#plastic shed base

[shadebaseshop]

How To Install A Wooden Shed Base For Maximum Support

Your shed's sturdiness and life are guaranteed by a level basis from a wooden Shed Base. A well built wooden base helps to maintain structural integrity, increase longevity, and shield your shed from ground moisture. We'll go over every step of installing a wooden shed base for top support in this manual.

Step 1: Gather the Necessary Tools and Materials

Gather the needed equipment and supplies before starting the installation to guarantee a smooth progression. You are going to have to:

Pressureeld wood (for to stop rot and decay)

Measuring tape and wooden stakes

Gravel or hardcore for use in drainage.

An attitude level.

Here's an saw.

galvanized nails or penises

A drill or screwdriver can be used.

A mallet

shovel

A gardenyardhouse.

Cleanconscious person.

Wheel barrows

Step 2: Choose and Prepare the Site

Choose a level and even ground in your yard for the shed base. Stay away from lowlying spots that are likely to collect water; over time, too much moisture can degrade the wood.

Measure and Mark the Area: Using measuring tape, mark the exact dimensions of your shed base with wooden stakes and string. Make sure it is a little bigger than the shed itself to provide for small changes.

Clear the website using a rake and shovel to get rid of grass, weeds, and debris. Level the ground if needed to offer the foundation a flush surface.

Provide a Sturdy Basis: Dig about three or four inches into the ground and cover the region with gravel or hardcore. Use a rake to spread it evenly and compress it to help stability and drainage.

Step 3: Construct The Wooden Frame

As the basis of your shed base, the wooden frame needs to be strong and properly placed.

Cut the treated timber with a saw to fit the dimensions of your shed base.

Put out the wood pieces to make a rectangular frame. Using galvanized screws or nails, securely fasten the corners to provide a strong connection.

Check for Levelness: Put a spirit level on top of the frame to verify it is level. Change as required by removing or adding gravel.

Step 4: Reinforce The Base With Support Beams

Maximize the support by adding internal support beams spanning the frame.

Measure and Cut the Beams: Cut supplementary lumber pieces at constant intervals to suit inside the frame.

Secure the beams with screws or nails and connect them such that they are uniformly spaced for improved weight distribution.

Levelness should Be Double Check: Make sure uniformity with the spirit level one more time.

Step 5: Secure The Base To the Ground

Anchoring the Shed Bases helps prevent movement due to wind or shifting ground. 0

Insert stakes into the ground outside around the border of the frame. Drive Wooden Stakes:

Fasten the frame to the stakes with nails or screws for more rigidity.

Support Corners: If necessary, add diagonal braces to strengthen the corners.

Step 6: Install The Flooring Boards

After the frame is in place, fitting the flooring comes next.

Pick Longlasting Wood: For durability, use pressure treated wooden planks.

Set the boards: Arrange the boards across the frame with little spaces between them to allow for air circulation.

For the boards: fasten them strongly to the frame by screwing or nailing them.

Sand the Surface: To avoid splinters and enhance safety, straighten rough edges.

Step 7: Final Checks And Maintenance Tips

After you have put it, last checks should be done to guarantee your shed is sitting on a solid base.

Examine the construction: walk along the base to see if it's stable.

Verify Drainage: Make sure water drains as it should and does not gather around the foundation.

Protect the wood from moisture and pests by using a waterproof sealant or wooden preservative then becomes a wood treatment.

Conclusion

Making sure your shed has utmost support and lifespan depends on a well installed wooden shed base. Following these instructions helps to build a strong, lasting foundation that lengthens the life of the shed and prevents structural problems. Your shed foundation will last long if maintained right and will keep in good working order.

[blueywrites]

welcome home

ghost x reader x soap

when soap and ghost return from mission and find you, a civilian medic working on base, curled up on the rec room couch, you end up giving the boys a thorough welcome home.

18+ only. plus size fem reader. scent kink. the guys are dirty (literally). mild bush/ball/cock worship. threesome.

-

The rec room is dim, lit only by a stingy bank of ceiling fluorescents that flicker slightly whenever someone leans on the wrong bit of wall. The overhead lights are switched off, replaced with the softer, amber glow of a crooked floor lamp someone had dragged in from god knows where. You liked it better this way; made the place feel less like a barracks common space and more like the kind of living room you'd grown up in. Well-worn couches, stained coffee mugs no one claimed, the faint whirr of the old mini fridge in the corner humming like a tired cicada.

You're unwinding there in your favorite crewneck, the fabric a muted russet that brings warmth to your features, its oversized fit far more comfortable than the scrubs you quickly shed after your shift ended for the night. The fleece lining on the inside is wearing thin at the cuffs, but the familiarity of it grounds you. In black leggings speckled faintly with lint, you sit curled up on the worn sofa, your socks mismatched but thick, the wool catching slightly against the cushions beneath your feet. You're halfway through a tepid mug of builder’s tea when the door bursts open behind you.

The scent hits you before the sound does. Sharp, brackish sweat cut with gunpowder and oil, layered under something deeper: leather, steel, the dry stink of sand and smoke. Your head turns instinctively.

Soap strides in like he owned the place, flushed and gleaming from exertion. His dark shirt clings to his chest and shoulders, translucent with sweat in places, and there's a scrape on his forearm that hasn’t stopped bleeding yet. His tactical vest hangs open, bouncing against his hips as he moves. He has that look again—eyes alight with residual adrenaline, skin pink from wind and heat, hair still damp and pushed messily back from his brow. He's chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning too broadly, which means he has something stupid or dangerous in mind. Probably both.

“Christ, it’s warm in here,” he mutters, toeing off his boots near the radiator, which clangs faintly with old heat. “Were you lot tryin' to boil yourselves alive while we were gone?”

Ghost follows him in, quieter. He peels off his gloves without a word, the black fabric damp in his hands. He isn’t even out of his gear yet, still dressed in his reinforced trousers, boots caked with dried mud, black compression shirt clinging to his back and chest. His skull mask is pushed up, exposing the lower half of his face; the mouth veneath is drawn, his jaw flexing beneath a few days’ growth of stubble. You can see the faintest smudge of something dark on the side of his neck.

Neither of them have showered.

And yet your stomach flutters.

“Back already?” you ask, voice lower than usual, though you hadn’t intended it to be.

“Early extraction. Ghost didn’t even break a sweat,” Soap drawls, flicking the fridge open and extracting a bottle of amber liquid from the back like it's his reward. “Which is bollocks, ‘cause I’m about two degrees from heatstroke.”

He unscrews the cap with his teeth and fishes out three glasses from the shelf: one a chipped mug, another intact, and a clear plastic cup with the England crest on it.

“C’mon, love,” Soap says, sliding onto the couch beside you with the practiced ease of a man who both doesn't understand personal space and feels he doesn't need any, especially with you. “You’re off shift, yeah?”

You nod. “Just.”

“Then drink with us. Celebrate a job well done." He wears a wide, slanted smile, one that makes your belly flip when it conjures the memory of him wearing the same expression above you, his ID disc swinging from the chain around his flushed neck, skimming the valley between your bouncing breasts. "No bullets in my arse this time,” he adds, and you blink the haze of the memory away, left warmer as you roll your eyes playfully the way you know he wants you to.

You've shared a bed with him more than once, during late nights when the air was too heavy to sleep, long stretches between assignments, moments stolen in the lull between your worlds. It was easy with him. Good. Sometimes rough, sometimes slow, always welcome. And never more than what it was. But lately, your eyes had started to wander to the sergeant's looming shadow: the man who never touched and rarely spoke, but always seemed to be watching you whenever you were near.

And Johnny had noticed; he wasn’t the jealous type. He’d seen the way your glances caught on Ghost, too, how the room felt just a little too loaded when he and the big man visited medical or you crossed paths with them at the rec. He knew, too, that Ghost had heard the sounds you made together through the paper-thin walls of their bunks. That he had listened. Johnny told you so once, voice low and filthy while he fucked you slow, laughing when it made you go all soft and squirmy underneath him.

But Ghost never said a word. Because Ghost, the reticent bastard, wouldn’t make a move.

Not unless coaxed.

And not by his sergeant.

You glance toward Ghost, who has folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall, his gaze cool and unmoved. The amber light flickers against his cheekbones, casting sharp shadows up the bridge of his nose. His dark eyes are on you again, and you shiver at the quiet intensity there.

“He’s not joining,” you murmur, more an observation than a question.

Soap flashes you a devilish grin, leaning closer. You can smell the salt on him, the heat rising from his skin like a slow exhale. “He never joins. He just sulks and stares.”

“I can hear you,” Ghost says flatly.

“Don' I know it,” Soap says wickedly, looking at you pointedly before pouring two fingers of whiskey into your glass, then his own. “Here. Just one.”

The glass is cool in your palm, slightly sticky from whatever surface it last sat on. You raise it, hesitate, then throw it back. The burn is immediate: sharp, medicinal, tinged with something smoky and a little sweet. It settles in your chest like a hot coal.

You exhale, lips parting with a soft hiss.

Soap watches your mouth the entire time.

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s a look,” he murmurs. “You always this good at takin’ it down?”

You shoot him a glance, more amused than offended. “You’re shameless.”

He leans in again, voice low now, warm as the whiskey. “Only when I’ve earned it.”

You don’t move when his fingers brush the hem of your sweatshirt, nor when he looks past you, over your shoulder, to where Ghost still stands unmoving. Sharp like a snap decision, Soap leans back and catches his index in your mug, dragging it with a scrape of porcelain across the table to meet his plastic cup for another drink. He pours with more ceremony this time, angling the bottle like he's showing off. The whiskey catches the low lamplight, shining golden as it sloshes into your mismatched glass. He fills it higher than before— definitely more than a shot— and slides it across to you like a challenge.

“One for my glorious return,” he declares, raising his own. “And one for the quiet bastard over there.”

You glance over the low back of the couch again, but Ghost still hasn't budged.

Soap tips his head toward you. “You’ve gotta drink both, since he won’t.”

You scoff, your eyes returning to the Scot. “That hardly seems fair.”

“But it’s fitting,” Soap says, nudging the rim of your glass. “You look like you can take it.”

You hold his gaze as you lift the second drink, the burn still humming low in your belly from the first. The rim clinks against your teeth as you knock it back, the heat sharp enough to draw a quiet gasp as you swallow. A trickle escapes the corner of your mouth, trailing down the curve of your chin and catching at your soft jaw before dripping slowly toward your neck.

You move to wipe it— too slow.

Soap is already there.

“Messy, that,” he murmurs, thumb grazing your jaw before he drags the tip of his index finger up the length of the droplet. He raises it to his lips, tongue darting out, slow and shameless, as he sucks the whiskey from his skin.

You don’t mean to stare, but your eyes can't help but linger on the wet pink of his mouth. And when they flick up, his are waiting.

“You’ve not eaten, have you?” he asks, voice lower now. Not concerned. Curious. Maybe a bit wicked. “Changin' colors on me. Whiskey’s gone straight to your cheeks.”

You shake your head once, feeling the heat settle high in your face, ripening your complexion. “Snack on the way out. Didn’t have time.”

Soap makes a low sound and taps the glass again, watching the way your fingers curl around it.

Ghost still hasn’t spoken, but you can feel the weight of him in the room— feel the press of his attention even if he pretends to be indifferent. But you dont look at him again, afraid any sudden movement might break his trance and send him stomping.

Soap leans back against the couch, legs spreading slightly, shoulder brushing yours. “He’s not lookin’,” he bluffs, just loud enough for Ghost to hear. “Not even glancin’. Could be all over you right now, and he’d just stand there, arms folded, like a fuckin’ statue.”

You smile, ducking your head slightly, a little drunk already. Not on the alcohol, though that helps, but on the smell of him. The salt and earth, the heady stink of his undershirt, still damp from the field. Sunbaked cloth and body heat and grit.

Without thinking, you tilt closer, let your nose skim his collarbone. Your lips barely brush his skin as you press your face to the crook of his neck.

He stills. Just for a moment.

Then: “Christ, you are drunk.”

“I’m not,” you murmur, voice muffled against him. “You just smell really fucking good.”

That makes him laugh, his chest rising underneath your palm. “Filthy, you mean. Sweaty. Like I’ve not washed in days.”

“Exactly.”

He hums, his hand sliding across the back of the couch, heavy and warm behind you. He doesn't touch you, but the implication is there, all that muscle close enough to make your scalp prickle.

“Look at her,” Soap says suddenly over his shoulder, lifting his chin toward Ghost. “Look at how she’s already meltin’. S’all big-eyed and dewy, lips parted, pressed into me like she’s tryin’ to crawl inside my shirt.”

You go still, both afraid and thrilled that Soap might keep running his mouth like this, burst the whole bubble open after all.

“You’re gonna pretend you don’t want to touch her?” Soap continues, that teasing lilt sharpening just a little more. “Pretend you didn’t notice how she looked at my mouth when I licked my fingers clean?”

You feel your pulse flutter; you listen for it, but Ghost doesn't answer.

Soap’s voice drops to a hush, loud in your ear but meant only for Ghost. “Pretend you don’t picture what her thighs look like wrapped around one of us— both of us— drunk off the smell of it?”

Your breath catches— not just from the words, but from the way Soap’s arm shifts behind you, his forearm brushing the small of your back, possessive without pressure. Your cheeks burn hotter than the whiskey.

You lift your head, just enough to peek out from the crook of his neck. Ghost stands across the room like a statue carved from shadow: arms crossed, shoulders squared, chin tilted down just enough to obscure his eyes in the dim light. But you can still see the tight set of his jaw, the way his throat works when he swallows, the faint glisten of sweat around his nose.

You look at him, and you feel... seen. Whether he returns the gaze or not.

And yet Soap is the one touching you. Soap is the one letting you lean into him, letting your weight settle against his side like he wants to hold it.

“You’re so bloody soft,” he murmurs then, just for you. His palm slides down your back, slow, sweet, to rest at the curve of your waist. “All warm and squishy and fuckin’ lovely. Like a proper bed after weeks of concrete floors.”

You blink slowly, that ache between your thighs growing bolder.

“Bet you’d let us sink into you,” he goes on, lips brushing your hairline now. “Let us get all tangled up in this sweatshirt and those pretty thighs. Be better than any mattress we’ve had since we enlisted.”

He lets his hand settle lower— just at the edge of where soft belly meets waistband— and then he stills again, as if daring one of you to stop him.

“You’d let me have a nap right here,” he says, nuzzling your temple. “Wouldn’t you, love? Let me fuck you slow, then pass out on your tits like a man who’s earned it.”

The breath shudders out of you.

And when you looked again at Ghost, you see it: the clench of his hands where they grip his biceps, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the heat blooming behind his eyes like something primal, barely contained.

He is watching.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek back to Soap’s shoulder. “I do want that,” you murmur, voice low and intimate, but not shy.

Soap’s breath hitches just enough to tell you he heard.

He pulls you onto his lap without hesitation, strong hands guiding your hips into place like he’d thought about it already, like he’d been waiting for you to say it. The denim of his trousers is rough beneath you, the hard line of him unmistakable beneath the worn seam. His palms settle over your thighs first, then slide up to squeeze at your hips and the softness there, wide fingers digging in just enough to claim.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass…” he breathes, softer than you'd expect. “You feel so good. Like you were made for this.”

And those words, that tone, make you sink right into it. You drape yourself over Soap’s shoulders, your arms loose and lazy with drink and heat, fingers threading into the thick hair at his nape. His skin is warm there, damp still with sweat and tacky with the remnants of field-dust that hadn’t yet been rinsed away. You nose along the side of his throat, breathing in the raw, masculine scent of him— salt, smoke, leather, the tang of metal and blood. Faint cologne still clings in the hollow of his throat beneath the grime, like it's soaked into his skin after too many missions and too little rest.

God, he smells like something that had survived.

You press a kiss there, just a brush of your lips. And when he lets out a quiet, clipped groan, you smile.

You don’t need Ghost to move to know he's still there.

He stays where he is, propped against the far wall near the door, one shoulder pressed to the plaster, half-shadowed by the dull glow of the crooked floor lamp. But you can feel the tension from here, can see it in the rigid lines of his body, the way his arms hang loose at his sides now instead of folded, fists clenched like he doesn’t know what else to do with them.

He can’t see Soap’s hands anymore, you knew; can’t see where they’ve slipped beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. Could only guess what Johnny is doing from the way your body shifts when your hips roll and your thighs tense around him.

But you know he can see your face. And oh, do you want him to see it.

You let your head loll back a little, exposing your throat, and your lips part around a sigh that could have been a breath or a moan. Soap is teasing you now, his hands slow and roving beneath your sweatshirt, thumbs circling just above your waistband, not yet touching anything obscene, just feeling. Mapping the soft swell of your belly, the dimple at your hip, the curve where your flesh overflowed his grip. His voice is a rumble against your ear, low and hot.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, breath catching as you shift in his lap, brush against the hard ridge of him pressing against the zipper seam. “All plush and warm, makin’ a mess on me already. Can’t even fuckin’ see what I’m doin’, can he? Poor bloke’s gonna lose his mind.”

You bite your lip hard enough to feel it throb.

Your skin buzzes under the low light, humming with the lingering warmth of the whiskey, the teasing drag of Johnny’s hands, and the fever-dream heat of being watched so closely. Your lashes droop, your mouth soft and slack with pleasure that hasn’t even peaked yet.

And always, your eyes drift back to Ghost, pulled there as that nervous thrill tightens in your chest until the heat and the alcohol finally make something snap.

Lifting your head, arms still loose around Soap’s neck, you find him across the room. You don’t say a word, just let your eyes lock with his.

And then— languid, dreamy— you open your arms again. Fingers spread, palms exposed. A silent but clear invitation.

Ghost doesn't reply. But his jaw clench hard enough you can see it twitch, even from here.

You feel Soap chuckle where your chests press together, his voice molten.

“She wants you to see it, Ghost,” he purrs, unable to help himself from teasing. “Wants you to feel what you’re missin’.”

Then, to you, as his hands finally slide lower, gripping your hips:

“Tell me, love. You want me to make you come while he watches? Want him seein’ your face when you fall apart?”

You don't answer right away; instead, your gaze stays on Ghost across the room, watching the stoic man closely. And the signs are there: the muscles in his jaw are visibly flexed now, his fingers still clenched tight by his sides. His whole frame looks wired, like he's barely holding something inside, his eyes dark and fixed to your face as if trying to read every twitch of your lips, every shift in your breath.

Behind you, Soap’s hands squeeze, fingers digging possessively into your hips, rocking you gently over the hard ridge of him beneath his trousers. But you don’t look at him. Not yet.

Your voice, when it comes, is husky, warm with heat and whiskey, but clear.

“No,” you say, loud enough to carry across the room, soft enough to sound intimate. “I don’t want him to watch.”

There's a beat of silence.

Soap’s brow arches, his lips quirking like he's about to tease again—

And then you add, your tone slipping into something velvet and filthy, “I’d like him in my mouth.”

The room goes still.

Soap lets out a bark of laughter— low, delighted, breathless. “Fucking hell, love.”

You feel his hands clench again, tighter now, just shy of bruising as he pulls you down harder onto his lap, grinding you against the firm line of him. His breath is ragged against your ear, his chest rising fast beneath your weight.

“You hear that, Ghost?” Soap calls, his voice all bright amusement and dark hunger. “She doesn’t want you over there, sulkin’. She wants you down her fuckin’ throat.”

Still, Ghost doesn’t move. But you see it— the shift in his stance, the widening of his eyes, the way his chest expands with a deeper, slower breath like he's trying to ground himself but isn't succeeding. His knuckles are pale now, clenched so tight his veins rise stark beneath the skin.

And you know he's imagining it. Imagining your mouth on him. Imagining how you’d take him: on your knees maybe, or still warm from Johnny’s lap, lips kiss-bitten, eyes half-lidded and wet. You can see behind his gaze how badly he wants it.

How badly he wants you.

When he steps forward, it's without a word.

He doesn't rush— just steadily closes the space between himself and the couch, cautiously, controlled. It's the kind of movement a man makes when he’s already lost the argument with himself and is just trying not to lose his grip on everything else.

His boots barely make a sound across the concrete floor, his eyes on you the whole time. But not just you— he looks between you and Soap, the press of your bodies, the way your thighs frame Johnny’s lap, the bruising grip of his broad, tanned hands on your hips, the way they slip lower to knead your wide ass. His expression is unreadable, but his body betrays him.

Because by the time he reaches you, the thick ridge beneath his trousers is unmistakable: heavy, straining against the front of his waistband. And when you reach out with one hand— slow, like he might startle— you feel the subtle flinch in him.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Your finger traces along his belt, featherlight, then circles the buckle. You feel him tense; his cock twitches visibly beneath the fabric when your knuckles brush over it.

You look up at him, heat pooling in your belly, your voice low.

“I meant it.”

Soap hums low in his throat, one hand slipping under the waistband of your leggings to grope at your ass as your fingers work open Ghost’s belt slowly. The buckle clinks, its metal warm from his body. You mouth at the front of his trousers through the fabric, catching the scent of him now, and god, is it thick. Deep and musky, soaked with sweat and the faded presence of gun oil.

You drop your jaw, dragging your tongue over the rough fabric, and Ghost hisses through his teeth.

Beneath you, Soap begins to rock you more deliberately now, the denim of his jeans rough against your leggings, his cock straining against the fabric, grinding up between the softness of your thighs.

“Go on, love,” he murmurs, voice hot and wicked in your ear. “Show him how pretty you suck cock. He’s been dyin’ to know.”

You drag Ghost’s waistband down with practiced slowness, hands trembling slightly from anticipation, from need. His cock springs free— thick, flushed, heavy. Your breath catches at the sight. And you can't help it; you steal a moment to bury your face against the coarse, sweaty curls at the base, inhaling greedily. He smells like sex and tension and everything that makes your mouth water.

You kiss the root, nuzzling, tongue darting out to taste the salt of his skin, the sweat collected there. Ghost groans— a low, guttural thing— and finally, finally, touches you, resting one large hand at the back of your head. It's heavy, dizzyingly large, cupping the curve of your skull with the sort of latent power you know could crush the bone if he wanted to.

But he doesn't; doesn't even tighten those thick, rough fingers. Ghost just holds you there, letting you taste him for the first time. You lose yourself in it for a moment, so much so that when Soap shifts under you, pulling your leggings down to mid-thigh, you sigh out a startled moan against Ghost's silken skin.

Soap groans when the curve of your ass presses down harder against his lap. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, his tone almost awed as he bucks up to answer you. “You’re soaked.”

You don't reply, just open your mouth for Ghost, lips wrapping around the head of his cock, your tongue teasing the underside as you suck him in slow. Johnny shifts even more beneath you now, likely working his pants open, but it can't pull your attention from Ghost's cock. Its weight is obscene, stretching your mouth, and you revel in it— the taste, the heat, the way his thighs tremble slightly as you drag your tongue beneath the crown.

It's only when you feel Soap's blunt head bump clumsily against your pussy, red hot and eager, that you begin to quiver with need. Your hole flexes when he presses up, and your mouth drops open, and then they both slide into you in the same moment— your body welcoming them in, already open and wet, your breath hitching as your throat fills and your cunt does too. The angle is perfect: Soap buried deep from beneath, Ghost pulsing against your tongue, the two of them claiming you in tandem.

Ghost’s hips roll once— slow, cautious— and you moan around him in encouragement, the vibrations making him shudder. You keep one hand at his hip, grounding him, and reach the other to cup and knead his balls, slick with sweat, musky and perfect.

You're surrounded by them. By the scent, the weight, the breathless grunts and quiet curses and the heavy slide of Soap’s cock as he rocks up into you from below, forcing Ghost a little deeper into your mouth each time. Their rhythm syncs around you, your body nothing but sensation, exquisite and aching.

And Ghost—God, Ghost.

You look up at him, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, eyes wet with want. And he looks as wrecked as you feel. Silent, but his breathing is ragged, his lip caught between his teeth as he watches your mouth work him over with filthy reverence. The sight makes you moan softly, the weight of him thick on your tongue, the heat of him flooding your mouth. His foreskin slides wet and slow with every pass of your lips, and you tongue beneath it deliberately, learning the contours of him by feel. His taste is already blooming over your tongue: clean salt and musk, the silk of his skin steeped in the scent of sweat, fabric, and restraint finally slipping loose.

Soap shifts his grip, pulling you closer into his lap. You go willingly, straddling him fully now, your knees braced on either side of his hips, thighs spread, his cock sheathing deep inside you with every grind of your hips. The denim rasps against your skin, hot and textured, a perfect counterpoint to the slick glide of his cock.

He rocks into you again and again, slow and deep, his hands gripping your back like he can’t decide if he wants to fuck you or hold you.

And your mouth is still full of Simon.

You arch slightly over the back of the couch, low enough to give you leverage, high enough for him to stand comfortably before you. One of his hands grips your skull, gentle but anchoring, while the other braces against the backrest beside your shoulder. He's staring down at you now, jaw tight, chest rising hard.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Johnny groans, his hands traveling up under your sweatshirt again, splaying even wider over your back, kneading more intently at your softness. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”

You make a sound around Ghost’s cock: half moan, half admission.

“Having us both,” Johnny continues, voice velvet-rough. “Just like this. Me fuckin’ you full while you suck him off. God, you’re fuckin’ tight.”

You moan again, louder this time, and Ghost bites off a curse above you, soft and gritted. His cock twitches in your mouth, so you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, drag your lips slowly up the length of him before descending again, tongue tracing every ridge.

Johnny’s eyes never leave your face.

Your brow is damp with sweat, your skin glowing with heat, mouth stretched open and wet. You know how you looked— fucked-out, wanting, nearly wrecked— and knowing Johnny can't get enough of it just increases your pleasure.

“You love it, don’t you,” he pants, his voice rougher as he begins to fuck up into you harder now, making the slap of your bodies echo softly in the low-lit room. “Love bein’ between us like this. Mouth full, cunt full. Don’t even know who to come for.”

You whimper.

Then, just as he slams into that spot inside you that makes you jolt, you pull off Simon’s cock with a wet gasp, strings of saliva clinging to your lip as you drag your hand down to wrap around him instead. Still working him. Still letting him feel the slick grip of your worship.

Your voice comes out cracked and hoarse, eyes fluttering half-lidded as your body bounces in Johnny’s lap.

“Fuck, Johnny…” you breathe, loud enough to make Ghost shudder above you.

You jerk him slow, tenderly, your thumb rolling over the swollen head, still flushed and slick. Your free hand cradles his balls, gently tugging, letting your tongue drag along the underside of his cock as you look up at him, lashes damp.

“You can let go,” you whisper. “I want you to. I want to hear it.”

Simon’s mouth parts slightly, and something in your chest leaps, yearning for his answer. But no words come. Just a quiet, bitten-off grunt and the tremble in his thighs.

And all the while, Johnny keeps fucking you, his hips driving up into you from below, his voice spilling constant praise in your ear.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy, babe,” he whispers, biting your shoulder. “So fuckin’ perfect. Can feel how much you’re lovin’ this— fuck. Grip me like that again and I’m gonna come.”

You can feel it rising in you too, tight and dizzying, but it twists when he says that. And the sound you make, the sound that feeling squeezes out of you, is so desperate and raw it shocks even you.

The pace turns frantic.

Johnny's thighs flex beneath you now, solid and unyielding, the denim of his jeans rough against your bare skin, biting at the soft swell of your ass as he fucked up into you with brutal rhythm. Every thrust jolts you forward, makes your thighs and belly wobble with each bounce, your whole body alive with friction and heat. Sweat pools against your sides, between your breasts, slicking the waistband of your leggings where they cling around your knees.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass—” Johnny growls into your neck, his voice strained and ragged.

You're panting, moaning, arms limp around his shoulders as you take it, want it, so very badly.

But your mouth needs more.

It needs him.

You turn back to Ghost, eyes hazy, lips wet, and opened for him again.

His cock slides back over your tongue with no hesitation this time, just need. Your arms wrap loosely around his hips, holding him close, grounding yourself to the sharp lines of his body as Johnny bounces you hard enough to rock his cock deeper into your throat.

Simon doesn’t move anymore, doesn't thrust. just holds you, both of his hands gripping your head now, fingers flexing, breath hitched in his chest.

And still you moan. Louder now. Tighter.

Each of Johnny’s thrusts forces Simon deeper, and each inch of him against your tongue makes your head spin. Your jaw aches, your cunt aches, your mind spirals.

You can barely think.

You only know that you want them, both of them, to fill you, to unravel for you, to give you the evidence of their pleasure, that last piece of themselves.

You whimper around Simon’s cock, eyes glassy, drool slipping from the corners of your mouth, needing—

And then—

Low. Hoarse. Like it's being torn from him, Ghost speaks.

“Fuck— love, I’m not gonna last—”

It breaks you open.

You clench around Johnny so hard it makes him gasp. His hands fly to your hips, anchoring, his next thrust wild and uncoordinated as his orgasm slams into him.

“Jesus fuck—” he chokes, buried deep, spilling inside you with a low, broken moan.

You sob around Simon’s cock, grinding down hard on Johnny as your own climax overtakes you— wet and fierce, like your body can't hold it in anymore. Your legs shake, toes curling in your socks, pleasure crashing through you with dizzying intensity.

And Simon—

You feel him pulse on your tongue, thick and hot, his hips bucking forward in a stuttered jerk as he comes hard down your throat, voice breaking in a guttural moan.

“Shit, love— fuck—”

You hold him, let him give it all to you. Swallow what you could, the rest slipping from your lips, dripping down your chin as you whimper through the aftershocks. Your thighs tremble, muscles twitching, your whole body flushed and shaking with exhaustion and satisfaction and something more you can't begin to name.

Gradually, everything slows. Softens.

Simon’s hands ease in your hair, smoothing it gently now. One slips to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the mess with startling tenderness. Johnny is still beneath you, arms wrapped around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder, breath coming in hard, hot gusts.

And you stay there, bodies tangled in the low flicker of lamplight as your skin begins to cool. The room is quiet now, save for the slow, exhausted inhales of three people too wrung out to move just yet. Johnny’s face is still tucked against your shoulder, his grip slack but lingering, like he didn’t want to let go. Simon’s thumb is at your cheek, still smoothing gently along the bone like he hasn’t realized he's doing it.

Your voice breaks the silence— thin, rasped, but unmistakably smug.

“Welcome home.”

There's a beat.

Then Ghost huffs out a short laugh, almost a scoff, though still fond. He ducks his head slightly, one hand rubbing his face like he can’t believe you.

Johnny lets out a wheezy breath of a laugh beneath you, hands squeezing your waist.

“Jesus,” he mumbles, voice still hoarse. “You’re somethin’ else.”

“Good timing, right?” you murmur, your eyes fluttering shut as you let yourself sink into their warmth.

Simon’s hand moves to cradle the back of your head, fingers spreading wide, grounding. Johnny’s thumb traces slow circles into the softness of your hip.

And for a while, none of you say anything more.

You don’t need to.

You're all home.

[heartfullofleeches]

Yan Slasher + Stoner Reader

[Implied cannibalism]

-

"Hey there, Tiger."

Bloody hell- How many times do they have to tell you not to come in when they're working? All that smoke wafting from you neck of the woods clouds your judgment, but it evidently has no wager on your lock picking skills. Stumbling into their base of operation, you sluggishly kick the shed door close behind you as you enter - dim lights masking the carnage licking the wooden walls.

"Man- I've missed you peaking through my windows these past few days. You been busy lately? You know what today is, don't you?"

Easter. There are few holidays they celebrate, but any concerning religious are ones they steer clear of.

"It's 4/20- That's a holiday in my books. I know you're not being on the stuff yourself, but I started off strong this morning and I brought some food over for us to share. You a chili guy, or no?"

Your cooking counts for majority of what they eat nowadays. Plastic containers and bundles of foil line their fridge from previous food endeavors you've embark on. Their one and only connect to meats beyond their favored cut. Before the unhealthy attachment to you stuck its claws into them, there was a time they pondered making you their next meal-

By the smell of your coat, you wouldn't be the most appetizing meal they've had by far.

"Been trying to phone my buds, but none of them have picked up. We had a bit of a falling out after they called you some cannibal hillbilly living out here all by yourself. Can you believe that?"

Something twisted blossoms in their chest at the seven little words pronounced by your lips-

"Looks like it's just you and me."

Buckling at the knee, your neighbor swings an arm around your thighs - plucking you off the stained floor of their shed like a fallen fruit off a tree. A drafr rushes in as the door kicked open, the rotten stench perfuming the area finally registering as clean, unfiltered air washes the aroma of herb clear from your nostrils.

"Woof- you chopping up a skunk back here? It reeks man!"

Your neighbor says nothing, carrying you over their shoulder to their cabin.

[pinkthxt]

ExHusband!Simon Riley and his Ex-wife who washed all his clothes

masterlist ⋆˚ʚɞ

Simon Riley, aka Ghost, stood in his dimly lit apartment, surrounded by piles of dirty laundry. The smell of sweat and grime clung to his clothes, a reminder of the countless missions he'd completed as a member of Task Force 141.

His rugged exterior and stolid demeanor revealed a surprising truth:

Simon Riley had no fucking idea how to do his own laundry

For years, his pretty ex-wife had taken care of the mundane task, leaving him free to focus on more... pressing matters. He'd come home from a mission, dumping his gear and clothes on the floor, and shed just smile and say

“You’re a mess Si..”

Simon would just chuckle lightly, give her a nice pat on the ass before he’d walk past her— he obviously would never force her to do his laundry.. he just never found a reason to do it himself

When they first got together the task of doing laundry seemed so simple. He’s grab all of his dirty clothes and just shove it into the washing machine

It was no wonder that thing broke in 3 months, he’s shove it full to the brim, the wash couldn’t rotate or fill with water due to all the combined weight of the clothes

He didn’t separate them, not like he had any other color than black in his closet, but his white undies? Dyed dark blue form the seeping colors

Not to mention he had no clue how to properly disperse the Detergent, just filled the small plastic cup to the brim before dumping it all in— and softener? He had no clue what that was.

He’d watch as the water went from clear to a dirty dark brown from all the sweat, grime, dirt and cum—

But now, as he stared down at the stained and wrinkled clothes, he realized he was utterly lost. The washing machine, a mysterious contraption in the corner of his apartment’s closet . It seemed to mock him. He'd faced down enemy fire, infiltrated enemy bases, and survived in the harshest environments, but laundry?

“Well shit” Simon would mutter as he loaded some clothes

A bitter smile crept onto his face as he recalled the countless times he'd come home, exhausted and dirty, and she'd greet him with a warm smile and a gentle tease. But she wasn't there anymore. They'd parted ways, and he'd been left to fend for himself in more ways than one.

With a heavy sigh, Simon began to sort the laundry, his hands moving awkwardly as he struggled to separate lights from darks. It wasn't just the task itself that stung – it was the reminder that he still relied on her, even in her absence.

As he loaded the washing machine, a wry thought occurred to him: he might be a ghost, invisible and elusive, but his dirty laundry was very much a tangible presence in his life. And one he couldn't seem to shake.

Enjoy my doves ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

- Pinkthxt

[my-castles-crumbling]

spring - @jegulus-microfic - word count: 301

Regulus hated the heat. He hated the outdoors and the sun and anything that wasn't sitting in his dorm in a cozy overstuffed chair, reading a good book.

So when the weather started to become more mild and his friends started to request that they go outside, he was in a foul mood more often than usual.

Why did they have to sit in the annoyingly warm air? Why not in the cool castle, sheltered from the sun?

But he tagged along anyways, scowling all the while, curling at the base of a tree with his book, rolling his eyes when Barty made fun of him. Soon, he'd settled into his book well enough, though he wasn;t happy about it.

"Damn, Potter's looking fit."

Barty's comment made Regulus look up curiously. And, only thirty yards away, there he was: James Potter, loping over the ground with his friends, laughing and throwing a disk back and forth between himself and Sirius.

Of course, the disk was not what drew Regulus's attention.

In the heat, Potter had shed his cloak and his button-down shirt, leaving only his thin white undershirt, the tank top revealing his muscular arms as he caught and threw the piece of plastic.

Horribly, tantalizingly, the shirt slipped upward as Potter threw, revealing a thin sliver of tan skin, a dusting of hair on Potter's lower stomach drawing Regulus's eyes in a direction he had not meant for them to go.

And the think sheen of sweat over Potter's muscles made him almost shine in the sun, his smile and shouts of laughter making Regulus's stomach flip-flop even more than it already had been.

"He's...not bad," Regulus muttered, looking back down at his book, trying to calm his racing heartbeat.

Really, he realized, Spring wasn't all that bad.

[delusional-through-and-through]

Thank goodness they fixed his design.

WHY NOT PINK 🎮

8 Years Ago; First Division

The sun was beginning to set over Ariake Maritime Base. The sky blushed in shades of lavender and orange, casting a golden shimmer across the rooftop.

Sayaka sat on the concrete edge of the rooftop. Her silver hair moved softly with the breeze. Then a shuffle of boots behind her drew her eyes back.

Narumi strolled over, a plastic bag swinging from one hand, his console poking out of his back pocket. His usual smug smirk was in place, but it had a lazy tilt to it—he looked too tired to be obnoxious today.

“Oi,” he said, dropping the bag in front of her. “Help me dye my hair.”

Sayaka blinked at the bag. “…Now?”

“I got patrol in the morning. Can’t let the roots show. I have a reputation, y’know?” He crouched beside her, tugging off his jacket and running a hand through his hair pushing it back. “Look. Black’s showing again. It’s tragic.”

Sayaka tilted her head. “Why not ask someone from your platoon?”

He raised a brow. “You think I trust those gremlins with chemicals and my head? Nah. You’re neat and careful and you don’t talk too much. Ideal hairstylist energy.”

Sayaka blinked again. That… almost felt like a compliment?

She nodded once and gestured to the bag. “Okay.”

Together, they moved to the small bench tucked near the rooftop storage shed. Sayaka set up the gloves, comb, clips, and chemical bottle with methodical ease, eyes scanning the labels.

“Where’s the white dye?”

Narumi pointed. “Bottom of the bag.”

As she dug through, her hand brushed something else—a slim bottle with a soft pink-colored label.

She pulled it out.

“…Pink?” she said aloud, voice barely above her breath.

Narumi turned. “Huh? Oh yeah, that came with the shipment. I told the store white, they must have put that in by mistake. Toss it aside.”

Sayaka didn’t.

She stared at the bottle, then slowly looked back at Narumi’s hair.

A long pause.

“…Can we dye it pink instead?” she asked.

Narumi gawked. “What?”

“The white part,” she added. “Just the white part.”

“Are you serious? Pink? Pink!” His voice cracked. “Do I look like a shoujo protagonist to you?!”

Sayaka’s silver eyes didn’t waver.

“It’s cute,” she said simply.

“C-cute?! I’m not trying to be cute, I’m trying to look cool! Scary! Like a dude who murders kaiju for fun!” He said, with his eyes far too wide.

“Pink can be intimidating.”

“That’s a lie and you know it!”

She kept holding the bottle, staring him down without so much as blinking.

Narumi groaned like he was being tortured.

“…Fine! Whatever! But if I get made fun of I’m blaming you,” he muttered, slumping forward.

Sayaka calmly squirted the dye into a bowl and started sectioning his hair. She worked in silence—delicate, precise, fingers threading through the strands like she was painting a canvas.

Narumi grumbled for a while. Then he dozed off halfway through.

When it was done, his head was a striking mix of inky black and soft rose-pink, under the night lights.

He stood in front of the reflective glass of the rooftop door, gawking.

“…I can’t believe I let you do this.”

Sayaka stood behind him, head tilted slightly.

“It suits you.”

“You have a weird sense of aesthetics.”

“You have a weird sense of rebellion.”

“…Touche.”

...................

Present Day

Back at her base at the 10th division, eight years later now, Sayaka sat in her command office reviewing recon footage.

On the side monitor, muted news footage showed Captain Narumi giving a chaotic post-sortie interview—flamboyant as ever, pink streaks still in his hair, like a blazing badge of bad decisions and charm.

Sayaka exhaled softly through her nose.

A smile, faint but genuine, lingered as she turned back to work.

[berberriescorner]

"Through It All"

Characters: Rio x Black!Reader.

Summary: There aren’t many things that put Rio on edge. Most people see a calm, cool, and collected individual. Keeping a level head is his specialty. What happens when the person he loves most needs him to be strong for both of them? Get a glimpse of what it’s like seeing him hold someone down through thick and thin, in sickness and health. If you know, you know.

**PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS AND AUTHOR’S NOTE**

Warnings: Angst…like seriously. You’ll understand once you read the author’s note. This fic contains sweet, soft, fluffy Rio. The fic includes some of my crazy humor with a smidge of the character’s inner thoughts. If reading about gynecological procedures makes you uncomfortable, this may not be a fic for you. It doesn’t go into great detail, but it is mentioned and sheds a bit of light. If mentions of the ins and outs of fertility is a soft spot, please read with caution. It isn’t my intention to bring anyone down, but this story is based on parts of my own experiences. Again, the note will explain more.

Author/Personal Note: Okay. Where to start? So, as some of you may know throughout the past two years I’ve been getting cycles of iron infusions. This year, after making several complaints and an ER visit or two. I had an ultrasound performed, which led to me getting surgery months later (the procedure I had done recently). I’ve been spending my days at home recovering, and it’s given me time to reflect. Damn, it’s been a rough couple of years, but I’m so thankful through it all. It’s difficult having a plethora of health issues. This situation put so much added stress on top of it all. As a woman, hearing you have a fibroid. Learning it’s best to get it removed to protect your fertility is scary as hell. You get it done, get sent home, and though you have loved ones taking amazing care of you. It’s still a difficult, challenging process. At times, it’s lonely. No one but you can fully wrap your head around the emotions and feelings the body is going through. It’s pretty wild.

Anywho, sorry y’all. Let me stop rambling and get to the point. We all know how overactive my imagination is. Being stuck in bed, my mind has been wandering. I thought to myself why not take this experience and channel it into a fic. I’m hoping that this will also be a comforting story to anyone who’s been through the same experience. Here is a look at how I envision Rio taking in the experience with his lady. I plan to write at least two more parts for this. Happy reading my lovelies! I wrote this on a whim, in celebration of my birthday, so ignore the grammatical errors my loves. I may come back and do some more editing. Depends on how I’m feeling.

Word Count: 1,800+. 

Inspired By💜:

Random fun fact: Toni Braxton and I have the same birthday😆. Happy Birthday, Queen💓.

Everything was still as a deafening silence fell across the room. It was as if each occupant was afraid to utter a single word. Your mother pretended to distract herself with a Kindle book as your father paced the floor quietly. They’d share a glance each time they checked their watch, smiling at one another in comfort and reassurance. 

Then, together, they directed their attention toward the chair in the far right corner. It was tucked in a tight corner next to a window, giving little relief and comfort to your husband, Rio. He, too was anxious, but no one would ever know it. He was always able to still his facial features. Never one to give his emotions away. The only person who could read him wasn’t in the room. You were on the other side of the building and the reason for your families’ nervousness. No longer able to stand the constant glances and silence, Rio stood from his seat. He released a breath, rubbing his palms against his jeans. Turning to your parents, he stated, “I’m going to grab a quick cup of coffee from the cafeteria. Would you two like something?”

Your mother, a gentle, nurturing soul, responded for both of them.

“No, baby. We’re fine. Don’t worry. I’ll come find you if we receive news.”

Rio ducked away in a vacant spot in the cafeteria, hands folded over top of the steam of the coffee. He searched for peace and solace until a jolting vibration exploded in his jacket pocket. Fumbling for the phone, he answered without looking.

“What they say ma-. Oh, my bad. Wassup? Everything good?” Rio listened patiently before snapping. “You know this is something you could’ve handled yourself, right? I don’t have time for the three stooges bullshit today.”

He instantly felt a slight pang of guilt. Rio realized that the stress and worry of his current situation were influencing his mood. Taking a deep breath, he relaxed. Inhaling, he continued, “My bad bro. She’s been in for three hours, and it’s got me tweaking. Nobody’s giving us any damn answers. It’s a non-invasive procedure, but it’s still considered major surgery. I just need to hear she’s good.”

“It’s all good, boss. I know you’re worried about wifey. She’s a strong woman. Boss lady’s going to be alright. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. Call me as soon as you know something,” Mick responded.

“You're right. Thank you for holdin’ shit down.”

He laid his phone on the table, burying his face in his hands. The last few moments he spent with you were on repeat in his mind. Rio returned to the present, hearing the chair opposite him slide backward. His eyes connected with your father’s, and he readied himself for wherever the conversation would go.

It was no secret that the two hadn’t always seen eye to eye. The two men sat for several minutes before your father started speaking.

“I’ll be honest with you, man. You’re not at all what I envisioned for my daughter.”

“You seriously want to have this conversation right now?”

“Now wait, son. Let me finish.”

Hold up. It’s son now? Where is this going? It didn’t even sound disrespectful. It doesn’t sound like he’s trying to play me on some sucka shit. I’ll hear him out.

Rio nodded his head, giving your father the floor.

“I may not know all you do for a living, son, but I know you’ve managed to make a comfortable and safe life for my baby girl. When it comes down to it, that’s what I’ve always wanted for her. It took me some time to come to terms with it, but I know, without a doubt, that you’re doing everything in your power to make her feel protected and loved. Let me just say what I’m getting at,” he chuckled. “You’re good at hiding it, son, but I know you’re worried. Hell, so are we, but that’s alright.”

Rio’s head dropped, shoulders slumping. He took the opportunity to be vulnerable finally. Your father’s acceptance allowed him the space to do so. He felt a comforting grip land on his shoulder. Your father finished, “Baby girl is going to be alright, son. With all your love and support, she’ll be back on her feet soon. Now, you take a few more moments to yourself. Don’t be surprised when her momma wraps you up in a big hug when you head back. She’s worried about her favorite son-in-law.”

Rio chuckled, “I’m her only son-in-law, sir.”

“Even better. You ain’t gotta share. That sweet woman sure knows how to smother people in love.”

“You’re daughter is the same way. It’s one of the many things I love about her.”

“Which is why you understand my reasons for being so guarded. That’s my baby girl. Enough with that ‘sir’ shit too. Call me pops. My son may not like that, but I get a kick out of irritating him anyway. He’s overprotective of his sister.”

“Y’all gon’ try to take me out if I ever mess up, huh?”

“What I look like snitching on myself? Let’s not ever get to that bridge, son.”

The two men shared a laugh, but everything turned serious when they saw your mom power walking towards them. Rio's heart began thudding in his chest.

“Ma, what’s wrong? Did-.”

“Relax, sugar,” she cooed, rubbing a hand against both men’s arms. “The nurse said the doctor should be ready to talk to us in about fifteen minutes. Let’s head back to the waiting room.”

Fifteen minutes came and went. Your mother couldn’t help but crack a smile at both men. They both started fussing about how long the surgeon was taking. She felt sorry for the man once he approached them. The doctor, attempting to apologize, was cut off by an impatient Rio.

“You good, doc. We understand these things take time, but excuse us for being anxious. We were under the impression this would be about an hour-long procedure. How’s my wife?”

The surgeon explained himself. “That’s what we anticipated, but the process took longer. Your wife’s last ultrasound a few months back showed a fibroid the size of a plum. Sadly, it grew to the size of an orange, which would explain why things grew more difficult during her last few cycles. However, you’ll be happy to know that we managed to do it laparoscopically, and everything looks great. She’s being taken to recovery now, but we’ve decided to keep her overnight.”

All three of your family members asked, “Why is that,” in unison.

“We just want to keep an eye on her for the next twenty-four hours. Given gas was used to see things more clearly, we’d like to monitor her. We’ll need to see that she gets up and walks to get things flowing. I just want to be sure she gets it moving out of her system. Also, since she’s anemic, we just want to be extra careful. I promise everything went well, and she should be ready to go in the morning.”

Each family member felt at ease. The trio waited for an invitation to your recovery room. Though he wanted to be the first person you saw when you woke up, Rio encouraged your parents to go first. The two visitors' only rule irritated them all.

Your eyes fluttered open, and your parents laughed at the slurred responses given to your nurse. Your parents took turns kissing your forehead, expressing encouraging words. Your father, now at ease, left the room in search of Rio.

“You might want to hurry back there. She’s still a bit loopy. Baby girl has been asking the nurse, where my husband? You got my baby acting ratchet in this hospital,” he joked.

“Aye, she was like that when I met her,” he laughed, walking towards recovery.

Rio slid behind the curtain, laying eyes on the most precious sight. You were in bed, laid back, eyes closed, singing off-key as your mother held your hand, laughing. The nurse stepped beside him, giving a small giggle.

“She’s been looking for you. Ma’am, the man of the hour is here.”

Your eyes popped open as you halted the song. “My husbannnd! Hey baeee,” you winced, given the pain and having a hoarse voice.

“Mama, you back here wildin’ ain’t you? How’s our little patient doing, ma,” he directed toward your mom.

“Crazy as ever. This girl opened her eyes, looked at me, and called herself whispering. Loud as ever, she asked me if she still had a uterus. Her daddy would’ve turned red if he were capable.”

They both shared a laugh as you did your best to shrug shoulders. Wanting to give you two privacy, your mom went to sit in the waiting room. Rio turned to you, holding your hand. His lips brushed across your knuckles, and he shivered at how cold they were. Wrapping his hand around yours, he tried warming the digits.

“My momma ain’t answer my question though,” you mumbled, eyes closed.

Rio smiled, “What’s that now, mama?”

“My uterus. Sis still in there, right?”

“Yes, darlin’. What makes you think it’s not?”

“I signed them papers, man. In the event of a ‘mergency, they were going to take shawty,” you sassed, words still slurring.

Rio did his best to hold back a cackle. Clearing his throat, he replied, “Mama, you straight. Everything went according to plan. There was no emergency. The fibroid is out. It was bigger than expected. That’s why it feels like you were out for a while.”

“Aight bet. So when we making babies,” you asked, wincing again.

“First off, sit still, mama. Your body is pretty sore right now.”

“Baby, I’m drugged up! I don’t feel nothin’.”

“Second. You’ll be recovering for four to six weeks. You’re not going to be in any type of mood for all that. I believe the surgeon said no sex for two to three weeks. No babies for at least six months, darlin’. They just sliced your uterus open and stitched it back together, mama,” he explained, running his thumb across your lip.

He laughed at the pout etched on your face. Rio caressed the side of your face, kissing you gently. “On some real shit. I was worried out my mind over you, mama. I’m so glad you’re good. You’re my world. The clock kept ticking, and I was about to lose it.”

Your eyes connected with his, “I’m right here, papa. I’m good. We gonna be good. No matter what,” you whispered. Even through the drugs and drowsiness, you could feel his angst. Rio could read between the lines. He knew what you were trying to communicate. It had been on both your minds heavily. Your eyes connected with his. Rio saw the unshed tears you were holding back, and he swallowed hard, nodding his head in agreement. No matter where this path led, Rio knew, in his heart, that he loved you with everything in him.

Baby or not, we’ll still feel fulfilled and happy. My life’s purpose is to love and give you the world.

This piece was both personal and therapeutic for me to write. I truly hope you all enjoyed it. Please be sure to comment and reblog, it's appreciated. Now I'm about to go eat some birthday cake and read some amazing fan fiction😆.

Divider credit💜 : @firefly-graphics

tagging💜 : @4everbrookemarie @darqchilddaydreamz @astoldbychae @sunshine-flower

@nightlywords7 @starrynite7114 @amorestevens @fineanddandy

@rio-reid-whoreee @that-one-anxious-mango @novaniskye

@alertyoulikeitsamber @1andonlytashae @lovedlover @blkbutterfly816 @banana123pudding

[calico-cows]

agriculture, veganism, and leather: why a modern AU enjolras would not wear a vegan leather jacket

in the spirit of Victor Hugo, here’s a digression no one asked for! My credentials are that I’m studying animal science, especially livestock production, I’m dating a leather worker, and I’m autistic and like researching.

okay, so! Modern AU Les Amis. They’re probably fighting capitalism, white supremacy, climate change, all that fun stuff. While to many, veganism is obviously a more ethical lifestyle or diet choice than consuming animal products, it’s not so simple. This is not to say that veganism is bad or wrong, only that there is further nuance.

starting with the obvious: avoiding animal products in day-to-day life is expensive! Many many many things include animal products or by-products, and it is often harder for manufacturers to exclude them. A product can also be sold for more just by slapping the vegan label on it (also see gluten free lettuce…). Also, nutrition is hard, and eggs and fish are cheap(ish) and important sources of protein, not to mention that most cultures have traditional dishes that include animal products and writing that off is kinda rude at minimum. This is already wandering off-topic.

vegan leather, also known as pleather (a portmanteau of ‘plastic’ and ‘leather’) is not the environmentally friendly material many people make it out to be. It is fundamentally a synthetic material, it’s plastic based. Even plant-based leather alternatives still require synthetics to bind them. Plastic, as we all know, takes literally forever to decompose, as well as being environmentally destructive to produce.

Furthermore, pleather just fully doesn’t hold up as well as the real thing. I was recently at a ren fair and talked to some boot vendors. One of them had a pair of leather boots that lasted him 12 years of hiking, ren fairs, SCA combat, and horse training. Another had a pair that lasted 15 years. I have a 30 year old leather jacket from my mother that’s still in amazing condition. Leather lasts, as long as it’s prepared well. You’ll find decades old leather coats in thrift stores for this reason, but only a few years old pleather stuff.

but storm, you ask. What about the ethics? I’m so glad you asked! I’m a strong believer in animal welfare, and I understand better than many that the agriculture industry as it is right now leaves much to be desired. That said, as long as meat is in demand, cattle will be raised and slaughtered. That’s just how it goes. Cattle are not killed separately for meat vs leather vs glue components, it becomes a matter of waste reduction and respect for the animal’s life to take advantage of its hide. Otherwise, it’ll just go in the landfill. Leather will definitely decompose over time, and much faster than plastic, but it’s still wasteful.

bonus points that I think are fun and/or relevant:

bees are unionized. Hens produce eggs regardless of if you want them to, or if a rooster is present. Eggs are a bird’s menstrual cycle, basically, and most eggs are unfertilized (meaning there’s no chick in there). Wool is a really great material for so so so many things and sheep need to be sheared once or twice a year for their health. Domestic sheep can’t shed, so shearing becomes necessary. The demand for wool is quite low right now, and many sheep farmers have given up on selling fleeces because they won’t get much for it from manufacturers. For folks curious, I can point you at some great YouTubers!! Pleather saddles and saddle leathers are EVIL.

I think that’s most of my relevant thoughts on the topic, lmk if you want me to elaborate on anything! TLDR, just put enjolras in real leather.

[roxannepolice]

One of those "one moment you're toying with an idea, next you realise it makes way more sense than the author ever intended" things, but-

Like, between rolling eyes at Fifteen claiming he would recognise Susan everywhere after a score of not recognising the Master when they're right in front of them and Tensimm junkyard sniffing, I think RTD's handling of Time Lord recognition of each other makes a whole lot more sense once we ask ourselves a simple question:

Is the Ainley!Master situation the norm or the anomaly?

Ok, considering his run was the longest, he did in many ways establish the "norm", and that norm is a Santa Claus beard seamlessly fooling three consecutive Doctors. But, if instead we look at earlier interactions things get a bit more complicated.

The Time Meddler may not be very definite on the subject, but One isn't, like, completely and utterly confused at who the Monk is, and the conversation between them flows rather seemlessly, like between two countrymen meeting abroad, and that a good deal before the Doctor sees the Monk's TARDIS. Next, regardless of whether War Chief=Master or not, the point still stands: he and Two recognise each other the second they meet. But it is with Threegado that things get really interesting. For all that Delgado!Master loves dress ups, these are not actually used at the Doctor. Like, correct me if I'm wrong, but there is no scene where the Master shows up in cheap ass plastic Graucho Marx eyebrow-glasses-moustache set and Three starts congratulating him on A Night at the Opera, at least not in the strict tv canon?

What I'm driving at, is that with this established history of Time Lords being able to recognise each other on sight and no direct contradiction in Threegado, Fivey consistently falling for the Master's Halloween aisle catwalk comes off as less to be expected.

But here's the thing: there's a very good explanation for why Ainley!Master would be harder/almost impossible to recognise for the Doctor. His Trakkenite body.

As in, this particular Master has a different biology not only from any of his regenerations, but from any other Time Lord. Add just a bit of psychic shielding, and, like. Cheap rubber masks become much more efficient for a species where visual recognition isn't really an evolutionarily stable solution.

Again, this is me just poking at canon and canon showing little resistance, but this interpretation also sheds a different light on how Three and One interact with the Master in Five Doctors. Three can just tell who this Mephistopheles-Blofeld lovebaby that showed up on Gallifrey is, because it's pretty much the same style he spent so much time with (and not relying mainly on visuals does not mean being completely face blind yk). One, on the other hand? He has no idea who this Trakkenite smelling hottie is.

**

Now, there are two important implications of this non-visual based interpretation: first refers to the Rani dressing up as Mel right after Six regenerates into Seven. Now, this in its own right is an interesting contrast to Five, also in post-regeneration stress, because where Seven at least gets fuzzy impressions something's off about this Mel, Five is just blissfully unaware mr Santa the celery juice bringer might be anything but just that. The second implication regards Eight, who's back on track of recognising the Master - and that a new snatched body Master! - on sight. And well, sorry, this is just where my crack brain kicked in. I'll just share the visions of the Rani rubbing Melanie Bush's sweat all over herself like some musky perfume and Seven breathing in the Master's ashes like Napoleon tobacco to the point Eight can tell the distinct Master smell regardless of biology 🤌🤌