#humidity and curls do not mix my friend

[imaginedisish]

Liquid Smooth (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Started writing this last night...sooo happy you guys wanted a sex pollen fic! Hope it lives up to everyone's expectations! This one is (obviously) inspired by "Liquid Smooth," by Mitski. ENJOY!

Summary: A simple mission deep in a forest alone with Logan quickly gets out of hand when you just have to go and pick a flower...

Warnings: 18+ EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT MINORS DNI! Dry humping, Oral (f!receiving), Fingering, Unprotected PIV (wrap it up!), Sex Pollen (so dub!con just to be safe, but not really), Multiple orgasms, Porn Without Plot...literally, implied!age gap, cursing, friends to lovers, fem!reader/afab!reader, probably some grammatical errors, I think that's it.

Word Count: 3,797 muahaha

“I don’t need a goddamn babysitter,” you murmur as Logan thumbs through the controls of the X-Jet. “Could’ve done this by myself.” 

Logan scoffs. “I’m not your babysitter, princess.” You roll your eyes at the nickname Logan has specially reserved just for you. “Charles said we’d be safer going together. He knows you can handle yourself.”

The X-Jet cruises effortlessly through the clouds. The air is still today. Calm. You and Logan are on your way to get some sort of flower that Charles claims to have extensive healing properties. It’s an easy mission. No fighting. No violence. You’re unlikely to have to use your powers at all. And yet, you’ve been paired with Logan. 

It wouldn’t be a problem if you weren’t—admittedly—a little into him. Or rather, pining after him. There’s just something about the sarcasm that’s always thick in his voice; the way he squeezes himself into those thin beaters. How he’s always so self-assured, so thoroughly convinced he’s right. You just can’t help it. You want him. But he isn’t yours, and he probably never will be. He’s a little older—well, a lot, considering he’s been around forever. And you know it’s safer not to make attachments—not to fall in love.

Unfortunately, it’s a little too late for that. 

But having him here with you now, alone, with no buffers…it’s overwhelming. You can smell him—that mix of tobacco and pine and musk and him. He’s suddenly everywhere, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You watch as his long fingers press different buttons, his hands gripping the steering wheel, adjusting thrusters. You stare at those fingers for far too long, your thoughts drifting to what else he can do with them. You think about him curling them deep inside you, stretching you open and—

“Everything okay?” You snap your head to face Logan, swallowing harshly as his voice pulls you back to reality. 

You force a smile, nodding. “Yep!” You say, overcompensating just a bit. “All good,” you lie. You close your eyes, trying to push thoughts of Logan out of your head, denying the heat growing between your legs.

“Good, because we’re almost there,” Logan says, the X-Jet descending carefully. You look out the window to see the trees below. There’s a lake in the distance, but that’s it. No civilization, no houses—no one. It’s empty, peaceful. 

“We’re really in the middle of nowhere, huh?” You say, glancing at Logan. 

His eyes meet yours and he smiles. Warmth blooms in your heart at the sight. “My kind of place,” he says back. The X-Jet descends further as you approach a clear spread of grass to land on just ahead. 

This is, in fact, not your kind of place. The humidity creeps up your back and settles under your skin. The forest is overgrown and impossible to navigate. You let Logan slice through the plant life with his claws, swiping back and forth whenever something gets in your way.

You haven’t been walking for long, but you’re already done. Perhaps Charles was right; a partner is not the worst idea on a mission like this. 

You can see the flower just ahead—yellow petals and a long, green, viny stem. It glows brightly even under the dense forest canopy. “Semper in tenebris lux,” Charles had said; there is always light in darkness. And he was right. The flower illuminates everything in its path. Next to it, you can see a pretty, lavender-colored flower. You stop in your tracks, letting Logan wander ahead as you crouch down to stroke the purple petals. 

“Charles didn’t say anything about not taking other flowers too, right?” You call out, watching as Logan swipes carefully at the stem of the yellow flower. He holds the dainty stem in his large hands as he walks back over to you. 

“No, he didn’t. But you should be careful. It could be poisonous or—”

You ignore Logan, picking the flower anyway. You hold it up to your nose and breathe in. It’s sweet and fragrant. You twist the stem and realize the flower is sticky with sap and pollen. Your twist shakes some of the pollen up, and it lands all over your face. 

“Shit,” you mutter, wiping it away. A gust of wind sweeps through the forest, knocking the flower out of your hand and spreading more of its pollen in the air. You can feel it in your nostrils, getting caught in your throat.

Logan furrows his brows as the pollen falls to the ground. “What the fuck did you do?”

You roll your eyes. “All I did was pick a flower!” You lift your hands, feigning innocence. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” You stand up, glancing once at the yellow flower in Logan’s hands and then back at Logan. “It’s pretty.”

He parts his lips, his stare focused on you. “Yeah, it is.” There’s something else in that stare, in those words. Like maybe he isn’t only talking about the flower. You shove those thoughts down as you turn around and walk back to the jet.

Your steps are suddenly very heavy. You scratch at your shoulder. Heat blooms in your chest, your stomach, across your face. You’re irritated and overheated and itchy. Your breath grows heavier and rougher with every step. 

Logan notices immediately. He stops, grabbing your arm. You can’t control the way you lean into his touch, nor the way you’re craving more. “Hey,” he soothes, eyes searching your face. “Are you okay?” There’s a hint of panic in his voice. 

You swallow harshly, nodding. Your throat feels thick, your skin tight and oppressive. “’M’fine,” you mumble. 

“Quit lying. I can tell something’s wrong,” Logan demands. You open your mouth to persuade him otherwise, but he doesn’t give you the chance, his grip tightening around your arm. “Your skin is on fucking fire, princess. What did you do?” He cocks his head, sniffing as he furrows his brows. His voice is darker now, slower as his eyes widen. “What the fuck did you do?”

You take in a sharp breath. And that’s when you feel it, the ache between your thighs, the slick arousal soaking through your panties. The realization smacks you in the face. For a moment, you’re clear-headed, but still terrified. The pollen. That goddamn, fucking pollen. “Logan, look, I think that purple flower had some—"

He cuts you off as he yanks your arm, tugging you towards the ship. “We need to get you back to the jet, okay?”

“Oh, I am so fucked,” you cry. You know you only have a few seconds left before the effects really kick in. “L-Logan,” you stutter, almost moaning as your core burns stronger with need. “T-the pollen was everywhere. What if you got some too?” 

He ignores you, handing you the yellow flower you came here for in the first place. He sweeps one hand under your legs and keeps the other at your back as he lifts you in his arms—bridal style. You can feel his heart beating in his chest. You lean into him again, searching for relief. Wetness pools between your legs. You have never felt this needy before. Your desire hurts, burns, scorches you. You rut your hips, clenching down around nothing. 

“S-stop doing that,” Logan spits, restrained and quiet. 

“C-can’t,” you whine. “It hurts, Logan. It hurts so fucking bad. How come you aren’t like this too?”

He pulls you tighter to his chest. “I feel a little something, but that might just…”

You tilt your head up to look at him. He works his jaw, that perfect jaw. You want to bite it, to bury your face in the crook of his neck. “Might just be what?” You ask, tentatively brushing your lips against the hollow of his throat. 

“Nothing, just—fuck,” he groans as you press soft, open-mouthed kisses all around his neck now. “Don’t do that, princess. You don’t want this.”

“But I do, Logan,” you beg. The ramp to the jet lowers as you and Logan approach. “N-need you.” You bury your face into his shoulder, breathing him in. “Need y-you all the time.” The confession slips easily from your lips. 

Logan’s eyes widen as he walks up the ramp and into the ship. It lifts and seals shut behind him. “You don’t mean that, sweetheart. Let’s just get you back to the mansion as quickly as possible, yeah?”

He places you down on the seat next to him, taking the flower from your hands and putting it in the jar Charles had given you. The leather cold at your back almost feels good, almost relieving—until you realize Logan is no longer holding you, touching you. You reach out towards him, grabbing his arms, pulling him back in. “Don’t go,” you plead, nails digging into his biceps. Your body is on fire. Everything is unbearably painful. “Please,” you whimper. “Need you so fucking bad, just you.” 

“Fuck,” Logan curses. “I am not taking advantage of you. I am not doing this.” He stands, freeing himself from your grasp and walking over to the pilot’s chair. “I’m getting you back to the mansion and we’re going to fix this, okay?”

But that’s not good enough for you. You stand up and walk over to Logan. Your steps are shaky, your legs trembling. Your chest heaves, your heart beating rapidly. You climb into Logan’s lap, straddling him, one leg on either side. “Logan, I can’t fucking wait,” you cry, grinding down onto his lap. The pressure feels delicious.  He grabs your hips, stilling you, forcing you in place. And that’s when you feel it: his erection, hard underneath your core. “This isn’t you. You don’t really want this, don’t really want m—”

“It is me,” you protest, squirming against his hold. “Logan, I’ve wanted you for months. I-I was thinking about you t-touching me the whole way here.” You remember the way his fingers dexterously pushed all the right buttons. Need courses through you like a river, and as Logan’s hold on your hips softens, you grind down into his lap, against his erection. “S-so good,” you cry out. 

His hands are still on your hips, but now he’s guiding you, rocking you against his cock. “J-just this though, okay?” 

You hum, pressing your forehead to his, rolling your hips faster. The relief is like heaven. His arms wrap around your back, his fingers trailing up and down soothingly. Logan ruts into you, his erection straining against his jeans. You can feel yourself getting closer, but the pain, the need, it’s all still the same. 

“Logan, it’s not gonna be enough,” you whisper, his lips ghosting yours. “N-need more. Hurts so bad.”

He presses a chaste kiss to your lips, like he’s scared to truly touch you. But he wants to consume your pain, to take it away, to feel it for you. You can see it written across his face, in the way his cock throbs against your swollen clit, how he snaps his hips into yours. 

“I know, princess,” he coos, his hands like fire on your back. Your walls contract around nothing, begging for something to hold onto, to feel something sink deep inside. “Gonna take care of you.” He kisses you again, with more vigor this time, more passion. “I’ve got you, darlin’.”

You moan into his mouth. His composure is slipping, disintegrating with every roll, every rock of your hips against his. His cock notches against your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure up the base of your spine. He hikes your shirt up, the cold air hitting your overheated skin. “F-feels good,” you stammer. You’re almost there, almost hitting that peak. “S-so close.”

“I know, pretty girl,” he soothes. “Let go for me, know you can do it.” 

You moan his name, your orgasm crashing into you like a crescendo. You know you’re soaking through your clothes, and probably onto Logan’s too. He’s still rutting against you, giving you more. He knows it’s not going to be enough, and he’s right. Need builds back up just as quickly as you found your release. 

 “Lo…” you trail off, looking up at him under lust-filled eyes. You swallow harshly, squirming in his lap helplessly. “G-gotta have you.” 

He presses his forehead to yours. He works his jaw, parting his lips. “Y-you meant it when you said you wanted me before this?” But he already knows the answer. He knows you wouldn’t lie to him about that, not even now. 

“Yes,” you whine, pulling him closer. He tugs your shirt all the way over your head and picks you up, hands firmly gripping your ass. “Still gonna want you after this, too.”

He curses under his breath as he places you down in the pilot’s chair. He’s frenzied and frantic as he hooks his thumbs into your pants and panties, yanking them down your legs and casting them to the side. 

He spreads your legs with the palms of his hands, his thumbs brushing soft circles into your inner thighs. He’s kneeling, looking up at you. Your breath catches in your throat as his face settles between your legs. 

“Could smell you before, pretty girl,” he husks, his breath fanning over your clit. “Wanted this so fucking bad.” He doesn’t keep you waiting, licking a long stripe through your folds and up to your clit. “Knew you’d taste perfect. Pretty fucking pussy.” 

You throw your head back as his lips latch onto your clit, sucking harshly. He slips one hand across your back, keeping you close. His free hand climbs up your thigh, fingers exploring your folds as his tongue flits across your swollen bud. He spreads your arousal, prodding against your entrance before shoving two fingers deep inside you. “Logan!” You cry out, your walls clenching around him. He’s stretching you out, his fingers dragging inside you. He pulls out and plunges back in. He isn’t taking his time, isn’t teasing. He’s giving you what you need, pump after pump. 

You look down at him, his face buried in your cunt, consuming you, swallowing you whole like a starving man. He’s lost inside you, lapping at you with unwavering hunger and desire. His tongue swirls around your clit, his teeth grazing ever so slightly. You moan his name again, and he hums against you, the vibrations of his bassy voice rocking through your body. He’s wrecking you, but it feels so goddamn good. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he goads you along. He’s adding a third finger now, and you suck him in. You’d take anything he gives you, anything at all. “Doing so good for me, taking it so well.” 

He sucks roughly, your walls clenching around him at the feeling. “Yeah?” He grunts, sucking again. “You like that? Feels good?” 

“Y-yes,” you stammer, stumbling over that one simple word. “S-so fucking good.” 

“I know, beautiful,” he groans, nipping at your clit in between his rough sucks. “Gonna make that hurt go away, okay?” His voice is like honey, sugar; it’s sweet, addictive. “You just gotta come for me again, can you do that?” His tongue strokes your clit, his fingers pumping faster now. 

You nod your head emphatically, pleasure surging as you near your peak. “Yeah, I-I can,” you huff. 

Logan smiles against your cunt between rough laps. “I know you can, sweetheart.” His fingers scissor inside you, deeper than before. He takes your clit between his lips again, sucking hard. 

And that’s all it takes—you’re screaming his name, coming undone, unraveling underneath him. The release is even better than the first, more full, more complete. Logan thrusts in and out a few more times before slowly pulling his fingers from your cunt. He licks one more long stripe through your folds and looks up into your eyes. 

For a moment, the fire inside has been quenched. You feel clear, levelheaded. But it doesn’t last long. “Fuck,” you moan, your head hitting against the headrest of the chair. The fire is back, spreading across your stomach, your chest. “Logan,” you whimper. “I n-need more.”

“It’s okay, pretty girl,” he coos, taking you back up into his arms. He hoists you out of the seat, his hands finding your ass, squeezing softly. You wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you across the jet, setting you down on a storage container. 

You bring your hands up to his biceps. “Need you this time, Lo,” you choke, stroking up and down his arms as the heat builds painfully between your thighs. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, eyes searching yours. 

“Always wanted you, always sure,” you whisper, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Wanted you too,” he husks. “But I wanted it to be different, to—” You cut him off. “Just want you. It’s okay like this. I promise.” You grind against him, his erection still straining inside the denim of his jeans. 

He takes the hint, and quickly unbuckles his belt, casting the leather to the metal floor with a clunk. He’s unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans, shoving them down his legs, and lining himself up with your entrance. You push your hips forward, giving him better access. His other hand pushes your bra above your breasts, exposing you completely to him. 

With one hand on his cock and one squeezing your tits gently, he thrusts himself into you. He’s so deep—down to the hilt—stretching you out and working you open. He groans, flicking your nipple with his thumb, his lips at the shell of your ear. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, sending a chill down your spine, quenching that fire inside. “So warm, so tight.” He pulls out and plunges back in again, filling you up. 

“Lo,” you whine. “More.”

“I know,” he growls, his hips snapping into yours, bottoming out with every thrust. “Gonna take care of you, pretty girl.” He squeezes your tits once more before sliding his hand down your body and slipping between where the two of you connect. His fingers find your clit, drawing rough circles around the bud. “That feel good, beautiful?” 

“Y-yes, Logan, so fucking good,” you cry out as he rocks into you. His other hand grips your hip tightly, holding you in place. You hope there’s a bruise there later—proof that he touched you, proof that he fucked into you like the world was ending. 

His cock rubs against your walls, your muscles contracting around him, sucking him in deeper. “Squeezing me so good, sweetheart,” he praises, his lips crashing down onto yours, swallowing your moans. He’s taking all of you, hard and fast. You can feel him twitching inside you, throbbing with the same need you feel pulsing through your veins. 

Logan kisses your jaw, and then just underneath, biting down on your pulse point. You arch your back, your chest meeting his. The contact is delicious, the friction a necessity. He thrusts into you faster now, doing his all to satiate your every need. He’s getting you there, pump after pump, hitting that sweet spot inside you every time. 

It’s working. You can feel yourself slipping again, melting. “Logan,” you hum, too fucked out to say anything other than his name. That beautiful name, like a song in the air, a gentle prayer, a holy ghost. He’s all you need—all you’ve ever needed. 

Your walls contract, squeezing him tightly. “Fuck,” he mutters. You know he’s close too. He strokes your clit, circling roughly. “Come on, pretty girl. You can do it, let me get you there again.” 

“Lo,” you cry, your eyes fluttering open and shut as he fucks into you, rutting his hips, plunging deeper still. It’s all too much. You can feel the pleasure drumming inside you, coming to a head. 

Logan loosens his grip on your hip and slides his hand behind your back, pulling you into his chest. You rest your forehead against his. “Come on my cock, princess, let go.” And you do. You’d do anything for him. You moan as your orgasm tears through you. It’s all blinding white heat, liquid smooth, pleasure wracking your body. 

Logan curses under his breath, close behind. He pulses inside you once, and then he’s coming undone. Your arms wrap around his back, keeping him close, letting him know it’s okay to finish inside. He fills you up, whispering praises in your ear as you both come down from your high. Such a good fucking girl. Did so good for me. So fucking good. Perfect little pussy.

He’s still inside you, pumping slowly as you ride out your orgasm. His fingers let go of your clit, his hands running up your back and tugging you closer to him. He slowly pulls out, keeping you tight against his chest. 

“Are you okay?” He whispers against the shell of your ear. You take a deep breath, waiting for the heat to build again, waiting for that need to surge every cell of your being. But there’s nothing. Your nerves are suddenly quiet—silent. 

“I-I think it’s over,” you stutter, still nervous that maybe it’s not. He keeps you there, holding you tightly, ready to start again if necessary. 

After a few minutes, you let yourself relax. It’s not coming back. It’s over. 

Logan presses a chaste kiss to the side of your head. “I’ve still got you. Not going anywhere.” Your heart rate has finally slowed down. The heat is gone. You feel comfortable in your skin again. You take a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper into Logan’s chest. 

“Nothing to be sorry for, princess,” Logan reassures, his voice gentle and soft. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You nod against him, but you still feel a sting in your heart. You need to make him know that you meant what you said—need him to know exactly how you feel. You swallow nervously, ready to bite the bullet. 

“Logan,” you breathe. “I-I meant everything I said. It wasn’t just the pollen.” You pull yourself from his chest, looking up at him. “I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted you…” you trail off. “S-still need you now. Nothing’s changed.” 

He smiles down at you, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I know, darlin’,” he husks. “I wanted you before, and I still do, too.” 

“I know you wanted it to be different. I know it wasn’t—” But he cuts you off, his lips capturing yours, quieting your anxious rambles. “We’ll have other chances. Other times to do it the way I want.” He smirks, running his hands up and down your back. 

Other chances. Other times. More. More. More. “Yeah?” You ask. 

“Yeah, princess.”

tags: @wolviesgirl @dojacatswink @dilf420 @spiderset @pleasantlycrazyworld @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky @y-ns-things

[kitscutie]

hiii !! i was wondering can you do a fic where rafe comes and picks the reader up from a girls night out and she’s super drunk? tyy!

girls just wanna have fun (rafe cameron x fem!reader)

pairing: rafe cameron x fem!reader

warnings: feel bad for y/n and fluff (a little bit of psycho rafe at the end!?)

summary: after a rogue night at the boneyard you are in desperate need of comfort from your knight in shining armour - rafe cameron.

a/n: i am still trying to be more active while school is picking up but please bare with me :)

word count: 773

join my new taglist here!

Rafe pulled up to the Boneyard with a sigh. He was no stranger to this place, sure, but he was so used to being with you at these times when you would drink too much and end up being driven home in his truck. This time was different.

He had received a call from your phone, not from your friends but Kie. She had found you puking behind a log alone which sounded funny had it been anyone but you.

Your so called 'friends' from figure eight had ditched you. Rafe knew they were bitches but you ever with a golden heart had ignored his warnings, excited by their invite to a girls night meaning he could not accompany you. Now, he regretted it.

"Where is she?" He asked approaching the only person apart from you and Kie in attendance that he could mildly stand, Sarah.

She simply pointed to an area of the beach separate from the party, he appreciated that Kie had removed you from prying eyes who would no doubt speak of the Kook Princess' inability to hold alcohol tomorrow had they seen.

"Fucking finally, she wont stop crying." Kiara said, not out of anger but worry. He glanced down at you seeing you curled up in Kie's arms, eyes glassy and red, cheeks stained with tears.

"Hey baby." He said ever so gently, kneeling down to your level in the sand and no doubt ruining his expensive chinos.

"Rafe?" You whispered peeling your head from Kie's shoulder as you dared to take in your surroundings.

"Yeah it's me, you good?" He asked, lifting a hand to remove the strands of sweaty hair which had stuck to your forehead, the humidity of the Outer Banks mixing with your illness making your body ever so slightly too warm.

"No I-, I don't feel well and I can't breathe properly." You hiccupped, anxiety making your heartbeat uneasy. Your hands reached for his ironed black shirt and he let you scrunch it between your fingers, grounding your mind.

Rafe nodded at Kiara, letting her know she could leave with a silent thank you.

"Think you had too much to drink?" He asked, watching as you messily nodded in response. "You'll feel better soon then, yeah? I see you got most of it out already." He chuckled, knowing you had been sick multiple times between this moment and his phone call from Kie.

"Just wanna go home." You mumbled, leaning into his warm chest.

"Okay lets get you up then." He said standing up and taking you with him as you stumbled on your feet. "Lean against me okay? Good girl." He added as you did so. The name was comforting and soft, sure it was sometimes used during sex but in this moment it was more. Reassurance.

He supported you all the way to his truck where he buckled you in with a gentle kiss to your scrunched and rosy cheeks.

"I don't want you speaking to those girls again." He said, hands clenched around the steering wheel while his jaw clicked in place though his anger was not directed at you.

"What Kie and Sarah?" You slurred, "They helped me though." You finished as your eyes squinted beneath the street lights which flickered as you passed.

"No, no. I'd rather you talk to my fuckin' psycho sister at this point I'm talking about those Figure Eight bitches." He seethed making your head snap towards him.

"Number one, they're my friends, number two, you're also a Figure Eight bitch, no?" You giggled to yourself, knowing deep inside that his anger was justified to an extent. They weren't your friends, not really.

"They're not baby, you're kind and sensitive they're stuck up and have no personality outside of generational wealth." He replied. You saw the irony in his words though it appeared he didn't and it wasn't a hill you were ready to die on so you let it go.

"M'kay well, I feel better now you're here and I didn't like them all that much anyway I'm just surprised they would stoop that low." You sighed into the silent atmosphere as the car, feeling his gaze on you.

He softly placed a hand on your bare thigh in the darkness, squeezing it in a gesture of comfort.

"Yeah." He sighed in defeat.

In this moment, looking at you in the moonlight Rafe felt a new sense of protectiveness over you. You were naïve and too forgiving to your own detriment, he wasn't and if he could help it those girls would never see the light of day again, never mind your beautiful face.

[angryschnauzer]

Click - A Twisters Oneshot

Summary; As a storm photographer you know all the chasers, so when you run into two old familiar faces - where you have history with both - it proves to be a stormy night.

Fandoms: Twisters Movie, Glen Powell, Anthony Ramos.

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Female Reader x Javier (Javi) - MFM threesome.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Smut, Alcohol, Drug Use (Weed/Pot), Fingering, Oral Sex (Female recieving), Oral Sex (Blowjob), unprotected Vaginal Sex, Spitroast, Double Penetration, Double Vaginal Penetration, Spanking, Hair pulling, choking/air play, spitting in mouth, creampie, no discussion of consent, implied consent, impared judgment. Please don't do this in real life unless able to give consent.

I do not run a tag list, instead please follow @angryschnauzerwrites and put that blog onto notifications, and you'll get an alert when i post new stories. Masterlist is available through my pinned post.

Authors notes; This is my first time writing for almost 18 months after severe writers block, and a whole load of truly horrible shit that has gone on in real life for me. Seeing Twisters has reinvigorated my passion for writing and it feels good to be able to be creative again.

Glen Powell Masterlist

Click

The bar was loud and smokey, country music in the background that could be heard between gaps in conversation or the crack of pool balls being split as another new game started. The air was filled with a heady mix of liquor and petrichor, rain imminent from what had been a frustratingly humid day.

Storm chasing was fun. The rush of adrenaline when the radar picked up those telltale colours on the satellite, but for the past 72 hours there’d been a whole lot of nothing on screen. Blue skies were pretty and all, but much like the atmosphere outside, there was a tension in the air that was only growing thicker by the minute. As a photographer you weren’t affiliated with any particular team of chasers, but with your skill renowned in the industry you could pretty much tag along with anyone you liked.

The sound of a scuffle across the bar drew your attention, the shrill ring of beer bottles knocking to the floor, the tell tale sign that tempers were fraying in the turgid atmosphere. Rolling your eyes and sighing you grabbed your beer and decided to stroll outside, not wanting to get caught up in an impending bar fight.

The air outside was a little cooler, a breeze having picked up, the scent of rain hanging thick in the atmosphere. Wandering the wide wrap-around porch of the bar you saw a familiar sight, smiling at the silhouette of an old friend, dark curls atop his head moving as he spoke with passion to another familiar face.

It was Tyler that spotted you first, nudging Javi who turned before a grin spread across his face;

“Well look who it is, our very own Click”

Laughing at your old nickname; one given where you’d had the habit of favouring traditional film cameras rather than digital, the sound of manual lens shutters is one that earned you the affectionate title.

You approached the pair, grinning as Javi swept you into a firm hug, one hand cradling the back of your head with the other arm tightly wrapped around your back as he lifted and span you, before setting you down on your feet again;

“It's been too long” he said with a grin before pressing a brief kiss to your cheek.

You’d spent almost a month with Javi a year or so back when he’d still been in the corporate side of Chasing, getting paid well where you’d been able to get some amazing images Storm Par could use on their marketing material and website.

The sound of a brief cough as someone cleared their throat behind you had you turning and meeting a wide smile;

“Tyler”

“Was wondering if you remembered me”

He pulled you into a hug, before pressing a gentle kiss to your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine.

“It's hard to forget someone who still hasn’t paid their invoice”

A flush of embarrassment tinted his cheeks as he pulled back, bashfully raking his hand through his hair;

“Shit”

“Hey hey” Javi cut in; “This dude owes you money?” he asked you.

“You know that awesome header image he’s got on the youtube channel? One of mine” you looked at Tyler who very much seemed like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole at that very moment; “All Chasers get the same terms; credit or payment. Its not credited, so he got sent an invoice and it’s still not paid”

Tyler reached out for your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles;

“I absolutely promise I’ll get it paid. And we’ll credit you too, we get so many comments from that image alone”

At that moment there was a ruckus as a small crowd of people came up the stairs from the street, calling out and greeting Tyler and Javi. It soon became clear it was the rest of their team. Most made a beeline for Tyler, to which you and Javi stepped aside and started to talk;

“So remind me again how you ended up going from Corporate Insurance Chaser to Hillbilly Youtube Chaser?”

He laughed, his eyes sparkling;

“You remember Kate? She kinda managed to convince everyone to be in it for the science, rather than the money or the glory”

“Well i never would of had you and Tyler Owens teaming up on my betting card for sure”

Javi laughed;

“Tyler’s awesome. He knows his stuff. And he’s loud enough to be in front of the camera to keep the audience entertained enough to let the rest of us actually do the science part. We work great as a team.”

Looking around you realised the team were a few people short;

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Up in Kansas City doing a presentation for the Mayor and Senators, hoping to get cooperation with some early warning systems we want to help provide the data for”

Nodding you sipped your beer as the pair of you settled into familiar conversation, the rest of Tyler’s crew welcoming you and soon the minutes passed into hours. Beers were replenished and Whiskey shots started to appear, before the tell tale scent of pot floated on the air. Sweet and cloying, you could tell it was leaf rather than resin, realising the joint was being passed around Tyler and Javi’s crew before someone slipped it into Javi’s hand. He grinned as he took a deep toke of the joint, holding it in before slowly exhaling, holding it out to you before you shook your head;

“I’ve got a better idea” you smirked; “Take another toke”.

A smile tugged at the corner of Javi’s mouth as he inhaled deeply from the joint again, the embers on the end glowing a deep amber red. He nodded and you quickly stood close, cupping your hands around his mouth as you pressed your own mouth to your hands and inhaled as he exhaled.

The buzz immediately hit you as the weed hit your oxygen starved brain, swaying on your feet before Javi wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close;

“Steady… let it flow through you, it’ll be strong”

Grinning and giggling softly you swayed on your feet, safe in Javi’s arms before finally regaining your balance.

“Ok, my turn now” Javi handed you the joint and you inhaled deeply, filling your lungs with smoke before nodding. He quickly stepped forwards, cupping his hands around your mouth and repeating what you had done, only this time he was close enough that you could feel his open lips against yours. Staring into those intense hazel eyes you could sense a hint of mischief, before he stepped back as he held in his breath. Finally exhaling he too swayed on his feet and you reached out to steady him, both now giggling.

“What are you two up to?” An amused voice asked.

Turning just as Tyler slipped the joint from your fingers, he inhaled deeply as he looked between you and Javi.

“Hotboxing” you replied with a grin.

Tyler wrinkled his brow before exhaling the smoke, moving his lips to form three perfect smoke rings before blowing the rest straight up through the middle of them;

“Hotboxing? I thought that was when you dropped a silent fart in a packed elevator?”

“Not where we’re from. Its when you inhale someones toke as they exhale, the lack of oxygen means the weed hit is more intense”

Tyler grinned;

“Okay, don’t believe that but i’m game”

He handed you the joint back and you inhaled again, before doing what he’d seen you and Javi do with your hands as he cupped your mouth and you exhaled. His eyes went wide as he held it, before stumbling a step backwards. He let the smoke out in a shaky exhale, his hands moving to your hips to steady himself. Overcompensating he then swayed forwards, pushing against you and into Javi, the railing of the porch catching him as you were sandwiched between the two men.

The three of you were in fits of giggles, the pot going to your brains before you finally managed to steady yourselves.

“Jesus christ on a bike” Tyler exclaimed; “That was intense”

“I can’t believe you’ve never done that before Dude” Javi laughed, turning to take a fresh round of beers from Boone, his goggles sat atop his head.

Boone signed like an old mother hen, before taking the joint from your hand that you had all but forgotten was still there;

“Ok i’ll have that back, thank you”

Giggling into your beers, you sipped on the drink, comfortable and content between two old friends.

It wasn’t long before the simmering tempers inside the bar bubbled over and spilled out onto the porch, the bar owner yelling that he’s shutting for the night and all the ‘damn Chasers’ could ‘fuck off home’.

Knowing when your welcome had run out the three of you drained your beers before stepping off the porch and down to the sidewalk.

“C’mon, we got a bottle of whiskey back at the motel” Javi wrapped an arm around your shoulders as you walked side by side.

“I’ll think you’ll find that's my whiskey, '' Tyler commented.

“Sharing is caring Tyler” you retorted back, met by his megawatt grin;

“Oh i don’t mind sharing”

At that moment you felt the first few droplets of warm summer rain to hit your skin, looking up as the clouds above finally relinquished their heavy load;

“What motel you guys at?”

“The Rodeo Econo Lodge, it's a couple’a blocks down”

“Sounds glamorous” you commented.

“Been staying there since my rodeo days” Tyler explained; “It’s clean, cheap, and the beds are comfortable”

“And they had enough vacancies so we didn’t have to squeeze four to a room” Javi added.

“Hang on, are you two roomies?”

Tyler nodded;

“Apparently we both ‘snore’”, which he waved his fingers in the air to emphasise quotation marks; “So the rest of the crew unanimously decided we had to bunk together from now on”

“Thus the whiskey” Javi added; “It helps me sleep through Tyler’s talking in his sleep”

“Says the guy that whines like a Golden Retriever in his”

You were by now laughing your ass off whilst getting soaked to the skin in the rain, chilled and relaxed before your mind caught up with half a thought you’d had a few moments ago;

“So you used to ride in the Rodeo?”

“Uh-huh, before college”

“Were you any good?”

Tyler smirked;

“Taught me some good life skills and how to ride hard when you got someone bucking beneath you”

By now you had reached the motel, Javi leading the way up the external staircase as you followed with Tyler bringing up the rear;

“Is that so?”

You felt the playful spank to your rump just as you reached the top of the staircase, quickly followed by Tyler wrapping his arms around you and his mouth against your ear;

“Play your cards right Click and you betcha”

Javi hadn’t been paying much attention, instead having to concentrate on keeping his hand steady enough to get the key in the door of their room, calling out in triumph as it swung open and he stepped into the dark room. As you and Tyler followed into the darkness you could hear Javi muttering about trying to find the lamp, but in that moment you had been spun around and Tyler's lips had found yours.

The kiss was hot and sloppy, his hands on your rib cage pushing your soaked shirt up your torso. His tongue pushed into your mouth and you tasted beer and whiskey in his embrace.

“What the fuck guys?”

You hadn’t noticed Javi had found the lightswitch, but he had obviously not been expecting to see Tyler getting to do what he’d wanted to do for a while. Before the situation could go south you pulled away from Tyler and closed the distance between Javi and yourself, wrapping your hands around the back of his neck to entwine your fingers in the soft curls at his nape, and you pulled him into a long awaited embrace.

You felt him tense, before softening into the kiss, his fingers gripping your hips as he pressed your bodies together and you could feel his need growing from the hardness pressing against your abdomen. When you finally broke the kiss to gasp for air, you smirked at him;

“I thought you said you two worked great as a team?”

You heard two quiet ‘oh’s , before a warmth pressed against your back as Tyler joined the pair of you.

“Fucking hell Click, you’ve no idea how hot that sounds”

Javi pulled you back in for another fierce kiss, this time his hands roaming the front of your body, pulling your shirt up and grunting his appreciation when he found your breasts to be free of a bra. Palming them in his warm hands his thumbs rubbed over your pebbled nipples, sending a wave of arousal straight to your core. At the same time Tyler’s hands found your hips, his long fingers pressing into your flesh as his soft lips found that sweet spot on the side of your neck just below your ear. He pressed his hips to your ass, rutting against you and you could feel his arousal insistently pressing against you.

As Javi’s lips left yours to press a trail of open mouthed kisses down your neck, he pulled away to give himself room to bend down and take one of your breasts into his mouth, that skilled tongue teasing your nipple before moving to the other. Tyler took the chance to cup your jaw and turn your head, kissing you with a clash of tongue and teeth.

Whilst Tyler had you occupied you hadn’t realised Javi had gotten to his knees in front of you until you felt his nimble fingers opening your jeans and tugging them down your thighs. Looking down you saw his eyes darken beneath his lashes before he pressed a kiss to your mound through your panties. As you held his gaze you felt Tyler rest his chin on your shoulder as his arms wrapped around your body. One hand cupped your breast as the other he held up and swirled two fingers in the air - the Chaser sign for tornado - to which you watched as Javi’s grin widened and he nodded as he did the same. But this time you knew those finger swirls meant something else.

You held your breath as Javi wrapped his fingers around the elastic of your underwear, pulling the soaked scrap of fabric down your thighs before he pressed his mouth to your slit. His tongue pressed through your folds before he found your clit, his fingers stroking your juices around the tight entrance between your thighs. He finally slid two fingers into your tight channel, the pleasure coursing through you as you rested your head back against Tylers wide shoulder.

Reaching your arms behind you, your palms welcoming the warmth of Tyler’s denim clad thighs beneath your hands, stretching a little further until you were able to cup him through the soft well worn denim. You wanted to feel more, more of their hands, their lips, their dicks, but felt restricted by your bunched clothing;

“I need to be naked” you gasped out, causing both men to pause their ministrations. They worked quickly together, Javi pulling your boots off before tugging your jeans and panties off in one, as Tyler yanked your shirt over your head.

Standing naked before these two men you started to paw at their clothing, pushing shirts off of shoulders and tugging white t-shirts from their pants. If ever there was a time where you wanted four arms it was that moment, desperate to feel their skin against your own. Whilst Tyler got caught up unbuttoning his shirt you made quick work of the button and zipper of Javi's pants, sliding your hand beneath the fabric of his underwear to wrap your fingers around his thick shaft. He gasped at your firm touch, wrapping his hand around the back of your neck before pulling you into a fierce kiss.

When you pulled away you glanced at Tyler who had pulled his boots off and was naked to the waist, his sculpted torso that of a marble statue. The metal clink of his belt buckle prompted you to move to him, unzipping him and sliding your hand inside the denim and beneath the dark jersey of his boxer shorts. Long and patterned with ridged veins, he was as hard as a rock in your palm, a soft whimper escaping his lips as you pumped his uncut dick.

He let his jeans and underwear fall to his ankles, cupping the back of your neck as you bent at the waist to take him into your mouth. Wrapping one fist around his girth you steadied yourself placing your other hand on his firm thigh, lowering your mouth to his tip to taste the bead of precum that pooled there. Pressing a chaste kiss to the smooth crown you opened your jaw to take him into your mouth, unaware your pussy was about to be stuffed. The firm push as Javi speared your hot channel pushed you forwards, forcing Tyler’s dick into your throat.

“Mmmmfffmfmmff!”

“A little warning next time huh Javi?” Tyler commented as he pulled back to allow air to actually reach your lungs; “but good god woman, your throat is a thing of wonder… no gag reflex”

You heard the sound of a high five but were too lust drunk to worry about it, too busy flying on a wave of pleasure as you were spit roasted between two hard cocks.

Tyler reached beneath you to cup your tits, grasping them as he moved his hips to fuck your mouth, a mixture of spit and precum running down your chin. At the same time Javi reached around your hip and searched out your clit, rubbing firm circles with two fingers against the sensitive nub whilst he fucked his thick cock into your dripping pussy.

Your orgasm caught you by surprise, your body shaking as you moaned around a mouthful of flesh. Your knees were close to giving out when Javi pulled out and brought you upright, his arms wrapped around your torso;

“Steady Click, don’t need you racing ahead off the radar for this” he kissed your neck whilst you reached out for Tyler. Stepping out of his jeans he closed the gap between you before sliding his hand between your legs, pushing two fingers into your soaked pussy;

“Such a lovely pussy, can’t wait to see it dripping with our cum. Gonna fill you to the brim. Do you want that?” his mouth brushed against yours as he spoke, but you could do little but pant like a bitch in heat.

You nodded, your mouth hanging open.

“Bed, now” Javi instructed, nodding for Tyler to lay down. You whined at the loss of Tyler’s fingers filling you but instead were treated to his tight ass as he crossed the room before laying on the bed.

“Come’ere Darlin. Climb on, i’ll teach you how to ride a bucking bronco”

Javi gave you a little push, almost the encouragement you needed to leave his arms. Climbing onto the bed you straddled Tyler’s thighs before crawling up his body. As you bent down to kiss him you heard the crack of the seal on a bottle of liquor, turning your head and seeing Javi drink straight from the bottle as he approached the bed.

As Javi climbed onto the bed, Tyler lifted your hips with one hand, steadying his cock with the other as he lined himself up before letting you sink down a couple of inches onto him. Javi straddled Tyler’s legs behind you, wrapping his arms around you before lifting the bottle to your lips. As you dipped your head back to drink from the bottle you felt his hand firmly on your shoulder, pushing you down to take Tyler to the hilt.

The whiskey hit the back of your throat and the rush was intense, the feeling of being filled by Tyler almost overloading your senses as he bucked like a steer beneath you. Javi breathed hot in your ear, his body pressed to your back. He took a large slug of whiskey before you pulled the bottle from his hand, taking another mouthful before leaning forwards. Tyler anticipated what you were doing;

“Yeah baby, spit it in my mouth” before opening wide to allow you to let the warm whiskey drip from your tongue to his. As soon as he swallowed you leant forwards and kissed him, sloppy with tongues and teeth, and you felt his cock slip out of you, landing wet and sticky on his abdomen. You weren’t empty for more than five seconds before you felt Javi push into you from behind, his palm coming down on your ass with a loud smack.

Riding you hard you were pressed between the two men, Javi filling you from behind as Tyler lay beneath you, his dripping shaft rubbing against your pussy as you were pushed back and forth. After what seemed to be an endless few minutes your arms were pulled behind your back as Javi held your wrists at the base of your spine. His lips on your earlobe;

“Get ready for the real rodeo”

With your attention on Javi you had lost sight of Tyler before you felt him angle his cock towards your already stuffed hole, as Javi seemingly lowered the pair of you until Tyler managed to slide in alongside him in your now overstuffed cunt.

“Such a good girl”

“Taking us so well”

Their praises merged into one as your eyelids fluttered shut, rocking your hips gently as your body grew accustomed to being double stuffed. As your arousal flowed from you your movements increased to the point both men were able to alternate thrusts, making sure there was never a moment when you weren’t full of cock. They filled and defiled your body until you were flying on an arousal high. Javi’s grip on your wrists faltered, your hands slipping free. As Javi pushed you down and Tyler fucked up into you, you curled one hand over your shoulder as Javi bit at your neck, curling your fingers through his dark curls. Glancing down at Tyler his normally pale green irises dark with arousal. He stretched his neck and you watched as the muscles shifted, his adams apple bobbed up and down. You rested your palm on his chest and he immediately wrapped his fingers around your wrist, nodding as he pulled your hand to his throat.

Realising that both your boys liked a little pain, you tugged on Javi’s hair as your fingers closed softly against Tyler’s throat, dual groans filling the room as they both thrust harder into you, pushing you ever closer to your release. Tyler grabbed your hips and started to pull you down harder onto him, Javi cupping your tits firmly as he fucked you harder from behind.

You were the first to cum, screaming out your release as if you were howling to the moon, Javi and Tyler following just seconds behind filling you with two thick loads of their creamy seed.

Releasing both men from your grasp you softly rested on Tyler’s chest as Javi pressed gentle kisses to your shoulders, before the latter pulled out. You felt a flood of cum seep from your stretched hole, soaking down to Tyler’s balls and onto the bed.

Some time later you were clean and showered, the three of you having squeezed into the tub and washed the sweat, whiskey, and cum from your bodies, before Tyler had discovered the bottle of whiskey discarded on his bed now half empty where the cap hadn’t been replaced. He had started to protest until you had slipped your hand into his and led him to the other bed - where Javi was already beneath the covers - and had silently confirmed you wanted to be close to both of them for the night.

Facing Javi whilst being the little spoon to Tylers big spoon, you sleepily said goodnight and muttered about finding your ride for the next storm.

“You should ride with us” Javi stated softly.

Letting out a quiet laugh you shook your head;

“You two combined? You drive like madmen, i’m scared of riding with you!”

Tyler pressed his lips to your ear;

“Well you know what I say…”

“If you fear it, ride it” they said in unison.

“And you’ve already ridden us both, so you’ve got nothing to fear” Tyler finished.

Letting a sigh you grinned and nodded, letting sleep take you as you were flanked by two crazy tornado wranglers.

[reveuse-de-minuit-writer]

Knockout (Toji x Sukuna x AFAB Reader)

Summary:

Reader is invited to an underground fighting ring and manages to catch the attention of the two most dangerous men there. Theirs is a world of brutality and carnage, and all the reader wants is to explore how deep the darkness goes.

CW: 18+, Violence, blood and gore, explicit rough sex, m/m/f, breath play, overstimulation, BDSM elements, edging, face-fucking, double penetration, squirting, alcohol, weed.

Full tags and complete work on AO3 here: x

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CH. 1

Two fighters dance in the makeshift ring. The big one, a veritable mountain of a man with a curling top-knot and vicious scar slashing through his left eye, is the first to break their stalemate. 

Instead of rushing his opponent, or doing literally anything that would have made sense in an underground fighting ring, the mountain man begins dancing to the music. His opponent hesitates as they watch him in confusion, before narrowing his eyes in contempt. It’s clear the smaller fighter takes his opponent's interpretive dancing as an insult to his capabilities. 

The smaller fighter charges forward, rushing in close to cut off the mountain man’s odd thrusting and grinding as he dances to a beat in his head. As the smaller fighter raises his fist to swing, the mountainous fighter twirls into a powerful roundhouse kick that sends the other man flying across the ring.

The collision is impactful enough that it leaves a crater in the cement where the smaller fighter's body makes contact. He flops against the cement, and his head bounces with a splattering thud.  

His body goes still. 

The countdown to ten begins, but the only thing that moves is the pool of blood as it grows around the impact zone from the fighter’s head. 

Before the countdown even hits zero, the mountainous fighter is doing a victory dance. He wildly thrusts his hips and twirls around with a genuinely surprising grace given his sheer size. The announcer interrupts the fighter’s dance by grabbing around his thick wrist, and hoists his hand high in the air.

“And the winner is AOIII TODOOO!” The announcer declares into the microphone.

The roar of the crowd is deafening in my ears as they cheer at the mountain-man’s victory. 

“Well that was quite the spectacle,” I say to my friend Shogo to my right. 

He snickers, “Well I can’t say I wasn’t entertained. Twinkle-toes certainly knows how to put on a show.”

“Is he dead?” I ask with a grimace. 

Shogo polishes off the last of his drink before exhaling obnoxiously, “Nah, he’s just out cold. Todo doesn’t fight like that. Dude’s a monster, but he’s too soft to straight up fight someone to the death.”

“Ah, that's good then.”

I take a sip of my cold margarita, and it’s the cooling balm I need against the heat of the arena. The space is small but densely packed, and I can feel the humidity clinging atop my body like a second skin. 

The music that plays is the winner’s choice, and I can’t stop myself from smirking as idol music pours from the speakers into the underground arena.

To call the space an arena at all is generous. It’s really just a basement warehouse, but it serves its purpose well enough. The seats are a mix of metal folding chairs and benches stolen from abandoned stadiums that somehow managed to avoid demolition. There are shipping containers surrounding the walls which people use to sit and watch the fight. Shogo and I have done the same, sprawling out on top of a picnic blanket to cushion us from the cold, corrugated metal. The ring itself is just an empty expanse of concrete indicated only by the ropes outlining its circumference. 

Despite how ramshackle everything looks, two projectors display a live feed of the ring on the wall. They function like the screens in a legitimate arena, and I’ve found myself grateful for them many times already, since the tighter grapples and quick jabs can sometimes be hard to see. The instant replays and fight tracking from the dedicated staff are genuinely very well done for what they have to work with. 

Overall, the arena is not much, but it’s also more than good enough. 

Considering the cash that’s pulled in from each fight, I had expected more. But this is a place people pay to watch fighters get brutalized, not sip their overpriced drinks from their box seats. There are a couple hundred people watching, but the livestreams online rack up views in the tens of thousands easily. That’s where the real money is.

As my eyes scan the arena, I can't help but notice the contrast between Shogo and I and the rest of the spectators. The two six-packs of canned margaritas we share atop our bright pastel blanket stand out amongst the beer cans and cigarette butts. Shogo’s dedication to maximalist street fashion paints a vivid pink contrast to the black cargo pants and combat boots of the male-dominated crowd. 

I’m not much better in my own tight white crop top and black tennis skirt, both of which seem like they would better suit a frat bar than an underground fight club. I brought an oversized leather jacket with me to help me blend in more, but I took it off shortly after the second fight from the sheer heat of the arena. Even without it, humidity clings to my skin like a film.

“Having fun so far?” Shogo turns to me and asks. 

I nod my head while taking another sip of my margarita. The alcohol has me pleasantly buzzed. I’m just floating on a happy cloud, as I sit back and wait for the next fight. 

“Yeah, a lot of fun. You’re right, this is way better than the pay-per-view,” I answer. 

“Right? Like you’d never get to see a guy kick someone so hard they fucked up the concrete. That was crazy,” Shogo says. 

I hum in agreement. 

“That was pretty gnarly. I didn’t even think it was physically possible to do that. The Todo guy must be like one of the strongest men alive,” I say. 

Shogo snorts. He opens up his phone and opens up the arena’s private discord. His feed is a frenzy of jokes and commentary, most of which are memeing on Todo’s eccentric dance moves.

“Nah, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Just you wait,” he says. 

“Who’s up next?” 

“Toji Fushiguro versus Mahito. That’s the fight I wanted you to come here to see,” Shogo says. 

I recall how he even sold the experience to me in the first place. I had just started taking up boxing classes, and it exposed me to martial arts and fighting in a light I’d never considered before. I had fallen down into the rabbit hole of a new obsession, watching videos of fights, both professional and amateur, until it took up most of my free time. 

I knew Shogo shared the interest. When he offered to take me to see a fight in person, I couldn’t turn him down. He had warned me that this would be different. That it would be more violent, and more ruthless than any legal fight I’d watched. If anything, that warning just made me more intrigued. 

So far, the fights were intense, but not any more so than what I can find on YouTube. While Todo possesses a strength unlike anything I’ve ever seen before or thought possible, he didn’t do anything with it that would have broken the rules of a UFC fight. 

Still, I find myself wondering just what kind of monstrous power the next two fighters must have, in order to make a mountain like Todo seem like fodder. Shogo doesn’t make claims like that for the sake of it, and my mind races with the intrigue of it all. 

“Anything I should keep an eye out for, or know ahead of time about their fight?” I ask Shogo. 

“Oh my god yeah, where do I even begin?” He says animatedly. 

“Give me a quick rundown from the start. Go,” I snap my fingers into a finger gun, and take an expectant sip of my margarita. 

“Okay so basically, Toji is one of the most powerful fighters in the game right now. Like I’m talking top three easy. He’s been fighting professionally for like fifteen years and has been undefeated for all those years except for once. Like I’m talking thousands of wins against one singular loss. Which is an insane feat in of itself, right? The dude is basically a legend around here. Everyone either wants to fight him, or wants to fight like him.

“But Mahito is new to the scene. He just kinda popped up outta nowhere about a year ago, but he’s been making big waves ever since. Like, the dude is certifiably crazy. On some real psycho shit. But he’s also insanely creative when it comes to his fighting style, which makes him unpredictable to fight and fun to watch. While his record isn’t as impressive as Toji’s, he’s still stupid powerful. He’s risen up the rank of fighters faster than anyone has ever seen before. He fought Todo, the guy who just won, about six months ago, and wrecked him so bad that Todo had to take four months off to recover.”

I process all of the information Shogo gives me. The thought of someone not just winning against Todo, but forcing him to take that much time off to recover, is nearly unthinkable to me.

“So basically it’s the veteran versus the newcomer, huh?” 

“Yeah exactly,” Shogo affirms, “but that’s not all. About two weeks ago a video got leaked on twitter of Mahito essentially talking mad shit about Toji, calling him washed up, a has been, too predictable, shit like that, you know? Basically said that everything Toji can do has already been seen and done before, and that he can take him no problem.”

“How did Toji take that?”

“Toji doesn’t normally do the petty drama thing. He just shows up, fights, gets paid, and leaves. So after a week went by and he didn’t say anything, everyone assumed he was just gonna ignore it. But then, outta nowhere, a video pops up on twitter like three days ago, and it’s Toji at a shooting range with a picture of Mahito’s face on the target. He said some cold shit like ‘a bad dog is better off dead’ or something like that.”

Shogo’s excitement as he explains the drama is infectious, and I’m already invested. I also appreciate how closely he’s followed everything, since it makes the anticipation for the upcoming fight that much sweeter. 

“Well shit. So this fight is going to be intense, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s gonna be crazy.”

“Who do you think will win?”

“I put three hundred on Toji, so he better win. He’s got 7:3 odds right now, so I’m not that worried.”

Shogo slurps messily on his drink as he drains it dry. His thumbs idly scroll through the discord, before he tilts his phone towards me. 

“Here’s the video if you wanna see it. The guy with the silver hair is Mahito. The rest are all members of his team. The dude with the dark hair, Geto, is his manager. There’s a shit ton of drama involving him too, but I can tell you all that after the video.”

Mahito surprises me. He doesn’t look how I imagined the man who won against Todo would look. He’s lanky, despite his obvious musculature, and has an almost childishness about him. Though the arena is loud, I can just barely hear the sounds of the video. Mahito’s crass remarks are intercut with sadistic giggles, and it makes my stomach turn sour. Scars lacerate his body in a patchwork fashion, making his skin look like it’s been sewn onto him. He looks like he belongs in a Tim Burton movie more than a fighting ring. 

But there’s also something decidedly off about Mahito. His cheeks spread wide in a child-like grin as he talks about how he’s going to kill Toji. His mis-matched eyes glitter in excitement as he shares his murderous fantasies of dismembering him and studying the inner workings of his organs. I can’t help but wrinkle my nose in disgust.

The video ends abruptly, and Shogo takes his phone back. 

“I was debating rooting for him because I love a good underdog story, but after watching that,  I think I’m team Toji,” I say. 

Shogo snickers, and continues to scroll with his thumb through his feed. 

“Yeah, no kidding. The guy has a super punchable face.”

“Maybe that’s why he got into fighting in the first place,” I quip, before my curiosity gets the better of me, “What was the drama with the other guy?”

“Okay so the full backstory begins with Toji and this guy named Gojo. Gojo is, without a doubt, the strongest fighter in the world, no cap. Like legit or otherwise, professional or amateur, it doesn’t matter. If you put him in the ring, he will win every single time. Only one other guy is on his level, Sukuna. He’s not called the King of Fighters for no reason. But he’s not relevant to the story, so put a pin in that for now. 

“So about ten years ago, Toji challenged Gojo. At the time, Gojo was just a teenager, and had only been on the scene for a year, but he was sweeping everyone he came across, kinda like Mahito. Even still, everyone bet on Toji to win, since at the time he was about five years deep and undefeated. And the first time they fought, Toji did win. He beat Gojo so bad the kid nearly died. But like a week later, Gojo pops up out of nowhere and challenges Toji to a rematch. Everyone thought he was insane, since he hadn’t fully recovered from his injuries yet, but Toji agreed to it. In the rematch Gojo clapped his ass so hard it was devastating. Like Toji got beat so bad he was declared legally dead before they were able to revive him. To this day, it’s still the only time Toji has ever suffered a loss. 

“So obviously he didn’t take it well. He lost out on millions in bets, and nearly lost his life. He’s had a grudge against Gojo and anything even remotely related to him ever since. 

“The reason why this is all relevant, is because Geto, Mahito’s manager, was best friends with Gojo at the time. So because the two were besties, Toji fucking hates him. Even though the two aren’t friends anymore, it doesn’t matter. Since Mahito is being represented by Geto, and the circumstances are kinda similar, it’s safe to say that Toji was out for blood before the video of Mahito talking shit ever leaked in the first place.”

My head buzzes with this rush of new information. There’s so much lore to process, and it gives me a deeper appreciation for what will certainly be a monumental fight. The tension and electricity in the air suddenly makes a lot more sense. 

“Wow, who knew there was so much drama in the fighting community?” I say. 

Shogo slurps on his drink and nods. 

“Tell me about it.”

“So have Toji and Gojo ever talked about a rematch?” I ask. 

“Honestly I don’t know. It’s just kind of low-key understood that a match between Toji and Gojo would just end up in Toji losing again, since Gojo became an absolute monster after that. That fight is where he got the nickname the ‘Strongest Fighter’ from. Also, Gojo doesn’t fight much anymore, since there’s no one on his level good enough to challenge him and keep him interested.”

“What about Sukuna? Didn’t you say they were equals?”

“Yeah. Sukuna and Gojo have been talking about fighting each other forever, but no one knows if or when it’ll actually happen. Sukuna still fights occasionally, if he thinks it’ll be worth his time, but he’s good friends with Toji so it’s unlikely a fight between them will ever happen.”

I sip on my drink and think everything over. I had no idea there could be so much history in the scene like this. 

“Next up, Toji Fushiguro versus Mahito! The fight will begin in five minutes!” The announcer calls.

His voice booms around the empty warehouse, and not for the first time I find myself wishing I had brought some earplugs. 

Shogo mutters a brief ‘aha’ before tilting his phone towards me.

“Here, this is Toji’s response video that I mentioned earlier,” Shogo says, before handing his phone to me entirely. 

I press play. Toji’s back is towards the camera, and the immense sprawl of his muscles which strain through the clingy black t-shirt he wears makes my pulse pound. He might as well not be wearing it at all, for how little it hides. It wraps and contorts around every single well-defined muscle in the man’s torso.  

He’s enormous, with impossibly broad shoulders made to look wider by the narrowness of his waist. His sweatpants are baggy and sling low on his slim hips, but they still can’t hide the firm swell of his ass. 

His shaggy black hair covers his face from view. His stance is casual. He leans forward into his hip, which draws attention to the dramatic s-curve of his spine. One thick arm relaxes behind his back, with his fingers splayed wide. His hands are enormous, and serve to make the glock he’s holding look like little more than a child’s toy. 

The man had a body made for sin. Holy shit. Even without seeing his face, I’d let that man rail me into next Tuesday if he so much as asked. 

“What d’you do to a rabid dog?” Toji asks over his shoulder to the camera man. 

His voice is low and resonant. Even despite the low volume, the sound of it sends a shiver down my spine.

Six shots fire off in rapid succession, and Toji doesn’t even budge from the recoil. His gun smokes as the clip goes empty. The camera pans from Toji to his target at the end of the range, before zooming in. 

A picture of Mahito’s face covers the target’s head. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t seeing the bullet holes carve out a perfectly punctured ’T’ into the picture. 

The camera pans back to Toji, who keeps his back to the camera. He raises the gun to his mouth, and blows out the smoke still coiling from the barrel of the gun. I can just barely see the sharp cut of his jaw and the scar that bisects the side of his mouth. 

“You put it down,” he smirks. His voice is deep and husky, and the sound makes my skin shiver. 

Just as Toji starts to turn towards the camera, the video cuts off. 

“Holy shit,” I say. 

It’s all I can say. Because my pulse is racing, and my head is spinning, and my face flushes hot when I realize I’m dripping wet. 

“What’d you think of that?” Shogo asks, and plucks his phone from my hands. 

My fingers tremble slightly now that I no longer have anything to hold onto, so I reach for a new can of my margarita to still them. 

“I think he’s so hot it’s stupid,” I say shamelessly. 

Shogo laughs hard enough that a few of the other spectators turn towards us in mild interest. My face flushes hotter at the attention, and I gulp down a few sips of my drink. 

“I figured you’d be into him. Bad boys with more muscles than sense have always been your type,” Shogo giggles. 

I open my mouth to defend myself, but a string of my previous partners comes to mind, and I close it once more. I really can’t argue with that. 

“Like you’re one to talk,” I sneer at him instead. 

I cross my arms across my chest and pout. 

“Yeah, but I also like the good girls, so it all balances out to neutral. You’re just a freak,” Shogo laughs. 

My glare at him is venomous, but it just makes him laugh all the more. Eventually he raises his hand in a sign of surrender. 

“Simmer down, girl. There’s nothing wrong with bein’ a lil freaky,” he snickers. 

I throw an empty margarita can at his head, which he slaps away with a snicker. It falls to the ground beneath the shipping container we sit on. 

I think nothing of it, until I hear a loud, angry “What the fuck!” cry out from beneath us. 

I freeze, and my eyes go wide with panic. Swallowing past the lump of nerves in my throat, I tentatively crawl forwards to peer over the side of the shipping container. 

Right below us is the makeshift VIP section, with couches, bottles, powders, and more strewn about everywhere. There’s about ten people sitting around in total, all watching as a person with a short blonde bob angrily wipes down their shoulder. 

The can must not have been as empty as I thought. 

Mortification burns through me alongside an immediate pulsing fear. 

I’m so never getting invited back. 

If there’s any kind of crowd I don’t want to piss off, it’s this one. 

“Sorry,” I meekly call out to them down below. 

A few heads look up in my direction at the sound of my voice, and my face flushes hot under their scrutiny. 

But I can feel the weight of a gaze settle heavy over my skin, prickling it into goosebumps. My eyes sweep over everyone, trying to find the source of it.

“Fuck you, asshole!” The person shouts back. 

I ignore them.

One figure in particular, a large man with his hood pulled low, stares upwards at me. Him. I can feel him watching me, and I shiver where I kneel, and my hands grip tight onto the edge of the shipping container below me. 

I can just barely make out the sharp cut of his jaw, and the strange tattoos that frame it. He says something to the crowd around him. Everyone else laughs, except for the unfortunate victim of my drink who stomps their foot in frustration. I can see just enough of his jaw to watch the cruel smirk that forms on his lips.

Despite his joke to the crowd, I feel that his eyes never leave me. 

The sounds of the arena seem to go quiet as all of my focus narrows down to the stranger below. 

My instincts scream at me that I need to run, and I need to hide, because I’ve caught the attention of a predator, and I don’t want to give him the chance to pounce. My blood rushes in my ears, and sweat beads atop my body.

But the weight of his stare holds me captive. I’m helpless to do anything other than watch as his tongue traces along the lush swell of his bottom lip, before he flashes his sharp canines in a menacing grin.

I flush red hot, and a corresponding throb pulses deep in my core. 

The arousal I felt watching Toji’s video is a catalyst for my body now getting overtaken with lust. Molten heat liquifies my veins, and the headiness of the alcohol buzzes through me in a lethal combination. 

Mortified by my body’s reaction, I crawl quickly back to the blanket next to Shogo, breaking the stalemate between the stranger and I. As I collapse beside him, I shiver at the adrenaline that courses through me. The primal, instinctual part of my brain screams that I’ve just barely managed to escape, and that I’m not safe yet.

Shogo, oblivious to my inner turmoil, just snickers at me as I flop onto my back next to him and bury my face in my hands. Without opening my eyes to look, I lash out and smack him on the arm.

“Nice one,” he snickers. 

“Fuck you,” I grumble. 

My threat is muffled by my hands over my face, but I don’t care. I’m too busy focusing on breathing like a normal person and commanding my body to calm down from the sudden, roaring height of its arousal. 

Any response Shogo says is lost on me as all of the lights in the arena go dark. Loud bass pumps through the speakers, and I can feel it vibrate and rattle in my chest. 

Pushing aside my feelings, I allow myself to get caught up in the mania. The crowd around us roars in anticipation, and I join in, cupping my hands around my mouth and shouting into the blackened air. An electric tingle of anticipation starts to brew in my blood. I feel breathless, and I smile into the darkness.

This is so much fun. 

The music cuts out. A singular beat of silence, suspended in the darkness, rings out across the arena. 

The music blares back in with the full power and sound of the song. The lights turn on, and the ring is illuminated in bright, harsh spotlights. A man towers tall in the center of the ring, with his identity obscured by the black hood pulled low over his head.The crowd goes absolutely feral, but I freeze.

Oh fuck me sideways.

It’s him. The same guy from below who made my pussy drip from the force of his stare alone. 

The microphone he holds in his hand looks tiny, and I am surprised to see that his nails are painted black. He just stands there, basking in the attention and suspense of the crowd. 

My eyes trail up and down his body. Now that I can see him more clearly, my walls clench fruitlessly around nothing. The black hoodie he wears is strained tight against his broad torso. His dark jeans cling to his muscular thighs like a second skin. He must be another fighter, with a physique like that.

After a beat, he raises a painted hand to his hood. Instead of pulling it back like I assumed he would, his hand continues to rise until it grabs ahold of the fabric on the back of his neck. In a singular fluid motion, he yanks the hoodie off entirely. 

“Holy fucking shit!” Shogo yells next to me. 

Holy shit indeed. 

The man that stands in the center of the ring exudes power and confidence. He looks lethal, with his tight, rippled abdomen, full pecs, and broad shoulders corded with thick, deadly muscles. The tattoos that decorate his skin are thick, black, tribal lines that seem to carve out a path that accentuates the lines of his body. His messy hair is a bright pink, with a dark brown undercut. He smoothes his hair back with a painted hand and a sharp grin.

The tattoos continue to outline his face, curving along the harsh cut of his jaw, slashing across the bridge of his nose, and inking his forehead between his dark brows. His eyes glint with a dark promise, and the smile that broadens the man’s mouth is nothing short of sadistic.

The guys in the arena are obviously not good men. It takes a certain kind of person to want to fight so extremely, and to be so entertained by it. But as I watch this man raise his thick arms high into the air around him, basking in the feral cry of the crowd as it screams for him, it is obvious that he’s different. 

He’s even worse. 

After a minute of taking it all in, he raises the microphone to his sharp mouth. The dark chuckle that fills the air makes me shiver and my nipples tighten. I feel a throb deep in my core, and I squirm atop the firm ridges of the shipping container below. 

At the sound of his dark laughter, and before he even gets the chance to speak, the crowd is roaring again, showering him with even more praise and adoration. The man’s grin grows wider, and his sharp teeth glint malevolently beneath the harsh spotlights. 

“Alright, shut up you brats,” he growls into the microphone. 

I’ll be damned if the dark sound of his voice doesn’t make me quiver. The crowd dies down, obeying the command of the dark god before them. 

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” He jokes.

The crowd goes wild again, and this time a masculine chant booms in the air.

Su-ku-na! Su-ku-na! Su-ku-na!

So this is Sukuna. 

The King of Fighters himself. 

He raises one hand high, effectively calling for silence. Immediately, everyone goes quiet. The man’s command over the room is absolute.

“I was worried that it’s been so long that I might have to introduce myself, but I see now that’s no longer a problem,” Sukuna smirks. 

There’s a cold mockery in his tone that betrays just how much he revels in the crowd’s adoration. His dark eyes scan across the crowd as he basks in the wild roars that fall around him.

“I have a surprise for you brats,” he taunts in a sing-song voice. 

I can feel the exact moment that his eyes make contact with mine.

I’m flung from my body. The air freezes in my lungs. The sounds of the crowd go quiet except for the ringing in my ears. My vision narrows down to just the outline of his body. That same force keeps me still, and my instincts are once again screaming at me to hide. His gaze is unwavering, and I am exposed before him.

“Are you ready for me?” Sukuna purrs into the microphone.

Shivers sweep down my spine, and I flash hot. I bite my lip hard, genuinely afraid that if I don’t, I might moan.

Holy shit.

The crowd roars around him, but it's lost on me entirely. I can’t see or hear anything outside of the tension that sizzles between us like a live wire. 

“Tut, tut, tut. I asked you a question, brats,” Sukuna snarls, and his eyes darken as they glare at mine.

While I know he says it for the crowd’s benefit, my arousal drips out of me at the sound of his scolding. His piercing eyes flash with a dark promise, and the look he levels towards me is nothing short of commanding. 

His threat is clear. 

“Let’s try this again,” he purrs, before pulling the microphone in closer to his mouth than before.

“Are you ready for me?” Sukuna roars. 

The sound of his voice is monstrous, and tinged with something entirely animalistic. If I thought the roar of the crowd was loud before, then it is absolutely nothing compared to the fervor of it now. 

Those same prey instincts are going haywire in my blood, and I can scarcely breathe for how tight of a grip my adrenaline has over my body.

I lick my suddenly dry lips, and burn in the heat of his stare, as I whisper, “Yes.”

Sukuna’s eyes grow dark with heat and triumph. 

My core throbs low, and the persistent ache of emptiness sweeps through me. 

“That’s what I fucking thought,” he snarls. 

His dark eyes finally leave mine, and it’s like I collide back into my body with a visceral force. Sensations flood in from all around me at once, from the sheer volume of the crowd, the stifling heat of the room, and the absolutely drenched state of my underwear. 

Immediately, heat flushes my cheeks. I’ve never reacted like this before. Though I don’t smoke anymore, I find myself itching for a cigarette. And another margarita.

“The lovely event organizers and I decided we wanted to make things a bit interesting,” he begins, a sadistic enjoyment sugaring his dark tone, “so to shake things up a bit, whoever wins this next fight, either Toji Fushiguro or Mahito, will get the honor of fighting me in two months.” 

“Oh my fucking god!” Shogo cries out. 

Based on what Shogo had told me earlier, I now know that this is a big fucking deal. The crowd absolutely loses it. 

“So with that out of the way, let’s get this thing fucking started, yeah?” Sukuna says, rallying the cry of the crowd once more. “May the best fighter win.”

With that, Sukuna passes off the microphone to the announcer, and prowls back out of the ring. My eyes are glued to him as he ducks beneath the rope of the VIP section. He stands a clear two heads taller than the crowd of people parading around him and clapping him on the back. Even surrounded by other fighters, he finds a way to make them look small. He takes a seat back on the couch, and reclines back like a king in his throne. 

The announcer picks up Sukuna’s hoodie, and tosses it over to him. Sukuna catches it with a one-handed grip, and my eyes dance over every ripple of muscle that flexes and pulls from the simple display of athleticism. 

Good fucking god, I need to get a grip.

“Let’s give it up one more time for the King of Fighters himself, Ryomen Sukuna!” The announcer cheers. 

The crowd roars again, and my eyes remained fixed on the man as he flashes yet another sharp grin at the never-ending adoration. 

He doesn’t demure from the praise, he basks in it.

“This headlining match is sure to be exciting folks. But first, what does every good fight need? The fighters themselves!

“First up, we have a prodigy in the making. Standing at five feet and ten inches tall, and weighing one-hundred-and-forty-five pounds, we have the scrappy underdog from hell itself, MAHITOOOOOO!” 

The crowd cheers as Mahito appears from the right-hand side of the ring. He all but skips to the ring itself, and the camera man tracking him stumbles after him. 

His team is standing just off to the side of the ring, and I recognize them from the video that Shogo showed to me. Mahito is as energetic as a kid with a sugar rush, as he bounces restlessly on the balls of his feet. 

Once more I’m surprised by what Shogo said earlier. Looking down at him, it’s hard to imagine him beating Todo so easily. His body is long and lean, and while muscular, he’s nothing compared to the solid mountain of the other fighter. But clearly his looks are deceiving.

“Next we have the legend himself, undefeated to all but one over the span of his decade-and-a-half long career. Standing at six feet and three inches, and weighing two-hundred-and-eighteen pounds, we have the fighter killer himself, TOJIIII FUSHIIGUUROO!” 

Whatever adoration rained down on Mahito, it pales in comparison to the roar of the crowd for Toji. I have half a mind to cover my ears to spare them from taking further damage. It’s clear who is the crowd’s favorite. 

Toji Fushiguro stalks towards the ring from the left with a predatory grace. He looks even more monstrous than in the video, and it’s clear that it didn’t do him justice. He wears a white hoodie that’s unzipped down the middle, baring his taut, cut abdomen for all to see. His white athletic shorts strain tight against his thick thighs, and curve along the swell of his ass. The tension in his muscles is coiled tight. With his unwavering focus narrowing down to Mahito across the ring, I can all but taste his lethal hostility in the air. 

When he reaches the ring, he pulls off his hoodie with short, aggressive pulls. He is every bit as impressive as his stats make him out to be. The breadth of his shoulders and narrowness of his waist are nothing less than superhuman in their proportions. His arms pull and flex as he balls his hoodie up and tosses it carelessly to the side. There’s a massive scar that carves a jagged arc into his left side, and it spans nearly the entirety his torso. It’s a gruesome scar, and I wonder what gave it to him. 

His messy ink-stained hair falls sharply into his eyes, but I can see the animosity burn in them all the same. His sharp jaw is clenched tight with tension, and the veins in his throat pulse visibly. His own team is speaking to him, but I can tell he’s not listening. His glare hasn’t moved once from Mahito, not even as the other fighter begins to prance around his side of the ring, hyping up the crowd even more. 

The projectors display closeups of the fighters faces, and the contrast couldn’t be more clear. While Mahito performs, Toji waits. There’s something about the dynamic that makes my blood race. Blown up large against the wall, the burning hatred glinting savagely in Toji’s dark green eyes is blistering.

My instincts scream that Toji is lethal and dangerous and absolutely terrifying. I almost feel sorry for Mahito, for having incurred the wrath of this god amongst men so completely. 

My pussy is screaming too, but for a different reason entirely.

The two fighters are called to meet together in the middle of the ring. Seeing them stand opposite one another makes the fight seem simply unfair. Toji glares down at Mahito like a lion staring down an ant. Mahito remains unintimidated, and smiles up at Toji with a wicked gleam in his mis-matched eyes. I try to remind myself that despite appearances, the fight is more evenly matched than it seems. 

The hatred that flows between the two sparks and crackles in the air. The tension is thick enough to make my breath catch. Almost absently, I crawl to the edge of the shipping container and sit there instead. I hear Shogo shuffle to copy me, equally as entranced by the anticipatory hostility brewing between the two fighters as I am. 

I can’t fucking wait to see it snap. 

The announcer claps both men on the shoulder, before stepping back to the edge of the ring. 

“No rules, no limits. First fighter to score a knockout wins!” The announcer declares.

The two fighters step back and slip into their fighting stances. 

Mahito stands unusually, with one arm ahead of him like he’s reaching out towards Toji, while his other hand balls into a fist low by his hip. His legs are bent low and spread wide, and he looks very much like a coil, ready to spring. 

Toji’s stance is also unusual. His legs spread wide, but he doesn’t squat as low as Mahito. His torso curls forward, with his arms wide around him, fists ready for the fight. There’s a confidence in the way that he stands that borders on arrogance, and the sight of it makes me fucking leak. 

“Begin!”

The two fighters are a blur of movement as they dash towards one another with tremendous speed. Mahito is the first to swing, but Toji is faster, and counters the swing with one of his own. His fist lands solidly in the center of Mahito’s chest, and the fighter goes flying backwards from the force of his punch. Mahito lands hard into the concrete below, and blood sputters from his mouth, drooling onto his chin.

Mahito is only down for half a second, before he staggers to his feet. A grin splits his cheeks, and the sight of his blood-stained teeth is chilling. He giggles, and bounces on his feet, before springing towards Toji. 

Toji lets Mahito dash in close. As soon as Mahito goes to throw a punch, Toji moves in a dizzying blur of speed around the other fighter, pivots quick on his heel, and sends a powerful kick to the back of Mahito’s skull. 

Mahito stumbles forward onto his hands and knees, and blood immediately begins to darken his silver hair. Still, Mahito giggles at the impact, and shakes his head back and forth. Blood splatter flies everywhere around them. Toji interrupts by rushing up behind Mahito’s exposed back, wraps a thick arm around his neck, and pulls Mahito back into a tight headlock. 

Mahito’s face turns red, as his hands claw and scrape at the thick muscle of Toji’s arm. Toji’s other hand curls into a tight fist and pummels blow after blow into Mahito’s ribs and kidneys. 

Blood sprays from Mahito’s mouth, but he keeps grinning, regardless. The pain he’s in must be tremendous, but he takes all of Toji’s blows with a smile. 

Mahito drops his body, deadening his weight against Toji’s chokehold. Toji leans down lower to compensate for the sudden increase in weight. Mahito uses this to his advantage, and springs backwards, sending both Toji and Mahito falling hard to the floor. Toji ducks his head inwards to prevent his skull from being shattered in the cement, and pulls Mahito in tight by the hold he has on his neck. 

With a sly smile, Mahito reaches into the pocket of his shorts.

My blood runs cold. 

In a flash, he pulls out a pocket knife, flips it open, and thrusts it upwards, stabbing into the arm wrapped around his neck. 

Toji’s eyes widen, and he reflexively releases his hold just enough for Mahito to squirm free. Toji’s hand grabs ahold of the handle of the knife and pulls it out of his arm, while Mahito flips over and moves to straddle Toji, pinning him to the ground. 

Toji just laughs, and dexterously twirls the knife in his hand. Mahito swings down hard at Toji, who manages to duck his head out of the way by a millimeter. 

A sickening crack echoes though the arena. I wait for Mahito’s bloodied hand to emerge, destroyed by the impact of his fist on the concrete floor. But Toji rolls the two of them over fast.

My jaw drops.

A fist-sized crater shatters the concrete at the site of the impact.��

What the fuck?

Did Mahito just punch a hole into the concrete? 

I don’t have the time to process the tremendous power I just saw. Instead, my eyes are glued to Toji straddling a squirming Mahito, with the knife trapped between his teeth. He storms down a rain of powerful blows directly into Mahito’s face. The first punch shatters bone, and blood spurts all over his knuckles. Toji’s smile at the sight is carnal. The second impact is more devastating than the first, and teeth fly from Mahito’s mouth.

It goes on like this. Hit after savage hit. Blood paints Toji’s hands crimson. His inky hair clumps down over his manic eyes. There is no thought behind them except for the predatory gleam of bloodlust. A sharp grin twists his scarred lips around the blade of the knife, and there is not a single doubt for how much Toji is enjoying himself. 

Mahito has finally stopped laughing. His head lolls back into the concrete, and his body goes limp. Toji grabs ahold of Mahito’s hair, and yanks his head up, continuing his assault on the unconscious man’s head. 

“Time!” 

Toji’s fist crashes down into Mahito’s face one last time before he leans back. His large chest heaves from a mixture of exertion and bloodlust. Sweat shines on his skin, and the blood splatter trickles in rivers down the contours of his body. He shakes his wet hair like a dog, and the sweat and blood fly around them. 

My thighs clench, and I want to lick it off of his skin. 

Toji spits the knife out onto the floor beside him. He leans his head back, and his triumphant smile into the air above is nothing short of beastly. 

With Toji’s head leaned back, he doesn’t see as Mahito’s fingers twitch towards the knife beside them. Once his fingers wrap around the handle, he flies forward in a sudden vicious arc that slashes upwards at Toji’s torso. 

“Gotcha!” Mahito giggles. 

Toji reacts quickly, to the sudden motion of Mahito below him, but still manages to get caught along the top of his right pec. He wraps a thick hand around Mahito’s wrist, stopping the knife from doing any further damage. With his other hand, he fixes a firm grip around mahito’s shoulder, and with a savage twist and brutal cry, he tears his arm back. 

Blood spurts like a fountain, painting everything in a sea of red. 

In Toji’s hand, he holds the severed remains of Mahito’s arm, torn completely free from his body. 

Mahito’s screams echo in the cavernous room. He squirms from beneath the bulk of Toji’s body, flailing his remaining arm against Toji’s thick thighs in an effort to get free. 

It reminds me of the dying throes a rabbit caught between the teeth of a lion. It’s a last, desperate attempt at life when he knows it’s coming to an end. 

Toji grabs the knife from Mahito’s severed hand, then tosses the limb carelessly to the side. He twirls it around once more, before viciously plunging it down into Mahito’s torso. With a ferocious smile, he licks his lips, then starts carving into Mahito’s chest.

Mahito’s screams cut off abruptly. The absence of it echoes just as loudly. 

When he’s done, Toji leans back onto his hips, and appraises his work with a sadistic grin. He raises the knife to his mouth, and his tongue licks along the side of the blade. He smiles at the taste, before plunging it down into Mahito’s head, right between his brows. 

Toji rises to his feet. He towers over Mahito’s dead body. Power and aggression pour off of him in waves. His grin is absolutely feral, and his eyes gleam with satisfaction. He wears the other man’s blood like war paint. 

He picks up Mahito’s head, and with one hand, he dangles his body upwards for all to see. 

What remains of Mahito’s torso is mutilated by a crudely carved letter ’T’. The roar of the crowd is animalistic. Men holler and cry out into the air, pounding their fists to their chest and stomping their feet on the ground. Toji holds the body aloft for a few more moments, before throwing it carelessly back to the ground. 

He steps back to the center of the ring. The announcer trembles forward. He stares at Toji with wide fearful eyes, before gingerly grabbing ahold of the fighter’s thick wrist. After a moment’s hesitation, he raises Toji’s arm high in the air. 

“And the winner is TOJIII FUSHIGUROO!”

My blood rushes in my ears, and my lungs constrict. Any alcohol in my system has all but evaporated, and I’m stone-cold sober. The primal energy storms around me, and my body tingles with the electricity and the adrenaline. My instincts are quiet, and I fear its silence more than I feared when it was screaming at me earlier. My mind is blank, but my body burns. 

I just watched a man die. 

I just watched Toji Fushiguro kill a man. 

And yet. For reasons that defy logic. For reasons that make me want the earth to split open beneath me and swallow me whole.

I am undeniably, irrrefutably, achingly aroused. 

I’m trembling from the force of the heat that burns inside of me. Absently, I grab my drink and chug it all down in one go. It dribbles down my chin and into my shirt, but I don’t care. I wipe carelessly at my mouth with the back of my hand and take in deep, greedy gulps of air when it’s done.

Toji’s team wipes him down, cleaning off the other man’s blood. I can’t process it. Mahito’s team walks away, with Geto yawning as he exits the ring. I watch as some of the event staff approach Mahito’s body, pick him up, and carry him out. Two others immediately start wiping down the area, scouring the concrete for every drop of blood. 

After a moment or two, it’s like there was never any blood at all. 

I watch as Sukuna saunters up to Toji and claps him on the back. The two men standing together look like giants surrounded by ants. I watch idly as they converse, and my heart stutters at the wide, sharp grin on Toji’s scarred lips.

I need to calm down. Now. 

My skin prickles, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My breathing stops, and my blood sings. 

I can feel them looking at me. 

I know it like I know my own name. 

I drag my unfocused eyes from the fist-sized crater in the ring, over to where the two men stand speaking. 

Heat burns in my veins, as my eyes lock on to Sukuna’s. 

Adrenaline pumps my blood fast, and all at once my instincts are screaming at me again. 

Run. Hide. Escape.

But I’m frozen. I can do nothing more than return his stare. Sukuna nods his chin in my direction while he says something to Toji. The fighter turns to look over his shoulder, and his sharp green eyes seek out mine. 

Oh fuck me. Fuck me sideways to hell and back.

The combined weight of their stares makes me tremble. Toji’s eyes light a path of fire as they dip to my legs and trail upwards along my body. His look is like a physical touch along my skin and it makes me shiver. My arousal drips out of me, and I press my thighs together tight. Sweat tickles my spine as it runs down my back. Toji turns back to Sukuna. He says something which makes Sukuna laugh, and my cheeks flush with heat and shame. 

They’re laughing at me. I’m certain of it.

What pricks.

My anger breaks me out of my trance, and I jolt back to life atop the shipping container. Shogo has begun packing up our things and stuffing it into his backpack, all while feverishly scrolling through the discord. 

I’m sure the live chat was going crazy after watching Toji Fushiguro brutally murder a man. 

I spring into action in a dull haze, helping Shogo pack the last of our things, before scaling down the ladder to the ground below. My body moves on autopilot.

“That was fucking insane,” Shogo says.

His thumbs are furiously flying across his keyboard, and I know his attention will be preoccupied for a while. 

“Yeah, that was crazy,” I agree. 

I’m surprised I can even speak, and that my voice sounds this strong.

“That wasn’t even a fight, that was a massacre,” Shogo continues, his voice filled with awe.

I hum in agreement. 

I was wrong before. Very wrong. Toji and Mahito were never evenly matched to begin with. 

“I don’t know about you, but I think I need a drink. Actually, scratch that. I know I need a drink. Several. You game?” 

I let out a hollow laugh. 

“Yeah, lead the way.”

“Yo, Shogo!” A voice calls out. 

We both turn towards a man jogging towards us. He has a shaved head and ink covering every visible inch of his dark skin. The piercings in his lip shine as he smiles at my friend. 

“Oh shit, Rocco! Good to see you, man. I didn’t know you were gonna be here,” Shogo smiles back. 

The two embrace, before Shogo turns back towards me. 

“This is my best friend y/n,” he introduces. 

Rocco nods his head in greeting, and his smile is warm and inviting. 

“Nice to meet you,” I say, while extending my hand out for him to shake. 

He takes it with a grip as warm as his smile. 

“Rocco. It’s a pleasure. Any friend of Shogo’s is a friend of mine,” he says before he turns back to Shogo. “Say, we’re all gonna go over to The Alley Cat. It’s a bar about two doors down that way. You tryin’ to grab drinks?” 

Shogo looks at me for approval, and I shrug. 

We were planning on getting drinks either way, and it didn’t matter to me who or where we got them from as long as they were strong.

“Yeah, sure, why not. We’re were just talking about it anyway,” Shogo agrees for the both of us. 

“Cool. If you wanna give me a second to grab my stuff, we can walk over there together,” Rocco says. 

We follow Rocco as he leads us to his things, and I can’t help but watch as the two boys animatedly talk over the details of the fight. I don’t mind stepping back from their conversation, as my brain still feels like it’s only operating at half-speed.

I blame that for the reason why I don’t realize he’s leading us back over to the VIP section until he’s stepping over the ropes. 

My heart pounds as the realization sets in, and my eyes frantically scan the crowd inside to look for that signature pink hair. 

I try everything in my power to ignore the sting of disappointment I feel when I realize he isn’t there.

[tiathecreator]

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ dance with me ( connie springer ) !

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎.𖥔 ݁ ˖✎ᝰ synopsis — " and i really want you to get close to me so won't you dance with me ? " blk reader.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ࿐ ��*:･ﾟwarnings — mentions of alcohol consumption ( all characters are of age ), sensual dancing, & swearing.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ tia speaks — haiii ! i've been itching to write this concept and i've finally figured out who i wanted to write it for. this is loosely based on 'save the last dance' or like 'honey', that's the vibe i'm going for! i also think connie is so '90s love coded so i keep using him when i write this concept! this is a really quick and short write but i need to write this. probably gonna write him in this 90s vibe setting a lot. super excited to write this!

your hips switched to the beat of the song as made your to the dance floor with your friends, each of you slightly tipsy from the shots you took ten minutes ago. it was eren's night to dj and he got you all in for free like he usually did when he was spinning. he knew all the best song to get the club hype and the dance floor crowded.

you were in mixed company right now, having invited onyankopon who invited a few of his friends, including constance 'connie' springer. onyankopon has been trying to set the two of you up since he met you, immediately deciding that you were perfect for his best friend. he had been trying to spark conversation between the two of you, but nothing occurred other than the curious eye contact the two of you shared when he introduce you.

you turned around so that your back was facing mina, twirling your hips and shaking your ass to the beat. you dragged your arms up your body and through your hair, the body wave curls flowing between your fingers. in your ministrations, you looked up and locked eyes with connie, his eye low as the moved from your face to your hips and back again. you maintained the eye contact as you started to do a few different moves, showing off for the attention you acquired. due to that, a small crowd began to form around you, cheering you on as you moved around the dance floor. you finished after a few minutes of entertain the crowd, opting to return to your friends.

"that was fucking awesome," mina exclaimed, shaking your shoulders in excitement.

"been a minute since i seen you move like that," onyankopon added.

"and, i'm about to move my ass to the bar to get another drink. i'll be right back," you said, not waiting for a response as you move through the crowd, practically pushing your way to the bar.

once you reached the bar, you waited for the bartender to come over before ordering a rum and coke. you leaned over on the bar, head down as you attempted to cool off from the humid dance floor. you see connie approach the bar, subtly inching closer to you as you waited for your drink to be finished.

"enjoy the show?" you asked, bundles falling over your shoulder as you turned your head to look at the man.

to call connie attractive would be an understatement. connie is absolutely gorgeous under the club lights. his skin glistens from the sweat lingering on his toned body, his size-too-small t-shirt clinging to his figure in all the right place. he had a fresh buzzcut and stud earrings, the lights shining off of them. he was beyond simply attractive, he was fine.

"yeah, didn't know you could dance like that," connie replied, meeting your eye contact. you shrug it off, playing it cool as the bartender came back with your drink.

"why haven't i seen you dance, springer? not your thing?" you asked, glimpsing at him as you take a sip of your drink, looking at him through your lashes.

"i'm not much of a dancer. besides a little two-step, i can't really do much," he demonstrated his moves with a bit of hesitance, stopping once he noticed you smiling. "don't laugh."

"i'm not, i promise. it wasn't bad. a little stiff, but not bad. at least, you have rhythm," you assured, finishing your drink before pushing off the bar. "wanna dance? i can show you a few things."

your question seemed to shock him as much it shocked you, having spoke before you thought. he took a few seconds to recover before nodding his head and following you to the dance floor. you notice him slowing his pace as the two of you got closer to the dance floor, so you grab him hand and pull him behind you.

you make your way through the crowd of close bodies on the dance floor before letting go of connie's hand and turning to face him.

"show me your two-step again," you tell him, hand placed on your hips as you instruct him. he does as you ask with a bit of reluctance, only fully doing it when you join him. "just loosen up a bit."

he breathed out and relaxed his body as he continued to dance with you, easing into it while looking at you for approval. you began to incorporate your arms as you moved, offering him an encouraging look. he began to follow your example, using his arms to add substance to his dancing. you found yourself moving closer to him as the two of you danced, switching from move to move as you gave him a few pointers.

the floor grew more crowded as a popular song came on, causing you to become chest to chest with connie. your breath mingled with his you gazed into his low eyes, taking a brief glance at his lips before turning around to press your back against his chest. your heart sped up at the contact, hearing connie hum behind you. you looked up for a split second, making eye contact with mina who gave you a smirk and a thumbs up.

you swayed your hips to the tempo of the song as connie moved behind you at the same pace, hands finding your hips to pull you closer. your arms snaked around his neck as you matched his movements, turning your head to get a brief glance of the man behind you. you dragged you arms down your side, cupping the back of his neck to draw him closer as you did so. his breath fanned against your ear, making you smile at the effect you had on him.

the song ended sooner than you hoped, dissipating the intense aura between the two of you. you turned to face connie again before grabbing one of his wrist and dragging him over to where the rest of your friends were. as you approached mina and annie who fanned themselves dramatically, earning playful slaps and pleas to stop from you.

"i see you, springer. got a lil' swag to you," ony joked with his best friend, earning a boyish smirk and a shove from connie. you nudged him with shoulder as you held your phone out.

"you should call me sometime. i could show you something a little better than two-stepping and a body roll," you handed him the device which he quickly took, adding his number in before draping his arm around you and opening the camera to take a picture for his contact. you gave the camera a bright smile, resting your hands on the arm around your shoulders. connie's chin rested on your head before he took the photo, sending himself a text before returning your phone.

"she'll show you something better fo'sho," ony interrupted. "like the four walls of her bedroom."

you reach over and land a light punch to ony's chest. "more like the four walls of the dance studio i volunteer at. getcha' head out the gutta'."

© tiathecreator 2023. all rights reserved.

[rosiestalez]

Taking a Gambit

WC: 3,400

Gambit (Remy LeBeau) x afab!mixed!reader

Summary: on a girls trip turned spending time with Remy after a bad breakup, you find yourself making a decision that will change the rest of your vacation and maybe even your life

Warnings: 18+, mentions of cheating, bullying, childhood trauma doesn’t go into detail, a little bit of smut, alcohol, not my gif, bad French, a girl from Georgia trying to write a deep southern & Cajun accent

Happy reading!

——————————————————————

It’s so humid out, you got the wonderful idea to straighten your hair for your girl’s trip to New Orleans, huge mistake. As soon as you stepped off the plane the humidity hit you like a wrecking ball, you’re from Georgia so you know that humidity could be bad, but you never knew it could be this bad. Your makeup is sliding off your face, your once silk pressed hair is attempting to retreat back to its normal curl pattern.

You and your girls pile into an extremely over priced Uber that arrives to an equally over priced ARBNB near the French Quarter. “How much did you spend on this Beebee?”, you ask tipping your sunglasses down. You put your hair in a bun a little bit ago ‘out of sight, out of mind’.

“I dunno, it’s was like $80 a night!”, she remarks, “but that’s okay, the man covered it all!”, you all giggle and grab our luggage from the car.

When y’all walk in there’s a wonderful smell of food. You drop your luggage and make your way to the kitchen. When you walk in you see a man, you jump back, you’re a tad frightened not expecting someone cooking in the kitchen. You knock over the broom behind you, the man turns away from the stew on the stove top and turns to you.

“Hello?”, the man has an extremely thick Cajun accent, and not to mention his crop top.

“Uh hi? What are you doing in our house?”, I tilt my head to the side

“Your house? Last time I checked my name was on the deed, ma chérie”, okay not Cajun , maybe French you think to yourself.

“Hey gi-“, one of your friends walked in to the kitchen a smile beaming on her face when she sees the handsome man standing in the kitchen. “Hey, I’m Briana, and I see that you’ve met y/n”, she sticks out her hand to him. He waltz over kissing her hand.

“Bonjour Belle”, you roll your eyes at his charm targeted to your taken friend.

“She’s married”, you point to her flashy diamond ring on her finger.

“Okay, and I’m Remy!, he introduces himself with a dramatic bow.

“Wow”, you huff, “what are you cooking?”, you walk over to the stove.

“I��m making GUMBO!”, he answers, flailing his arms outwards, his crop top lifting up slightly exposing the rest of his ripped torso, “would you masdames like some, there’s plenty t’go around. Judgin by the luggage in the living room y’all mus be starvin.”

“That would be perfect Remmy”, Beebee beams walking over to a cupboard pulling out four bowls. “Riley, Cora, there’s food!”, she yells. Two more girls shuffle into the kitchen stunned by the man serving up Gumbo and rice.

After dinner you’re practically falling asleep at the table while Remy chats up your friends, all of them are blushing and giggling like elementary school girls talking to the life guards in their Justice mermaid swimsuits. “Guys I’m gonna go ahead and unpack, and get ready to go out. Take your time though. Thank you for dinner Remy”, you stand up placing your bowl and spoon into the sink. You hear another chair scrape the floor.

“Lemme help you mon amour”, he smiles at you. You nod and he follows behind you picking up your luggage. He takes it up stairs to the biggest room, “this my room”, he remarks.

“Cool, when are you leaving the house, this is really unprofessional?”

“I’m leavin t’night, I just wan to make sure there s’food b’fore I left. Mamma always told me to feed the guests.”

“How cute, so all of this is yours?”, you ask and put your purse on the bed, “I hope you washed the sheets, you look like a player.”

“I worked hard, and they’re clean Remy got more respect for women than that, doll.” He gives you a tour of the room and you follow him, it is huge and the bathroom is insane.

“Wow.”, you are stunned, “do you think my friends would be mad if I stay in tonight, your food is on the verge of putting me into a comma”, you plop yourself onto the bed laying back and sighing.

“No, I don’t think they will”, he grabs some extra pillows for the other rooms, “lemme walk these to the other rooms and I’ll be right back.”

“Okay”, you sigh and roll over to your side, your eyes drift close and like that you’re out.

Remy walks back in and lets out an obnoxious sigh, but realizes you’re asleep, and he quietly tip toes back out after writing a note and slipping it onto the night stand before leaving to a hotel.

You wake up to your phone buzzing beside you nonstop:

Cold & Suffering😀🙄:

B- “where is y/n?”

Coracola- “she went up stairs w/ Remy and never came back down😏”

B- “omg😭”

*Rizzles laughed at a message*

Coracola-“I did see Remy leave so maybe he laid it and dipped 🤷‍♀️”

B-“Doubt that, she’s still hung up on Miles!”

Rizzles- “okay, but having rebound sex with the man who cooked dinner for you is very ✨demure✨”

You roll your eyes at the messages before replying:

Me-“we didn’t have sex, I fell asleep”

B- “oh she lives!”

Coracola-“SLAYY!”

*Rizzles thumbs down a message*

Me-🙄

You turn your phone off throwing it across the bed. You roll over and look up at the ceiling before standing up, the note catches your eye.

‘You looked extremely peaceful and I didn’t want to wake you. You’re very beautiful btw! I am leaving now and I wanted to say enjoy your stay. Here’s my number if you need anything, or want anything…if you know what I mean. (765)432-1010.’

You make your way back down stairs to see your friends all dressed up on the couch waiting to go out for the night. They all turn to look at you, “why aren’t you ready?”, Beebee questions.

“I’m not going out, I’ll go out with yall tomorrow, I’m not feehling to good the flight drained me”, you respond.

“Ugh”, they moan in unison.

“Okay we’ll call us if you need anything please?”, Cora states as they pile out the door to the Uber.

You walk back up to the room, and undress, you unpack your toiletries and begin wiping off your makeup from the day. You get the bright idea to text Remy, while in the process of unwinding. You talked for a while about how happy you were to leave your lame ass city in Georgia and visit a historic city. He threw in some French and unfortunately, you swooned. Your phone starts to ring, it is a FaceTime from “LeBeau (NOLA)”, you answer reluctantly. You see a big smile beaming across his face.

“Bonjour, belle”, his French accent shining through, “oh by the way I have a liquor cabinet help yourself”, he adds.

“Oh, I don’t drink much”, you respond.

“Fair nough ”, he nods.

You reposition yourself to lay on your stomach propping your head up with one of the pillows.

“Are you enjoying?”, he asks smiling.

“Yes I am, I decided to stay in, not feeling good”, your face softens to sorrow.

“What’s wrong ma chérie?”, his voice fills with concern.

“Nothing.”

“No tell Remy, something is bothering you. You’re to pretty to be bothered by something”, He raises his concern again.

“No, it’s pretty irritating and it’ll go away, that’s why I’m here to get away for this weekend.”

“So why are you staying in if it’s gon go away?”, he asks once again. You roll your eyes at his persistence, “Remy gives very good advice, but shit you don’t gotta tell me. I’ll just find out f’myself soon.”

“Fine”, you sigh, and inhale a deep breath before sitting up and propping the phone up on the lamp on the night stand. “It’s my ex”, you pause, twiddling your thumbs, “he keeps sending me sex videos of the girl he cheated on me with and saying really fucked up things about me.”

Remy has a stunned look on his face, jaw practically touching the floor. “What the fuck?”, his Cajun accent more pronounced. His bright red eyes fill with anger. “Thas fucked up, that jus don’t make no sense, why?”

“Like I would know, I don’t even know why he cheated on me in the first place. I did nothing to him.”

“No s‘not your fault cher, some people are jus filled wit evil”, he responds. “How long were yall together?”, he tilts his head to the side like a puppy waiting for a treat.

“One year”, you follow, “we broke up two weeks ago.”

“Woah, s’insane he would do a beautiful masdame like that”, he follows this, “d’ya know tha girl?”

“Yeah”, your eyes sink lower, “Riley.”

“Ya amie?”, he asks

“Who?”

“Your friend”, he translates the French

“Yes”, you remark, “that’s why I don’t want to go out.”

“You got that right”, he adds, “get him back.”

Your eyes widened stunned by his ‘good advice’, “what?”, eyes widen.

“Ya heard me, get em back”, he beams, eyes lighting up again.

“Why would I do that?”

“You a very beautiful woman, I assume he ain’t, get em back wit a good lookin man.”

“Remy”, you sigh, “I don’t want to do that, I don’t just have sex to get revenge.”

“Fair”, his tone direct.

“Yep, so that’s why I’m not going out tonight”, you roll your eyes grabbing your phone and laying back down on the bed. “Where are you?”

“Hotel!”, he flips his camera around to show off the sorry room that he’s in.

“Yikes”, you chuckle out your nose. “Come back here, we can party”, you smile. You surprisingly enjoy his presence, he’s a little cocky, but he makes you smile.

“Ha, d’ya play poker?”, he asks.

“I can play 21”, you smile.

“Close nough, imma be there soon.” He hangs up the phone, and you change into some more presentable clothes, but yet still comfortable. You take it upon yourself to borrow one of his purple sweatshirts because you weren’t expecting his house to be freezes cold. You make your way down the stairs and into the kitchen searching for something to munch on, you smile when you see a snack cabinet specifically for guests and renters. You nestle yourself into the plush vintage couch that matches the aesthetic of the French quarter.

You flip through a couple channels on the tv before landing on the Animal Planet because reruns of your favorite childhood tv show ‘Dirty Jobs’ was currently on. You’re hair fully curled back up, because you did rinse out the rest of the silk press earlier, revealing bouncy, but some what frizzy 3c curls. You let out a long sigh when the door knob starts jiggling you jump up making a run to the door grabbing a random baseball bat, when the door opens you swing the bat hitting Remy in the stomach.

“Ooo”, he groans dropping to the floor holding his stomach. You drop the bat cupping your mouth to stifle a giggle. You quickly rush down to his aid still trying not to laugh and planting a look of concern onto your face.

“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!”, you exclaim.

“S’all good”, he grumbles out, “jus-ow-needa-minute”, he exhales, “good arm you got there.”

“Yeah, I played softball in highschool”, you respond. You help him off the floor closing the door muffling the outside noise and bring him to the couch. “Let me grab some ice!”, you spark.

“That’ll be great cher”, he responds shifting slightly. You return with a bag of ice placing it on his abdomen, he looks up at you and smiles. “Thanks.”

“I’m so sorry, it’s definitely gonna leave bruises, you lift up his shirt to reveal a spot begging to form.

“Well at least I’ll know a beautiful woman gave em to me”, he chuckles. You roll your eyes, still enamored by his body, his voice, his charm. You didn’t understand why it’s only been one day, but you would drop everything to have him around all the time.

“You make me blush”, you say with a slight hint of sarcasm lining your voice, “I don’t think they’ll be back anytime tonight, I bet you around midnight Cora will call and say they found another party”, you sigh.

“you’s ain the party type?”

“Not really.”

“I ain’t either, I like stayin home and watchn a good movie, playin cards”, he responds. He looks down at your hands lightly resting on his torso, “you’re nail s’pretty, I like purple”, he compliments the dark purple color you just did for your trip to NOLA. “You look good in my sweatshirt too”, he adds lightly grabbing the sleeve.

You blush, “thanks”, you remove your hands from his abs swiftly pulling the sleeves of the sweater over your hands.

“Don’t hide mon amor”, he pulls your hand and holds it tightly, rubbing his thumb on your knuckles.

“No it just hit me that I was touching you, I’m sorry”, you chuckle.

“Don’t be Remy don’t mind!”, he exclaims placing your hand back on his belly.

You’re 3 rounds deep in 21, he keeps winning and you keep busting, never trusting your gut. The air is filled with laughter as you both tell funny stories about your childhoods and about current day. “So are you from here?” You ask shuffling the deck to prepare for another round.

“Born n’ raised”, he remarks with a smirk, “are you from Georgia?”

“I am, I was too born and raised, but I didn’t live in Macon my whole life, I moved there when I was a girl, I’m actually from Moody”, you answer. “It’s a smaller subset town of Valdosta!”, you chirp.

“Oh wow”, he responds.

“Yeah, crazy right”, you smirk dealing the cards. You behind the fourth round and as quickly as it started it ended, finally you won a round, “YES!”, you exclaim fist pumping the air!

“You took a gambit cher and it put you in a good spot”, he responds to your win, “I’m bored of this game, do you wan watch a show?”, he asks cleaning up the card and placing them back in their spot inside the coffee table.

“You’re not bored you’re just upset that you lost”, you laugh.

“Damn you’s caught me”, he sarcastically sulks.

“But yes we can watch a show, I’m not picky we can watch anything!”

“Okay, do you like Disney?”, he asks taking a spot quite close to you in the couch. His arm is stretched out behind you, and you subconsciously lean into him without even realizing. You nod at his question and he opens Disney+, “is that your natural hair?”, you nod, “it’s beautiful cher!”

“Thank you”, you blush at this compliment, it’s very rare for a white man to compliment your hair without touching it or comparing it to something else. He puts on a movie.

“This is MY favorite move”, he remarks clicking on ‘Princess and the Frog’ you chuckle, and how adorable this man actually is. The movie starts playing, he gets up to dim the lights and sits back down next to you, he pulls you in a little closer.

About 30 minutes into the movie you receive a text from Cora:

Coracola: “hey found another party, we ain comin home tn don’t wait up!”

Coracola: “have sex with Remy!”

Coracola: “love you N/n!”

Me: “okay be safe, please call me if you need me! I’m not going to have sex with him, love you guys too!”

You close your phone and place it on the coffee table. You hear a light snore beside you and turn to see Remy asleep head rested on the pillow. You smile grabbing the remote and turning off the movie, “not done watching”, he shuffles awake.

“I’m sorry, I am”, you respond.

“Oh”, you could probably hear his heart sadden.

“Yous sleepy?”, he asks, “go on to bed”, he smiles at you. You stand up hands gently cupping his face rubbing your thumb against his stubble. You turn to walk up the stairs, you know he’s looking so you sway your hips with each step you take.

You make it upstairs and you softly close the bedroom door behind you, stripping off all of your clothes except for your underwear and crawl into bed letting the warm blankets embrace you tired body. With that you’re relaxed, your eyes closing as you drift off to sleep.

The smell of breakfast wakes you up from your deep sleep; the smell of fresh coffee, sausage and eggs fill the air. You roll out of bed putting your discarded clothes back on before stumbling down stairs wiping sleep from your eyes. “Bonjour, belle dame”, he remarks when you walk into the kitchen he’s standing over the stove cooking breakfast for you and him and it looks big enough it could also be for your friends when they decide to stumble back in. “I have some grits jus bout done, and French roast coffe brewin, and sausage fryn up”, he points a spatula to different parts of the gigantic kitchen. “You like grits”, your pouring some coffee and putting in your absurd amount of cream and sugar, “woah there doll, you don’t wan no coffee wit ya sugar?”, he mocks.

“I like my coffee sweet.”

“You don’t need it to be sweet you already sweet enough, sugar”, he reverts his gaze back to the sausage in the skillet. You blush taking a sip of your sweet ass coffee.

“Why do you cook so much?” You take a seat at the island setting your blue mug down gently. The windows were propped open the humidity fills the room.

“My momma taught me s’really jus somethn I always did wit momma.”

“Oh I see.”

“Do you cook?”

“Here and there sometimes I just get to busy with work.”

“What ya do f’work?”

“Oh I’m a teacher”, he turns away from the stove eyes widening.

“Yous a teacher?, still filled with shock.

“Yes sir, I teach first grade, sometimes it’s a little rough, but they’re little angels just wanting to grow”, you smile taking another sip of the coffee.

“We-you know, you’re a special woman. Your heart truly is as beautiful as you are”, his red eyes look at you deeply. “Oh well! Everything seems to be done let me make you a bowl, lovely.”

After breakfast Remy encourage you to get ready so he can take you exploring through the city now that it’s daylight and a bit safer. You do your curly girl routine and put on a little waterproof mascara, changing into one of the summer dresses you brought for your trip. You still have yet to hear anything from your friends so you allow Remy to show you around instead.

You walk around the FQ for a bit, snack on some delicious food, and even try some of Remy’s favorite drink, Whiskey Neat, to you it was not neat and you may have even gagged a little. You found yourselves hand in hand at one point while walking around, he says it’s for your protection as he’s just trying to be a gentleman, but you know better than that. “I don’t know if I told ya that you look very beautiful today, Une beauté dans le bayou.”, he compliments.

“Thank you Remy”, you find you and Remy sitting in a cafe that he said he went to all the time as an ‘enfant’.

“Of course cherie”, he responds.

“So are you Cajun or French?”, you finally expose your curiosity to him and he just chuckles.

“Both amor”, he follows, “mostly just a ragin Cajun”, he smiles taking a sip of his beverage.

“That’s pretty cool, so your related to the Canadian French people?”

“Somin like that yeah.”

“That’s interesting”, you smile eager to learn more about this mystery man who seems to care about you more than your friends who you still not have heard from except Beebee who’s keeping you updated here and there.

“I reckon”, he states plainly, “Tell Remy bout you.”

“I’m not as interesting as you are”, you chuckle re adjusting yourself in the seat.

“Try me, gon ahead, doll”, he just smiles.

“Well, I’m mixed, my dad is black mom is white”, memories flood back from your childhood, all the adoption rumors that floated around your school, all the stories your mom told you about how people called you a devil child, and how you were unnatural, all the racism you faced from both sides of the family.

“Hey that’s pretty cool”, he smiles, “why you lookin sad, belle”

“I just had it a bit rough growing up up that’s all”, you drink your water practically chugging in. This has been your go to tactic when you’re anxious, just chug water and hope your nerves calm down.

“Oh”, he pauses and reaches accross the table to grab your hand, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay! When I got to college the bullying stopped!”, you exclaim

“Well thas good cher.”

After a couple minutes your food arrives and both of y’all go to town, you ordered the best burger you’ve had in a while, and Remy got a some crawfish and he went to town on their little heads, you just giggle, he’s absolutely adorable. He pays for both of you not without heavy protest, but he just ignores you saying, ‘this jus what men s’posed to do’.

You two arrive back at his house, and you finally see your friends running around the house like mad women trying to figure out who’s shoes are who’s, and who’s going out clothes belong to who. “Bonjour, mesdames!”, Remy pipes closing the door behind y’all.

The girls stop running around facing the door, “Hey!”, they exclaim together before going back to what they were doing. You and Remy just laugh and make your way back upstairs. Closing the door behind him you both sit down on the bed, just laughing at the women down stairs.

“My friends think we should have sex.”

“What?”, he looks at you Turing sharply. You have to admit he did look completely fuckable in this moment, but you just couldn’t fuck him, you don’t like the idea of having a rebound partner.

“Because of Miles”, you add.

“I mean, Remy wouldn’t mind bein a rebound, but I do get a lil clingy after sex, I will bother you”, he chuckles.

“Yeah, me too, that’s why I don’t want to do rebound sex.”

“Cher, remember how I told him yous should get him back?”

“Yeah”

“Do it, you’re only here for a couple more days, so jus gon ahead and get tha ass back”, he adds, “gon and find a man and get him ba-“

Before you could finish his sentence you kiss him, you’ve wanted to do that since he came back to spend time with you last night. He responds to the kiss without hesitation. Your lips match movements. He leans you back on his bed, crawling on top of you deepening the kiss. His free hand travels up to your face holding you tightly with the other. You’ve never experienced a kiss this deep and this passionate ever. He’s filled with passion, it has to be his souther and French roots tied into one. Man is it beautiful, it’s great, until he stops, “doll? yous okay wit this, I’m okay if you okay?”, you nod your head pulling him back down into the kiss. Before anything could happen you hear a knock on the door, you pushed him off you and he hits the floor with a *thud* and an *ow*. You jump of the bed straightening out your clothes before opening it wide enough just for you to only be seen.

“Hey bad time?”, Beebee asks.

“No, yeah, no- you’re good, what’s up?”

“We are leaving again, we found another spot do you wanna come?”

You look behind you at the man still sitting on the floor rubbing his head.

“I’m staying here again, I really don’t want to be around Rylie.”

“Fair, okay well I will see you tomorrow, tell Remy I said hey”, she giggled and makes her way down stairs. You close the door as she leaves letting out a long winded exhale before walking over to Remy and helping him stand up.

“Do you have super strength?”, you look at him confused, “this the second time you’d hurt good ol’ Remy. Startn to wonder if ya dislike me”, you just giggle and rub the back of his head. “What kinda music ya like cher?”, he asks while getting up from the bed and walking over to the record player on the dresser.

“I don’t know Rem, I’m not picky. We can listen to whatever you pick”, he smiles and picks out a Louis Armstrong record. He starts swaying, he grabs your hand and politely forces you to start swaying with him.

“Beautiful belle”, he whispers, his chin rests at the top of your head, “stay with me. We can dance like this forever.”

You giggle softly, “I wish Remy.”

“It’s summer break stay wit me for the rest of summer”, he adds lowly. You let out a content sigh, pondering the idea for a second. He spins you around towards the bed and you take a seat, he walks over to you with a sensual look on his face. You scoot back spreading your legs so he has room to lay you back, pressing his lips against yours with so much passion you could practically melt into liquid form. He kissed down your jaw and neck, he finds a spot under your ear and sucks on it, that will definitely be a hickey; the sensation leaves you breathless and your eyes begin to roll back pushing your hips close to his. He forces your thighs apart more using his thigh, he’s pretty much straddling one of your thighs. You rub against his toned thigh out of instinct searching for release of the tension building on your bud.

“Ma chérie, ralentis”, he whispers in your ear. You whine, the accent is way more thick than it has been. You don’t know what he’s saying, but you can only assume it’s about your movements. “Oh don’t whine belle, that makes me go s’crazy”, he smirks. “Can Remy take off your dress cher?”, you nod. He pulls off the yellow dress revealing you in nothing, but a lacy purple thong. Your tits are perky, and your nipples have turned into mounds at the feeling of the cold air. He smiles like a goofy kid, “Remy likes that purple, s’bad gotta go”, you smile with him, looking up at his red eyes.

“Remy?”, he looks at you.

“Yes ma cher?”

“Be nice.”

“I’m always nice, mon amour”, with that he slides your thong and tosses it somewhere in the room. He looks at you silently asking permission to go down on you and you nod confirming that everything is okay. He dips his down into your throbbing cunt. He lives light kisses on the lips and around where you want him.

“Rem, please”, you beg.

“Not yet, sugar”, he keeps up the teasing until his fingers get involved and they lightly pass through your folds softly rubbing your clit. You buck letting out a soft moan, “I can’t hear you cher, a lil louder so Remy can hear you, yeah?” You nod your head.

He has you moaning a writhing underneath him for about 30 minutes, he’s taken his time making you feel good, talking you through everything. He’s laying next to you playing in your hair and rubbing your back, as both your heart rates attempt to drop back down to normal. “Cher you did so good for me”, he smiles, pushing some curls behind your ear. “I’m sorry if I was rough”, he says staring deeply in your eyes.

“You’re okay Remy, it felt good”, you respond cupping his face, planting a kiss on your forehead. “I’m gonna shower and it’s starting to get late, I’m sleepy.”

“Okay mon amor, any thoughts t’my question yet?”, he asks looking up to you as you wrap yourself in a towel.

“I have, I’ll stay”, you smile and waltz towards the bathroom.

A/n- hey author note at the end! I noticed there’s not a lot of Gambit content which is so sad. So I’m currently taking requests for him! I’m sorry this one got long, I’m going to be working on a part 2! Thank you so much for reading! Don’t forget to reblog🫶!

[littlewigglers]

hi!!! you dont have to answer this but a few months ago (august) i got a Giant Gold Millipede (Orthroporus ornatus) and I'd love to know what you do to have a vivarium like I've seen in your posts!

Also, is she going to be alright if I get another millipede, or springtails, or put isopods inside? I haven't honestly seen much information, and I'd love to be pointed towards some sources or get advice directly! Thank you :)

Here's Sisyphus and her tank! There's a vinegar trap in the corner to catch fruit flies (if theres a solution for that let me know, but i know the decaying material and the moisture is going to attract them), a tray where I usually put her food, and a toilet paper roll for her to curl up in. She's dug a handful of tunnels as well. There's a heating pad to keep it Somewhat Warm on the left side, especially since she's right by the back door and against an outside wall.

I usually feed her twice to four times a week, or when I notice she's lost interest in her current food. I try to water her every day, but sometimes I do a more heavy spray if I miss one.

Hey there first off love Sisyphus, give her a kiss for me on her little head.

To answer your questions I'm gonna bullet point them to keep myself right.

Springtails are a tanks best friend, completely harmless to your pets and they help keep any mold down, highly recommend getting a culture of them. I personally just keep them in my tanks but a friend of mine has a separate tank he keeps a a back up culture of them in encase the tank ones die out.

I'm mixed on keeping isopods in with Millipedes. They're always in my tanks because I just can't get them out and they don't seem to do any harm but after a few months they always end up over running my tanks and I have to clear them out. They're also know to eat eggs so they're a real pain if you're trying to breed your millipedes. If you really want some I'd recommend a slower breeding species of them. Those seem to be the little armadillo ones, the ones that can curl up all cute.

I could get your millipede another little millipede friend, they do seem to be more active when I've had more than one together, even if it's just the same species which is always the safest bet. If you do want to get another but different species make sure they have the same needs in terms of space, soil, temp, humidity and food.

As for the flies and tank

I use fly trap stickers, the ones you'd put on your window in my tank. It might sound dangerous for the Millipedes but you can either put it on the top of the tank or cut it up into smaller part. Also with my bigger species they literally treat the stickers like a buffet and have no problems walking over the surface of them with their feet. It goes without saying but no NOT get any chemical traps for them.

I'd say the key thing you're missing from your tank is hids and places to climb, you've lots of nice pieces of wood scattered about but nothing lifted up to make a little 'cave' as well as something to climb over. Cork bark is the go to most people use, I also have some pretreated drift wood I got from an aquarium store in mine as well. Careful though! if you give them things to climb make sure the tank is escape proof.

Just something I noticed myself, make sure to check under the moss now and again to make sure the soil itself is staying a nice leave of damp but not too wet. I've had mine get dry when the moss looked wet before.

If you've the funds I'd suggest getting a little timer plug for the heatmat to 1. make sure the tank doesn't get over heated 2. to save some electricity.

I personally don't mist every single day as an overly humid tank isn't always great for a millipede depending on the species. They can end up with leg rot if there the tanks kept too wet.

Other advice I can give

Remove food from the tank after a few days for sure. It stops mold from happening and also helps stop any smell building up

Try not to let the food sit in water, I see you have a little dish for it and it will easily collect water and just makes the food kinda mold faster and stink.

The paper tube you have is also just another thing than can get mold on it, you'd be better off removing it I think.

If you add wood to the tank to use as hides made sure to check on it now and again for mold.

You're probably getting the theme of this now but NO MOLD!! Make sure to check the tank for mold now and again, it's not good for your little guys.

As for like links and resources I buy all my stuff from local reptiles stores so I can't really help much there with links of sites, I also don't DIY any of my stuff from like the ground either so I can't give tips on that either. Only thing I can really help with is I have an exo terra tank, I got it second hand and you'd be really surprised what you can get second hand either on local buy and sell groups, facebook market place or even just being cheeky and asking reptile stores if they have any old tanks that aren't fit to sell on shelves anymore. I got mine as a reptile store heavily discounted because someone had got something stuck on the doors and they jam a little now and have a mark on the front.

I THINK that's everything I can think of, hope it helps.

[thedevilinmybrain]

this is the fic i was talking about that i started and just...never did anything with

Despite what television and movies would have one believe, once you've attended one college party - you've attended them all. It doesn't matter if it's in a cramped dorm room or a shitty apartment across town, it's always the same thing, the same cast of characters, the same outcome. Somehow, a fist fight will almost always break out. Someone will be left crying on the curb, waiting to be dragged home by friends. A couple will do a little too much in a too public place. And there is always a mess, sticky and suspicious, left on the floors and countertops.

It doesn't mean that the monotony doesn't have its own charms though. One can look around the room and finally settle into something that vaguely resembles home. There is an odd sense of serenity in knowing the gaggle of faces crammed into someone’s shitty apartment, recognizing who to approach and who to avoid, even the same pulsing, vibrating beat of the music has a certain familiarity with it.

After three months of the grueling summer heat, a sleepy college town emptied down to the locals, it's like a true revival to be here again. Louis lets himself sink into it, the atmosphere washing over him from the moment Zayn and him had wedged themselves in through the front door. It's an overwhelming and overstimulating experience. The lights are mostly off, just a few low lamps and a string of brittle Christmas lights strung up along the top half of the living room. It's enough to give some illusion of ambience, a  subtle glow that makes faces vague and wandering hands mostly in shadow.

It's not that the decor really matters anyway - it's the thick press of bodies - people shoved together, talking, laughing, shouting that makes it feel more intense. Someone has wedged the large couch against the wall, a tangle of people crowded into the center rug as a make-shift dance floor. They're the reason so many people are shoved to the perimeter of the space, little clusters of friends perched around, leaning close, not minding when they get shuffled this way and that.

Someone has been wise enough to tape Tupperware containers over the smoke detectors. The curl of smoke hangs over it all, thick and coiling, the sharp scent of cloves mixing with another sharper - more exact.

As it is, Louis is settled against the wall in the hallway leading from the kitchen to the living room, a six pack of Magic Hat between his feet. Because, as he’d learned early in his college part career, if you want to drink the good stuff at parties – you bring your own and you keep it with you. It's doing a good job of keeping his pregaming at a steady level, the vodka they had shared in a water bottle on the way over still sitting warm in his chest.

"How was your summer?" Matt - a guy from Louis' figure drawing class last year - leans into his space, shouting to be heard over the music. His dark hair is cut short, curling up on the edges from sweat and humidity, a large chest tattoo peaking out from his v-neck.

"Boring. Glad to be back. You?" Louis asks, tries to remember if he's even spoken to Matt before. Probably, maybe a group project last fall?

"It was good. Spent some time road tripping in Virginia. Really nice down there. Was really good for like, my muse, ya know?" With a small scuffle, Matt's speckled Doc Martens bump into Louis' Vans, squeezing himself close as a group of girls wedge themselves by. They're laughing loudly, Smirnoff Ice held above their heads. "Do you hike at all?"

"What?" Louis turns his head, tilts his ear up.

"Do you hike? Like are you into hiking?" Matt repeats himself, his breath warm on Louis' neck. "Or outdoorsy stuff?"

"I mean, sure. Who doesn't like a night out under the stars, am I right?" Louis is lying. He's lying so well he almost believes himself. When was the last time he went camping? Maybe that overnight field trip with the Boy Scouts in third grade?

"You should come with next time." Matt grins, his teeth flashing even in the low light. It makes his face appear oddly young, the stubble around his lips thin and patchy. “Me and my friends did some molly and I swear, it really woke up my chakra, ya know? Like, I felt so intune with nature. I painted for like six hours. Some of my best shit."

"Oh yeah?" Eyebrows raised, Louis nods his head slowly. He could really use another beer, or five, or at least a shot of the tequila that he can barely make out on the kitchen counter.

He's saved a moment later from having to say anything when a warm arm suddenly slings around his waist, a shock of bleach blond hair nudging into his shoulder. Zayn is burning up, his thin tank top clinging to his chest, the sides cut open along his ribs. It's too hot in the apartment for all of the people that have managed to cram in, but it doesn't seem to dissuade anyone.

"Where have you been?" Zayn hollers, his voice sharp and loud directly in Louis' ear. "I've been lookin' for you! I left for two minutes and you disappeared!"

"I've been here!" Louis shrugs, has to shift his weight, spread a little wider to keep them both upright. Zayn's pupils are so blow his eyes look black, staring at Louis' through a scrunched brow. "Where have you been?"

"I went to the bathroom and fuck." Zayn keeps his grip firm on Louis' hip, reaches down, tugs a bottle out of the cardboard holder between Louis' feet. "I don't know. Fuck it. I'm here now though. Who is this?"

"Matt." Louis points between the two of them. "This is Zayn. Zayn, this is Matt."

"Yeah, man, nice to meet you." Zayn nods, fumbling his beer a little as he pats himself. "Ah, shit."

Matt just stands there, giving a close inspection of the two of them. Louis already knows the conclusion he's going to draw, wouldn't be the first, as Zayn gives up on his own pockets and reaches for Louis instead. It's the easy way Zayn fits against Louis' side, his hand curling casually into the front pocket of his skinny means to pluck out Louis' lighter. He uses the bottom of it to pop the top on his beer, lets the metal clink to somewhere on the floor, lost in the mass of feet. It's too familiar of a touch, too intimate, and Louis watches as Matt's mouth turns down a little bit more.

"Uh, hey man." Matt hooks his thumb over his shoulder. "I'll catch you later, yeah?" He makes a little aborted motion with his hand, stumbles away with his 40 cradled to his chest before Louis can even reaction.

"<i>Shiiit.</i>" Zayn drawls, lets go of Louis to lean on the wall in the now vacated spot. "Were you trying to pull? I fucked it up, didn't I?"

"No." Louis rolls his eyes, takes the lighter back from Zayn's limp fingers and pulls his smokes out. He lights a cigarette, passing it over, before getting one started for himself. "He was trying to get me to go do molly with him and camp in Virginia and awaken my inner muse or some shit. I don't fucking know."

"You camping?" Zayn snorts derisively, shaking his head. "Outside? With bugs? And no wifi?"

"It's not the camping." Louis exhales a cloud of smoke up towards the ceiling, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

"Oh. Come on, Lou. You don't want to go out there and, let me guess? Become one with the higher powers of art?" Zayn's cackle is half drunk and half scathing. "Let's all just get in touch with ourselves and one another?"

"Semester hasn't started yet so if you could cut the hipster bullshit." Louis reaches out fast, flicks Zayn's ear. "<i>Thanks</i>."

Zayn makes to retaliate, hand already raised, when it's caught out of the air. A long arm covered in ink comes into view and suddenly Liam is stumbling forward into the them with a solid clunk. His beer bottle has dented the plaster a bit, a long scuff in the paint, but he doesn't even seem to notice as he smears a kiss to Zayn's cheek. Then one to Louis' temple.

"Oi! Payno, christ's sake!" Louis grumbles loudly, barely gets out of Liam's grasps as he means to drag the three of them into a group hug.

"My boys!" Liam croons, his face flushed and eyes glassy. They hadn't seen him when they came in, so there is no telling how long Liam's been here. His t-shirt is wet on the bottom though, wrinkled from what looks like the edge of a table. Liam's never been one to resist a beer pong tournament and his glassy eyes, red face give away that he was champion for a while.

"Easy, easy!" Zayn is laughing, leaning his cheek against Liam's as they straight up, nearly toppling into the couple making out behind them. "God, you fucking bear. Don't gotta maul me."

"Yeah? Thought you liked that?" Liam has that look in his eye suddenly, glinting as his eyes shamelessly roam over Zayn. This is a new development, barely started since the beginning of summer. They're still so new that the excitement hasn't even really started yet.

Louis lets his eyes roll away from them, tilts his body so he can see past and into the living room. It's dark in there, a collection of shadows and vague shapes, all milling around and dancing. Louis has half a mind to go out there, his cigarette now sitting in the bottom of his nearly empty beer. He could lose himself in the press of warm skin, strangers with wandering hands and sickly sweet breath. He knows he's already lost Zayn and Liam's attention, both of them still just staring at each other, having one of their silent conversations.

It’s not like he's big into dancing, not really, but the crowd is mostly just swaying into each other – bumping and pressed tight into a mass of moving part. Louis could do it, just wedge himself between some people and let the heat take over. It’s only a fleeting thought though, nothing coming of it. Through the sea of twisting legs, sprawled bodies, Louis catches the full view of the couch. There are half a dozen people squeeze onto the dark leather and Louis instantly scowls, feels the hackles on the back of his neck raise when he recognizes the man sitting directly in the center.

Colton Montgomery.

At least, that's what his name actually is. But a guy like that doesn't deserve to be called anything other than what he is. So, Louis refers to him as Asshole and Asshole only. Capital letter. Proper noun. Full stop. It's not like Louis to hate people like this - he's a people person! An extrovert with a loud mouth and a strong opinion. But there is a special spot in Louis' mind reserved for this guy.

Tall and blond and ridiculously handsome, Colton is the epitome of old money privilege. He's got an easy way of commanding a room, just steps through the door and grabs attention, draws a crowd. Maybe it's the luxury brands always draped across him or the perpetual tan that screams 'I just stepped off my yacht.' Or maybe it's the rumor that he's second cousins to the Rothschilds. Either way, where Colton goes, eyes follow.

That is until he ultimately opens his fucking mouth. All it had taken was one side eye, one long glance during Orientation Week for any awe to turn to ash on Louis' tongue. Colton and Louis had been assigned in the same dorm building, same floor even. And yet it was his cold, blue eyes glancing over Louis’ ripped jeans, his scuffed and holey Vans, a generic hoodie on, before contempt had settled in.

“They really will give anyone a scholarship here, huh?” Colton had sneered at his friends, his companions in vintage luxury brands, perfectly combed Martha’s Vineyard haircuts. It was all in that phrase, that hinted edge, the very unspoken hiss of ‘white trash’ and Louis had been done.

Sneering, Louis reaches into his pocket and pulls out another cigarette. It was just bad luck that Colton and him seemed to show up at the same parties, were always seeing each other on campus, had suffered through a class together last year. In a private art school though, it is almost expected. Louis can’t fucking escape him. He’s always around and always with those side long glances, that sneering mouth.

Louis watches through the haze of smoke as Colton slings his arm around the shoulders of someone, his head tilted back in a slow, lazy grin. The guy, small and pretty, tucks himself into Colton's sided, a hand pressed to his chest. It's clear where this is heading - all coy with heavy eyes made glassy with alcohol - leaning in to whisper to one another. It's a party after all, but it's just the way Colton goes around it - cocky and spread out on the couch, like a king to his subjects.

Louis French exhales, lets the smoke spill out from his nose as he means to turn back to his friends, put the Asshole out of his mind, when something else draws his attention. More of a someone than a something. There is a guy cutting through the crowd, uses his arm to wedge between people. He's tall, head tilted down so the wave of his dark curls falls like a curtain over his face. He tosses it back with a quick hand, crushes it to the side, and Louis can see the edge of his sharp jawline, big eyes illuminated in the dim, Christmas lights. His full mouth is twisted into a thin line, only deepening the closer he gets to the edge of the dance floor.

Hands placed on thin hips, the guy stomps in front of Colton, motions his hand between him and the pretty boy tucked into his side. It's too far away and way too dark to make anything out as far as words, but whatever the guy says makes Colton pull back. He's shaking his head then, saying something placating and pushing the smaller guy away from him, hands up in something like faux innocence. The curl haired one instantly takes the now vacated sea, sits with his knees close together, a pronounced space between where he's sitting and Colton's thighs rest.

Louis keeps watching, can't look away, as the guy starts talking, his hands raised in a sharp shrug. Colton laughs at him, sharp and loud even over the music, but the guy doesn't smile back. Instead, he flinches hard, his ringed hand coming to rest against the base of his throat, like he's holding himself back, swallowing it down.

"Oi. Payno?" Louis drags his thumb along the length of his beer, scratches halfheartedly at the label. He's trying hard not to stare anymore, keeps sneaking glances up from his eyelashes. The guy is illuminated by the Christmas lights now, the glow  highlighting the pretty contours of his face. "Who is that?"

“Who?” Liam swivels his head wildly to the side, tries to grab a glance of who Louis is referring. He's in every club on campus; practically an expert on the whole student body. “Who’s who?”

“Stop making it obvious!” Louis hisses, reaches forward with his foot and purposefully presses the toe of his Vans into the top of Liam’s shoes. “Behind us. Long hair. Open shirt. Talking to <i>Asshole</i>.”

Liam turns his head again, uses Zayn’s shoulder as a bit of a shield as he stares down the length of the hallway and into the living room. It’s not hard to figure out who Louis is referring to, the boy perched on the very edge of his seat, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Whatever <i>Asshole</i> – Colton – is saying to him, he doesn’t look very happy.

“Oh, um, I think that’s Harry?” Liam squints a little. His cheeks are blotchy and red, his beer sweating all over Zayn’s tank top as he leans heavily into the other boy. “Styles. Yeah. Had an Art History class with him last semester.”

“Oh. Cool.” Louis makes a point of looking disinterested, apathetically shrugging his shoulders, but Zayn is fast. He’s known Louis since Freshman Orientation. He knows all of his tells.

“Oh. Oh no. Lou no.” Slumping on the wall, Zayn rests a hand heavily on Louis’ shoulder, shaking his head. “Look at who he’s with! He has trust fund written all over him.”

“I wasn’t-“ Louis instantly defends, hope that the darkness of the hallway covers his slow blush. “I was just wondering.”

"If you want to pull, I'll help you out." Liam slings an arm around Louis' shoulder, glances around at the people milling by. "Saw some Freshmen in the kitchen a few minutes ago. Lookin' like they could use some company."

"I'm not going to pull an eighteen-year-old. Thanks. Not desperate enough yet to rob a cradle." Louis shudders, thinks of his own teenage sisters back at home. It's only a three-year age gap but it feels like eons. "I'm going to get some air."

"Louis." Zayn tries this time, wraps his hand around Louis' wrist. “I was just playing.”

"I'll be back. Don't leave without me."

Louis leaves them too it, sees out of the corner of his eye as Liam tucks Zayn back against the wall. He's sure they'll be there when he gets back, preoccupied with staring at each other or doing whatever it is that they do now. It's still too new to be anything other than desperate touching, but Louis is waiting for a bit longer before he starts to pry.

Outside, the air is thick with summer humidity, the cicadas chirping loud and shrill in the trees. Louis finds himself alone on the back porch, just the lone alleyway street lamp to keep him company. His throat is starting to feel raw, dried out from the alcohol and the smoke inside. He combats it by taking another swig of his beer, digs his Marlboros out of his pocket again.  

The new semester starts in two days. Monday hanging like an omen - foreboding and dark. Louis will be a junior this year, nearly finished, halfway there. It's hard to put into words how he's feeling about it. Art has never been about being a release for him, as so many other people say. It's something else. When Louis creates something, he's not releasing anything. He's pulling it from within himself, he's making himself raw, bloody, bruised. There is a fragility, a kind of selfish selflessness in letting himself be known and then judged for it. It's exposing self inflicted scars and then praying that someone sees them and understands, views the beauty in the creation.

With photography, it feels even more genuine. Sure, you can create with lighting, angles, forced perspective, but there is a point where you can't hide anymore. It's not like other mediums where a vague shape or a color choice can be metaphor’d away. With photography, at the end of the day, it is what it is. All that is left as a barrier is the view of the artist and the view of the audience.

Louis thinks maybe he's been a little morose about it, should probably not be so introspective when he's sat in the dark on someone's back porch outside of the first party of the semester. Thankfully, he's only a third of a way through his cigarette and he's interrupted a moment later.

With a sharp bang, the backdoor opens and then closes, lets out a burst of noise from the party within and then muffles it in the same moment. The man who steps out is tall, thin shoulders hunched as he shuffles across the back porch, steps haggard in a way that is most likely from alcohol as the beer bottle in his hand knocks against the far bannister.

It's hard to make out any features other than his long legs, wrapped up in jeans and ending in a pair of boots, until the alley light catches on his face. It's a sharp contrast - the soft curl of his hair against a sharp jawline, the curve of a cupid's bow and full mouth, the pale light gleaming on the wetness of his cheeks. With a rough sniffle, he rubs the side of his hand under his nose in a sharp, jerking motion.

"You know." Louis can't help it, sets his hands on the banister so he can lean out of the shadows of the house. Call it liquid courage or maybe just dumb fucking instinct. Zayn’s not out here to tell him not to. "You really are too pretty to be outside crying at a party."

"Excuse me?" The man jolts a little, turning to see where Louis is perched, the curl of smoke from his cigarette coiling around the end of the deck.

"Just seems a shame." Louis grins a little, just the corner of his mouth tilted up. "Feel like you should be in there, holding court with a couple fashion majors or something, dancing your heart out. Not out here by yourself, crying over some fucking prick."

"I'm not- What-" The man blinks, rolls his shoulders back. There is a dainty silver chain hanging around his neck, a small circle pendant resting in the center of his sternum, shiny with sweat. "Who are you?"

“An unbiased observer.” Louis swings his legs, watches the guy shifting around on his feet. “And someone who knows that you’re wasting your time if you think some pretentious asshole is worth your time. Colton is a dickhead. You should find someone else.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Brushing his hair over his shoulder, the guy rubs a hand along his cheek, mouth pulled down in a pout. He’s eying Louis now, gaze drifting over what he can see in the shadow of the house. “And I think you should mind your own business.”

“Alright. Sorry.” Carefully raising his hands, Louis relents as he slips off the bannister, getting to his feet. “I wasn’t trying to pry or anything. Just seemed like a shit reason to ruin a perfectly good party. First of the semester and all.”

“It’s a dumb party anyways.” The guy mutters, wipes at his other cheek now, a few stray tears still clinging to his jaw. “Who celebrates coming back to school anyways?”

“Ah, I don’t know about that.” Louis tilts his head back, watches the soft curve of the man’s mouth, lips flushed red from biting at them. “Why don’t you let me take you back inside? Get a drink and a dance? Take your mind off of it?”

“I-“ Looking up, a delicious sort of flush takes over his cheeks, and the guy looks decidedly certain before the backdoor is slamming open, Colton stepping onto the deck.

“Seriously? Jesus, Harry. It was a fucking joke. You’re always so sensitive.” Colton’s long, sun kissed arm thrusts forward, hand wrapping around the guy’s – Harry’s – wrist. “Are you seriously crying over – Oh!”

He stops when he spots Louis, takes one long look between the cigarette perched between Louis’ fingers, the blown out knees of his jeans, the cheap beer in hand. Louis’ entire outfit probably cost less than one of Colton’s shoes, the leather gleaming in the light. Colton seems to cataloguing it all away too – the way Louis is staring and the way Harry is standing – only a few feet between them. Drawing conclusions, his grin turns brittle, haughty and sharp, tugging Harry half a step back and into his side.

“Tomlinson.”

“Asshole.” Louis greets, resists the urge to draw himself up. Colton only has a few inches on him, but it feels like miles.

“Haven’t dropped out yet?” Colton smirks, ignores the way Harry has gone stiff beside him, rubbing at his cheek. “They still letting you paying tuition in coins?”

“Well, you know what they say, it’s better to be given a scholarship based on talent than flash your daddy’s name and bribe your way in.” Louis snarls, feels his teeth grind together around the words.

“Bribe? Why would I need to bribe anyone?” Colton does that scoffing laugh of his, the sound sharp and scathing. “I know it must be hard for you to understand, but I didn’t bribe my way into this school. I was formally invited.”

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Hello!! Congrats for the 100 followers!!

I'd like to ask some Coyote with the "you want me to ruin you?" 😇😇🌹

Here we go! This is the first ask I've gotten for my 100 follower celebration! For you @briseisgone 😘😘. Enjoy the Javy feels!

Machado's

Mardi Gras, New Orlean, Louisiana. 

It’s your first time in the hauntingly beautiful French Quarter, and you’re having an absolute blast. As you dance with your best friend down the cobblestone paths, your hips move to the beat, collecting beads around your neck. It’s hot and humid in the city. You can feel sweat drip down the side of your neck as your friend drags you into a bar. The blast of air conditioning sends your nipples hardening in your lacy bralette and goosebumps rising across your skin. The music is pumping in here too, and there are touches on your bare waist the entire time the two of you move to the bar. The bartenders are ridiculously ripped, shirtless, and festooned with beads in this joint named Machado’s, and you share lusty looks with your best friend as the two of you bounce to the beat while trying to get a bartender’s attention. 

There are two bartenders working the bar right now. As you noticed earlier, both are tall, clean-cut, and ridiculously ripped. One is blonde with piercing green eyes. He holds a toothpick in his mouth and is holding court with a cluster of bikini-clad girls on the opposite end of the bar. The other, you notice, is far more your speed. He’s chatting and smiling, his cut jaw and close-cropped curls just begging for your hands in them. He’s got plush lips and an easy smile. 

“Hey, hey!” You blink, staring right into his eyes, “Can I get you something to drink? Yeah, I’ll take a margarita and my friend, “ You turn around in a full circle to find her, but she seems to have disappeared. “I guess she’ll have nothing 'cause I don’t know where she went.”

“A margarita, huh?” His voice is ridiculously sexy. If he could pour his voice into a glass, you’d happily go for a swim.

“Yup.”

“Spicy?”

“Please!” 

Just as he starts mixing your drink, another guy, close enough in physical features to be his brother, dad, or uncle, takes over. But you want to keep talking to him. Before you can tell him anything, though, he’s disappeared. You can barely quell your sigh of dismay. A sexy bartender was talking to you, and you wanted to talk to him more. The crowd’s even thicker than it was before, and you’re just contemplating fishing your phone out of your thin purse when a firm arm wraps itself around your waist. You glance up into the chocolate eyes of the man you’d bemoaned not getting to talk with more just moments earlier.

He drags you close, pressing his lips against your ear, and murmurs, “Come with me. I’ll make you your drink in the back.”

You’re trapped. Caught like a fly in a spider’s trap as you follow him to a doorway hidden off the side of the bar. It’s quiet, blessedly so, and cool in the little office he leads you to.

“I’m Javy.”

You grin, happy to put a name to his face and introduce yourself.

“So what’re you doing in New Orleans for Mardi Gras?”

“I came here with my best friend on vacation. Neither of us really got the chance to party when we were in college, so when our vacation schedules lined up, we decided on New Orleans and Mardi Gras.”

As a proud New Orleans native, Javy fills you in on all the places you should go. His hand has migrated onto the expanse of your mostly bare thigh, sending heat pooling in your belly. He’s gravitated closer to you as well. The heat of his bare torso sears into your side. Mid-laugh, you look right up into his eyes, molten with an emotion you can’t track. Your lips part unbidden, and that’s when he groans and kisses you hard.

You gasp, parting your lips as he plunders your mouth with so much finesse that you’re going nearly dizzy at the onslaught of sensations. His chuckle is dark as he pulls away, taking in your slack jaw. Your top is awry, nipples peeking out of the thin fabric. He drags the tip of his finger over your nipple as he catalogs the arousal on your face. 

“Oh, pretty girl. Look at you. You want me to ruin you, don’t you?”

You nod dumbly as he stuffs his fingers into your mouth. He pulls them out, drenched in saliva, before he whirls you around and drags your shorts and panties off. He props you against the desk and plunges his hard length into you with one smooth movement. Each drag of his cock sends you jolting across the desk. He’s so big that it fills you up just right. You thank every god you know and even the ones you don’t that you’d just gotten a birth control implant because you want nothing more than to come on Javy’s cock. He’s got you at the brink of orgasm already, his cock brushing your cervix with each brutal thrust. You’re sobbing, grasping at his arms and hands as he drags you against his chest, pressing hot kisses down your throat. You cum desperately when he tweaks your nipples, a silent scream ripping out of your throat. 

You’re sweaty and heaving when you come back to yourself. Javy’s sweet as he gently wipes away the evidence of your release from your skin. He kisses your mouth softly before helping you regain your clothing. You’re walking like a newborn colt as he leads you back out into the bar. Your friend stands there looking at you in shock as Javy slides back into his spot behind the bar. His brother and friend pat his back as he hands you your spicy margarita. The cocktail napkin has 10 digits on one side. This is already a vacation you never would have expected.

Want to request something for my 100 Follower Celebration? The guidelines are here! Please leave me a request in my inbox with your ask!

- XOXO Star

[stardust-falling]

Heya! Figured I'd ask on your main since it's not actually svsss canon related, but would you mind sharing more info about Asian hair texture, particularly curly?? I tried looking it up (mainly on YouTube for visual reference and descriptions) but got overwhelmed instantly and don't know where to start. I'm a white Scandinavian and never had many irl friends of other ethnicities, so I'm feeling very clueless.

Alright so, obligatory disclaimer that I'm just talking about my own experiences, and not saying it's universal. There's gonna be a variety, even if there are similarities.

So, a lot of times if you look up on the internet "asian curly hair" or "natural asian curly hair" the pictures... most of them probably won't actually be real, it'll be styled looks. Especially since "natural" could mean "natural-looking."

A bit about asian hair in general, strands are thicker, with a higher number of cuticle cells. Asian hair is usually stronger than other hair types, and has a stiffer feeling to it-- it holds its shape well, and if cut short will usually stick straight out of the scalp without falling down (for example, when my hair is shorter to mid-length, if i press my hand down against my head, my hair will create a sort of cushion. There's a bit of give and it's not flat to my scalp). Asian hair is heavy, too, and has a reddish undertone to it regardless of the color, if it's black or brown-colored (not all Asian hair is black! Most, but not all, and Asian hair has a tendency to brown a bit in the sun, so rarely will someone long-haired have completely jet-black hair all the way down). There's a bit of a quality where the strands of hair will cling to themselves (my guess is because the higher cuticle count), so it can be pretty easy to pin up with just a hair stick, and doesn't fall out that easily. The texture when feeling it can be a little bit coarse, but still soft and silky depending on hair care. Mine has been both at different times. In my opinion, Asian hair can also be quite glossy and lustrous in comparison with other hair types, but part of that might have more to do with just the dark color. Another thing is that Asian hair grows fast. I can cut mine pretty short and then it'll grow to shoulder-length within a few months. This has overall made me pretty liberal with my haircuts-- if I want shorter hair or a different cut, I don't have to think too hard about it, since it'll be long enough to tie back again in a pretty short time.

Obviously this is all generalization, and might not apply to everyone, we're not a monolith.

So now for my own personal experience with curly-type hair:

Disclaimer again, I am mostly Han Chinese ethnically, but I have a little of mixed Central/Northern Asian and eastern European ancestry, several generations back at the most recent. This may contribute to my hair texture, or it may not-- I also know people with curly-textured hair that are 100% East Asian.

So, through most of my life, up until around my late teens to early adulthood, my hair was completely straight and smooth. At the very most, on humid days there would be frizz, and perhaps the ends of my hair would curl inward ever so slightly, but everything from the top of my head to the end of my hair was straight without a single wave. I'm not sure exactly when it changed, just that at some point it did-- probably having something to do with puberty, but who knows?

Now, my overall hair texture ranges from around 1b or 1c to roughly 2b. Not particularly curly in the overall scheme of curls, but definitely curly relative to the usual texture for my ethnic background! But wait, there's more. Remember how I mentioned that Asian hair will keep its shape and cling to itself? Well, my hair does this thing where different sections have more curls than others. So while most of my hair might hover around 1c-2a on the average day, in a few places on my head, some might be almost completely straight, while others might be 2c or even into type 3 hair, where it starts to corkscrew a bit (especially annoying when one section of this happens to be in the fringe and it's turning the wrong direction).

Unless I were to style it, there's not really any uniformity to the curl at all, and I might wake up one day to find the bigger curls in completely different places than the day before. It's hard to find any rhyme or reason to it. Sometimes it can look pretty cute, but other times it's just hard to manage.

Then, there's the frizz. Oh, the frizz is my nemesis. I can always tell when it's about to rain, because my hair suddenly gets much curlier and starts to frizz, and at that point it's basically impossible to smooth out even when I tie it back. Right now I live in a very humid area, so it's worse than back when I lived in the mountains (fun fact, if I'm in the mountains, or somewhere without a lot of humidity, my hair texture goes back to being straight, if not completely so).

One particular characteristic is that my hair is so heavy that when it's longer, the top part is straight while the bottom is curly, about the bottom third of it or so-- it weighs itself down and pulls the strands taut on the upper portion.

Truth be told, I'm still getting used to how to handle this change myself. I don't really know which products to use (I've experimented with mixed success but usually just don't have the spoons), or best ways of styling (if any other curly-haired EAsians out there have tips, I would be much obliged 😭)

And yeah, I probably have some internalized bias that makes me feel negatively, and think of my hair type now as basically just "difficult." I'm sure once I figure out how to embrace and manage it properly, it'll be a lot easier and I'll find more to like, but that's a little bit of a personal journey, and coming to accept things more doesn't mean that the tendencies of my hair will change, so this is just a description of the way it acts, and things that may be a bit more unusual compared to what I know about other hair types.

I'm not sure if I'm reading much into it, but looking at EAsian art and cartoons vs western art and cartoons, I'll often see western art and animation drawing out the whole shape of the hair on the head, with a uniform direction of curl and motion, while EAsian artists define sections and strands specifically, even when straight. I wonder if that has something to do with the way hair behaves differently and peoples' familiarity with it. It may, it may not-- it's still kind of interesting to me, because when I see a character with touseled or curly hair in EAsian media or drawn by an EAsian artist, it usually ends up looking a lot more like mine than western hair-drawing methods.

Anyway, this has been very long, but I hope it's at least a little bit helpful! Other EAsian people are more than welcome to add onto this post with their own hair experiences too!

[chryzuree]

kept in the locket of my rib cage

ALT TITLE: (just like every other night)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: you know how it is with those stolen moments making the most definitive memories despite being the most common of them all…..

———

Their hands were sweating. The air clung close, humid and smelling of loamy earth and wet greenery. Thick grey clouds cloaked the stars and, in the distance, lightning flashed, there and then gone again, like the snap of a Polaroid camera. The sky looked one step from cracking open all over again, a new torrent of water to drown the earth below.

But Jacks and Chrysi sat in the trunk of her car, safe from whatever drizzle would start up once more. The only danger lay in their shoes getting wet—canvas sneakers that would have to be set by the door as soon as they walked into their homes, sure to be damp for the next couple days no matter how efficiently they set them out to dry.

Through the corner of his eye, he studied Chrysi, leaned up against his side. The after-rain smell mixed with the sweet cherry balm from her chapstick, with the clean scent of her hair. And that had already frizzed out, unmanageable curls springing out like fresh flowers.

God, Jacks was doing a really bad job of paying attention to the video Chrysi was trying to show him.

“You’re judging me,” she finally spoke up. 

Jacks’s ears warmed at the feeling of her shoulder pressing into his side, her cheek moving against his shoulder, at the warmth of her seeping into him. It took him a moment to collect himself.

“I’m not judging you.”

Chrysi hummed. “You so are. Liar.”

A fraction of a smile tugged at the corner of his lip, but he bit down on it. Equal measure amusement and frustration warred inside him, kept safe in the little locket made for him and Chrysi that he kept safe in the confines of his chest.

“How long have we been friends?” he chided. “You’d know if I were judging you.”

Her shoulder shrugged against his rib cage. Her hand shifted in his, adjusting her grip. “Maybe.”

He didn’t know how to reply. He settled for making a semi-amused scoffing noise. 

It must’ve been enough, because Chrysi shifted against his side and moved her elbow from where it had been digging into his side. Not much space to be had, even with the back seats down.

Her phone released an agonized scream. 

Right, the video. The video. 

Jacks glanced down at the screen again. A woman with bandages wrapped around her head and eyes filled it. 

“Did you start another one?” he accused.

“Shh. I haven’t seen this one.”

Glancing at the time stamp, Jacks hissed. “Eleven minutes?”

“You don’t have to stay.”

Jacks glanced up to the cloud-choked sky again. No light came from the moon, the stars. Only the lamp provided the two of them with visibility. And it was quiet too—as if all the water molecules in the air had gathered together to create a personal bubble made for just the two of them. 

And Chrysi had decided to fill it with horror shorts.

At least she’d allowed him to hold her hand after the second one. 

“I’ll head home when you do,” Jacks said reluctantly. At least then, he would have company most of the way home. He didn’t want to have to call someone just to hear a human voice on the drive back. Missy would probably be asleep by now. Castor would want to know why Jacks had been hanging out with Chrysi on his own. Gillian would count down to curfew in real time, and she was already doing a magnificent job of annoying him with it over text.

As if to punctuate that, his phone buzzed in his pocket, not for the first time that evening. 

Though he knew what it would say, he still pulled it out. The notification read, 20 minutes! 

As he opened it, she sent a secondary text—a digital sticker of a little bear holding a heart. 

Jacks huffed out a low breath. Passive aggressive. 

Chrysi moved against his shoulder. Jacks turned to see her peering at his phone. 

“Cheerful,” she said, a smirk twisting the corner of her lip. She turned her gaze on Jacks, resting her chin atop his shoulder. “Are you going to be grounded?”

“I’ll plead innocent,” Jacks sighed, putting his phone away, “on account of you being a bad influence.”

Chrysi laughed. “Godspeed with that, Jacky. I’ve got your parents wrapped around my little finger.”

“Don’t phrase it like that ever again.”

“They’re my bitches?” she offered

That made Jacks gag, totally involuntarily. “That’s going right back into the never allowed to say ever again category. I never should’ve let it back out.”

Shrugging, Chrysi paused the video. Jacks glanced back to see it frozen on a creature with bulging eyes and pale skin, and he gave an instinctual little jump.

The fuck was this video about?

But then Chrysi turned off her phone and slid it back in her pocket, and whatever fleeting concern and fear Jacks felt reluctantly disappeared with it. 

“I won’t keep you,” she said matter-of-factly. 

The right thing to say, especially when his phone buzzed again and he found his sister had sent 19 now, but Jacks surprised himself with the rush of disappointment he felt. 

He sat immobile for a second, feeling the sweaty palm he had clasped against Chrysi’s rings, the way the trunk pushed him against her, the air heavy with the threat of rain again pushing him back and against Chrysi. 

“Right,” he said, feeling rather disconnected from his own mouth. He tried again. “Right. I should go home.”

It was like he was trying to talk to some other person—someone in the shape of the Jacks he should’ve been, someone that knew that getting grounded for hanging out late with a friend wasn’t worth the infinitesimal time spent with the friend. But he wasn’t that Jacks. He was the Jacks that thought ten minutes longer with Chrysi was worth a whole week of losing his car to his little sister, just so he could feel this cramped trunk and the humid air and the sweaty hands for a little while longer. 

It was Chrysi that pulled away first. 

Hopping from her trunk, she shook out her keys definitively, keychains clattering against each other—all a tangled mess. Not for the first time, Jacks eyed it and wondered just how much damage Chrysi could do if she decided to use her keychain as a weapon.

“Alright, Hollow.” She swatted at his leg like she was trying to chase out a pest. “Get out of my car, else I’ll lock you in my trunk and take you home with me.”

Jacks forced a smile as breezy as he could make it, but when he tried to think of a response, all he could think was Promise? Do you swear? Would you really? So he said nothing at all, and he unfolded himself from her trunk. 

“Drive safe,” he managed to say once Chrysi slammed the trunk door behind him. 

“I always do,” she replied, shooting a crooked smile his way.

Not always, Jacks knew. He’d driven behind her car countless other times.

Whatever expression he had on his face made Chrysi pull a look of exaggerated offense. 

“I do,” she insisted, planting a fist on her hip. Amusement lurked in her eyes, at the corners of her mouth.

It was infectious. He felt his heart trying tug him towards it, the way it was battling to change the curve of his smile to be something more genuine. 

His phone buzzed twice in his pocket. 18, 17. He could feel the minutes falling through the cracks of his fingers, hourglass sand determined to spite him.

He spread his hands and forced himself to let those minutes drain away. “If you say so.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. Then she said, “You drive safe too.”

His cue to go.

Pulling his own keys from the lanyard tucked in his pocket, Jacks kept the breezy smile on with great difficulty. “I always do,” he echoed.

Chrysi snorted. With a shake of her head and a wag of her finger, she said, “Liar, liar.” 

Jacks merely shook his head. As if controlling a video game character, he made his body to pivot towards his car. The whole way there, he felt overly awkward, like he’d fumbled an exit from the stage on opening night and he had to commit to it now. 

When he got to his driver side door, he unlocked it on autopilot. 

“Hey!”

Jacks turned to her once more, brow cocked.

Chrysi leaned over the hood of her car. Her keys scratched against the metal. “Who’s backing out first? I don’t want to have a stand-off.”

He opened his mouth, hesitated. Then, softly, deliberately, he said, “You can head out first. You live further out than me.”

She smiled wryly. “By, like, half a minute. But sure. Just know you’ve consigned yourself to waiting until I’ve queued up my music.” 

Jacks shrugged back, rather eloquently. 

With that same crooked grin, Chrysi pulled her hair over her shoulder and slid into her car.

He stared after her a beat longer. It only took triple vibrations from his phone to pull his attention away. 

As he got in the car, he counted down the minutes himself—16, 15, 14—and turned his key in the ignition. It roared to life, the fan already groaning as it worked overtime to cool down the hot, summer-rain evening. His radio turned on automatically, like it always did, and it stumbled through a few notes more of a song Gillian had cued up. 

God, no. 

He reached forward and switched the car radio from CD player to the AUX cord. 

He chose his music by muscle memory, all while studying Chrysi in her car. 

Her process was more in-depth than Jacks’s—putting her water bottle in the cup holder, placing her notebook in the passenger seat, then carefully balancing her bag on top of that, finding the AUX cord and untangling it, plugging it into her phone, scrolling through—and he was intimately familiar with it from all the other nights he’d watched her go through this exact same process. It startled him with just how familiar he’d found it.

How many nights had they had like this? How much of Chrysi had he memorized, in all their time as friends?

—13, 12, 11—

Chrysi finally put her phone down and—Jacks held his breath—she looked up, met his eyes, smiled. 

With a wave, she put her car into reverse and backed out of the spot next to him. 

When he waved back, it was too late. She’d already cleared his car and was turning towards the parking lot exit. 

This, too, echoed with all the other nights—the pattern Jacks hadn’t known they’d fallen into. 

It took him barely ten seconds to follow, but it felt like ages. 

His phone buzzed. 10.

He didn’t bother to check if his sister had sent another sticker to cheerfully proclaim his imminent breaking of curfew.

Jacks trailed behind Chrysi’s car, making out the dim shapes of her sun-bleached stickers against her back window, seeing the dent in the right bumper. A dim, rain-washed streak, driving steadily in front of him. 

How often had he driven home, trailing behind Chrysi, like this? How many times in their lives? He knew it had to have been countless—impossible to remember, no matter how much he tried to think of a way how—but he’d never realized just how far the both of them drove down the same path. Of all ten minutes it took to get home, he followed her for eight of them.

—9, 8, 7—

He watched her drive on ahead, and for the first time, he realized that he felt a stab of disappointment when they pulled up to their last shared stoplight. And for the first time, he realized it was a familiar disappointment, a jab in his sternum that went unnoticed every time he and Chrysi traveled home. 

Chrysi flicked on her left blinker and pulled into the turning lane. 

Jacks slowed to the white crosswalk line, in the lane going straight. 

The red stoplight beamed down, a grimacing light, bloodred against the seats. The crosswalk light blared yellow numbers, visible from here—6, 5, 4—

Jacks turned his head out his driver’s side window. He found Chrysi looking back at him, a bright, uneven smile shining in the stoplight’s glare. 

—3, 2—

She arched her brow when he noticed her and mouthed something.

—1.

Then the light flicked to that same leading green arrow and Chrysi tore her gaze away from Jacks. That smile dropped from her face into a resting, impassive face that Jacks still didn’t know the secrets behind, even after all those years of friendship.

She eased forward, then turned left. 

Just like all the other nights, Jacks sat at his own red light and watched the back of Chrysi’s car drive down their first divergence, farther and farther away from where he waited. He watched until another car followed, and the back of that car filled the space where Chrysi’s had been just moments before. 

Jacks wished that they didn’t live so far apart. 

His light turned green, and with a heavy sigh, Jacks turned back to the road and drove forward, deeper into the night, away from the after-rain evening he’d just experienced with his best friend. 

[zushimart]

Hello how does your hair curl like that. Do you have any curly hair routine. I have curly hair as well though it doesn’t quite curl like yours. I wish to know any information you might have about this subject. Please.

yeah i got u ^__^ so my hair type is a 3b 3c mix & dense & coarse with low to average porosity. so that's the shape, how much of it i have, how thick the strands are, and how easily it holds moisture. if u find out YOUR hair type and how it reacts to moisture, then u can kind of predict what it will do in any setting. so for ex. i never try to straighten my hair if the humidity is over 60% that day (or if i know it WILL be the next day, etc.) just cuz i know it won't last that long.

so for MEEE, i don't go for volume. i go for defined curls & showing length. so i need product to weigh it down and shape it. so basically hmmm. ill describe what i do from shower to bed. but: lightweight but clarifying shampoo (usually something w/eucalyptus or mint, but not strong enough to dry out my hair). a light/average conditioner to smoothen. i don't wash out all the conditioner + i usually detangle here (basically i brush my hair in the shower to detangle & evenly distribute conditioner). i let my hair stay soaking wet when i leave the shower, i do not touch it all. i have a HEAVY curl cream (something defining or just focused on moisture, i'm using the afro love hair souffle rn) and i can work with any gel but i prefer something w extra strength over something weaker. i've used got 2 b, ecogel, or afro love's curl jelly before. i really like ouidad's gels... basically i don't really care about the gel (the stronger gels are more prone to flaking, though, so be careful ab technique), i just need to have. a lot of it. like an obscene amount. SOOOO. i section my hair by putting it in a ponytail and then taking out pieces of that ponytail at a time. i use my brush to brush in a little bit of the curl cream (really not much, just enough to smoothen & moisturize). then i use, like, a pump of gel per section. i finger curl during this step, like i don't run it through the hair, i use it to shape/coat the finger curl. and then repeat. i re-wet my hair if it feels too dry, u have to put the gel on wet hair. i prefer soaking wet... but by the end of this my shirt is usually soaked ToT. i prefer air drying but usually it's a night time shower before bed... so i have a silk bandana i put over my pillow + i wear a silk bonnet. then in the morning or once it's dry, i like to separate some of the curls and fluff them (break up the gel a bit if it's too much). i usually relax the base of the curls with heat (i use my straightener) just to add a bit of length & then loosely run through some of them if i feel like they're too bunched up. basically fighting shrinkage. it's why my curls look looser than 3b/3c in a lot of my photos tbh.

anyway it's a lot. my other friends w curly hair cant use heavy products like this (looks greasy or weighed down), but if ur hair is like mine, then it can handle being slathered. it might feel unnatural to do at first, but ull see... it actually helps manage moisture retention/looking dull. i always get comments of like "ur hair is so soft/looks so healthy/etc." only after i do my routine. tbh. lowkey if this doesnt make sense i can try and record a video tbh.

[1d1195]

Hiiiii!

It's been a while, I love the way you explain stuff😭 Ding is so freaking amazing.

So, oh, before I forget, I do study English literature and translation ( Arabic - English) btw you're a teacher? I saw some anon I think (💜 anon?) Wishing you a happy teacher's day idk about it cause we don't celebrate that here but yeah I didn't know that sounds fun! Let me guess (English teacher?)

So you know, yesterday I had a relaxing shower and afterward I wanted to style my curly/wavy hair naturally, so I think k it's a mix of 2a and 2b and that's funny cause I really tried like I saw some pics on pinterest and some videos on tiktok that motivated me but I kinda failed? 😭😭 I just rubbed the cream into my hair and pulled it back into 2 low buns but that's funny cause just before going to bed (I'm struggling with insomnia I've been staring at the ceiling since 1am and now it's 4am😭)anyway so I just fixed my hair to bed and it looked good! Like I had put effort into it, but I didn't! I think the curls aren't gonna make it till the morning🙈

Ehhh I dont know why in the freaking freak did I just say this whole story to you but I think you'll tolerate me right?

So back to classes and huffs and puffs, my finals start on the 20th. I'm not nervous, tbh I'm excited, I wanna get over with these freaking exams to read my books in peace.

So.. Love and Other Words and The Rose Code, huh? They really sound so interesting. I'm gonna need to read them. I'm also planning on reading the Twisted and King series, and do you mind if I tell you that you need to check Interlude right the tuck now? It's so freaking good you need to read it. You'll shed many tears, istg never have I ever cried this much in my whole life in "that" specific chapter, but I just love angst! But I promise it's not like that, okay? It's just amazing amazing I'm currently reading insurgence (the sequel) it's still on going bur I just love this book so much. I hope Mikii considers publishing it someday!

And I've always wanted to ask! What is your favorite piece that you wrote? I read a couple of series that you wrote, but I just wanna know which one js your favorite 🎀

Thank you so much I think you're kinder and better thank you 🩷🩷🩷🩷

I'm gonna need to study 3 novels tmrw cause I promised myself to do so! (Pride and Prejudice, David Copperfield, and The Portrait of a Lady) we studied them for my finals, but i just want to start my revisions, so... to teach and please ig😭😭

Have a very wonderful day, Sam!!! (BTW, my childhood bff's nickname's Sam! We're still friends, and we still love each other the same but not bffs anymore)

Oh now I remembered that I wanted to rant about the future and how I'm afraid of it being a (soon to be 19) girl who is (soon to be a junior) trying to be independent but in reality she will cry if you dare give her a nasty look but I guess it'll have to wait for next time cause my eyes seem to be dropping finally😭😭 I'll tty lysm🩷🩷

-🎀anon

😭 idk what I explained, but I'm glad it came out well and that you liked it! 💕

I am a teacher! A math teacher actually if you can believe it. Writing is just a hobby of mine and I love it, but it's only for me. Teaching math is much more enjoyable than teaching English (at least I imagine so). In the US we have teacher appreciation week to recognize teachers' hard work. I had one of my current students write me a letter and one of my students last year messaged me to wish me well. But it's not that exciting tbh--well, I do get a lot of coupons emailed to me hehehe

I know NOTHING about hair. (Literally had to google what 2b meant) I make my sister figure out what I need to do and then I just do what she says. I think we might have the same hair type though based on the pictures I googled! I have one curl cream thing that I put in my hair and scrunch each morning and then hope for the best (and that there will be low humidity). It's cool to experiment with your hair, even if it doesn't turn out the way you want it to in the morning! Then you know for the next trial. Of course I tolerate you--even though that's not what I would call it, I love to hear what you're doing!

I bet you're going to crush your exams! It sounds like you're ready for it! Books in peace is a MOOD. I'm excited for you!

My favorite piece I've written oh boy. Umm...I think it would be Protection. Or maybe Zipper. Idk I feel guilty picking one over the other and I love writing them all. I will tell you I think I like Protection more than Traditional which is probs sacrilege to write on my own blog because I think everyone under the sun would choose Traditional over Protection hahahaha but I liked planning Protection more than Traditional. Although Dolcezza really took hold of my heart VERY hard. Especially lately. Probably one of the three: Zipper, Dolcezza, or Protection.

I hope studying has gone/went well and you got some sleep after being up so late! You're going to have a wonderful future, I'm sure of it, and don't worry about forgetting something. I'm not going anywhere! 💕

xoxo

[theteej]

Islands Away

I clutched my passport and vaccine card in my hand as I wound my way through the airport queues.  I hadn’t travelled internationally in three years, and here I was, leaving for nearly five weeks to the South Pacific.  What the hell was I thinking?!

I first travelled to Aotearoa/New Zealand in 2017 as an exhausted and somewhat broken professor at Washington and Lee in Virginia. Aotearoa shaped me in some profound and confusing ways.  It was my first long-term international work trip outside of the UK or Southern Africa, where I’d undertaken all of my PhD and book research.  This was new, the first steps toward my next book, Conjugal States, which explores how monogamy and polygamy were understood and deployed in colonial contexts ranging from South Africa to Aotearoa to Canada and parts of the U.S.  I realized I had so much more to learn, and when I first touched down in the new country I was humbled by the constant generosity of people, challenged by the similarities and differences of colonial violence in a space new to me, and excited by growing as a scholar and a person.  My dear friends Rachel and David made space in their hearts and lives, and welcomed me back in 2019 when I came back for follow-up research in Wellington. This was a chance to build on two months of research, to decide what I was really looking for, and to become reacquainted with old friends.

This trip would be different, however.  My dear friend Mark Daku, who I first met as a graduate student in South Africa, was closing out his time in Fiji, where he and his partner had been for two years.  In characteristic Mark fashion, he said, “look, why don’t you just come? There’s plenty of relevant work here to discuss for your research. You can also give a talk here at the University of the South Pacific, and you can just be here for awhile.  You’re in the same time zone as New Zealand, anyway.  Do it.”

So….I did it.  I applied for summer travel funding, and I went. I found myself for the first time in three years, feeling excited as I left the United States and headed far, far away—albeit this time with a mask and a healthy amount of pandemic anxiety where I hoped that my April bout of covid would help me resist re-infection in the two newly re-opened countries.

As the plane doors closed that Saturday night in July, I found myself remembering that slightly ominous passage by Agatha Christie in And Then There Were None:

“There was something magical about an island—the mere word suggested fantasy. You lost touch with the world—an island was a world of its own. A world, perhaps, from which you might never return.”

I had never been to Fiji before, and as the intense humidity engulfed me like a wet blanket, despite the ostensible Southern Hemisphere winter, I took an instinctive deep breath in.  I had flown thirteen hours and nineteen time zones around the world and found myself in a place I’d only read about for work.  And yet, it was surreal.  The indigenous peoples of Fiji, iTaukei, bear more than a passing resemblance to me.  We both have the same slightly coppery skin tone and a similar hair curl pattern. Historically, thanks to colonial naming practices, iTaukei also frequently identified as Black, and it was therefore particularly disorienting to arrive in a country where people looked like you, had similar bigger body types, and things seemed like echoes of things you already knew.  As a mixed-race Black American there’s a frequent misrecognition that my body undergoes; but there’s also a sense of not really looking like anyone else. I look like my white mother and my Black father, but I also don’t.  I found myself looking into faces and walking along the streets of Suva and Nadi trying to see familiarity and difference.

People often asked me if I was from Tonga, another nearby nation, which was confusing, too.  The misrecognition continued apace.  It was strange and beautiful to be in the somewhat sleepy but also oddly busy capital city of Suva, as I walked with Mark and Jenn and their irrepressibly cheery dog, Pirate.  I walked through freak sunshowers that left me drenched, I ate a terrifying number of coconuts.  I slipped slightly out of veganism to try Kokoda, a Fijian fish dish that resembled ceviche, served with chiles and cassava.  It was amazing.  I drank kava and rum and tried to learn everything I could.  What did it mean to wander streets marked with so many familiar colonial names I knew from South Africa and the UK?  What did it mean to move through a country that had endured four coups since 1987, that felt the racial fault lines from British colonialism and Indian indenture migration?  There were so many parallels to South Africa.  There were so many ways in which my brown and inquisitive body moved through narrow alleyways and along beach paths and just smiled in the bright sunshine, trying to understand and learn.  It was an indescribable joy to be back with my dear friend Mark, who truly gets me in a way that most other people don’t.  We’d been travel companions a decade earlier as anxious graduate students; now we were a little more grown, and trying to figure out everything.  But Mark always knows exactly how to reach me with his love of the absurd and the asinine, and his sharp wit and generous heart make me think in new ways, even if his somewhat sunny cynicism is a weird counterpart to my own.

I met dear and wonderful people, academics like Milla building new generations of scholars and giving words for experiences; effortlessly kind cinephiles like Ben, whose passion for music and art were infectious; brilliant climate change activists like Dylan, determined to make Fiji a better and more just place for the future.  I wandered and laughed and cried and….for the first time in three years, actually rested. I stopped. I breathed in, I felt the sun on my face and I tried to accept the surreal gift of a paid academic trip to think and talk and process and exist. I still can’t believe it happened, and it was such a beautiful offering of sun and healing to my battered body before the work and joy of another return to Aotearoa.

After ten days, I left the daily 85 degree (30 Celsius) weather of Fiji for the middle of an Aotearoa in a proper winter.

New Zealand, known in the language of the Indigenous Māori people as Aotearoa, “Land of the Long White Cloud,” is still one of the places that makes my heart catch in my throat when I’m there.  It continues to feel like a home in a way I’m never fully prepared for, and it draws me back and challenges me in new ways every time.  What does it mean to be a non-indigenous Black person, and how do I make moments of commonality and community? How do I navigate colonialism? How do I bring my knowledge to bear as a historian of the colonial nineteenth century and Indigenous autonomy?  I’ve been working as a historian of colonial Aotearoa now for nearly five years, and the impostor syndrome is strong. I don’t’ want it to go away anytime soon, because I have to be accountable to a world that is not mine, to a place bigger than me, and to navigate a place filled with people living and surviving and making space.  

I was initially supposed to land in Auckland for a brief layover and then fly on to Wellington where I’d stay with my friends Rachel and David.  Yet unseasonably strong winds had grounded all remaining flights for the day between Auckland and Wellington, and so I found myself stuck in the city for the next twenty-four hours.  This would’ve been bothersome or an inconvenience in other instances, but my dear friend Karen (who is also Rachel’s mother!), answered my anxious text message and insisted I come home to stay with her for the night.  She showed up almost immediately, hugged me close and told me “welcome home,” pushed me out of her hair and directed me from her brilliant home in Otahuhu toward trails and places I remembered in the city centre, outside the famous Auckland War Museum.  I admit I cried in the airport when it hit me that I had family in Aotearoa. Karen (along with Rachel, David, and David’s parents as well)—had in many ways adopted me as their errant North American relative, and after the last three years I felt particularly grateful as well as vulnerable.  Karen and I chatted about her work in education and mine in anticolonial history. As always, she made space, and invited me into her life, and shared her kindness along with her copious mugs of tea.

The next day began my two and a half weeks in Wellington, where I stayed with my dear friends (or Rachel, as we waited for David to return from a trip in Europe), and got right to work in the archives.  This was my third trip to the New Zealand National Archives, and I spent most days tracking down records of bigamous marriages, matrimonial infidelity, and the challenges of Māori and Pākehā (European) claims on belonging and family estates.  It’s honestly the best fucking thing I get to do.

Research is the best part of the gig; there are no onerous responsibilities, only joy.  You get to take in information and think and ponder and leave the analysis to some future version of yourself, sad in front of a laptop in a local café.  Too bad, future T.J.!  This is a time for DREAMS.  I traced so many stories, and journeyed through archival trails.  I got to reconnect with friends I hadn’t seen in years, including Matthew, Avery, Corry and Charlie, and generally felt so happy to be back in a place that brings me joy.  After a brief and scary episode where David tested positive for covid on his return and we all had to isolate, we went on an epic work and joy filled road trip.

First we headed to Te Waipounamu (the South Island) and the city of Christchurch (Ōtautahi), where I explored the next archival repository for documents, tried new vegan restaurants, visited a kitschy French-themed tourist site, and just sat and cried in the beautiful amber lights of a winter sunset with friends who made me feel safe.  While there I splurged and bought a stuffed handmade wool octopus that I named Te Wheke, the Māori word for octopus (original, I know).  He’s now a dear and constant companion.

We headed back to Te Ika-a-Māui (the North Island) for the final week, I double checked documents in Auckland, and I also finalized my most ambitious plan yet—to formally apply for the 2024 Fulbright to come back and spend time back in Te Waipounamu for six months.  I made arrangements with colleagues at the University of Otago, applied, and held my breath.  We’ll see what happens.  If it works, I’ll get the last documents read in Dunedin, work on developing competency in te reo Māori (the Māori language), and teach an African history class.  I’ll be able to come back to another wonderful place that makes me feel like I’m home and can breathe once again.

When the time came, Rachel and Karen and David all saw me off to the airport.  “You’re family, and that’s what we do,” Karen said with a smile.  Te Wheke and I shuffled down to departing flights, and I cried a little.  I can’t wait to come back home again.  I’m so glad I got to breathe and recover, and find another space after so many years of exhaustion.  Sometimes an island is not a fantasy, but a place you can return to, over and over again, bringing something new each time.

[pavarottirevenge]

@somethingdarrencrissish sadly, yes. Haha. I'm about 5'4 - 5'5? Give or take? Just depends on how poofy my hair is that day 😂

[writingwithcolor]

Avoiding ambiguous brown without cultural coding

@ahivemindoftwelvecati​ asked:

How should I, a white person, avoid making characters fall into the vaguely brown stereotype in my fantasy books? I’m against coding cultures into this book, as I’m really trying to create a unique world (ironically by studying a lot of different cultures). By doing this though, am I doomed to remove characters from cultural context, or leave people wandering in vague color shades? Especially since some of my characters would fall into various indigenous ethnicities, but share nothing cultural

In an interesting way, I think the Star Wars novels kind of do an okay job about it (of course, others might differ, in which case I defer to them, but in my opinion they pull off something similar). For context, it all takes place in a galaxy where absolutely none of Earth’s cultures are present, but there are still human beings that are Latine-coded, Black-coded, etc, and they accomplish this through very simple descriptions of character appearances. For example, there was a Black-coded woman and her description ran something along the lines of “She had dark, rich brown skin and her hair was curled tightly, pulled back into a bun. She hated the moist heat of the swamp planet, but she had to admit her hair never looked better.” Through that, the audience understands that she’s most likely Black-coded (dark skin+tight curls), but they avoid cultural points (also the little detail of humid heat being great for curls is just a cute lil extra IMO, that’s something I hear people with 3- or 4-type hair saying a lot).

The pitfall here is that, since there’s no cultures analogous to what we have here in our world, each reader will have different interpretations of what each character might identify as ethnically. Who someone might headcanon as Korean, another might headcanon as Chinese, etc. That’s something you have to figure out for yourself if you’re okay with having--just that vague sense of ‘ah, this person must be from this vague region of the world’--or if you want to be more explicit.

--Sophia

So… to expand on the point Sophia put out that it’s up to the reader to determine what race somebody “really” is and how that’s a problem.

One of my best friends is mixed Japanese/white. Thanks to genetic roulette, they get approached by various Indigenous peoples asking what nation they’re from, because they look really Indigenous.

I’m mixed Mohawk/Mi’kmaq/white. Thanks to genetic roulette, nobody can tell where I’m from and I’ve gotten everything from West Asian, North Indian, and Great Lakes Native (basically, anywhere that golden-tanned skin + dark hair + no monolid is considered normative, I could pass for there)

My mom, meanwhile, looks very, very Mexican, despite being the same mixes as me at a higher percentage Native; she tans more pink/red and tans darker than I do. She also has a totally different face shape than I do. 

Aka, there are dozens upon dozens of groups that look interchangeable, and the only thing that separates us is our culture.

When you’re dealing with more “obvious” features like type 4 hair, monolids, very dark skin, very pale skin, and those stereotypical things, yeah, you can usually peg down a general region. You’re basically only going to have Black people with kinky, delicate hair (but, are they African, Australian Indigenous, or Black Native? Because Australian Aboriginals are also very dark skinned and have a similar hair texture; Black Natives sometimes inherit the level 4 hair texture). You’re basically only going to have Northern settled peoples with white skin (barring albinism/vitiligo) but are they Norwegian or Sami? 

What happens to all the people who are ambiguous in real life?

The trope has a basis in reality. Humans would like to think that a certain set of features = obviously from this place, but as soon as you expand your sample size beyond models, movie stars, and idealized art, you find that people look really different and you absolutely cannot rely on this logic. 

It’s even a known fact among the modelling industry that anyone vaguely not-white who looks like they could maybe belong to any other group of brown people is put in for casting calls for that group, even if they’re not part of that group. It’s messed up, but it happens all the time. A Latine person could be put in as Arab, and an Ojibwe person can be put in as Filipino.

Culture is the thing that separates these people in real life. So as soon as you take that culture away, you’ve essentially lost any representation you could get. You’ll get diversity, yes, but it will not be representation.

Sure, you perhaps gain some representation as people look at parts of their culture that might be incorporated (maybe by accident, maybe on purpose) and say “hey, that’s us!”

But you’ve also strewn infighting by having perhaps multiple groups be able to say the same thing, and these multiple groups could very well share a lot of phenotypic traits, so suddenly you’ve represented nobody because you haven’t put anything solid that would sway the needle one way or the other.

If you start to assume too much that features = obviously this person is from x part of the world, then you really ignore a whole lot of human migration, diffusion, and people who just lived in really similar biomes so their physical features, skin tone, and hair type ended up being the same just purely because that had the best chance of surviving the region, or had no reason to change.

Diversity exists because of the environment. Skin tone, hair type, jaw shape, etc exist because of the food available, how it was grown/gathered (horticulture and “hunter-gathering” vs agriculture), the way food was eaten, the amount of sunlight, and the vitamins available in diet. This happened over tens of thousands of years.

But also, certain environments produced very similar coping strategies. There are only so many ways to survive a very hot desert, so unless you’ve really messed with the natural world in fantasy, you’re going to end up pulling from earth’s coping strategies for the very hot desert. Which means you could end up being kinda hurtful towards desert peoples who see their clothing and food growing ways used, with people who look like them because skin tone is environmental, but hardly anything else about their culture was taken.

Especially for Indigenous peoples, culture and land protection is what makes us Indigenous. How are you going to show us in your work unless you dig into our cultural principles (land protection) at the very least? Nothing about our facial features or skin tone are particularly unique to us, and assuming they are is how you get caricatures. There are Black Natives* to white Natives to mixed cultures with European and Indigenous practices (Metis) and everything in between. And that’s just North America’s range.

This isn’t even counting how there are Indigenous people everywhere, so when you say “Indigenous” do you mean the Mohawk? The San? Mbororo? Ainu? Sami? Samoan? There are literally thousands of groups that are primarily separated from the dominant group because of their way of life and maybe some subtle phenotyping. But primarily, they are separated by their culture.

I would suggest, at the very least, to have some degree of basic cultural beliefs to help differentiate groups of brown people who would otherwise be interchangeable. Land stewardship and using every part of the natural world for Indigenous groups, for example. You can’t really find Indigenous groups without that, so if it was missing I would raise an eyebrow. 

Distinct foodstuffs and diets are another way to differentiate and code; you know that this group that uses chickpeas, sorghum, barley, and wheat is probably from West Asia, and that group that eats rice at every meal is probably somewhere from East Asia. Food is a very fast way to differentiate between groups, because even far-reaching staples are fairly different across cultures.

You don’t have to 1 to 1 code a culture. But for actually differentiating between people, you’re going to need more than one point of reference beyond looks. Food, nomad status (as in, settled vs nomadic vs hybrid), basic religious practices (monotheist vs pantheist), and broad-reaching cultural attitudes (collectivism vs individualism, who you’re expected to be collectivist with) are all points that help break apart these groups and let them know you see them.

It’s important to note that even if you do fantasy, it’s read in the real world. It’s read by humans, who are pattern recognizing machines. We will see patterns. Niki points out ways to try and avoid this patterning below, but it’s going to happen regardless. 

It’s up to you what you actually want, out of not overtly coding anyone.

~ Mod Lesya

*Black Natives and cultural practice is a fraught topic (mostly because of slave-owning tribes) that is mostly summed up as: Black Natives are often barred from tribal participation because anti-Blackness is rife within North American Indigenous communities, but they have been tending the land just as much as if not more than their former enslavers; as such, they are members of the cultures/nations and should be recognized. They have been part of the land as North American Indigenous peoples for centuries, at this point, and the fact there is still enough anti-Blackness in Native communities that Reservation Dogs used nothing but Black caricature is… a problem to say the least.

This isn’t counting mixed Black/Natives who had their Native parent/grandparent cast out for marrying someone Black, who were raised in cultural practices without community ties because of anti-Blackness, who should also be recognized. If it’s valid to mix white culture with North American practices, it’s valid to mix Black culture (Black American and/or African Indigenous) with North American practices.

Do you want diversity or do you want representation?

Lesya raises a very important point that I encourage you to really think about. Why do you want to have diversity in your fantasy worldbuilding? Is it because you want your readers to feel seen and represented? Or is it because you want your fantasy world to feel well-rounded and realistic? These are two different motivations, which will require different approaches.

If you want representation, then go back and reread Lesya’s answer. Representation that’s only skin-deep isn’t really representation, and won’t help your readers feel seen. If, however, you want diversity for diversity’s sake--because diversity is realistic, and because it’s simply good writing to include it--then I have some more thoughts to offer.

In my opinion, there’s nothing wrong with creating a fantasy world that has fictional diversity that doesn’t directly parallel real-life groups and cultures, as long as you’re aware that that’s what you’re doing. This is arguably very common in high fantasy, though the effectiveness with which it’s executed varies wildly from author to author. N. K. Jemisin describes what she did for the Broken Earth trilogy in this blog post.

Unless you’re working with a very small subsection of the world (and even then--everything’s connected), diversity is natural, because people will be living in different geographical areas that each have their own climate, fauna and flora, which will shape both their physical appearance and their way of life. Thinking about the physical environment is a good starting point for figuring out what your population groups will look like and how they’ll behave.

But as Lesya pointed out, it’s very easy, when doing this, to inadvertently re-create elements of coding that will remind your readers of real-world groups, even if that wasn’t your intent. If that happens, you’ll have two options:

1) Very deliberately alter the coding to make it clear that you’re not trying to represent a certain real-world group (in the post I linked above, Jemisin talks about what she did to avoid appropriating Maori culture), or

2) Embrace it and go the representation route after all, which will entail a lot of research and care to make sure your coding makes sense, is respectful, and doesn’t reinforce harmful stereotypes.

Assuming you’re going with option 1, there are still more issues to be mindful of. We said before that representation that doesn’t include culture isn’t really representation. Here’s the thing: This is also true of fictional diversity. Even if your fantasy cultures are entirely created from scratch, they still need to exist, and be distinct and thoughtfully portrayed, in order for your world to feel well-rounded and realistic.

Diversity is more than physical appearance

As Lesya demonstrated, physical appearance alone isn’t enough to make groups of people distinct from another. In order to avoid the “ambiguous brown” trope you’re worried about, you will need to give your different groups of people distinct cultures.

There might be some cases where it would make sense for an entire fantasy world to have a single, homogenous culture, within which people of various ethnic backgrounds exist, resulting in a variety of physical appearances but everyone sharing the same culture. But if you’re planning to do this, you need to give a lot of thought to why things came to be this way. If an entire world is made up of a single culture, that usually indicates something very traumatic happened on a large scale. Maybe an apocalypse, or massive amounts of forced assimiliation or genocide. I don’t recommend going that route unless you’re willing to grapple with all the trauma that entails, and all the potentially problematic implications. You’re much better off populating your world with a diversity of cultures. They don’t need to be coded based on real-world cultures, but they need to exist.

In my opinion, the main issue with “ambiguous brown” characters is that it makes it seem we’re all interchangeable. In real life, we're not. Make sure that's the case in your fantasy world, too. Craft your population groups so they're distinct, each with their own history, culture, language, and traditions. Your worldbuilding needs to be deep enough to counteract the absence of parallels to real-life cultures. We need to be able to look at it and say, "okay, this is not representing me specifically, but it's also not lumping me in with everyone else that vaguely looks like me."

And don't make the mistake of thinking one skin tone = one group. That's not true in real life, and it shouldn't be in fantasy either. Using skin color and a handful of stereotypical features as shorthand for ethnicity or culture is not only shallow worldbuilding, it also feeds into the racist pseudoscience that sorts people into four or five neat color-coded boxes and collapses the world's diversity into a handful of supposedly biologically determined races. If you're creating cultures from scratch, this is your chance to challenge those ideas and populate your cultures with people who don't all look the same. Within a single group, you can have characters with a variety of skin tones, hair texture, eye color, height and build, etc. Because this is what happens in the real world. Some groups include a lot more diversity than others, but variation exists everywhere.

This will partly depend on how interconnected your world is, and how much interaction exists between your various groups. More interaction and exchange tends to lead to a wider range of physical characteristics within each group, and it also results in similar features being found in multiple groups. Think about how that might play out in your fantasy world, and make sure you're being as specific as possible with your fictional cultures so that you don't have to rely on physical appearance alone to distinguish your population groups from one another.

- Mod Niki