got cuccos and goats. That means

Eggs

Milk

Butter

Cheese

Potentially meat, but I don't think they get eaten unless they're old. Too valuable otherwise | EDIT: Oh yeah you need to breed goats every couple years to get milk. Add in cabrito veal!

And we know for a fact that Ordon Goat Cheese specifically is a thing. Stamped wheel and everything.

There's also fish

And bees/hornets(? It's called bee larva, but the enemy is a Hylian Hornet)

Useful for bait, but Link can eat them.

Did some more research, and apparently in Japan they eat wasp larvae? Specifically in Kushihara. So I'm counting it.

Then plants-wise we have pumpkins

And...corn. Somehow. I've never seen corn growing, but Link has some hanging in his house, so it exists.

I'm choosing to believe it comes from these plants that grow in patches around Ordon.

That gives us a lot. We've got

Cornstarch

Cornmeal

Corn oil

Corn shoots

Pumpkin seeds

Pumpkin seed oil

Pumpkin flour

Pumpkin blossoms

No source of sugar, but depending on how the pumpkins in Ordon taste, they could be naturally sweet. Like pie pumpkins. Also corn syrup is a thing if it's a sweet corn. So corn syrup needs cream of tartar which comes from grapes and apples and such. It's a byproduct of wine. No corn syrup.

Edit: Malt sugar, though!

Now for hypothetical foods.

Ordon is surrounded by pine trees, so that adds pine needle tea and pine nuts to the mix. I was a little worried about species, but apparently there are a lot of pine trees that make edible seeds, so on the list it goes.

Then there are frogs near Rusl and Uli's house, wild songbirds on cliffs, and a squirrel that talks to Link directly, so those are huntable sources of meat.

Is horse grass a cattail? Maybe? Initially, I thought it was—the ends look like cattail seedpuffs, but the leaves are completely different.

I want to treat them like cattails. Cattails that also are probably the main food source for Epona and the goats.

If we do that, that means, on top of all the other uses cattails have like stuffing and tinder and antiseptic, we get

Roots

Shoots

Ground seeds

Can't find a good match for hawk grass though. Concluding that that's not edible. Equivalent exchange and all.

Side note, how do you think horse grass spreads? It's almost always in groups of two or more plants, so that suggests rhizomes, but the image of Link picking one up to blow and stuffing flying out the end of the horseshoe is hilarious to me.

Up next, there are ferns, primarily near trees. After very careful and way-too-deep analysis of a pixelated fern's leaves, I think it's bracken fern.

Which is mildly poisonous.

And also edible.

On the list it goes!

Then finally, Sera has some kind of herb hanging in her shop.

I don't know what it is. I'm calling it Ordon Spice. Congratulations, Ordon Pumpkin Spice is now a thing.

[tomahachi12]

What's the story behind your drone-sona? Since she has the Cabin Fever tag, I was curious what's the story behind her.

BUCKLE UP, IT'S A LONG ONE (some of this is headcanon crap, so not all info would be show accurate)

Toma (012) was a just regular worker drone working within the offices of the JCJenson Mining Facility.

The area of the offices she worked in had drones split into small groups to complete larger projects. She was part of the group which included Nori (002), Yeva (048) and Alice (017) (I LOVE THEM LEAVE ME ALONE).

She was usually tasked with taking paperwork back and forth between her group to turn in or for them to work on, something she was.. pretty bad at.

Because of Nori's shenanigans, their group often got in trouble with the humans.

At some point, Drones began to be selected from a lottery pool to be transferred to the lower levels of the facility. At first, the Humans would play this off as a "promotion" of sorts in order to keep the drones from becoming suspicious of their intentions and keep their minds at ease.

As time went on, the humans dropped the façade and the drones began to fear these selections, given that the chosen drones were never seen or heard from again after being selected.

Eventually, Toma's ID was drawn as the next to go. (she was chosen first out of their group, next was Alice, then Yeva and Nori was the last)

Toma was taken down the Cabin Fever Labs to be used in the "Solver" experiments.

When she was infected with the Solver Program, it took her over instantly. She was quickly given an early version of the patch (1.5.8) before causing too much damage.

The effect of the Solver's code on her body left her lethargic and forgetful. Since she was patched early, she cannot use the solver, but still suffers from it's effects; occasional possession, the need to consume oil, ect..

Not being able to provide much information for their research, the humans mostly kept her bound in her locker. Sometimes they even forgot she was in there.

Before the core collapse, she was able to escape her chains and wondered around the mines for a minute before the eventual implosion.

She was blown out the facility and somehow managed to survive, not only the blast, but even the crash back down to the planet. Though it knocked her offline for a time, causing anyone that found her to think she was dead.

RIP Toma lol

After she eventually woke up, she stayed put for a few months, hiding out in the outer buildings of the facility until she was found by another worker drone.

This drone invited Toma to join his colony, Outpost 9. She agreed and followed him to the base (wow Toma, ever heard of stranger danger gdamn..)

Toma was welcomed in this colony and she lived there for several years, learning how to live a life free from human-control. She was even able to pick up an old hobby she was never allowed to do back at the offices, drawing.

The nightmares gave her plenty to draw anyway.

Eventually, it all went to shit when the Murder Drones showed up, popped that base open like a soda can, and killed everyone inside.

Toma's solver kept her hidden long enough her to escape unnoticed. She needed somewhere to go and began to make her way toward the city she saw in the distance.

( oh hi, Y )

It took a while but she made it to the City only to find, you guessed it, more Murder Drones. She somehow managed to dodge them as well and found her way to some very large doors that resembled the ones back at her old colony. She frantically banged on the doors, shouting for help as she Murder Drones closed in on her.

The doors suddenly cracked open and a hand reached out, grabbing hold of Toma's coat and pulled her inside before slamming shut again.

She was met by a group of drones all sitting around a table, seemingly playing cards. The drone that pulled her in helped her up to her feet. After checking if she was alright, he introduced himself as "Khan" the apparent leader of this colony. Outpost 3.

She was welcomed in` just as warmly as she was in her last colony, and settled in easily, but soon found this colony was quite.. different from her old one. There were.. "kids" running around, and "babies" and... "teenagers".. Some drones were even married.

She also found out that every adult drones had to contribute to their society as well, unless they were raising children. Everyone had a job, and Toma was expected to have one as well.

She decided to join the Worker Defense Force, mostly as "watchman". She was tasked with doing patrols around the colony, looking out for any potential problems or weak points that could cause a breach.

She was pretty bad at it since she kept falling asleep while on patrol or forgetting where she was suppose to be.

The others were very forgiving toward her, though, but they figured she needed a different job.

After taking note of her interest in art, she was given the job as the new Art Teacher for the school.

Now if only she could stop falling asleep in class..

TL;DR/I only looked at the pretty pictures:

Toma was part of the Solver Experiments and now lives at Outpost 3 as the resident dumbass Art Teacher.

[elicathebunny]

HEALTH SHOULD ALWAYS COME FIRST! PRIORITISING HEALTH BEFORE EVERYTHING ELSE TO LOOK GOOD + FEEL GOOD.

People always leave out the basics when it comes to trying to improve their looks. Prioritising health is so important before going in and tempering with your body. Your base is what you work with and you can definitely level up with what you've got naturally.

DIET

Your diet also depends on what your goals are. Someone who wants to build muscle will obviously eat differently from someone who just eats relatively healthy. So identify what your goals are and work your meals around that.

Here are some videos to give you a better insight: HOW I LOSE FAT AND KEEP IT OFF MEANS, WORKOUTS + EVERYTHING ELSE PROTEIN EXPLAINED, STRENGTH, MUSCLES, FAT LOSS & ENDURANCE HOW METABOLISM WORKS

Diet not only makes you feel better from the inside, but it also reflects on your outside. Your skin is a huge display of how you eat.

When you consume junk food, it can show up on your skin as breakouts or dullness. Your skin is one massive organ which soaks up everything put onto it and reflects everything you put inside your body. Fix the problem from the inside before getting confused about why your skincare routine isn't working.

FITNESS

Again, your fitness will differentiate from your goals. So work out your goals and make a plan around that. There are so many forms of fitness, some more intense than others and with different results. Working out in general is good for you, our bodies are meant to move. So even if you don't have a goal, staying active is always recommended.

HOW TO CREATE THE PERFECT WORKOUT PLAN

THE BEST WAY TO GAIN MUSCLE, SCIENCE EXPLAINED SIMPLY

Low-intensity workouts:

Yoga: Focuses on flexibility, strength, and relaxation through various poses and breathing techniques.

Pilates: A low-impact exercise method that strengthens muscles, improves flexibility, and enhances posture.

Walking: Simple yet effective, walking is a great way to improve cardiovascular health and boost mood without high impact.

Swimming: Provides a full-body workout with minimal stress on joints, making it ideal for people with joint issues or injuries.

High-intensity workouts:

HIIT (High-Intensity Interval Training): Alternates between short bursts of intense exercise and brief recovery periods to maximize calorie burn and improve cardiovascular fitness.

CrossFit: Combines elements of weightlifting, interval training, gymnastics, and other exercises to build strength, endurance, and overall fitness.

Sprinting: Short, explosive bursts of running at maximum effort, often performed in intervals for cardiovascular conditioning and leg muscle strength.

Circuit Training: Involves moving through a series of exercises targeting different muscle groups with minimal rest in between, combining strength training and cardiovascular exercise.

These are just a few examples, but there are plenty of other workout styles out there to explore depending on your preferences and fitness goals. Walking every day is just a simple way to stay toned.

SLEEP

Sleeping is important for rest and recovery after workouts and energy-consuming activities. Sleep is needed for the brain to function, mood regulation and performance + productivity. Lack of sleep deprives you of all of these things, so getting your beauty sleep is absolutely needed.

School-age children (6-13 years): 9-11 hours per day.

Teenagers (14-17 years): 8-10 hours per day.

Young adults (18-25 years): 7-9 hours per day.

Adults (26-64 years): 7-9 hours per day.

HYGIENE

Upkeeping good hygiene is always needed anyway. Making sure you are clean (smelling good is a plus). Make sure you always wash your hands and take daily showers to remove any dirt on your body (clean those feet and your back well, don't forget them!). Taking care of your oral health must not be forgotten. Oil pulling and brushing your tongue for a healthy mouth. Make sure your hair is also getting the attention to keep it as healthy as you possibly can make it (this also depends on diet). Doing the extra things like spending time on your nails (making sure there isn't that stuff underneath them), making them pretty.

BODY CARE ROUTINE | FOR SMOOTH & GLOWING SKIN, TREATING KERATOSIS PILARIS, SHOWER ROUTINE

ENVIRONMENT

Having a stress-free environment is obviously the best to thrive in. But clearly not even being lucky enough to live like that constantly. So make sure you have that space to be on your own and have some alone time to really recharge. Keeping your space clean for a clear mind. Surround yourself with like-minded people and really set boundaries for those who prey on your mental clarity (energy vampires). Spending time in nature is one of the best ways to detach, rest time should not equal spending time on your devices. Let go and truly let yourself decompress. Mental health will improve how you carry yourself.

EMBODY YOUR POTENTIAL.

[theliteraryarchitect]

A Word of Advice About Critique Groups, Beta Readers, and Other Peer-Based Feedback on Your Writing

In my time as a professional editor, I've had many writers come to me with stories they've been trying to improve based on suggestions from critique groups, beta readers, or other non-professional feedback sources (friends, family, etc.). The writers are often frustrated because they don't agree with the feedback, they can't make sense of the comments they've gotten, or they've tried their best to implement the suggestions but now they've made a big mess of things and don't know where to go from here.

If this happens to you, you're not alone. Here's the deal.

Readers and beginning writers are great at sniffing out problems, but they can be terrible at recommending solutions. For that reason, critique groups can be a disastrous place for beginning writers to get advice.

Here's a good metaphor. Imagine you don’t know the first thing about cars. Someone tells you, “There’s oil leaking onto the driveway. You should cover the car with a giant garbage bag.” Alarmed, you oblige, only to be told the next day that “now the car smells like burning plastic and I can’t see out the windows.”

A mechanic would’ve listened to the critic’s complaint and come up with their own solution to the leaking oil, ignoring the amateur’s ridiculous idea, because they know how to fix cars and can use their skills to investigate symptoms and find the correct solution.

Critique groups actually aren’t bad places for experienced writers, because they can listen to the criticism, interpret it, and come up with their own remedies to the problems readers are complaining about. Beginning writers, on the other hand, can end up digging themselves into a deeper hole.

There's a great Neil Gaiman quote about this very conundrum:

Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.

So what to do?

First, try to investigate the reader's complaint and come up with your own solution, instead of taking their solution to the problem. Sometimes, in the end, the reader's solution was exactly right, which is lovely, but don't count on it. Do your own detective work.

Second, take everything you hear with a huge grain of salt, and run the numbers. Are 9 out of 10 readers complaining about your rushed ending? It's probably worth investigating. Does nobody have an issue with your abrasive antagonist except your cozy mystery-loving uncle? Then you might not need to worry about it.

Third, give everything you hear a gut check. Does the criticism, while painful, ring true? Or does it seem really off-base to you? Let the feedback sit for a week or so while you chill out. You might find you're less sensitive and open to what's been said after a little more time has passed.

Lastly, consider getting professional feedback on your writing. Part of my job as an editor is to listen to previous feedback the writer has gotten, figure out whether the readers were tracking the scent of legitimate problems, and offer the writer more coherent solutions. Of course, some professional editors aren't very good at this, just like some non-professional readers are amazing at it, so hiring someone isn't a guarantee. But editors usually have more experience taking a look under the hood and giving writers sound mechanical advice about their work, rather than spouting ideas off the top of their head that only add to the writer's confusion.

Hope this helps!

[diejager]

omegaverse anon here, could you do the cod group with a beta reader? Like, they stay really out of the way, not really used to getting any attention from alphas or omegas

Unusual Attraction Cw: omegaverse, awkward!reader, ell me if I missed any.

You were an oddity of a beta, your stronger nose made interacting with people harder than other betas, it made you stand out from your peers, they deemed you a beta stronger than the usual beta and that made you feel isolated and alone. You were used to alphas ordering you around and moving you from team to team for your nose and clear mind, you were a asset to have on certain teams where they needed a buffer that wasn’t an heat-prone omega. And despite your constant entourage of omegas and alphas, you never stopped flinching or wincing when someone’s scent became too strong, the musk burning your nose in an enclosed area like the mess hall, the training areas, or even public spaces. 

You preferred keeping to yourself, to alleviate the growing headache pounding at your head, to find a calmer corner of the base you were permanently moved to. You knew the people you worked with from prior assignments, a few times on month long covert operation and others on week long clandestine missions offshore, but you liked your silence when you could afford to find it. Even outside, their scents clung to your clothes, the strong smell of Price’s smoke and Ghost’s bourbon, the distinct notes of strength and dominance that screamed Alpha, Soap’s sweeter and softer citrus that you could pick up despite the scent blockers and Gaz’s gentle vanilla, a soothing calmness that reminded you that you weren’t the only buffer to the team, that you were the only beta.

“Found ye, Hound!” You liked the way Soap said your callsign, his accent coming into play to make it sound different —special. 

He swung his arm over your shoulder, pulling you to his side, your nose twitching from how close you were to his scent glands. You felt like he did it with intention, always finding a way to have you smelling like him and filling your mind with his scent, it was near addictive —so much so that you would’ve succumbed to it if you were an alpha, mind shutting off and body acting on it’s own volition. You wouldn’t blame anyone for it, Soap smelled so good, a sinful delight that people were deprived of, and when he wasn’t using the patches, it numbed your mind, made you slow and sloppy with your thoughts and acts. He knew the effect he had on you and he loved it from his constant hazing, flashing his gland in your face and drowning you in it whenever he could. Perhaps it was his claim on you, you never truly understood the whole dynamic, you were a buffer with a better nose, nothing more and nothing less.

“We were lookin’ fer ye,” he walked back in, still holding you in his grasp, “We’re going tae the pub. Thought ah’d come and get ye.”

They, on multiple occasions, had invited you to go drink with them, extending that olive branch your way with smiles and encouraging nods. You were tempted to accept, but you didn’t do well in enclosed and crowed spaces, so you declined over and over, but they never stopped asking you. It got to a point where you were waiting for them to stop asking, to tire themselves of befriended you, and yet, they never did, going so far as to pull you along despite your grumbling and exhaustion, promising a night of rest and relaxation at the pub. 

And fortunately, their words rang true, it was a blessing to your nose that the owners burned an overpowering but gentle incense that blocked all types of scents, a relief you rarely got. The only thing you could smell was the comforting scents of your new pack, the oil-packed burgers and fries, and the strong burn of alcohol, all thing that you didn’t mind as long as it came in moderation to your nose. After your first drunken and giggling visit to the pub with them, basking in their attention, Soap throwing himself over Ghost’s lap and grinning at you cheekily, Gaz leaning against your side, nuzzling the crook of your shoulder, Ghost’s big and warm hand grasping your thigh and Price looking on with so much pride. 

“The occasion?” You followed him blindly, blinking lazily at him.

“Yer third month with us,” he smiled widely, something carnal and wild, befitting more an alpha than the omega he was. Maybe that’s why he could easily pass as an alpha, with all his bravado and broadness, either way, he was a dangerous man alone, but as a Task Force, they were a menace.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry

[blueiscoool]

How Hadrian’s Wall is Revealing a Hidden Side of Roman History

A party invitation. A broken flipflop. A wig. Letters of complaint about road conditions, and an urgent request for more beer.

It sounds like the aftermath of a successful spring break, but these items are nearly 2,000 years old.

They’re just some of the finds from Hadrian’s Wall – the 73-mile stone wall built as the northwestern boundary of the Roman Empire, sealing off Britannia (modern-day England and Wales) from Caledonia (essentially today’s Scotland).

While most of us think of Pompeii and Herculaneum if we’re thinking of everyday objects preserved from ancient Rome, this outpost in the wild north of the empire is home to some of the most extraordinary finds.

“It’s a very dramatic stamp on the countryside – there’s nothing more redolent of saying you’re entering the Roman empire than seeing that structure,” says Richard Abdy, lead curator of the British Museum’s current exhibition, Legion, which spotlights the everyday life of Roman soldiers, showcasing many finds from Hadrian’s Wall in the process. A tenth of the Roman army was based in Britain, and that makes the wall a great source of military material, he says.

But it’s not all about the soldiers, as excavations are showing.

A multicultural melting pot

Hadrian, who ordered the wall to be built in 122CE after a visit to Britannia, had a different vision of empire than his predecessors, says Frances McIntosh, curator for English Heritage’s 34 sites along Hadrian’s Wall.

“All the emperors before him were about expanding the empire, but Hadrian was known as the consolidator,” she says. He relinquished some of the territory acquired by his predecessor Trajan, and “decided to set the borders” – literally, in some cases, with wooden poles at sites in Germany, or with stone in Britannia. Where those poles rotted thousands of years ago, the wall is still standing: “A great visual reminder” of the Roman empire, says McIntosh.

It’s not just a wall. There’s a castle every mile along, and turrets at every third-of-a-mile point, with ditches and banks both north and south. “You can imagine the kind of impact that would have had, not just on the landscape but on the people living in the area,” says McIntosh.

And thanks to the finds from the wall, we know a surprising amount about those people.

Although historians have long thought of army outposts as remote, male-dominant places, the excavations along the wall show that’s not the case. Not only were soldiers accompanied by their families, but civilians would settle around the settlements to do business. “ You can almost see Housesteads as a garrison town,” says McIntosh. “There were places you could go for a drink and so on.”

The Roman rule of thumb was not to post soldiers in the place they came from, because of the risk of rebellion. That meant Hadrian’s Wall was a cultural melting point, with cohorts from modern-day Netherlands, Spain, Romania, Algeria, Iraq, Syria – and more. “It was possibly more multicultural because it was a focus point,” says McIntosh, who says that the surrounding community might have included traders from across the empire.

Soldiers were split into two groups. Legionaries were Roman citizens from Italy, who had more rights than other soldiers and imported olive oil, wine and garum (a sauce made from decomposing fish).

They worked alongside auxiliaries – soldiers from conquered provinces, who had fewer rights, but could usually acquire citizenship after 25 years of service.

Soldiers carved their names and regiments on stones to show which part of the wall they built – around 50 of them are on display at Chesters fort.

But the wall shows that women and children were equally present.

McIntosh says that pottery brought to the camps – from the Low Countries and North Africa – shows that the soldiers “brought their families, who cooked in traditional style.” Archaeologists have found what seems to be an ancient tagine for North African-style cooking.

A tombstone from Arbeia fort for a woman named Regina shows she was a freed slave from southern Britain who was bought by – and married to – a Syrian soldier.

Another woman buried at Birdoswald fort was laid to rest with chainmail that appears to be from modern-day Poland. “Perhaps she married someone in the army,” says McIntosh, who calls the wall a “melting pot of people from all over the world under the banner of the army.”

“They brought their own religions, as well as worshipping Roman gods and adopting local deities,” she adds. At Carrawburgh, a temple to Mithras – an originally Persian deity – sat near a spring with a shrine to a local water spirit.

‘Wretched little Brits’

Some of the most extraordinary finds from the Roman empire are coming from one site on Hadrian’s Wall: Vindolanda. Here, archaeologists have found a wealth of organic remains because of what curator Barbara Birley calls the “unusual conditions onsite.”

At Vindolanda there are the remains of at least nine forts over 14 levels. “When the Romans would leave, they would knock down timber forts, and cover the area with turf and clay, sealing the layers underneath,” she says.

“Because it happened so many times, the bottom five or six layers are sealed in anaerobic conditions, so things don’t decay. When we get down there, we get wooden objects, textiles, anything organic.”

Vindolanda has the largest collection of Roman textiles from a single site in western Europe, as well as the largest leather collection of any site in the Roman empire – including 5,000 shoes, and even a broken leather flip-flop. “We probably had a population of 3,000 to 6,000 depending on the period, so 5,000 is a lot,” says Birley. For Abdy, the shoes evoke the conditions of the wet borderlands. “Women’s and children’s shoes are hobnailed – you needed it in the mucky frontier dirt tracks. They’re very evocative.”

There’s even a wig made from a local plant, hair moss, which is said to repel midges – the scourge of Scotland during the summer. A centurion’s helmet is also crested with hairmoss – the ancient equivalent of spraying yourself with insect repellent.

The first woman to write in Latin

One of the most famous finds is the trove of wooden writing tablets – the largest found anywhere.

“They give a snapshot of what life was actually like,” says Birley. “We understand so much more from written correspondence than from ‘stuff,’ and, archaeologically, it’s the stuff that usually survives – things like metals and ceramics.

“These were written in ink, not on a wax stylus tablet, and we believe they were used for what we’d put in emails: ‘The roads are awful,’ ‘The soldiers need more beer.’ Everyday business.”

The tablets – or “personal letters” as Birley describes them – were found on the site of a bonfire when the ninth cohort of Batavians (in the modern-day Netherlands) were told to move on.

“They had a huge bonfire and lots of letters were chucked in the fire. Some have been singed – we think it may have rained,” she says. One of them calls the locals “Britunculi” – “wretched little Brits.” Another talks about an outbreak of pinkeye. One claims that the roads are too bad to send wagons; another laments that the soldiers have run out of beer.

Among the 1,700 letters are 20 that mention a woman called Sulpicia Lepidina. She was the wife of the commander of the garrison, and seems to have played a crucial role. There’s a letter to her from another woman, Paterna, agreeing to send her two medicines, one a fever cure.

Birley says it’s similar to today. “If you’re a group of moms, still today we say, ‘Do you have the Calpol?’ It’s very human.” For Abdy, it’s a sign that women were traders. “She’s clearly flogging her medicines,” he says. “It’s really great stuff.”

Another tablet is an invite from Claudia Severa, the wife of another commander at a nearby camp. It’s an invitation to a birthday party. Under the formal invitation, presumably written by a scribe, is a scrawl in another hand: “I shall expect you, sister. Farewell, sister, my dearest soul.”

Presumably written by Claudia herself, it is thought to be the earliest example of a woman’s handwriting in Latin.

Without the organic finds – the shoes and the letters that indisputably belonged to women, unlike jewellery or weaving equipment – it’s difficult to prove conclusively that women lived in significant numbers. Vindolanda “illustrate the missing gaps,” says Abdy. For Birley, they prove that women were as crucial a part of army communities as men. “Before the Lepidina tablets were found we didn’t really understand the interactions between the soldiers and their wives,” she says. Another tablet is written by what is thought to be a Spanish standard-bearer’s common-law wife, ordering military equipment for her partner.

“The Vindolanda collection is showing that there weren’t just camp followers and prostitutes; women were part of everyday life, and contributing to the military community in many ways,” says Birley.

Abdy says that Hadrian’s Wall is interesting because the resident women span “all classes of society,” from Regina – the dead freedwoman, who would have been “bottom of the heap” – to the trader Paterna and the noblewoman Lepidina.

And of course, there’s the wall itself.

“In the Netherlands and Germany the finds are often stunning and better preserved – you go to museums and are bowled over. But in terms of structural remains, Hadrian’s Wall must be among the best,” says McIntosh, modestly, of her site.

Abdy agrees: “I can’t think of many symbols so redolent of imperial will than that wall.”

By Julia Buckley.

[luxurychristmaspudding]

listen

summary: you’ve been serving frankie and his friends at your bar for months. despite your wishing and wanting, the shy pilot doesn’t work up the nerve to ask you out before santi introduces you to his buddy, joel.

swept off your feet by the sweet southerner, and charmed by pope, the boys come together to show frankie exactly what it is he’s missing.

read part 2, watch, here

grouping: f!reader x joel miller x frankie morales x santiago garcia

rating/warnings: 18+. MDNI. no outbreak (tlou) - but based after the tf mission. softdom!joel, softdom!santi, sub!frankie, sub!reader, voyeurism, exhibitionism, maybe MFM?, sharing the luuuurve, praise kink, one (1) count of spitting in mouth, dirty talk, daddy kink (heavy, sorry lmao), oral (f&m receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it!), creampie, come eating, pussyjob?, so many orgasms i started to lose count, maybe a tiny bit of angst, m!masturbation, light choking, f!overstim, bad spanish, right okay we’re done.

wc: 14.7k. we aren't gonna talk about it.

an: this is fucking filthy. i’m sorry. don’t ask.

When you first started to hang out with them all, Will told you that Frankie was useless with women. What you didn’t expect was for him to be this fucking oblivious.

You had been bartending when you met him at a bar downtown - all industrial steel, burnished mirrors, and low light. Frankie and the boys would come in every so often, and you warmed to them immediately. It was hard not to. The four men were always respectful, always polite. They never overstayed their welcome, or their tolerance, and always asked how you were. 

Of course, it helped that they were also handsome, and you quickly fell into the trap you were sure they wove for all hospitality staff. The lingering glances from their table, the crooked smiles at the bar. The competition they seemed to enjoy amongst themselves of who could lather you with the most attention.

Will and Benny did particularly well. The elder brother saved a special, particularly mischievous smile and a wink for you every time he came to order, and saved a special, bruising elbow to the ribs for his brother every time he caught Benny staring. Benny was always a hoot considering his sore ribs, the air never seeming to have been knocked from him as he chatted away to you across the polished wood.

But it was the quieter two, Frankie and Santi, who piqued your curiosity. Santi - often cool, detached; who offered little information in the way of his life but seemed to want to be wrapped up in yours. Who would watch you over the rim of his glass of whisky, drop his eyes to your lips, dip his mouth in a smirk, and say he’d see you later. And Frankie, who could do almost nothing but watch you from his corner of their booth, his Standard Oil cap sunk low on his brow, both hands around his bottle. His deep swallow when you’d catch his eye. The blush that would crawl up his neck, threading through his cheeks when you smiled.

Over the months they came to the bar while you worked there, the five of you became friends of sorts. Once in a blue moon turned into once every two weeks, turned into every Saturday night. And you made sure you were always there, sacrificing the time you would have spent surfing social media on your sofa for time spent flirting with your favourite regulars. Enjoying their eyes on you. Enjoying Frankie’s blush when you called him sugar as you asked if he needed anything else. 

One day, you hoped he’d gather enough courage to give you the answer you hoped for.

You.

But he never did.

When the time came for you to move on from the bar, you made sure to let them know. Your new job further into the city was a step exactly in the direction you wanted to go, and though the men shared touching groans of disappointment, they congratulated you wholeheartedly. 

They also invited you to their Saturday night drinks. You gladly accepted. 

On your last shift, Will slid you Frankie’s mobile number, explaining that he was the most reliable member, the one most likely to know what was going on with the group at any given time. When you ribbed him about how he must always be on his phone, Frankie shyly admitted it was because he had a daughter. He was constantly on the lookout for updates, sweet little pictures and messages his ex would send over. They had a good relationship, and his kid - Lucia - was gorgeous. They just live a little far away, Frankie had admitted, a sad little frown glazing over his features. 

You had softened to him even more, asking him questions about his daughter over the bar while you poured his drinks, propping your chin in your hand and listening to him as he continued to talk after you were finished. You found yourself trying to make Frankie laugh, to hear his sweet chuckle, to brush a touch against his arm, see the sparkle in his eyes beneath his cap - similar, you imagined, to how your own eyes glittered back at him. 

The conversation only stalled when Benny called for him - Fish, where are those drinks? - earning himself a thump from Will, who muttered something about Frankie finally finding the courage and Benny’s big fuckin’ mouth. Frankie’s cheeks had heated, and he'd cleared his throat, thanking you before gathering all the drinks in his large hands and heading back to the booth.

What you had overheard heated the tips of your ears and rattled around your brain, looming in the back of your mind when you joined them the Saturday after. 

But Will's words must have just been a silly little joke, because no matter how hard you try, Frankie will not bend. No matter what you wear, no matter what you do, the curly haired pilot remains firmly out of reach.

And it’s not like you don’t have fun together. You join them on nights out. You’ve been invited over for poker games and parties. You share glances with Frankie, jokes, tales, hell, sometimes he even puts an arm around you. But it’s always the same. The end of the evening is always frustratingly uneventful. 

Crowded into sweaty bars and packed living rooms, you’re caught in a never ending circle of wanting and longing. Maybe that’s why, one night, you find yourself exchanging heated glances with Santi. 

Frankie never really touches you beyond a hug and a kiss on the cheek when you arrive, and remains a staunch gentleman no matter how much he drinks. Santi seems to strive to do the opposite. He finds you in the kitchen one night, trying to cool off after watching Frankie laugh and lean into another woman’s conversation, feeling foolish, immature, but trying to blink away tears anyway. 

He talks to you like you’re the only interesting person he’s ever met, standing a little too close for a friend, only moving away when you’re interrupted by one of Benny’s buddies searching for a beer. When you return to the living room, Frankie notices. Notices how Santi pulls you in close when you’re near, presses a kiss to your hair, places a casual hand on your knee when you’re sat next to each other. And how you let him do it. 

When Santi drops you off at your house, he looks at your lips for a long time. His eyes are burning as he tucks your hair behind your ear and wishes you a good night. But he doesn’t go further. 

It’s driving you fucking insane.

You were sure you hadn’t imagined the chemistry between the three of you before, so what was wrong now? Whose starting pistol were they waiting for? You can’t help your desperate huffs of frustration every time you close the door at the end of another night - alone, sopping wet, with only your hand to help.

Until one night, when you really believe, truly believe that it might end differently.

Frankie has been sat next to you in the booth all evening, laughing and chatting away. His arm is slung over your shoulder, his thigh against yours, your body pressed into his side. It feels good, it feels right, and he’s looking at you in such a way that you begin to teeter dangerously close to pressing your lips to his in the middle of the bar. 

You and Frankie take the opportunity to talk about anything and everything. Catching up on your jobs, how he’s re-received his licence, your families, future dreams and aspirations. It’s almost funny how perfectly everything seems to realign. You think this is the turning point - this is when you realise how perfect you are for each other, this is when you take the leap. The only hiccup seems to be when Frankie says he’ll be away for the next three weeks - working, and then visiting Lucia. Your heart crumbles a little - just a little - before you try to sweep away thoughts of him dying in a helicopter crash or falling back in love with his ex. It feels like you’ve waited so long for this moment that the universe might just try and be that cruel. Just for shits and giggles. 

But it won’t. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great.

Santi seems to notice. He’s quieter than usual, watching the two of you cosy up together. He looks pleased, if a little put out, and when he thinks you aren’t looking he exchanges a look with Frankie. A raised eyebrow, a dipped head. A fucking finally.

As you move to leave the bar at closing time, Frankie touches your arm.

‘Mind if I walk you home, querida?’ He asks, holding out your coat. You take it and swoop it on over your shoulders, grinning at him.

‘Thought you’d never ask.’ You say.

Frankie walks you home like a gentleman. 

Too much of a gentleman.

You bump shoulders every so often, but he doesn’t move to take your hand. And he’s all bashful smiles and throaty laughter, compliments and flirty asides, but you return them tenfold, wrapped up in a blinding smile.

You’re making it easy for him. Obvious. But he still isn’t taking the bait.

Maybe he doesn’t want you.

It’s an uncomfortable thought, but it bounces around your skull the whole way home. And it rumbles even louder when you get to your door and he pulls you in for a hug, a light hand barely lingering on your waist, before he wishes you goodnight. 

You stand there, a little dazed before your brain catches up and decides to deploy your last ditch attempt. Just to see. Just to find out. 

He’s halfway down your front path when you call out to him.

‘Frankie. Do you want to come in?’

He turns, limbs coming to a clumsy halt. His brows are high on his forehead, mouth a little ‘o’. Then he frowns.

Fuck. You’ve never felt like such an idiot in your life.

‘I - er,’ he starts, and you look down at the floor, scuffing the toe of your shoe against the concrete. ‘I have an early start tomorrow.’ He says. 

You look back up at him.

‘Sorry,’ he continues, ‘Any other time and I’d be - I’d be right there. Y’know. Just - timing, that’s all.’

You try to soften the bite that wants to creep into your words at his rejection, but barely manage it.

‘It’s cool,’ you say, trying to smile. ‘No worries. I just - I bought that film you said you watched the other day. Paddington 2? The one Lucia likes.’ A slow smile lights his eyes. ‘Just wondered whether you wanted to come in and watch it with a beer. But yeah. No worries,’ and then, because you just can’t help yourself, you add - ‘Wouldn’t have been any funny business, just so ya know.’ 

You force out a laugh, and Frankie drops his eyes. Disappointed, confused. You feel bad for a second, but then you remember how embarrassed you feel, how stupid. It makes your skin crawl. Nevermind.

You clear your throat.

‘Anyway. Get home safe, Frankie,’ you say, ‘See you soon.’ 

You rush in and close the door before he can reply.

---

Your phone buzzes with a text early the next day.

You open your eyes with a groan, clutching unseeingly at trinkets on your nightstand until your stomach lurches at the thought that it might be Frankie. You sit up to grab it.

It’s not Frankie. It’s an unknown number.

Hey. Do u want to head to the bar 2night?

You frown, confused, fingers dancing over possible replies before another text flies through.

Got a friend Id like u to meet.

And then another.

Its Santi btw. Cant remember if u have my no.

You breathe out, type a quick sure. Fuck it. What harm could another of Santi’s friends do to your pride? Your sex drive? What harm could a night with Santi do? You follow it up with -

Who else will be there? Are you setting me up?

You chew on your thumb anxiously, waiting for his reply.

Just the 3 of us. Might be ;)

You snort at his reply, shooting back -

God. Am I really such a charity case?

 - before getting out of bed to make breakfast. Halfway through your pancakes, you get a text back.

Nah. Just cant stand seein a good girl like u go to waste.

You put your phone back down on the table, slowing your chewing. Good girl. The two words send a lick of heat curling up your spine. A good girl like you going to waste. 

A slow, smug smile spreads across your lips. You pick up your phone again and begin to tap out a reply. A risky move, one which would surely harm your chances with Frankie, but fuck it - 

If you don’t want me to go to waste, you could always have me to yourself.

You stare at the blinking cursor for a second before deleting the message, instead asking him for a time. No need to be hasty. 

You don’t know what his friend looks like yet, anyway.

As it turns out, Santi’s friend might be exactly who you need to forget about Frankie.

Joel Miller is older, in his fifties. Greying, tall, broad, gorgeous, and a true southern gentleman to boot. The kind of guy - you imagine - who would drive you to work the next day if you couldn’t walk after seeing him the night before.

And it’s going well. Really well.

You, Joel, and Santi chat easily around your little table, swapping jokes, telling stories, brushing touches to each other here and there. Joel works in construction - runs his own company with his brother, Tommy - and has a grown up daughter called Sarah. He’s worked on Santi’s house - actually knows most of the group - but is usually too busy (or too tired, he tells you) to come out and join them. You think about how unlucky it is that he hadn’t come around before you made such a fool of yourself last night. And then you vow not to think of Frankie again for the rest of the evening.

Joel is easy to be around - warm, safe - earthy and masculine. And maybe it’s something to do with the way his chocolate brown eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles, but you don’t know what’s wrong with you. You can’t seem to stop thinking about what it would be like to run your fingers through his curls, feel the scrape of his stubble between your thighs, what his arms look like beneath his flannel, what his fingers - what his cock - would feel like inside of you. Something about the man is making your toes curl in your seat, and he hasn’t done anything more innocuous than thumb the charm hanging from your necklace. It’s agonising. 

And to make it worse, Santi knows. You don’t know how, but he does. Maybe you’re just that easy to read. 

In the blur of Joel leaving to go to the bathroom and get more drinks, Santi leans over to you.

‘What do you think?’ He asks.

You shrug, trying your absolute hardest to play it cool.

‘He’s nice. I like him. You should bring him out more often.’ 

Santi’s eyes glint with something molten, something teasing and knowing and sharp.

‘You want to take him home.’

You baulk at his words, cheeks flaming in response. You open and close your mouth as he leans in and laughs.

‘I never said that -’ you splutter, but Santi takes your hand.

‘You don’t need to, querida,’ he says, ‘I can see it written all over your face.’ 

You groan, forehead falling to his shoulder. 

‘If it helps,’ he continues, ‘I think he wants to take you home, too.’ 

You look up from his shoulder into his eyes, and they glimmer back at you. You bite your lip.

‘Ya think?’ You ask.

‘Yeah, baby,’ he teases, ‘I do.’

You hum against him before tilting your face further back.

‘You know…’ you say, lips loosened by the alcohol. Santi tips his head to the side, waiting for you to continue. ‘'S not quite how I imagined the night would end.’

His lips quirk in a smile again. Ah, fuck.

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. I kinda thought you’d take me home instead.’

Santi chuckles and looks away around the room. When his eyes settle back on you, they’re black and burning.

‘I’ve thought about it,’ he says, scratching his beard, ‘A lot. But I guessed you were too caught up on Frankie.’

You freeze at his words and sit up straight, clearing your throat.

‘I don’t -’ but Santi shakes his head at you, cutting you off. He says your name softly.

‘I know about last night,’ he says quietly. Your cheeks begin to burn again, but this time for a completely different reason. ‘He told me about it after he walked you home. And I told him he was the biggest fuckin’ idiot I know.’ 

Despite yourself, you smile.

‘I’m not gonna take you home, baby,’ Santi continues as you watch him, curious, ‘Not right now, anyway. My shit is complicated enough -’ Santi cuts himself off with a sigh, and your brows bunch together.

‘What’s wrong?’ you ask, your voice low and kind despite the fire sparking at his words.

Santi looks at you again, and whatever’s in his eyes looks too complex to divulge. He thumbs your knuckles, swirling patterns onto your hand.

‘Nothing,’ he says, but you frown at him again. ‘Just… stuff. Stuff to do with Frankie. It’s - complicated. I’ll tell you about it some other time. But what I wanted to say was - I wanted you to meet Joel. Because I think you’d be great for each other.’ 

Your jaw drops again, but before you can ask any questions, anything about his stuff with Frankie, Joel reappears with new drinks for the three of you. Santi gives you a tight-lipped smile, squeezing your hand before picking up his bottle. But you drop his gaze when Joel places a hand at the top of your back as he sits down.

‘Everything okay, baby?’ He asks. 

Santi doesn’t leave early, but he doesn’t leave late, either. He stays long enough to know exactly where this thing with you and Joel is going, and then bails when he knows he should. Even if you still kinda wish he’d stay. 

Even if you didn’t get the chance to ask him more about Frankie.

You and Joel linger for an hour longer, the ache in your core and the wetness in your underwear in response to him now almost impossible to ignore. Joel keeps a hand on your thigh. He sweeps a palm down your arm, tucks your hair behind your ear. And when the bell for closing rings out, he takes your hand and leads you out into the night.

He keeps a hold of your hand the whole way to your door. 

When you get home, you turn to him on your doorstep. He smiles at you, taking you in through his eyelashes. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

You grip your keys tightly in your fist, the metal leaving marks and almost drawing blood as he leans in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You forget to breathe as his scent crowds your senses, as the scruff of his beard scratches your cheek. You want to lick his neck, find out if he tastes as good as he smells, want to know what it feels like to have him pressed against you, on top of you, under you, behind you -

Joel cuts through your thoughts with a low chuckle against your ear.

‘Breathe, darlin’.’ He murmurs.

You open your eyes, take a deep breath, and sigh a laugh as you look down at your feet. 

He is still unbearably close, and you know, you know you shouldn’t, but you don’t know if you’ll ever see this man again, and everything Santi said at the bar, and the fact that you feel like Joel could make you come with just a flick of his wrist is likely what sparks your tongue to stutter out - 

‘Do you want to come in?’

Joel looks down at you again, a fire alight in his eyes. The heat sends a shiver down your spine.

He doesn’t give you an answer. Just pushes your front door open, takes your wrist, and pulls you inside.

---

Being with Joel is great.

It’s amazing. It’s like you finally have someone who can keep up with you. Your brain, your days, your plans. It’s like someone plopped Joel Miller on earth with a little note saying he was yours.

In the three weeks after you first meet him, you share countless breakfasts and dinners and spend your weekends wrapped up in sheets watching reruns of Golden Girls. It’s so simple to spend time with someone who is so easy to be around, someone who just gets you. 

Joel makes you laugh, makes you feel important, wanted.

And the sex is incredible.

Like nothing you’ve ever had with anyone else. He seems to know what to do, exactly how you want it done, every time - it’s effortless. And somehow, you seem to do the same for him. In fact, the only problems you seem to have found are his size (because he’s huge) and the fact that you can’t be inside each other all the time.

Which is why it takes so much effort for you to peel yourself away from him when Santi asks if you’d like to join him and the guys for drinks on Saturday. You give him an affirmative before promptly being distracted by Joel coming out of the shower.

You see his reply forty minutes later.

Frankie will b there. That OK?

You type back a quick -

Of course :)

 - before getting on with your day.

Drinks are almost the same as usual. It’s surprisingly easy to slot right back into where you were. Laughing, chatting, joking with Will and Benny. What they’ve been up to, who they’ve been with. Questions you manage to dodge with only a knowing smirk from Santi to remind you he knows exactly who you’ve been doing. 

Frankie joins in from across the table. He couldn’t meet your eye when you first arrived, but over the course of the evening and a few drinks, he seems to have relaxed enough to look at you. Really look at you.

Which is unfortunate, because you can still feel Joel’s come from earlier in the day seeping into your underwear.

At some point in the evening, Benny and Will make their excuses - they have a family get together tomorrow they can’t be too hungover for - and it’s just you, Frankie, and Santi left. 

It’s easy for the most part. Santi bridging the gap so effortlessly that it begins to feel like nothing happened between you and Frankie at all. And it didn’t, you remind yourself. Nothing happened. And then you met Joel.

So why are you still thinking about it?

You try to distract yourself, lose yourself in the conversation taking place between the two men. Something about Star Wars, new castings they’ve chosen for a series coming out later in the year. You try to contribute as much as you can, but fail miserably, earning yourself a brief history of the franchise from Santi. Eventually you get him to ease off with a hand to his chest, laughing until he starts to giggle, too. He uses the interlude to get up to use the bathroom and get more drinks, leaving you with Frankie and his soft, brown eyes.

You peer at each other nervously from across the table. You watch as his tongue darts out to wet his lip, as he chews the inside of his cheek before taking a deep breath and meeting your eye. 

You feel your jaw clench.

‘About the other night, a few weeks back,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was a fuckin’ moron -’ he pauses for a moment, sweeps a hand over his face. ‘I’m real rusty at this. The whole dating thing. I don’t think I even realised what it was you were sayin’ to me.’ Frankie huffs a laugh. A horrible, anxious feeling starts to work its way up your throat. ‘But I -’

He’s interrupted as a bartender floats by your booth, sweeping up some of the empty glasses. You smile up at her and thank her sweetly. 

Maybe you can stall whatever Frankie has to say.

She swats at the air with her free hand.

‘Not at all, sugar,’ she says, ‘Can’t let a thing like empties get in the way of a date like this.’

You smile at her and bite your tongue, feeling hot. A blush begins to claw up your cheeks as she winks at you both and swings away. Had she not seen Santi? And - fuck - now how do you brush this off with Frankie? How do you stop where this is going?

You turn your eyes back to him, and he hasn’t even flushed at the insinuation. Instead, he bites his lip, something which sends a jolt of heat to the space between your thighs. He scratches the back of his neck, and rushes out in a lowered voice that even though he’s busy with work at the moment, he’d like to make it right -

‘I’d really love to take you out this weekend.’

Your stomach plummets to your feet. Fuck. 

Tears of frustration prickle in your eyes. A lump of panic settles in your throat, and you almost feel like you could run out of the bar. Why is he doing this now?

You take a deep breath and try to form the kindest smile, the most apologetic furrow in your brows that you can.

‘Frankie,’ you breathe, and already his face begins to fall. You lean across the table and take one of his massive hands. ‘I’d have loved to, but -’

He shakes his head quickly, trying to draw his hand back.

‘It’s okay,’ he begins, ‘Fuck, I’m sorry. I must have just misread - I didn’t mean - I don’t want you to feel -’

But his interruption only serves to further spark the surge of irritation. You squeeze his hand tighter so he can’t rip it away and utter his name harshly. He stops immediately, his eyes whipping back to yours. Something stirs in you at his immediate obedience.

‘Listen to me,’ you say, shaking off your traitorous thoughts. ‘I’d have loved to. But I - I literally just started seeing someone, and I -’ you break off, groaning in frustration, ‘I don’t know if it’s serious, or if it’s exclusive, but he’s great, and I don’t want anyone - especially you - to get hurt by me being selfish or not knowing where things are at.’ You huff out a breath and meet his eye. He looks disappointed, upset even - but worst of all he looks understanding, almost grateful that you don’t want him to get caught up in this complex knot of wanting. 

‘Frankie,’ you say softly, and try to smile, ‘I mean this in the least… damaging way. If you had asked me three weeks ago, when we were here last, I’d have said yes. In a heartbeat.’

Maybe it does make you an asshole. Maybe it does make you selfish. But it feels important in this moment to make sure that Frankie understands - you like him. You wanted him.

It’s just timing. 

Frankie grimaces.

‘Fuck.’ He hisses. And when he tries to withdraw his hand this time, you let him. But you don’t look away. 

A low light flickers in his eye. Something close to anger, you think - at himself, or at you, you’re not sure.

‘Is it -’ he begins, ‘Is it Pope?’

‘Pope?’ You ask, confused. Frankie shakes his head.

‘Santi. Is it Santi?’

You bark a laugh. You can’t help it.

‘Santi? Your Santi?’ you ask, bewildered. Frankie’s cheeks heat again. You want to put a pin in that, the flush at your, but your brain is suddenly so riddled with dredged up questions you can hardly order them.

‘What do you mean, Frankie?’ you ask, exasperated.

Frankie shakes his head again, realising his mistake, but you are beyond dropping the topic.

‘Frankie,’ you say, stern this time. ‘What do you mean?’

Frankie whips his cap off, runs an agitated hand through his hair, shifts his gaze around the bar for the other man.

‘He - he likes you, too,’ he says. ‘I was worried - worried he’d beat me to it ‘cos I didn’t ask before I went away. He said it was taking me too long to do - to gather the confidence to ask you -’ Now Frankie barks a laugh. ‘But it looks like we were both too late.’

You shake your head, the cogs in your brain turning slowly. How Santi looked at you was no secret. But if what Frankie was saying about how Santi felt was true, why had he introduced you to Joel? And if that was true, had you misunderstood what Santi said about him and Frankie? You feel your mouth open and close, but Frankie takes your silence to ask you another question.

‘Who is it?’

‘What?’

‘Who is it?’

You splutter over your answer, hesitating, stalling -

‘Frankie, how the fuck would you know?’

Because he would. And, rightly or wrongly, that panics you a little.

‘Is it someo-’

You cut him off, holding up your palm.

‘Frankie -’ you press a hand to your throat, feeling your rapid pulse. Fuck it. ‘I thought - I thought Santi was interested in you.’

Frankie chokes on his breath.

He stares at you, calculating something, breathing heavily.

‘It’s not - we’re not -’ he fumbles. You slouch back in your seat. Frankie’s eyes flutter closed. ‘We fuck around sometimes. And sometimes - sometimes other people -’ You groan, your head tipping back against the leather. Your head is spinning. ‘But we wouldn’t - I wouldn’t - fuck. I don’t want you to think that that’s what this is about -’ Frankie splays his hands in front of you. ��God,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to explain any of this.’

The room suddenly feels too warm. You cradle your head in your hands, and stare at the way the table swims beneath you. What the fuck is happening?

You glance up at Frankie, but he’s watching you so intensely, so much concern and panic and want in his eyes that it makes you feel claustrophobic.

‘I need some air.’ You mumble across the table, and stumble out of the booth on unsteady legs. From the corner of your eye, you see Santi begin to cross the floor to return to the booth with drinks in his hands, see him watch you trip across the bar. In the back of your brain, you hear him call your name, but your hands are already on the handle of the front door, pushing it open and feeling the cool night air hit your clammy skin.

What the fuck is going on?

You fumble in your pocket for your phone and find Joel’s contact. You want to go home, and you want his help to forget about this. And, you think, you should probably ask whether he had any idea about Santi, or Frankie, or Santi and Frankie. 

The call with Joel is quick, and he sounds appropriately concerned without needing to hear any details. He tells you to stay in view of the bar and to not move a muscle, and that he’ll be there in 10. You hope he can make it in five.

He’s too slow. After seven minutes, Frankie bursts out of the bar, Santi quickly following him.

‘Fish -’ Santi’s calling, but he catches himself when he sees you still standing there. Frankie screeches to a halt, too.

The three of you stare between each other, eyes wide, like you’re waiting for a bomb to go off. 

Frankie says your name before you shake your head - rushing out a not now, Frankie just as Joel’s pickup peels into the parking lot.

Frankie can’t see him with his back turned, but he sure does when Joel comes striding from behind the two men to stand at your side.

‘Everything okay, baby?’ he asks in his low, southern drawl, and you instinctively lift your mouth for a kiss before realising how cruel that would be.

Joel tenses as you withdraw, finally taking in the other two men.

‘Pope,’ he says with a nod, and Santi smiles weakly back at him.

‘Frankie,’ Joel says a little softer, ‘It’s good to see you.’

‘Joel.’ Frankie says through his teeth, realisation burning in his eyes. 

‘How ya doin’, kid?’ Joel asks him, placing a hand on your lower back. Frankie juts out his chin.

‘Fine. Great.’ He says, ‘I was just leavin’, actually.’ Frankie whips his cap off, runs a hand through his hair. His jaw is set, angry. He shakes his head at the ground. ‘I’ll see you guys around.’ He says to no one in particular, turning on his heel and fleeing towards the car park. 

Santi and Joel meet each others’ eyes in some kind of understanding, and you look angrily between them. Being left out of the loop again was not feeling cute.

Joel sighs, wrapping his arm around your waist.

‘Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you home.’ He murmurs, but you lurch out of his grasp and turn on the two of them. They watch you, surprised.

‘No,’ you say, ‘Nu-uh. We aren’t going anywhere until one of you tells me what the fuck is going on.’

Joel and Santi look at each other, expressions unreadable. 

Santi shakes his head.

‘Come back inside,’ he says, turning back to the bar entrance, ‘We’re gonna need more beers for this.’

---

When you get down to the root of it, the truth isn’t even that complex. That’s the laughable part.

The long and short of it is this. One: Pope knew Frankie liked you. But he knew Frankie moved slow. And he’d gotten tired of watching, of knowing he’d be a dick if he made a play instead. And he cares about you, his friend. Wants to see you happy. Enter Joel. Two: Santi and Frankie fooled around while they were in Delta Force. It’s not a secret, but it’s never really been discussed. Sometimes they still fool around, but it’s been less frequent as they’ve gotten older. As they date other people. Three: Sometimes, when those other people they’re dating are willing, they bring them in, and they all have fun together. 

Something Santi would have been fine with if you were his. Something Frankie was less cool with doing if he’d made his move. 

Santi admits that he’s likely just been a dick throughout the whole thing. You make him promise to do better over another beer. He does. He also now knows not to cock block his best buddy with a mutual friend.

And Joel feels kinda bad about that. Not bad enough to pump the brakes with you, but uncomfortable, sure. He’s had Frankie round for barbecues, he likes the guy. He’s sorry he whisked you away from him. But not sorry enough.

Joel hasn’t been involved in any of Frankie and Santi’s adventures, but it’s something he’s played around with before. He’s had threesomes, but he doesn’t really volunteer more than that. The thought ignites something deep in your belly and you file it away for another day, a different conversation.

Once it’s all explained and you’re laughing together again, everything feels fine. Normal.

Except you don’t see Frankie for weeks afterwards.

You drop him a text every now and again, just wanting to know whether he’s okay, but you hear nothing back. Santi tries to assure you that you’ve done nothing wrong. There’s nothing for you to worry about.

But it still sits uneasy in your gut.

You see Joel almost every day. And Santi once a week. 

The three of you meet for beers in a different bar from the one Santi meets Frankie, Will and Benny in - your bar. And you have fun. 

It never goes beyond touches with Santi, though you find yourself wishing more and more often that it would. He rests a hand on your thigh under the table, his thumb swiping patterns over your flushed skin. Sometimes he has an arm flung around the back of your seat, sometimes rubbing the back of your neck, sometimes tucking hair behind your ear. He watches and stares and smiles and laughs at you and Joel, and you watch back with delighted curiosity. You like the way he makes you squirm while you sit next to the older man. And Joel loves to watch you squirm, too.

He loves getting you home and finding your panties soaked with arousal. He loves swiping two of his thick fingers through your folds with the front door barely closed, his hand shoved down the front of your jeans, your back arched already, a needy whine heavy in the back of your throat. He loves talking you through the things he’d like to watch Santi do to you, how good he knows you’d be for the two of them, how well behaved, how you’d take, take, take it, and how proud he’d be to show you off. My girl. He growls as he fucks into you at night. My girl.

And it suits you, how giving, how generous Joel is. 

Seems to suit Santi, too.

At some point ideas had been swapped between you and Joel - some thinly disguised remark dropped by him over dinner one night had led to you picking at the thread and grinding him down over three days, trying to get to the bottom of it. He liked to share, he’d said. He liked to watch. He liked the control, and the pride, and the possession of it all. And goddammit, you liked the sound of it, too. Because after serious discussion - serious boundaries, limits, run throughs of possible scenarios, you talked through people who you wouldn’t mind trying it with.

And there was obvious one name you both settled on.

Santi.

And well, given his history, it didn’t take too long for you to convince him to join you.

And if it hadn't been for Santi’s suggestion, his knowledge, his understanding of his best friend, there’s a chance Frankie’s name wouldn’t have come up at all. You’re not sure if you’d have dared, considering how things were left. But, lo and behold, it does, and along with it the chance for him to see exactly what he's missing out on. 

---

All the rules have been arranged for tonight, but the most important one, which you must remember, is that Frankie is not allowed to touch you.

At all. At any point. 

You and Joel head to the usual bar to meet Santi and Frankie for drinks. You make sure to wear a dress which clings to your curves, dips at your cleavage, and settles just high enough on your thigh to be bordering on acceptable. And it must be more than acceptable, because Joel threatens to fuck you out of it three times before you leave the house.

It must be acceptable, because Santi cannot keep his eyes or his hands off you when you arrive at the venue, and Frankie from across the table cannot regain control of his jaw.

They both look good - you all look good - Joel with his hair combed back, a deep green flannel on, Santi in all black - and suddenly all you want to do is call the drinks off now and just head back to Joel’s. But the patience, the build up is critical. It’s foreplay.

Instead, you lean back in your chair, sipping on your cocktail as you take in the three men.

The conversation flows easily after a while. Joel is a master at it, weaving questions in and out, making sure to put both you and Frankie at ease. Besides, it’s been a while since you last saw each other. Not that either of you were any less eager for him to be involved. He’d been very keen, according to Santi. 

He’s in dark jeans and a tight navy blue t-shirt tonight, his trademark cap confining his curls. He’s not dressed up, but he’s made an effort, and his shy looks across the table, his kind questions and easy jokes have begun healing the fractures of what happened weeks ago.

It doesn’t hurt that he and Santi had a good, long talk, and that you then shared a sweet phone call. 

All the same, he sits opposite you, unable to touch you for the rest of the night.

Instead, he just gets to watch as Joel presses kisses to your neck, pulls you into his chest, skates his hands over your thighs - anything he can get away with doing to turn you on. And Santi isn’t far behind. Holding your hand on top of the table, bringing your knuckles to his lips, keeping a hand on your knee almost the entire time.

Your brain is a hot, buzzing mess by the time Santi checks his phone.

‘It’s getting late.’ He says, and you raise an eyebrow at him.

‘Eager, no?’ You tease, trying - and failing - to cover the scent of your own desperate need.

‘Of course,’ Santi smirks over the rim of his glass, ‘But I’ll take my time with you.’

You try to laugh but fall back into Joel’s shoulder at his words, and the older man chuckles. He kisses your forehead tenderly. Frankie watches hungrily from across the table, the dark void of his eyes flicking towards his watch, desperate to leave. 

When you do, he walks at a distance behind the three of you. You smile to yourself and sway your hips a little more for his benefit. And you swear you get a low whine as your reward.

---

You’re quiet the whole way home, trying not to clench your thighs too hard or rock yourself against the seat. You're so desperate for friction, for relief, that it’s hard for you to concentrate on what’s going on in the car. Hard for you to think of anything beyond Joel’s warm, heavy hand on your thigh as he drives. 

He leans over to you halfway home, and whispers -

‘You’re quiet, baby. Everything okay?’

You flick a glance to him and find his eyes equal parts concerned and equal parts aflame. You smile.

‘I’m trying to be good,’ you murmur, ‘But you’re making it very difficult.’

Joel dips his chin in a smirk and squeezes your thigh, his fingers drifting dangerously close to your panties. You squirm a little in your seat, and it goads him to drift his hand further until it catches at the lace of the gusset. You gasp at the feeling, a tiny whimper making its way out from your lips, and all conversation in the back of the truck grinds to a halt. Your cheeks heat, and you turn to look out the window again, clamping your lip beneath your teeth.

No one says a word the rest of the way home.

Once you're all home, a silence settles around you. Everybody wide eyed, geared up, on edge. You’re not sure who to look at or what to say until Joel does it for you.

‘Upstairs.’ He commands, and everybody moves to follow him up the staircase. You keep your eyes on his broad back the whole way up, and once you reach the top, he holds his hand out behind him for you to grab. You do.

When you get to his bedroom door, Joel leads you in. You turn just as Santi crosses the threshold, as he pivots to Frankie behind him and says -

‘Kneel.’

Frankie glances at you, swallows, and returns his eyes to Santi. He drops down to his knees in the hallway.

‘Good,’ Santi murmurs, stepping forward to crouch down in front of him. ‘Do you remember the rules?’ He asks Frankie.

The younger man nods, his eyes dropping to the floor.

‘Yes.’

Santi nods once. 

‘Good. Listen. And do not leave this spot.’

Santi straightens, turning his back on Frankie. You can’t tear your eyes away from the sight of him on the floor - small, submissive - and you can’t help the little gasp you let out as Santi steps towards you and closes the door slowly behind him, leaving just enough of a gap so that Frankie can hear everything that happens but watch none of it. 

Joel skirts his fingers down your waist and presses a kiss just under your ear.

‘You ready, baby girl?’ he rumbles. You turn your face to look at him over your shoulder, finding his eyes dark, a familiar power behind them. You nod.

‘Yes.’ you say. He nods, pleased, twisting to kiss your mouth before guiding you towards Santi.

‘Good,’ he says. He turns and moves towards the armchair in the far corner of the room, sitting heavily in it.

Santi steps towards you and gently takes your face in his hands.

‘You okay?’ He asks quietly. You nod.

‘Yeah,’ you whisper, ‘Are you?’ 

Santi nods, his eyes searching yours for a hint of hesitation. You try to open up your mind to show him the excitement, the want you feel. Satisfied, he licks his lips.

‘Can I kiss you?’ He asks. You nod again, and Santi leans forwards, capturing your mouth in hard, slow movement.

Santi means to make a study of you, you think. His tongue is everywhere, his teeth grazing over your bottom lip, his hands gentle and then needy, already figuring out exactly what it is that makes you tick. And to make it even worse, every time you take a moment to catch your breath, he has that fucking smirk on his face. It’s infuriating, and you quickly need to find something  which will wipe it off.

So you begin to undo his belt.

Pope huffs a chuckle against your lips, but doesn’t stop the work your hands are doing. Instead, he matches it with his own fingers. 

With deft movements, he slips a hand under your dress and finds his way to your panties, touching you through the fabric. You groan against his mouth, and he smiles, ghosting over your folds. Not to be out done, you slip your hand into his jeans and palm him over his boxers. He hums against you.

‘Are we racing?’ He asks.

You cock your head to the side.

‘Thought you wanted to take your time?’ You quip back, and something flashes in his eyes. 

He steps back.

‘Take this off.’ He says, tugging at the hem of your dress, and you pout at him. 

‘Does that mean you take these off, too?’ You ask, tugging at his jeans. You’re pushing your luck, you know. But you think this might be easier if Santi undresses with you, if only to really see what you held in your hand. 

Santi raises an eyebrow. ‘We’ll see,’ he says, ‘But you go first.’

You step back from him and glance at Joel, assessing. He nods at you, encouraging, and you pull your dress up and over your head. You stand before them in only your panties, and Santi takes a deep breath, biting his lip, smiling again.

‘Gorgeous, baby.’ He says. And you feel it. The way this man looks at you makes you feel weak, giddy - like your core is on fire. 

Santi steps towards you to kiss you again, making sure his hand returns to where it had been, ghosting over your underwear. You groan into his mouth, impatient now, and his teeth scrape at your chin as he clicks his tongue. In answer, he sweeps your panties to the side, and grazes two digits along your slit. You moan loudly again, and Santi groans up at the ceiling.

‘Fuck, querida.’ He says, before stretching a thumb to your clit and sinking the two fingers deep inside you. You stumble against him as he begins to work you, breathing heavily against his clothed chest. You turn your face so your teeth can nip at his skin underneath.

‘Take - this - off.’ You hiss, and he laughs, slipping his fingers out of you with a groan to oblige. Santi removes his t-shirt quickly and chucks it somewhere across the room before pushing his jeans down and stepping out of them. He hurries to find purchase within your body once more, rocking you against him, curling his fingers deep inside you. His tongue returns to your mouth and you remember his hard cock in his boxers. You reach for it, but he blocks you with his arm. You whine.

‘Tan mojada ya, baby.’ He drawls. Santi removes his fingers from where they were curling inside of you and brings them to your mouth, tapping your lips. You open for him, and he presses them in, allowing you to swirl your tongue over them. You clean off the scent of your heady arousal as Santi watches you. He presses them hard, once, against your tongue, and you open your mouth wide for him. 

He retracts his fingers.

‘Good girl,’ he murmurs, and it goes straight to your cunt. You whimper a little, and he grins, stepping back and out of his boxers. ‘Take those off for me.’ He says, motioning at your soaked panties. You almost trip in your eagerness to do so. He retreats backwards until his calves hit the mattress, and he sits down before laying back, getting comfortable.

Santi watches you from the bed, laid out on his back. His lips curl as you rake your eyes over him - hands folded behind his head, his biceps rounding by his ears, his firm, strong torso spattered with dark hair, and his long, hard cock, bobbing and drooling as he takes you in.

‘Come here.’ He says. 

You begin a slow walk to the bed, hesitating only for a moment as you crawl onto it and towards him. He licks his lips as you come closer, and you bite your lip back.

You feel unsure without being given specific direction, but you know that Joel will put you right if you step a toe out of line. So you place a knee on either side of Santi’s hips, and sink your heat down onto him as he pulls you forward by the back of your neck, searching for your lips.

You start to move, to adjust to try and let him inside, before Joel’s voice cracks like a whip out of the corner.

‘Either of us tell you you could fuck him yet?’ He growls.

You try to draw your mouth away from Santi to give your response, but he clamps your bottom lip between his teeth so you can go no further. You whimper and shake your head.

‘So put your fuckin’ hips back down. Y’ain’t earned it yet.’

Santi lets your lip go and flops back against the sheets with a shit-eating grin. You lower your hips again and place both your palms on his stomach, pushing your tits together. He eyes them greedily, reaching out and flicking a thumb over each nipple. You feel your pout grow, your brows drawn tight together and your bottom lip swollen, jutting out almost comically. Santi catches a glimpse of your face, and puffs out a laugh.

‘Poor baby,’ he coos, ‘Just wanna get fucked, don’t ya?’ You nod pathetically, but don’t dare move. He is achingly hard beneath you, his thick length resting perfectly between your folds. Santi lowers his hands from your nipples until he has them on your hips, and like he’s read your fucking mind, he begins to rock you back and forth.

A wanton, needy moan drools out of your mouth as your pussy wets him, fresh slick leaking out of your clenching hole. You wonder how much of this Frankie can hear. 

Santi groans beneath you, watching the head of his cock disappear under you every time he slides you forwards. The pressure of him just against your lips is heady, and you watch as he guides you forwards just a little more, urges you to lean a little further forward until your clit catches on the head of his cock on every slide. You throw your head back, your fingers scratching at his torso, and he watches you. He whispers that you look so pretty like this, how he can feel you, look at how wet you’re making my cock, baby, can feel you twitchin’ on me already, angel. He guides you back and forth until you feel a heavy pressure begin to settle in your pussy, a burning beginning deep in your gut. Your moans become more frantic as you begin to plead with him, though you’re not sure what for.

‘Use your words, baby,’ Joel reminds you from his seat. ‘Ask Santi. Tell him what you need.’

You release a hot breath of air, biting your lip.

‘Gonna come, Santi,’ you tell him breathlessly, ‘Need to stop. Gonna come.’

But Santi just smiles sweetly up at you, his eyes heavy lidded. You pussy twitches, the knot pulling tighter. He reaches up with one hand and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

‘Why would I want you to stop, angel?’ He asks. You shake your head. You don’t know. ‘Talk to me, baby.’ He prompts.

‘I don’t know. Haven’t been - fuck - told -’ you whimper. He nods, swallows harshly.

‘I want you to come,’ he tells you, ‘I want you to come now, and then I’m going to make you come again, and then as many more times as I see fit, do you understand?’

You groan and nod.

‘Yes, Santi.’

‘Good girl,’ he says. ‘And when I’m done with you, I’m gonna give you back to your daddy, and he’s gonna make you come as many times as he sees fit, too. Okay, baby?’

You clench around nothing, painfully, moving faster over Santi’s cock of your own accord.

‘Fuck. Yes, Santi.’

Santi settles his head back against the bed again, running his hands all over your body, anywhere he can touch you.

‘Go on, baby,’ he says, ‘Use me.’

Fuck, you groan out, tilting your hips to allow your clit to scrape down the underside of his cock at every pass. Without thinking, you lean so far forward that you plant a hand around the base of Santi’s throat to keep yourself upright, tightening your fingers over his pulse point. He lets out a strangled moan, his eyes fluttering closed, and you feel the pressure in your core build heavier and heavier until the white hot heat snaps. You throw your head back, coming with gasps of his name and loud moans, still rocking yourself back and forth, still squeezing over his neck.

Your vision is fuzzy and your breathing still feverish when Santi grabs at your fingers and pries them away from him. You flush at your carelessness, an Imsosorry rushing out as you stare at your hand in his. He shushes you tenderly, breathing deeply.

‘S’okay, baby,’ he says, ‘I like it. Don’t have a problem with it.’ He squeezes your hand, and then fixes you with a wicked, cruel look. ‘Just don’t wanna come yet, that’s all. Only so much a man can stand when I can feel you falling apart on top of me.’

You flush even deeper, leaning forward to bury your face in his neck, laving hot, open mouthed kisses along the hard muscle there. He groans and chuckles against you, kneading your ass.

‘Want me to fuck you now, baby?’ He murmurs into your ear.

You whine against him, lick across his jaw.

‘Yes, Santi,’ you groan. ‘Please fuck me.’

Santi grips the hair at the base of your neck to pull you away from him, and you let yourself be led. He slides you off him, and rests on his knees before you. Your eyes dip hungrily to his bobbing cock, shining with your come, tip an angry red, precum dripping down its length. It twitches under your gaze, and you lick your lips. 

Santi chuckles again, his hand still buried in your hair.

‘Dirty fuckin’ girl.’ He murmurs as he manipulates your body. ‘Turn around,’ he says, ‘Hands and knees, baby.’ You follow his directions, turning on the bed towards Joel before planting your limbs and curving your spine, angling your ass in the air. You’re not sure where you should look until Santi releases your hair and leans over your back, a hand on your hip.

‘Look at your daddy,’ he says into your ear, gripping your chin softly to angle your head. You look at Joel through heavy lidded eyes, only to find his are similar. ‘Keep your eyes on him.’

Joel is still fully dressed in the chair, head heavy against the back of it. His legs are spread wide, a hand on either arm, fingers spread and clenched slightly against the fabric. His jaw is tense, and you can see how his jeans strain over his cock - fully hard by the looks of it. You moan into the sheets as you watch him watch you. Santi kneels behind you, running his hands over your soft skin, as he dips two fingers through your folds, swearing softly.

‘She’s so wet, Joel.’ He whispers, and Joel’s eyes leave yours momentarily to see Santi hold his fingers up to the light, coated in slick. Joel’s hips move slightly, bucking into nothing, and he barely manages to grunt out a response. You wonder again how much of this Frankie can hear behind the door, whether he’s straining in his jeans just as Joel is, whether his ear is pressed against the crack just so he can hear what Santi is whispering to you both.

Pope grips one of your hips, and uses his other hand to line himself up at your entrance. He uses his tip to spread your slick around a little more until you whine again, fisting the sheets.

‘Please, Santi, please -’

And he needs no more encouragement, sinking all the way in on the first thrust. You cry out into the mattress, your sounds coming out choked, overwhelmed as he sets a relentless pace.

‘Fuck, baby,’ he hisses out behind you, neither of you able to get more words out. 

You quickly lose yourself to the feel of him pumping in and out, every part of you wound up tight, hot. You can feel yourself squeezing him already, making his hips stutter. Joel notices, too. You wonder whether he remembers Frankie is outside, as well, because he manages to force out in a low grumble -

‘How does she feel?’

Santi gathers your hair up in a fist, bringing your face up from the sheets just so they can hear you better. He grits his teeth, tries to stutter out his answer -

‘So - fucking - good -’ and at this, a delicious smile sweeps across Joel’s face. He’s proud. You moan even louder and manage to garble out a daddy, which makes him positively grin.

‘Atta girl, baby,’ he says to you, before turning back to Santi, ‘Just good?’

You and Santi both hear the prod in his words, and it shoots another thrill through you to remember just how much control Joel has; how he wants him to tell him what he already knows, to prove that his worth.

‘Not just good,’ Santi groans, ‘Fuckin’ perfect. So tight. So warm. She’s clenchin’ me already, makin’ me feel like a fuckin’ teenager,’ he laughs around a puff of air, before leaning back into you. ‘Tómatelo con calma, hermosa - quiero que esto dure.’ You moan again at his words, as they spark the opposite of their desired effect.

‘Shit,’ Santi chuckles out, ‘God, Joel. Pussy like I’ve never felt. And so responsive, too.’ To prove his point Santi lands a firm smack on your ass and you yelp, pulsing around him, biting your lip. He moans behind you. ‘Don’t know how you ever get anything done,’ he bites out, ‘I’d never be able to leave her alone.’ 

You glow under Santi’s praise and Joel’s warming stare, and push yourself up loosely onto your elbows as Santi returns both of his hands to your hips. You push back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Santi gasps, before reaching around you to rub desperately at your clit. Your moans bounce off the walls, sharp gasps and whines melting into begging -

‘Please, Santi - fuck - oh my god, oh my god, please - ‘m so close. So close -’

‘Gonna come again, baby?’ He coos from above you. You nod furiously.

‘Yes,’ you gasp out, ‘God, please Santi, fuckin’ me so good -’

With a grunt, Santi hauls you upwards so your back is flush against his chest. He fucks into you harshly, fingers still working your clit, his other hand pinching and twisting a nipple as he kisses and bites his way along your neck, you shoulder, below your ear.

‘Good girl,’ he says, and your head dips back onto his shoulder, mouth open in a sob because he feels so good - 

Santi grips your chin again, yanking your face down and towards Joel.

‘Look at your daddy,’ he snaps at you, ‘You look at your daddy when you come for me.’

And you do. You can barely keep your eyes open as your body gives out, loud, broken moans escaping your mouth, Santi and daddy alternating somewhere in there as Santi fucks you through it, fingers still on your clit as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder -

‘Good - fucking - girl.’

And you see even Joel’s eyes close momentarily, his hands clenching to fists on the arms of the chair, a growl of desperation only you can hear tumbling out of his chest.

Santi is relentless as he chases his own release, but you’re so tight around him that he refocuses his efforts.

‘Again, baby,’ he orders, ‘Give me another. I can feel it. Come on. It’s right there. You gotta give it to me, hermosa -’

But you whine against him, twitching, trembling, sobbing through the overstimulation, unsure where the boundary between pleasure and pain is. You shake your head, try to catch your breath.

‘Too much, Santi, too much,’ you cry, ‘Can’t - don’t know -’

‘You can, baby,’ he breathes, voice like steel, and you whimper. That tone so similar to Joel’s, how he knows, how now Santi knows, that you can.

At his insistence, you tumble off the cliff again, weakly calling his name as a gush of arousal spills onto his lap, as you pulse and contract around his cock. He releases a strangled groan, his hips stuttering, his breathing heavy. He peers over your shoulder at Joel.

‘Where do you want it?’ he gasps.

‘Inside her.’ Joel growls, and you moan again as Santi sheathes himself to the hilt and comes and comes and comes. You feel him fill you, his dick pulsing and twitching deep in your pussy, and he sags as he begins to leak out. You both hit the mattress, Santi just about propping himself up on his elbows so he doesn’t crush you. You both breathe heavily for a second, until he moves your hair from your face and touches your cheek.

‘You okay?’ he rasps, throat dry. You chuckle breathily.

‘Yes.’ You sigh. Santi licks his lips and laughs quietly, too, shifting gently to slip out of you. You both groan, trying to catch your breath again. Your limbs are liquid, your body heavy, and somewhere in your dazed state you feel him dip a kiss to your shoulder blade before using his tongue to soothe the bite mark he’d left earlier.

You turn your face towards him as you feel his weight leave the bed. He smiles at you, muttering something about getting himself cleaned up before gesturing to the opposite way you're facing. You turn your head to find Joel, pulled to his full height, standing at the foot of the bed, still fully fucking clothed.

You slowly rise to your knees on the mattress, and Joel smiles at you, lifting a hand to settle against your cheek. You lean into it, turning your head to kiss his palm.

‘You okay, baby?’ he asks softly.

‘Yes, daddy.’ You breathe.

He nods, pleased.

‘Good. On your knees, on the floor for me, baby girl.’ He says.

You pull your languid limbs off the bed and settle on your knees on the floor, waiting patiently for him. You rest your palms on top of your thighs, tingling and relaxed, and wait for your instruction. It comes before Santi even leaves the bathroom. 

‘Mouth.’ Joel says, and you shuffle forward towards him, hungry hands grappling with his belt as he chuckles down at you. ‘My eager girl.’ And you shine a blinding smile up at him. 

You whip his belt off, launch it across the room, and make quick work of the button and zipper, pulling his jeans down his thighs so just his boxers are left. You lick your teeth at the sight of his barely contained cock, the front of his underwear stretched, the tip of his dick peeking from above his waistband, leaking and swollen. You rise up on your knees as you reach for the band, lifting your eyes to Joel’s as you pull his underwear down, smiling again as one of his big hands comes to rest at the back of your head, impatient already. 

His boxers and jeans pulled down, you take Joel into your hand, pumping him gently before pulling the tip to your mouth, blowing on it lightly before pressing a kiss to the weeping slit. Joel sucks a breath in through his teeth, and presses his hips forward, sinking his cock past your lips. You take him gratefully, opening as wide as you can, your tongue soft and firm against him, tracing and twirling as you hollow your cheeks.

‘So good t’me.’ Joel breathes out, pushing a little further, just to hit the back of your throat and hear you choke lightly. You moan around his length, your eyelids flickering shut as he begins to fuck your throat slowly, making sure to feel every inch you allow him access to.

Santi emerges from the bathroom, and he can’t help but grin as he takes in the sight of you on your knees before Joel, swiping a hand over his mouth to try and hide his mirth. You flutter your eyelashes at him, and he shakes his head before crossing the room to sit in the chair Joel was in before. He crosses an ankle over his knee, leaning back to watch you both. 

You hum around Joel and begin to bob up and down his length, using your fist to pump what you don’t have the patience to take in your mouth. Joel tangles his fingers in your hair and groans as he feels your tongue dip into his slit, slip over the sensitive spot on the underside of his head. 

‘Fuckin’ hell,’ he grunts, ‘Putting on a show for Santi, are we?’

You smile wickedly around his cock, before taking him all the way to the base on your own. You hold your head there as long as possible as Joel chokes out moan after moan, and from behind you Santi mumbles -

‘Fuck, Joel. She’s leaking all over the floor.’

Joel huffs out a breath, pulling you off his cock. He peers down at you, eyes dark.

‘Are you, baby?’ He asks.

You wiggle your ass to feel what even you hadn’t noticed, too caught up in sucking his dick. A small puddle of you and Santi has been dripping down onto the hardwood where you kneel. More slick pulses out of you at the realisation.

‘Yes, daddy,' you sigh, and Joel’s eyes roll up into his head. He yanks your hair roughly to bring you to your feet.

‘Get up,’ he snarls, ‘And get on the bed.’

Joel all but throws you back on to the mattress, and it happens in such a rush that you wonder if you’ve done something wrong. You wrack your brain as Joel undresses before you, his eyes scouring your body, taking in the marks, the bruises already forming, how your hair is wet with sweat at the roots, how your pussy still drips onto the sheets - 

And then you get it. Joel is getting off on it - on the thought of you being full, used, wanted, shown off -

Once he is down to just his skin, he crawls over you, lifting and pushing your hips to move you up the bed. He dips his head to lick and kiss and bite at your neck, and your hands flutter around him, touching him everywhere. His back, his arms, his neck, his face, scraping your nails down his exposed skin. He makes his way to your mouth, devouring you - all tongue and teeth until he rears back to look at you, sprawled and gorgeous below him. 

‘So beautiful, baby,’ he groans, ‘So perfect like this. Open your mouth for me.’ You do as he says, flattening your tongue out against your lower lip for good measure. He groans again, and then leans forward to spit in your mouth. You swallow it down hungrily.

‘Thank you, daddy.’ You say, and he leans back down to kiss you again before retracing down your neck, your collarbones, your breasts -

‘Such a good girl, rememberin’ your manners,’ he grumbles, ‘So good, takin’ Santi, look so good when you’re takin’ his cock.’ You whimper as he bites down on each of your nipples, soothing them with open-mouthed kisses. He kisses down your stomach, around your heat, nipping the inside of your thighs, making sure to leave marks, breathing hotly onto your skin.

‘But now you’ve made a mess, baby, haven’t you?’ He says. You mewl at the ceiling, clutching the sheets around you as Joel blows on your clit, hovering just above where you need him. ‘Words, baby.’ He reminds you, with a sharp slap to your thigh.

‘Yes, daddy.’ You cry.

‘And what do we do when we make a mess?’ He asks.

‘Clean it up, daddy.’ You pant.

‘Good girl,’ he coos, ‘Good girl.’ Before he licks a fat, hot stripe from your leaking hole up to your clit.

You gasp at the sensation, your back arching off the bed, the coil in your stomach already wound impossible tight, every part of your body still so sensitive. Joel works with abandon at your pussy, flattening his tongue to lap at you, tasting the mixture of you and Santi, slurping around your opening before focusing his efforts on your bundle of nerves, sharpening his tongue to work it in tight circles, then figure eights. Your hips buck strongly against him, and he secures a forearm against your lower belly to stop you struggling. He hums against you as your hand winds its way into his curls, scratching lightly at his scalp.

‘Daddy, daddy, daddy, so good - fuck - so good - tongue feels so good, baby -’ You babble to him, to yourself, and Joel lowers his mouth, working his tongue inside you, grinding his nose against your clit. Your shoulders shoot off the bed, and you pull his hair now, biting a curse between your teeth. Joel doesn’t let up for a second, just moves his forearm so he can force your upper body back down onto the bed. Your fingers loosen their grip on his hair, coming up instead to scrub at your face as moan after moan escapes you.

A groan echoes from the chair, and you flick your gaze behind you to see Santi watching greedily, palming himself through his boxers. The sight only serves to work you up more, your core tightening and tightening and tightening, an unbearable heat settling where Joel’s tongue is, but you need him deeper -

‘You close, baby?’ He mumbles against you.

‘Y-es.’ You force out, as he pinches your clit between his lips.

‘What do you need?’ He asks.

‘Fuck - your fingers, Joel, please -’ 

Joel obliges, slipping one, and then two digits into your cunt easily, fucking them in and out as he licks again at your nub, swirling and sucking and lapping -

‘Come on, baby,’ he groans, ‘Give me what I want.’

The forearm he has braced against your middle barely keeps your back on the bed as you come, hard and loud against his tongue. Your whole body twitches, so warm, as he laps and laps and laps at you, as you beg him to stop, to let you breathe for just a second - but he doesn’t, he never does, just eats until he’s had his fill, until he’s satisfied. 

When he lifts his head from between your thighs, his beard and cheeks are glistening with your come. He releases his grip on you and begins to crawl upwards again, and you clamp your thighs shut to stop him from provoking anymore overstimulation. He laughs down at you, kneeling back to yank your legs back open with his strong hands.

‘We’re not done with you, yet, baby,’ he coos, ‘I ain’t had all my fun.’

You shake your head at him, pitiful, your lower lip jutting out. He pouts back at you.

‘You don’t want daddy’s cock, darlin’?’ He asks. You can’t even find it in you to hesitate.

‘I do,’ you cry, ‘Just don’t wanna be touched anymore.’

Joel nods at your words, strokes your cheek, kisses your forehead.

‘It’s okay, baby girl,’ he murmurs, ‘I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. Won’t make you come again if you don’t want to.’ Liar. He knows just as well as you do what his cock does to you. But still, he pauses, makes sure you’re looking at him. ‘Can I still have this pussy, angel?’

You blink up at him. Something warm curls in your stomach. Relief, you think, that he’s heard you, understands - that you know - even with Santi and Frankie here - you could stop this at any time.

‘Yes, daddy.’ You say. 

He smiles, wraps you up in a tender kiss.

‘Thank you, sweetheart.’ He murmurs as he lines himself up at your entrance, and begins to sink in.

Joel tugs at the backs of your thighs, hitching them to your chest so he can watch as he splits you open. His eyes flick from your cunt to your face, the glistening slit stretching to accommodate him and the way your jaw falls loose in a silent ‘o’, your brows brunched, your eyes rolling and falling shut. The slip of him is sinful tonight - your orgasms leaving your body like jelly, Santi’s cock preparing you for Joel’s thickness. But he still moves toe-curlingly slow, inch after inch after inch providing a delicious stretch. He groans as he feels you flutter and tense and contract around him, still unable to breathe, unable to speak. Only he can get you like this - not a babble slipping past your lips, unable to do anything but feel him. Joel pants, moaning again as he bottoms out, tip kissing your cervix. He runs a finger over your cheek, letting you adjust further.

‘Talk to me, baby,’ he urges.

He rocks his hips back and forth, no more than an inch, but it punches out the breath you were holding.

‘Fuck, Joel,’ the whisper all you can get out. He smiles at you.

‘Yeah, angel?’

‘So big.’ you breathe, shifting your hips so he can sink even further in.

‘There she is,’ he huffs, pulling out again, ‘There’s my girl.’

Joel rocks forward again, and you cry out around him, the noise setting him off into a languid pace which allows him to hit every single spot inside you. You can’t bear to touch your own body, frightened of sending yourself into the void, but you do touch Joel. You clutch at his biceps, his tight forearms, nails leaving little crescent moons wherever you grip. You tangle your fingers in his salt and pepper curls, swipe the lines on his forehead, the stubble on his cheeks. He twists his head to kiss and suck at your thumb, and you mewl at him, eyes wide and glassy, so full of him you don’t know what to do.

You’re barely aware, even, of the slick sound of skin and Santi’s soft groans as he works his cock in the chair, caught up in the intensity of you and Joel fucking, his chest flushed and shining with sweat. 

There’s still not a noise, not a peep from the other side of the door.

All you can hear is Joel; his deep breathing, low grunts and moans, his whispered praises, and the startlingly wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of you. You can’t stop the contractions that build inside you, and every time one ripples through your pussy Joel’s head drops a little lower towards your chest. 

Your orgasm feels deafeningly close and impossibly strong, brought on by every shift of Joel’s dick. You try to breathe through it, your moans getting louder, soaking the room with sound, but it’s hopeless. 

Joel dips his head to kiss you softly, swallowing your sounds for just a minute. When he pulls away, you teeter on the edge, everything feeling heavy and blurred and blazingly good.

‘Joel.’ You whisper urgently.

‘I know, baby,’ he says, ‘I can feel it. You’re taking it so well, sweet girl. So good f’me. I know it feels good. You can let go. You can do it. Come on.’

You all but scream against him, your orgasm ripping through your body, every muscle on fire. Your legs shake and your arms tighten around his neck as you shiver and twitch around him, and he moans, long and loud, like you’ve never heard him do before. 

As he fucks you through it, the relief, the pleasure catches up with you, and tears swell and pour out of your eyes.

‘So good,’ you sob, ‘So good daddy, God -’

Joel coos back at you. ‘Atta girl, baby. Knew you could do it. Knew you could give me one more. And it was so pretty, baby.’ he grins at you, before picking up his pace. You whine beneath him.

‘’S okay,’ he promises, ‘Where do you want me, darlin’?’ and you huff at him, as if you could ever give a different answer.

‘Inside. Come inside me.’ You say. And Joel crowds you out, pushing all the way in so you’re moaning again, pumping in the deepest part of you as his hips flex against yours, his head in your shoulder. You stroke his curls, breathing deeply as he relaxes. 

‘Jesus Christ,’ he mumbles against your skin. He pulls his head away, blinking. You giggle up at him.

‘Y’alright?’ you ask, and he smiles back.

‘Fuckin’ more’n alright,’ he laughs, ‘Are you?’

‘Yeah,’ you say, ‘Real good.’

Joel slides himself out of you, both grunting at the loss, and he flicks a look over your shoulder.

‘You good, Pope?’ He asks, grinning at the other man. You twist your head to look at him too, giggling again when you take in his fucked out face, exhausted in the corner, his stomach covered in come. Santi can’t help but grin back.

‘Yeah, great.’ he answers wryly, and you giggle even more.

Joel laughs with you, rolling onto his back and pulling you against his shoulder, kissing your hair.

‘Did so good, baby.’ he reminds you again as you feel him begin to dribble out of you.

Santi stands with a groan, and makes his way back towards the bathroom, muttering something about having to clean himself up again. 

You press your face to Joel’s neck with a smile, leaving soft kisses, only coming away when you hear the jingle of a belt buckle. Santi is dressing at the end of the bed, just short of pulling his top on. You frown at him.

‘You’re leaving?’ you ask. He looks up, smirking again.

‘Not yet, querida,’ he says, ‘Just cold. Besides, there’s still someone we need to look after.’ 

You watch him as he buckles his belt with baited breath, curious as to how this will play out. You aren’t sure what exactly will happen next - whether Frankie will come in, or who will… deal with him. Your breath hitches in your throat before Joel answers your questions for you.

‘Go check on Frankie, baby girl,’ he murmurs, stroking your hair back. You bury your face in his chest again, and breathe in deeply. You scrunch the sheets at his waist in your fist, and Santi chuckles at your reluctance to leave the bed. You plant a kiss to Joel’s exposed skin before pulling yourself away to sit up on the bed. Planting your feet and gathering your strength before standing. You pick up Joel’s flannel from the floor and slip your arms into it, bundling yourself against the chill you now also feel as you pad towards the door. You feel Joel and Santi’s eyes on you, silent, assessing.

When you reach the bedroom door, you touch it gingerly, breathing deeply. You feel… nervous. How would Frankie react to everything he’d heard? You knew he’d done things like it before, but you knew you would be so… angry. Jealous and frustrated. You bite your lip, and slowly pull the door back.

Frankie is exactly where Santi left him, on his knees a step back from the threshold. Your breath catches in your throat as you take him in.

At some point during it all, he'd removed his cap. It’s tossed on the floor a few feet away, and his hair is… fucked. Strands stick out on all sides, his curls mussed and frazzled. Sweat is gathered at his temples, and his skin has a warm, glossy sheen to it. All across his face, right down to the hollow of his throat peeking above his t-shirt. His lips are swollen and bitten, wet with spit as his tongue pokes out to lick them again at the sight of you, and his eyes… Eyes so dark they’re almost black, pupils blown so wide they just sparkle back at you. Deep, dangerous, and hungry. 

He’s ravenous as he looks you up and down - your smooth skin, naked thighs, bare pussy - still dripping with come - up to your exposed tits, bitten and bruised, your neck, your face… totally fucked out, swollen lips, smudged makeup, your own blown out eyes. He moans as he takes you in, and you go weak at the knees at the sight of his hands raking up and down his jean-clad thighs. His dick is straining against the denim, against the claw of his zipper, and as you look closer, you see a wet patch much larger than just precum darkening the fabric. Your cheeks flush at the sight, at the knowledge - Frankie had come in his pants just listening to the three of you.

You breathe out shakily and get to your knees, so close to him you're almost touching. You reach a hand out to cup his cheek, and he leans into it, breathing in and out deeply, closing his eyes.

‘You okay, baby?’ You ask him softly, voice low. Frankie groans again.

‘Yes.’ He croaks out. 

You don’t know if you’re allowed, but you figure you’ll find out soon enough. You lean forward, tits spilling out of Joel’s shirt, and place your hands on his thighs. His breathing sputters, and his head drops forward, but not before you can catch his lips in a sweet, soft kiss. Just like you’ve wanted to, for so long. 

He sighs against you, lips seeking yours. But he seems so exhausted, so on edge, that he can hardly pour any fire into it. His tongue searches your mouth, almost like a plea. 

Please. Please.

As though he hears it too, Joel says quietly from the bed -

‘Help him, baby.’

You pull away from Frankie’s kiss and lean your forehead to his.

‘What do you need?’ You whisper. 

He looses a ragged sigh, too turned on to even know himself.

‘Can I touch you?’ He breathes.

You nod, and he reaches out his hands - carefully, gently - to skirt over and up your waist, to touch your stomach, to skate over your tits. You wince, once, as he traces over one of your nipples, and he freezes. You smile shyly at him.

‘It’s okay,’ you whisper, ‘’M just sore.’ He nods, and continues to touch, caressing your neck, thumbing your jaw, your cheekbone, stroking your brow. He’s so tender, so Frankie, that you feel tears well behind your eyelids. As though he can sense it, tell the gravity of the moment, he drops his hands, skirting them along your thighs, drifting towards your hips, thumbs rubbing the sides of your tummy, before creeping towards your heat.

‘Is this okay?’ He asks.

‘Yes.’ You sigh, this time against his mouth, drawing his lips back to yours. 

When Frankie dips one of his hands to sweep through your folds, you both moan. Low and long against each other. 

‘Fuck,’ he breathes against you, stalling. Slowly, slowly, he brings his coated fingers to his mouth, so close to you that you can smell it, the mix of you and Joel and Santi, and he slips the digits between his lips. He holds your eye the whole time, devouring, tongue swiping over every knuckle, every valley, until they’re clean. He releases them with a pop. You groan, wanting him, impossibly, and you ask again.

‘What do you need, Frankie?’

‘You.’ He says. Frankie swoops forward again to kiss you, one hand now at the back of your head, one back between your legs, gathering the mess between your thighs. You rock against his hand as he parts you, feels you, and you reach forward for his belt, his button, his zipper, undoing all three in record time. You slip a hand into his jeans, under his boxers, impatient to feel him, all of him, and he gasps against you, stilling his movements. He groans your name, almost in warning. 

‘It’s okay,’ you tell him, stroking his hair soothingly, ‘You’ve waited so long, Frankie. It’s okay.’

You take your hand out from his pants, and join his at your pussy, just for a moment, just to collect what’s left and what’s already pooling from you again, before returning your hand to his cock, using the combined juices to move your hand easily up and down. Frankie moans brokenly against you, his body slumping forwards. 

You can’t see him like this, but you can feel him - and Frankie is big. Not quite as big as Joel, but thicker and pulsing against your palm, already wet from his come and what you have just provided him. You swipe your thumb over his tip, collecting his precum to spread down his length, and he jerks against you at the movement. 

‘Fuck, baby,’ he whispers, ‘I can’t, I’m not gonna last, hermosa -’

You shush him again, kissing at his temple, his brow, his cheek, before nudging to his lips.

‘It’s okay, Frankie,’ you say again. ‘I want you to come. You deserve to come. You’ve been so good for us.’ 

And it’s all Frankie needs as he moans loudly against your lips, body seizing and relaxing harshly against yours as he spills himself over your fist, over his jeans, over your thighs and the top of your mound. There is so much of him it’s almost comical, and you laugh softly as he finally starts to relax.

He looks up at you shyly, questioningly.

‘Look at you, Frankie,’ you breathe, and he flushes right to the tops of his ears. ‘So good.’ You murmur.

‘All for you,’ he whispers so only you can hear. He holds your gaze, trying to communicate everything he’s been thinking behind that door. ‘All for you.’

You lean forward and kiss him again. Try to forget, for now, the scratch of those unanswered questions, what it could all mean. Later.

‘Come on,’ you say, taking his hand and rising from the floor. He follows and returns your smile. ‘Let's get you cleaned up.’

[mrsparrasblog]

Barracks Baby

Summary: After sleeping with four of your fellow teammates, you need to navigate through pregnancy and finding out who the Baby Daddy is

You should have listened to your mother, was all you thought when you looked at that bloody positive stick in your hand. Your mother always said, "Don’t whore around; you’re going to end up pregnant and unwed. Keep your virginity until marriage," blah blah blah.

What your mom didn’t tell you were the effects of living on a military base. You wouldn’t call yourself a barracks bunny—you only slept with four guys; there must be more to it for earning that title. And who could judge you? Everyone would if they could. These four men were everything every other man lacked on earth. No one could make you cum as many times as John could, no one could make you feel so stupid like Simon could, no one was as pretty and nice as Kyle—fucking him in any other position than missionary would be a crime against humanity—and no one had as much stamina as Johnny; he could go for at least six rounds, shove a protein bar between your pouty lips, and go four more.

You weren’t sure what to do. That was a lie—you always wanted kids, just not like this, not in this situation, without knowing who the baby daddy is, being employed by the military, and best of all, being broke. Of course, you could call your best friend Conny; she would always support you with the baby, but even she couldn’t help you break the news to the boys.

Your mother would probably kill you—no, she wouldn’t, but she would tell you all about eating liver sprinkled with fish oil, quitting your job, and getting into a relationship with that loser Mark you once dated. He would still take you after being knocked up, but how could you return to that after having these four guys?

You needed to tell them; you knew it. There was no other way around this situation. Maybe one of them would step up. You were sure if it was Price's baby, he would support you mentally and financially, though your military career would be destroyed. Simon would be a different story; he hated kids—or at least that’s what you thought. He never wanted them, never anything more than a fling. Johnny would be the safest choice; he would take care of you, step up, marry you, and make you a cute housewife in the Highlands. No more working sounded good right now to you. Kyle was a wildcard; he would support you—he was a good guy—but he never spoke about kids. He could either love them or hate them.

You stood up; it was enough time sitting on the toilet and overthinking. You walked outside, gripping the stick tightly and holding it against your stomach, trying to hide it from the rookies walking past you. They had too much fun; if you were with Simon right now, you’d make them run laps for smiling. Rookies aren’t there to be happy; they are there to suffer. Fuck, you’re going to be a terrible mom, you thought. You treated rookies badly, you forgot to feed your hamster once, and you’re only good at shooting and fucking—what will you teach this kid? The anxiety inside of you only grew bigger with every passing second.

You reached the meeting room, sat down, and sighed as you took out your phone, scrolling until you found the Group chat 141 + Hot Stuff. You remembered how Johnny changed it after you joined and how the Lt. threw a fit over it.

You: Important things to discuss, please come to the meeting room, now.

Daddy <3: Everything okay?

Emo Boy: Affirmative

Pretty Boy: Can I finish the set?

Bubbles: It’s 7 am, I’m not coming

You: NOW

With that, everyone agreed. You weren’t sure how to break the news. "Hey, I’m pregnant; it might be any one of you. Surprise, Daddy!" wasn’t a good idea. Leaving the pregnancy test out on the table as if it were a loaded gun wasn’t a good idea either. Well, you had to admit it was like a round of Russian roulette, just more deadly.

Simon was the first to join. He looked at you as if he knew but kept his mouth shut. After a few minutes, everyone was sitting at the table, looking at you in confusion. You never called a meeting; it would be uncalled for as a Sergeant anyway.

"Why are we here, Bonnie?" Soap destroyed the silence you had hidden yourself in.

You could talk now, explain it, or say anything to make it sound better, but all you could say was a miserable, "I’m pregnant."

Shocked expressions would be an understatement. John tugged on his beard, Johnny lost the color from his face, Kyle looked as if he were a teenager caught past curfew, and Simon’s expression was unreadable to you.

"I’m not sure who the father is among you four," the second bomb went off.

"How could that happen?" was all Johnny said.

"Yes, how could that happen," you spat out sarcastically.

"Babe, please let me cum inside, need you raw." "Let Daddy breed you, Sweetheart, need you all full for me." "The condom broke again, Bonnie." "I’ll pull out, love." Yes, how could that have happened?

"I’m out of this shit," Ghost’s words cut deeper than a knife as he stood up and left without another word. By your luck, he was probably the Dad.

"My mother is going to kill me."

"You’re 28, Gaz, no one’s going to kill you. You’re not a bloody teenager anymore."Price spoke in a stern voice.

"Oh."

"Yes, oh."

"I’ll give you financial support if it is mine or if you want to get rid of it," when you thought Ghost's words hurt, then Price killed you. He made you on the edge of breaking down—correction, you broke down. The tears in your eyes already streamed down your cheeks; damn hormones. Price looked at you in guilt. He wanted to speak up, but Johnny went first.

"That’s fucking great news, Bonnie. If it’s mine, oh God, I always wanted a wee bairn. Think of him looking like me, or getting twins—the MacTavish genes are pretty strong. We’re getting a wee lad, probably a 10-pounder like me."

Ten pounds—that’s a whole ass turkey. You didn’t even get the chance to excuse yourself before you ran outside, throwing up again. "Fuck, what did I get myself into?"

[gothhabiba]

Some hints about evaluating scientific studies

Firstly, understand that something being published in a scientific journal (or an academic journal for the social sciences) does not automatically make it true. Publishers profit from publishing novel, eye-catching, surprising research, which means they are more likely to publish positive results than ones that didn't find a connection between given variables. This means that scientists' careers benefit when they get positive results. Certain institutions also benefit from certain findings above others (a committee for research on "obesity" that is funded by a government organisation tasked with ending it, for example, is likely to try to stretch the evidence to find a link between body weight and poor health outcomes). So how do people evaluate scientific studies, especially without being scientists themselves?

Literature reviews

Literature reviews, which aim to assemble and summarise most of the available or influential papers on a given issue, can be a good place to start when trying to research that issue. Typically, scientific studies shouldn't only be evaluated on a case-by-case basis (since even well-designed studies can be contradicted by other, equally well-designed studies), but a full survey of the different results people have gotten should be taken.

Background information and conflicts of interest

Try to find out who funded a given study. Who published the study? What do these people stand to gain from the results of the study being accepted? (For example: you might pay special attention to the experimental design on a study on whether a certain essential oil helps to reverse hair loss that was carried out by a company that sells that oil.)

In theory, many journals call for study authors to declare any conflicts of interest they may have in a special section of the paper. This section should also list funding sources. You might also look up the authors on linkedin or something to find where they're employed; also look into whether another conglomerate owns that company, &c.

Experimental design

If the study involves a survey, have the authors of the paper provided the questions that people were asked, so that you can evaluate them for potential ambiguity or confusing wording? Not being transparent about the exact wording of questions is a sign that a study isn't trustworthy.

What's the sample size? Is it large enough for the claim the study is making to be reasonable? (More on this in the next section.)

Does the experimental design make sense with what the researchers wanted to study? Are the claims that they make in the conclusion section something that could reasonably be proven or suggested by the experiment that they performed?

Does the experimental design "bake in" an assumption of the truth of its hypothesis? (For example, measuring skeletons to argue that they fall into statistically significant size groupings by sex, using skeletons that you sorted into "male" and "female" groups based on their size, is clearly circular).

How was data collected? People might change their answers to a survey, for example, if they have to speak to a person to give them, rather than writing them down anonymously. Self-reported information (such as a survey aiming to figure out average height or average penis size) is also subject to bias. A good study should be transparent about how the authors collected their data, and be clear about how this could have affected their results.

Also regarding surveys: do the categories that the authors have divided respondents into make sense? Are these categories really mutually exclusive? If respondents were asked to sort themselves into categories (e.g., to select their own race or ethnicity), is there any guarantee that they all interpreted the question / the boundaries of these categories the same way? How would this affect the results?

Interpretation of results

Could anything other than the conclusion that the authors came to explain the results of their experiment? For example, a study finding a correlation between two variables and assuming that this means one variable causes the other ("being in a lot of stress causes short stature" or vise versa) could be missing a secret third thing which is in fact causing both of those things (e.g., poverty). Check to make sure that the authors considered other explanations for their findings and ruled them out (for example, by controlling for other variables such as socioeconomic status).

Are the results of the study generalisable to the population that the authors claim they're generalisable to? For example, the results may not be true for the entire population if only cisgender men between the ages of 30 and 40 were tested. Sampling biases can also affect generalisability—if I surveyed my college to try to find out the percentage of women in the total population, you might ask "but is your college sure to have the same percentage of women as the Earth does?"

Statistics

Are the results statistically significant, or are they within expected margins of error?

Many studies provide a p-value (a number between 0 and 1) for their results. In theory, a p-value represents the chance that the study's results could have been achieved by random chance. If you flip a coin ten times (so, your sample size is 10), it's not very odd to get heads six times and tails four times, and you wouldn't accept that as proof that the coin lands on heads more often than tails. The p-value for that result would be high (that is, there's a high chance that the coin appears unfair only because of random chance). On the other hand, if you flip a coin 100,000 times and it lands on heads 60,000 of those times, that's much better evidence that the coin is not a fair one. The p-value would be much lower. Typically, a p-value lower than 0.05 is considered statistically significant.

In practice, there's more than one way to calculate p-values, and so studies sometimes claim p-values that seem absurdly low. A low p-value is not proof of a claim in and of itself. Check to make sure that the authors of the paper also provide the raw data, and not just the p-values; this indicates a concern with other people being able to independently evaluate their results, rather than just trying to get The Best Numbers.

Citations

If the study cites something that seems foundational to their claims or interpretation, try tracing it back to the paper that was cited. Does the source actually claim what the authors of the first study said it did? Does the source provide proof or support for the claim, or does it seem flimsy, like a "common-sense" assumption?

Replication

Check the studies that cite the one you're currently looking at. Has anyone else tried to replicate the study? What were their results?

What if I really, really don't want to read scientific studies?

That's fine. Not everyone is concerned enough with specific scientific questions for regularly reading scientific papers to be reasonable for them. Just keep in mind that not everything in a scientific journal is necessarily true; that profit motives and personal and institutional bias impact results (e.g. when some studies revealed a lack of poor health outcomes for "obesity," and many scientists responded by calling it a "paradox" that needed to be "solved"); and that pop science and journalistic reporting on science are subject to distortions from the same sources.

Try finding commentators on scientific matters whose output you like, and evaluate their writing the same way you would evaluate any other critical writing.

[wonderlanddreamer]

Lean On Me.

[Tommy Shelby × Reader]

Summary - A cute little hurt/comfort one-shot based on this request. When you're hurt during an incident at the Garrison, it's Tommy who notices and takes care of you.

The Garrison was alive with the usual sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of conversation. It was a typical evening, and you moved behind the bar with ease, offering your gentle smile and kind eyes to each patron who approached. Your sweet demeanor had made you a favorite among the regulars, and your presence was often a calming influence in the boisterous atmosphere.

As you refilled a customer's drink, you noticed the door swing open with a force that made it bang against the wall, causing a few heads to turn sharply. A group of men entered, their loud voices and aggressive postures immediately altering the mood of the room. You recognized a few of them as troublemakers who had been thrown out before. A knot of anxiety formed in your stomach, but you continued your work, hoping they would leave without causing any trouble.

Unfortunately, it was not going to be one of those nights. The arguments started almost immediately, escalating quickly into shouts and threats. One of the men grabbed a patron by the collar, slamming him against the bar and causing his drink to spill everywhere. A furious brawl erupted, with fists flying and chairs being overturned. Glasses shattered as they were knocked off tables, and the sound of breaking wood filled the air as a table was flipped over.

You moved behind the bar, your heart pounding in your chest, trying to stay out of the fray. The scene was a blur of violent motion: a man was thrown to the ground, another's face was bloodied by a brutal punch, and someone else wielded a broken bottle like a weapon. The shouts and grunts of pain were deafening, and the air was thick with tension and fear.

Then, you heard the unmistakable crack of a gunshot. The noise cut through the chaos like a knife, silencing the room for a brief, heart-stopping moment. 

A searing pain shot through your side, causing you to gasp. You pressed a hand against the pain, feeling the warmth of blood seep through your fingers. Panic surged through you, but you bit down on your lip to stifle a cry. You couldn't afford to let anyone see you falter, not when the pub was in such disarray. You told yourself it was just a graze, nothing serious. You didn't need to cause a fuss.

The tension in the room was palpable when, suddenly, the door to the side room burst open. Tommy Shelby, flanked by his brothers John and Arthur, strode in with an air of authority that immediately commanded attention. Tommy’s sharp blue eyes scanned the chaos, missing nothing. In his hand, he held a revolver, its presence a chilling promise of violence. John, with a snarl on his lips, grabbed one of the troublemakers and threw him against the wall with a force that made the entire room shake. Arthur, always the most volatile, swung a chair with a roar, smashing it over another man's back. The Peaky Blinders moved with the precision and efficiency of a well-oiled machine, their brutal swiftness clearing out the troublemakers in a matter of moments.

Tommy fired a shot into the ceiling, the deafening crack silencing any remaining resistance. The troublemakers froze, their eyes wide with fear. "Out," Tommy growled, his voice low and deadly. "And if I see any of you in here again, you'll regret it." The men scrambled for the door, tripping over each other in their haste to escape.

The Garrison was left in shambles, but the immediate threat was gone. Tommy turned to survey the room, his gaze hard and calculating. He didn’t notice as you quickly tied a makeshift bandage around your waist, gritting your teeth against the pain, and continued your work.

Time seemed to stretch on forever as you cleaned up the broken glass and righted the overturned furniture. Your vision wavered, and a cold sweat broke out on your forehead. You pressed your hand to your side again, feeling the blood still seeping through the fabric of your makeshift bandage. Each movement was agony, but you forced yourself to keep going, telling yourself it would all be okay once your shift was over and you could go home. You swept the shattered remnants of glasses into a dustpan, the sound of the shards tinkling like a cruel reminder of the night's violence.

Eventually, you faltered faster than you could catch yourself, the room spinning around you as you fought to regain your balance. A strong hand caught your arm, steadying you. You looked up to see Tommy Shelby's piercing blue eyes staring at you, concern etched into his usually stoic features.

"What the hell happened to you?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous, the edge of authority unmistakable.

"I-It's nothing, Mr. Shelby," you stammered, trying to muster a reassuring smile but failing. "Just a scratch."

Tommy's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing you with a penetrating gaze. Before you could protest, he had pulled your hand away from your side, revealing the blood-soaked bandage. His expression darkened, a storm of anger and worry playing across his features.

"You're bleeding and you didn't think to say anything?" he growled, though there was a softness in his eyes that belied his harsh tone. "Come with me."

He led you to a side room of the Garrison, his grip firm but gentle, ensuring you didn't stumble. The room was small and dimly lit, filled with the scent of whiskey and old wood, a hidden sanctuary from the chaos outside. You winced as he helped you sit down, the pain now impossible to ignore.

Tommy worked quickly, his hands surprisingly deft as he removed your makeshift bandage and examined the wound. His fingers were steady, the touch surprisingly tender for someone known for his ruthlessness. 

"This is more than a scratch," Tommy muttered, his jaw tight with restrained anger. "God damn it, sweetheart."

"I'm sorry," you whispered, tears welling up in your eyes. "I didn't want to be a bother."

Tommy's expression softened, his steely exterior cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of concern. He sighed heavily, shaking his head. "You're lucky I pay attention."

He set to work with surprising tenderness, carefully cleaning the wound. The sting of the antiseptic made you flinch, but Tommy's steady presence was oddly comforting. His fingers traced the edges of the wound, ensuring it was free of debris before wrapping a proper bandage around your waist. Despite the sharp focus in his eyes, you could see the undercurrent of tension, the worry he tried to mask behind his composed demeanour.

The room seemed to shrink around the two of you, the dim light casting a warm glow over Tommy's concentrated face. His hands moved with practised ease, but the care in his touch spoke volumes. It was a side of him rarely seen, hidden beneath layers of calculated ruthlessness and unyielding authority.

"There," he said softly, his voice a low, soothing rumble. He met your gaze with those piercing blue eyes, now softened with concern. "You'll be alright. But next time, you come straight to me. Understood?"

You nodded, managing a weak smile. "Thank you, Mr. Shelby."

He tilted your chin up with a gentle hand, his thumb brushing away your tears. "Call me Tommy," he corrected, his voice tender. "And promise me, no more heroics, eh? Leave that to me."

"I promise, Tommy," you replied, your heart swelling with gratitude and something deeper, something you didn't dare to name. The pain in your side seemed to fade, replaced by a warmth that spread through your chest. 

Tommy helped you to your feet, his arm steady around your waist, providing support as you swayed slightly. Each step sent a jolt of pain through your body, but with his strong presence beside you, it felt a little more bearable. His grip was firm yet gentle, a silent promise of protection that wrapped around you like a comforting blanket.

As you walked back into the main room of the Garrison, the remnants of the earlier brawl were still visible. Broken glass glinted on the floor, and overturned chairs lay scattered about. The other Peaky Blinders were busy restoring order, their expressions a mix of annoyance and grim determination. 

Tommy guided you to a quieter corner, easing you into a chair before resting against the table beside you. He reached for a glass of water, handing it to you with a gentleness that seemed almost out of character for the hardened leader of the Peaky Blinders.

"Drink this," he instructed, his voice softer now, the rough edges smoothed out by genuine concern. "It'll help."

You took the glass, your hands trembling slightly as you sipped the cool water. The liquid soothed your parched throat, and you felt a bit of strength return to your limbs. 

"Why didn't you say anything when it happened?" Tommy asked after a moment, genuine curiosity and concern lacing his words. He leaned in slightly, eyes searching yours for an answer, his brow furrowed with worry.

You looked down at your hands, the glass of water clutched between them. "I didn't want to cause more trouble," you admitted quietly. "I thought it was just a graze, and everyone already had so much to deal with."

Tommy's expression softened, his stern demeanor giving way to something more vulnerable. He sighed, shaking his head gently. "You're anything but trouble, sweetheart," he told you, his tone firm yet kind.

Your eyes widened at his words, your heart skipping a beat. You searched his face, looking for any sign that he was merely being kind, but all you saw was sincerity. 

"Thank you, Tommy," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion. The words felt inadequate, but they were all you could manage in the moment.

He reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, not from fear but from a profound sense of connection. "Don’t scare me like that again, alright?" he said softly, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

The room seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in that intimate moment. You felt a warmth spread through your chest, a sense of belonging that you hadn't realized you craved. Tommy's touch was tender, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. You leaned into his hand, finding solace in the simple, yet profound gesture.

"Rest here for a bit," he said after a moment, his hand reluctantly pulling away, though his eyes remained fixed on yours. "I'll have someone take you home when you're ready."

He stood up, but not before softly tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. His presence was a shield, a promise that he would protect you no matter what. 

[fernshawart]

A few months ago I had a dream where I played a new kind of salmonid wave. I've tried my best to illustrate it and try to tell everyone about the thing I've experienced.

Now introducing : Oil spills

Oil spills are a special wave in salmon run, similar to glowflies or Goldie seeking.

When an oil spill starts, you get a unique piece of Grizz dialogue : "Urgh ... Alright kids you know what ? No objective for that wave. Just try your best to survive."

The round plays similarly to a cohock charge, and golden salmonid starts emerging from the sea. They look like mini cohozunas and are around twice as big cohocks. They are very bulky but walk very slowly, so timing your canon shots is key to get rid of them.

You can get golden eggs from these enemies but picking them up isn't necessary, as there is no quota.

As the wave keeps on going, the golden enemies get slowly and slowly less shiny and more covered with a dark substance. And the more covered they are, the bulkier they get. Until finally, you end up seeing some of them pitch black, basically a mangled salmonid covered in a very thick black dripping goop

These salmonids are completely unable to be killed. They cannot be damaged and in fact, they should NOT be approached. And that's when the wave goal shifts

There ends up to be around 4-5 of these salmonids. They are slow but they will kill you if they touch you. You can technically be revived but the problem is reaching anyone who died. The ink they leave behind is oil, which cannot be covered back by your own ink.

The goal after that is to actually move as a group to properly lure the oil salmonids so that they don't immediately cover up your ground and kill you all. The oil on its own won't kill you but it obviously makes it difficult to move around if you're on it.

When the wave ends, one of the oil salmonids runs up to the egg basket discords its body to swallow it before leaving back to the sea, basically taking away any amount of egg you could've gotten for Grizz (hence why it's NOT recommended to pick up eggs)

If you win, no matter what wave you're on, the shift will end with a victory and Grizz will go "there you go kiddo, we're done for that shift. What, paying you ?! Alright ... I guess I LEGALLY have to pay you even if you didn't do anything. Actually, maybe try dying next time "

Surviving that wave will not give you points for the gatcha, due to your team basically loosing all its eggs. It will, however, give you fish scales based on how well you defend yourself against the mini golden cohozunas

In the darkened sky of the special wave, you may be able to spot aurora borealis, mimicking the colors of an oil spill.

OH and one last thing : this wave had a different kind of music.

It was drums, very intense but not fast paced ones, without any other instruments to accompany them.

If you want an exemple of what this may sound like, listen to Arceus's theme.